#cannibalistic reader

[nanamineedstherapy]

Mouth to Meat

Cannibal Yakuza Sukuna X [Retracted] F!Reader

Summary: Dr. Y/N L/N is tasked with profiling Ryomen Sukuna, a feared yakuza boss known for his violent tendencies and taste for human flesh. Through a series of therapy sessions, she gains his trust—or so it seems. But Sukuna isn’t the only predator in the room. Behind Y/N’s professional demeanor hides a secret far darker than even Sukuna’s sins. When the masks drop, it’s clear: monsters don’t always look like him.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, Implied cannibalism, Moral ambiguity (everyone’s awful), Mentions of child endangerment.

A/N: This is inspired by an amazing fic idea shared by @sukuna-ryo. Thank you so much for letting me explore this concept! Your creativity brought this to life, and I hope I did it justice. 💕

Chapter 1 - The Price of Curiosity

The room smelled faintly of metal and antiseptic, overpowered by the stink of Sukuna’s restraints. He leaned back in his chair, chains rattling against the bolted-down table, lips curved into an irritated smirk. Another day, another self-important idiot thinking they could peel back the layers of Ryomen Sukuna like some common criminal.

When the door opened, his curiosity barely flickered. Until she walked in.

Unlike the usual parade of interrogators or officials, she carried herself with a casual confidence. No clipboard. No body armor. Just a slim file in her hand and eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sukuna,” she said as she sat across from him, her tone light, unbothered.

His gaze dragged over her like a predator sizing up prey. “And you are?”

“Dr. Y/N L/N. Forensic psychologist. I’m here to evaluate you.”

He chuckled, low and mocking. “Oh, they sent another one. Let me guess—you’re going to crack open my head and figure out what makes me tick?”

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. “Something like that.”

Leaning forward, Sukuna rested his chin on his palm, the chains clinking with the movement. “Tell me, Doc, what’s the diagnosis so far?”

“You’re impatient,” she said easily. “And maybe a little bored.”

For the first time in years, Sukuna’s smirk faltered—just a hair. “Keep talking.”

She set the file down, not even opening it. “You’re not here because of some uncontrollable bloodlust, are you? You’re not a mindless killer. Every choice you make has purpose. Even your cannibalistic tendencies—they’re calculated.”

His grin widened, shark-like. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I have,” she replied, leaning forward slightly. Her voice dropped, just enough to draw him in. “I know you don’t just eat to survive or for power. You do it to send a message. To dehumanize your victims.”

“Or to elevate myself,” he shot back, amused. “It’s not about dehumanization, Doctor. It’s about taking what others won’t. What they can’t.”

She tilted her head, intrigued. “And what does that give you?”

“Dominance.” His tone was smug, matter-of-fact. “In every way that matters.”

There was a pause, the kind that should have made anyone squirm. But Y/N met his gaze without flinching.

“Does it ever get old?” she asked softly.

The question caught him off guard, though he didn’t let it show. “You’d be surprised, Doc. The taste of fear? That never gets old.”

She leaned back, as if satisfied, and tapped a finger on the edge of the table. “You fascinate me, Sukuna. You don’t just kill—you savor it. I’ve seen your records. You’re… meticulous.”

“You sound impressed,” he teased, voice low and dangerous.

“Maybe I am.” Her smile was small but sharp. “Or maybe I see potential.”

His laughter echoed through the room, rich and feral. “Potential for what? Rehabilitation?”

“Something like that,” she said cryptically. .

---

The sessions continued daily. Y/N’s approach was unorthodox—no lectures, no moralistic speeches. She asked questions that dug deep, steering the conversations toward his cannibalistic acts. Why this victim, why that moment? What did he feel when he consumed them?

Sukuna, for once, played along, curious to see how far she’d go. She didn’t flinch at his answers, no matter how grotesque. If anything, she seemed intrigued, even... amused.

“You’re not like the others,” he said one day, eyes narrowing as she scribbled something in her notes.

“Is that a compliment?”

“An observation.”

Her smile was polite, but her eyes betrayed something darker. “Maybe we’re not so different.” .

The room was quiet after Y/N left for the day. Sukuna leaned back, replaying their conversation. She was digging for something, and he wasn’t sure what. Not fear. Not control. Something deeper.

His tongue clicked against his teeth as he mulled it over.

---

Meanwhile, Y/N stepped into her dimly lit apartment, setting her bag down by the door. She pulled off her coat, revealing the faintest smear of something dark—something red—on the cuff of her sleeve.

In the kitchen, she opened her fridge. Rows of vacuum-sealed packages lined the shelves, each labeled with dates and initials. She reached for one, her fingers brushing the plastic before pulling it out.

“Meticulous,” she murmured, her smile stretching wide as she placed the package on the counter. A butcher’s knife gleamed under the fluorescent light.

As she sliced into the flesh, her mind wandered to the child she had rescued from an alley once, its tiny body trembling with gratitude. The memory turned deliciously dark as she savored the look of dawning horror on its face when it realized not every woman was as kind as its mother. Y/N reveled in the bitter taste of fear—fear that lingered, even after the flesh was cooked.

She set the knife down, adjusting the heat on the stove to a low simmer. A small smile tugged at her lips, wicked and sharp. “He thinks he’s a monster,” she murmured, almost lovingly. “He has no idea.”

---

Back in the cell, Sukuna’s smirk returned. His instincts screamed that Y/N L/N was far more dangerous than she appeared.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t bored.

A/N: Thank you for reading! 💀✨ I had way too much fun diving into the twisted dynamic between Sukuna and Y/N. What did you think of their little “therapy session”? Who do you think is the real monster here? 👀 I’d love to hear your thoughts, theories, or even just your favorite line! Drop a comment and let me know if you’d like more stories like this—or if you think Sukuna ever stood a chance. 😉

Chapter 2 - Flesh and Stone (Tumblr/AO3)

All Works Masterlist

[horny-marbles]

eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum—most definitely over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm—it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed—whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment—he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no décor. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbing since your last mission—one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without biting down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door—just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand—and knock once.

No answer.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth—mistake—and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconscious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably keeps it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost sparkle.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands—already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later—alcohol, something minty, clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that house no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless. Still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him stepping into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples.

You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips. Slowly. It hurts.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, and tendon. His head tilts slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats the word, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You—what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree—just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. It hurts again, surprise.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trembles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there—but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused. Professional. Detached.

And it’s that—exactly that—that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath hitches. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing—what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen—

He keeps going. Calm. Professional.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing beneath your chin.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practically vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary—never does—but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp—sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't speak right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way—listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself—almost—but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he says. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked—if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just prescription.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue—but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you—doesn’t help guide you down or force your head. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare—up at him, at the soft shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from his touch or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with more than clinical interest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Not for them. So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, like him. And yet, here you are—kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already-bruised jaw. So you ease into it—inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests—dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts—settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn—and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, pooling around the base. It’s getting messy now—your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive—but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, low, strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it—sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffens above you—not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of slick arousal is thicker in the air, heady and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic—but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Dripping down your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed—tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers—the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters around his cock—

That changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental—observational, but something darker coils beneath it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond—can’t—too full of him.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips red and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion—strong, sure, impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence—thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or threatened.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way—not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, glistening from your spit. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely—calmly forcing your thighs back until you’re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there—palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly—almost cruelly—he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy—he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales—sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open—but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep—like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably—already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It was almost humiliating how close you were already.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk—he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls—his voice now tinged, barely, with something darker, something less restrained. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this—then let it last.”

He starts fucking you—really fucking you—like your desperation and your body bursting at the seams in need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises—slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out—like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again—not with medical intent now, but need—fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing painfully. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it—a snap, the high-pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you—groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged—driven not by logic but need. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward—body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest—barely a warning at all— before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred—savoring it. Your flesh parts around his fangs with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again—making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again—but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock.

“Cum,” he growls—against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash—blinding, consuming, full-body spasms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls—then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow—somehow—it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it—deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from the overstimulation.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you—thick, hot, and neglected for too long—filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then—for the first time—he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over—when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe—you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves—no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another case. Another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you—but he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side—hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep—ugly, violent—but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next—swabbed, sealed, wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively—even as your eyes roll, unimpressed—and he presses a thumb along the hinge—palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something—anything—about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

[nemesyaaa]

bones and all au // rafe cameron x reader

summary : “ you're so handsome when I'm all over your mouth. ” strangers by ethel cain.

warnings : if you were not comfortable with the movie by luca guadagnino, don't read this !! mature plot. a lot lot lot of blood. sick and gore attitude. cannibalism used as a form of love. strangers/ode to eaters by ethel cain muse. smut. pomegranate used as a metaphor of cannibalism. jealousy. mentions of organs and anatomy. some b&a refs but you can read it without watching the movie. violence. minors DNI. +18.

author's note : crdits to @starfxkrinc for this au. you can reach for her ode to eaters au which is very insane ! please, i know this is very twisted but don't send hate or be mean in the comments. if you dont want to read something like that, it's your right and i respect it, just scroll. to the rest, hope you will enjoy. it's my first time writing something like that so i'm kinda nervous. and by the way, the movie is very beautiful, taylor russell was incredible in this. i highly recommend you.

you lived in an old house in the midwest, the southern gothic type with an empty fridge, broken stairs, carcasses of eaten animals in the garden, a tv too old to be turned on, a radio player too damaged to be listened to , a completely dirty kitchen with dishes full of dishes in the sink, and nasty dirts on the floor. there was also that damn lamp that flickered and came on every other time, that icy water that froze your bones, that cold tiles that creaked under your feets. the windows were rarely open but when they were, the shutters slammed against the wind, your underwear hung over the radiator. but you really liked this place, in fact, it was the only place you could call home without wanting to collapse in tears.

you had your headphones on in that empty quiet space, and a probably dead singer in your ears living through your swaying body. you found this pomegranate on the table while searching. it was intact, still shiny and full of good things.

you didn't need a knife when you had a hungry beast inside you to cut the fruit with your teeths. you had dug your molars inside the seeds, directly into the fresh and virgin skin, opened the eviscerate flesh, tearing away everything you can with your mouth, the still delicious juice ready to feed your thirst and starved your hunger.

you smelled the fruity and juicy scent through your nose, splitted open the pomegranate, discovering the clean and clear inner bones, a pretty red color, even more oozing and sublime than your blood, a perfect complexion reminiscent of the sanguinary meat of your anatomy. your tongue and teeth were sunk in, completely buried in the dripping morsel. your face and cheeks were full of it, shining onto your dirty and sticky fingers. the juice burst, squeezed in your hands as you devoured this fruit, the liquid of which flowed, dripping down your neck and chest, slipping toward your tummy like an unstoppable river.

you were bad as a demon, but nothing stopped you. you bit and bit like a mad dog into the flesh of the fruit like a piece of meat, extracting with your molars everything that you could recover and stuck in your throat.

the more you ate, the more the fruit bled. but you heard nothing, no lamentations. nothing could stop you from eating, from the rage beating. it was sickly, obscene and depraved.

you looked like such an innocent thing, but inside you, there was nothing like that. and you couldn't fool anyone with your tears and your regrets, because you didn't have any.

you had dropped the pomegranate on the ground, there was nothing left except a broken corpse. you had consumed everything from the flesh to the bones, from the skin to every part.

your dress was stained. you stank of pomegranate as much as sin. there was nothing good in you, and above all, there were too many people in you.

rafe had come home in the night while you were waiting in the armchair in the living room, with this juice stuck to your body. you hadn't moved. for some reason you were faithful to your partner. maybe because he scared you, or because you understood that without him you couldn't survive.

he had thrown the key in the table and came before you.

he came toward you in the same state you had seen him for the first time, covered in blood and with glowing blue dilated eyes. you knew that he had eaten, that he had devoured someone because he was not like you. rafe was worse. he understood that nature was to kill but beyond that, it was something he was trying to teach you as your mentor. that we should not regret giving in to impulses, that if we did not listen to them, they would end up killing us.

that we were originally monsters, and that we had to deal with it. you didn't know if he was telling the truth, if he was right. but he was taller than you. you found a maturity in him that fascinated you, that forced you to listen to him.

he had taken off his shirt, and you looked up at his face. he smelled of blood, that strong, metallic smell that you could sniff from several meters away but especially his because you knew him by heart.

“jesus, don’t look at me like that. you wanted to stay at home, i didn't force you to. ”

“it was a girl. what was she like? did you like it ? ”

you didn't know if it was jealousy, or curiosity. you just knew you didn't like knowing he was with some girls even if it wasn't going to last.

with a smirk but at the same time terribly cold face, he answered you. "if you're that jealous, use that energy and mouth to taste it. maybe, you will have some answers. ”

you got up from the chair to join him. you didn't want to share him, even though you knew there was only you in his life. you knew it because since you knew him, he had never talked about his family, nor contacted relatives in the payphone. then, he rarely spoke about his private life. he often made fun of you, because it was more your type of thing to open up about personal moments. you never knew if he was really listening to you but he stayed until the end of your speech.

eagerly, you kissed him, that girl’s blood sliding against your lips, your mouth capturing rafe’s in a kiss, as your cheeks crushed against his bloody face. “ mine, mine.” you whispered, pushing your tongue against his. “ clean that blood, babe. i can't be yours if she's still here. ” he had slipped his hands under your skirt, pressing the flesh of your ass. he had a ring on, the cold metal playing against your skin. you could smell it, just like what he had eaten before coming home.

he sat on the probably moldy and torn couch in your living room, you were almost his height now that you were sitting on top of him. you were hungry, as much for him as for sex. he made you feel so many things, or it was this jealousy, this thirst within you that made you so hungry. you weren’t really sure.

you took one of his fingers still covered in blood, the recent taste of raw flesh now in your cavity. he had pushed his thumb deeper in your mouth, making you suck the pulp properly. the liquid bleeding against your tongue, as his flesh quickly brushed your cavity, your drooling lips curved around him. he pushed it in until he felt your throat.

he was playing with fire, he was playing with you, because he knew you could bite him at any moment but he had also conditioned you not to.

“so, how is it? ”

“nothing tastes better than you.” you simply replied. “ right ? nothing can be as good as me. ” he said in a mocking tone.

he had undone the strap of your dress, revealing one of your tits which he had taken in his palm before taking it in his mouth. your nipple was pressed between his teeth, your skin trapped in his hand as he sucked on your piece of flesh, pinching it only ever so gently in his mouth. he still had remnants of blood, slipping between your body and his tongue.

there was something sensual between this slow sucking, fast suction of the tongue around your throbbing nipple, your spiraling stomach against the void, the movement of his adam's apple in his throat while he tasted every beads of your boobs. rafe was good at it.

he pressed your tits, grabbed them tightly and firmly against his palm, nibbling the tip, caressing the pulp, kissing the flesh. and maybe if he had bitten into it, you would have cum instantly.

his hand was on you, covering your body in blood and sweat, tracing your figure with his soiled and bloody fingers like a canva, letting them run over your skin like a paintbrush.

he was hidden by your sucked breasts. and you wanted him full. you had started to grind against him, even with your underwear separating you from him and his piece of jeans, you managed to be completely soaked on him. your hips moved in motion, lifting delicately like a porcelain doll too afraid of getting hurt.

you were no worse than him, and he was no worse than you. you were both terrible people. there was no hierarchy among people like you.

but the first time you saw him, in that shirt full of blood, with that mouth so red and that oozing dripping neck.

it was dark, but you knew very clearly what he had done, and perfectly well who he had eaten. you had observed it and you had not seen a monster. you weren't afraid.

he wasn't mean and monstruous, just indifferent.

"if you want to eat, that man is still over there." he said simply, not trying to hide or deny what you were seeing.

and you liked it. you instantly liked it.

“ you're the one who interests me.”

“you know the drill, we don’t eat each other.”

“i mean, will you let me come with you?”

"listen to me carefully, i don't have the face of a babysitter, nor the skills to do so. get by, you may be a minor but if you're old enough to do what you do when mom and dad have their backs turned, i swear, you can get through this on your own. ”

“i’m an adult.” you cut him off.

“your age was a nice excuse for me to tell you that i’m not interested. i bet you're an adult. ”

you had followed him when he approached his pickup. "i wouldn't bother you. but i need help. i mean, this is new to me. i don't do this often while you seem to be experienced. i want.. .i want to be like you, not to be afraid of that.”

“what makes you think i’m the right person for this?”

“you may not necessarily be the right person, but you’re the one I want.”

“you know, i already have a lot of problems, i don’t need a burden on all of them.”

“please. i won’t be one. you have my word.”

"you really don't give me a choice. come up crybaby, but if you bother me, i won't hesitate to abandon you, no matter where."

you nodded. it was going back, but in the meantime, you had traveled to many states of america, and probably left a pile of corpses on your way. even though it hadn’t been easy, he had taught you how to drive.

one cold summer night, in the darkness of a tent in the middle of nowhere, you hadn't managed to sleep. but when you opened your eyes, rafe wasn't sleeping either.

“you should sleep, you’re the one driving tomorrow. ”

“you want to know who my first victim was? "

"i guess even if i don't care, you're going to tell me. so go ahead. knock me out, tell me something your little lips haven't told me yet. and don’t say victim, you're much an innocent thing than a killer. but don’t worry, i'm about to raise you very well. ”

his hands had gripped your hips to position you above him. “but for now, tell me about your boring story, maybe it will help me sleep.”

you had told him a lot of your past. the first time you had eaten someone, the babysitter your father had hired who had ended up torn apart on the floor and another part in your mouth. oh it really wasn't beautiful. and this time, in the summer camp where a boy had mysteriously disappeared because you had devoured him in the woods. and that friend at school whose finger you swallowed. it was stronger than you. you needed to eat.

and rafe was the only one to understand it.

the most intimate moments in a relationship should be sex, but for the two of you it was different. it was when you ate together, when you both had blood around your mouth, that you could taste his, and he could taste yours. when there was this connection between you.

he was a different eater from you, he was bestial and cold, sinking his teeth straight into the flesh, tearing off the parts of the body one by one. his bites were mean and cruel. the way, his teeths pulled the organs, the ribcage. you watched him, his hungry raging mouth embracing the darkness of his needs, ripping all the raw meat out roughly. oh the blood, it leaked into every corner of his pretty and bloody lips that you wanted to kiss so badly, to feel the liquid and flesh filling and consuming the space of your throat and your tongue as your body swallowed everything he gave you. oh how much, rafe loved to feed you directly in the mouth, letting you suck the flowing red wet all around his jaw, and down his neck to the cool grass. he was beautiful. insanely handsome. but also, so scary.

his skin was covered in a red, metallic coat. his eyes were consumed with pleasure, while devouring the body of your victim.

he was very different from you, who was more delicate in your movements, or rather clumsy. your bites were messy, your touches lighter, even with the blood all over you.

but it was in those moments that the sex was the best afterwards. when his tongue, still red and famished with blood, circulated over the skin of your stomach, leaving a reddish river against your flesh.

and it went even further than that, when he found himself lost between your legs, his warmth muscle completely buried inside you, lapping your soaked folds, licking you like a starving man, his mouth pressed around your sloppy wet cunt. your juices dripping against his open wided mouth and jaw, the throbbing of your clit against his nose, the way your beating pussy smeared the blood across his lips and cheeks every time he entered and devoured your delicious slick.

since you didn't eat each other, it was your only way to feed him, to make him taste you. you didn't know if he loved your taste but in any case his tongue always came back to find you, to fuck that cunt, lodging itself between your soggy walls.

he forced you to keep your thighs apart, one hand resting on your bruised tummy which contracted every time you felt him on your core.

your legs shaking around his shoulders, the way his bloody mouth nibbled on your clit. you moaned in the middle of this abandoned place. you could shout as loud as you wanted, no one would come, no one would hear you.

you loved feeling his large hands on your bruised skin, especially after eating, because they were dirty and sloppy. you let your tongue clean the blood stuck to his fingers, the drops falling into your mouth.

it was strange how love can be perceived for everyone. ever since you were a child, you have been unable to show affection without hurting people. when you loved someone, it was tragic because you had this need to devour and consume them, to make them a part of you, to make them live within you.

but for rafe, it was different.

you were total opposites. and even though you lived together, you wondered if he felt things for you. if he had ever been in love.

because you liked to think that the way he kept you around, the way he let you stay with him at night, the way he always came home, and was open to doing all these things with you, that was his way to show you that you mattered to him. you even wondered if he came back every night because he couldn't let go of you. yet, at the beginning of your relationship, he wouldn't have hesitated.

here, in this rickety house, you didn't pay rent. it belonged to one of your victims. you always did that, you killed people, and robbed them of their belongings. you took their money, clothes and possessions. you were stealing the lives of these people. at first you felt guilty but now you feel nothing. it was life.

“i love you. ” you told him, as you straddled him on your shared bed, your fists curled in the pieces of sheets. “i really love you, rafe.” you were moaning and feverish, every inch of his thick cock buried in your core, hitting your spot.

while you were bouncing on him, your ass slapped against his muscular thighs. he grabbed your breasts moving over his face, as his dick was ruining you, each of his thrusts destroying your canal. you were as tight as the first time he fucked you in the back of the pickup. he gripped your ass, pinching the flesh.

he wrapped his hand around your throat before losing his face in your neck, his mouth kissing that immaculate part of your body. he placed kisses, before lightly sinking his teeths into your skin, nibbling and sucking on this skin offered to him, while you continued to take him just below him. “yea, you love me. ” with a hard stroke further into you. “still fucking tied to me. ”

and he wasn't wrong, you were so glued to him, completely submissive. he was inside you, filling you completely, every part of his length stuck to your walls, parting your pussy lips, your moans muffled above his head as your arms wrapped around his back. you were desperate and whimpering, the wet sounds of your repeated moans echoing around the room.

you could feel the twitch of his stomach against your skin, the perfect harmony of your two bodies in sync, he speared you violently with his fat cock, let you hear his grunts and heavy breathing against your neck, coming straight from his throat.

you were sweaty and noisy, like one of his victims, but most of all, you were his, his hands all over your body like a prize. every touch was possessive, your head tilted back, and his mouth melted onto your jaw. he fucked you roughly, making you bounce on him and cry.

his blue eyes shone in the darkness of the room. they were on you, in a perfect focus.

“do you love me? " you asked him, your body going through trembling spasms, your skin covering his. you were desperate and suffocating. your breaths were rapid and frantic.

he moved your head with his hand on your throat, his gaze flickering above your collarbones. you felt like you were pretty with the importance his pupils gave you.

you wondered if he had ever wanted to eat you alive, because after all, even if you were an eater, you were still easy prey.

and maybe even sometimes you fantasized about what he could do, because you wouldn't have minded seeing him dug his teeth into your flesh like meat, seeing him consume you one by one, your bones getting sucked, your blood spurting against his tooth.

you would have loved to sacrifice your body to feed him, to be that pomegranate to him, to see him smile through your organs, to see his belly swell because you were in a thousand pieces inside.

you would have loved for him to eat you alive, because you knew rafe would have done it out of love.

“ don't leave me or i will eat you. ” you said to him, his hands brushing your hair like a lover. “ every part of you. like you taught me. ”

“ bones and all ? ”

“ bones and all, my love. ”

and he smiled, fucking smiled all over your kisses, his lips covered yours.

“ then, what are you waiting for ? sunk those teeths in me. scared for what, babe ? nothing that you have not tasted before.”

[mothernaturesthings]

teeth whom bite the skin i kiss, smoke x black!oc

a/n: bones and all x sinners x eve’s bayou with a twist. i thought about this literally at two am. i haven’t watched the movie yet so this is based off what i’ve seen from trailers and clips :) this is kinda long ngl guys.

warnings: mentions of blood

synopsis: lousiana native livie, a cannibal, is cursed and banished to the 1930’s after sinking her teeth into someone she shouldn’t have…

chapter one: “don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

1981; Deep Louisiana

Children, ranging from five to thirteen, assembled around a makeshift, timeworn playground. An outbreak of laughter ensued as they sprinted to play a game of tag.

Aside from the children was a young woman with soft, doll-like features occupying a tattered bench. The sun fawned over her pretty tanned skin, so much so that its flattery caused her to be sticky. She tried to disregard the muggy heat by thumbing to next page in the book she was reading. "In Search of Lost Time" was written on the cover, and by the looks of the pages behind the bookmark, she's nearly finished with it.

After a moment of reading, the young woman—or Livie, as she liked to be called—felt a sudden yet timid tap on her shoulder. Livie harshly turned, and a whisper of wind brushed her curls against her cheek. "Hey, ya' still reading that book? I thought you said you was done already?" Céleste, her younger, ginger-haired sister, spouted.

Now irritable from her sister’s interruption, Livie uttered, "Well, I sure am now," through gritted teeth as she slammed the book shut. Noticing that she was bothersome, Céleste silently faced away from her eldest sister, a slight pout threatening to form on her lips. "Sorry." She muttered.

Livie sighed. "It's fine, bug. I was gettin’ tired of reading anyway. Alright?" Céleste nodded and slowly started to scoot closer to Livie on the bench. Livie quirked an eyebrow incredulously. Then, Céleste tapped her shoulder once again and yelled, "Tag, you're it!" before hightailing it towards the wooden monkey bars.

"You little..." Livie grunted and ran after her, not too far behind. Céleste screamed while being chased, some of the children even participating in the hunt.

During the pursuit, a little boy stumbled and landed face-first on the prickled grass, grazing the padding of his finger in the midst.

Livie stopped mid-stride and watched as the boy clutched his finger, face contorted in pain. The remaining children continued on, unaffected by the bumble. The small abrasion, a scrape dotted with blood, immediately caught her eye, and in turn, it twitched.

A glint flared in her pupils. Something primal. Instinctive.

Livie shadowed the boy before cautiously walking over. He was whining now, swaying back and forth as an act of self-soothing.

“Mind if I help?”

The little boy shook his head yes, albeit apprehensively.

Livie held the injured finger towards her, inspecting the fresh wound there. The fleck of blood became a pool that made its descent down to his palm.

That glint returned, but this time, it clouded her pupil completely. Livie was transfixed on that wound, mouth agape, teeth bared.

"Livie?" Céleste questioned. She'd been watching the scene unfold in the distance, and judging by the tears flooding the rim of her lower eyelids, she was terrified.

Unexpectedly, Livie widened her jaw and swallowed a mouthful of the little boy's finger, biting down with brute force. The sheer pressure from her bite force caused his bone to fracture on impact. The little boy bawled and struggled to free himself from her unrelenting grip.

Horror-stricken, the other children squealed and fled. Céleste, however, was scared stiff, too panicked to move.

In a last-ditch effort to break away, adrenaline rushed to his brain, and he gripped her curls, tugging away until the stinging sensation from her scalp snapped her back to reality.

Livie released him, triggering him to tumble onto his back. The scent of metallic blood overwhelmed her senses. She kissed her lips with the touch of her fingers and moved them into her line of sight.

Bloody fingertips.

Livie’s face was blanched lily white. She noticed the little boy still on the ground, a clump of her hair in his fist.

“I’m sorry…” She stuttered out, trailing off once she spotted Céleste.

The little boy stood up, cradling his severed finger. “Ou va regrèt sa. Manman mwen va pini jou ou né!” He cursed, pointing his unscathed finger at Livie. He hobbled off, leaving remnants of blood in his wake.

Although Livie was a full-bred Creole, she was ultimately the outcast of the bloodline, so the language was never taught to her as a child.

In a lapse of momentary weakness, Livie took her bloodied finger and suckled off the crimson liquid. Her hunger now abated.

Céleste warily approached Livie. She knelt and placed an unsteady hand on Livie’s shoulder. Livie glanced up at her; pupils reverted back to normal.

“What’d he say?”

“What?”

“What’d he say?” Livie repeated. “In Creole.”

Céleste gulped, evading the question. “We have to tell Mama.”

-

Nightfall with the pitter-patter of raindrops.

Above stood a two-story weatherboard home, where the cacophony of instruments and stomping trumpeted through the bayou.

Inside, a celebration was in full swing. Guest and family alike were all jigging on the first floor. A captivating eyeful of assorted shades of browns, greens, and reds while bourgeois finest adorned the walls.

The Ronette's “Be My Baby” sonorously played on vinyl. Cigarette smoke lingered around the home, casting a smoggy coloring over everyone.

In the blink of an eye, a drove of children galloped into the living room, one of them being Céleste, now in better spirits. The children shoehorned themselves through the rocking bodies. Céleste bumped into someone by mistake, droplets of their rum splattering on the hardwood.

“Damn it, bug! You and them kids stop rippin’ and runnin’ ‘round here.” Céleste mother, Colette, scolded; a cigarette dangling in the corner of her mouth. A unknown man, who Céleste couldnt quite recognize, continued to sway Colette’s hips with his big hands.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You been checkin’ on ya’ sister?”

“No, ma’am. Not since dinner.”

“Go on and do that. Don't forget to fetch her some water too, ya’ hear?”

“Okay.” Before Céleste could sprint off, Collette snapped her fingers. “Hey!” Céleste turned around. “Here,” she took a final, charred pull from the cigarette and handed it off to her. “Give this to her. It’ll calm them urges down.”

Céleste accepted the cigarette and beelined it towards the pristine kitchen. Once there, she leaned on her tiptoes to reach the cabinet. She snatched a whisky glass down and switched on the faucet; she let the water fill the glass to the brim before twisting the faucet off.

Céleste hummed and placed the glass on the countertop, meticulous about not spilling the water. She took a steep step backward, assessing her surroundings.

Suddenly, a surge of wind penetrated the unlatched window. Aggravated, Céleste yanked the bottom rail down, bolting the lock. The wind persisted.

In defiance of her mother, Céleste brought the filter tip of the cigarette to her lips. As she was about to inhale the addictive nicotine…

“Céleste Louviere!”

“Comin’, Mama!”

Céleste dropped the cigarette hurriedly and grabbed the whisky glass, oblivious of the tinge of scarlet floating at the bottom of the glass.

In the barn on the outskirts of the bayou, Collette had created a refuge for Livie until she mustered up a plan to bury this incident.

Considering it wouldn't have been the first time.

Livie had dozed off in a leftover heap of hay nearby. Collette already prepared her to be unlocatable for a few days, so she made herself at home.

After ten minutes of nonstop running through the bayou, Céleste barreled into the barn unannounced and breathless. The explosive interruption woke Livie out of her sleep with a start.

“I brought you some water. Mama said so. I can bring some more gumbo if ya’ want me to.” Céleste offered Livie the water, which she reluctantly accepted. The scarlet tinge submerged in the water was no longer.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Just drink it, big head.”

Livie gulped every last drop and passed the now empty glass back to Céleste.

“Guess you were thirsty after all.” She quipped.

“Shut up. You ain’t the one that’s gotta hideout in this hot ass barn all day.” Livie mushed her sister playfully.

“Mama said it’ll only be a couple days in here. She gon’ figure everything out.”

“By sending me away to some crazy house.”

Céleste was taken aback by that crass statement. “She wouldn’t do that.”

Livie chuckled dryly at Céleste naivety.

“I yearn for flesh. Blood. I ain’t normal, ‘Les. After a while, I won’t be able to control my urges no more, and Mama can’t have you in the crossfire when it happens.”

Céleste suppressed her tears at that realization. She understood that Livie was right.

“Mama’s gonna get you some help.” Céleste walked over and sat beside Livie on the hay. “I promise.” Livie smiled and wrapped her arms around her. “I know.”

That surge of wind revisited the bayou, the drift nearly sweeping the girls back. Céleste squeezed her eyes closed as Livie forced her hand out to break the current but to no avail.

Then, it stopped.

Céleste cracked one eye open to gauge the severity of the aftermath. She finally opened both of her eyes and looked around.

Livie was missing.

“Livie? Sissy?” Céleste found her footing and faced the spot where Livie was sitting.

Céleste began to hysterically sob, yanking her curls in frustration. “Livie where are you?”

Vire dèyè, a voice demanded in an alluring undertone.

Céleste obliged and turned around. There it was: the little boy’s amputated finger from earlier.

She screamed bloody Mary and made a break for it, calling out for her mother.

-

In Livie’s inert mind, she was merely resting.

That was until she began to hear voices.

“What a pretty lil’ thing. Ya’ think she’ll dance for the joint?”

“We ain’t got no clue who this girl is or how she ended up in our shit.”

“And who said we gotta find out?”

“Should we get her up?”

A chuckle. “Yeah. Go get the bucket.”

In her realm of solitude, Livie felt a barrage of water splash onto her face. She gasped, crawling away from the water boarding.

Once she regained focus, she scrutinized her environment. She shuffled upright.

She wasn’t in the barn back home.

“Where the hell am I? Who are you?” Livie seized a bottle of Highland Whisky, aiming the base at the gentleman with the velvet fedora. The other gentleman, sporting a blue scalley cap, garnered Livie’s attention by sticking his hand up in mock surrender. “And you! What…”

She sized up the imposing men and it dawned on her.

“Are y’all twins?”

The velvet fedora gentleman flashed a megawatt smile, two of his front row teeth glinting with open face canine gold.

“Nah, we cousins.”

Livie’s vision distorted and went black. Her arms and legs stiffened as she toppled over. Out cold once again.

[enhastars]

THE RED ROOM જ⁀➴  A PARK SUNGHOON FANFICTION

SYNOPSIS ! Y/n had no idea what was in store for her when she applied to work at the most successful restaurant chain in Korea; L'atelier Rouge. She was fresh out of school, desperate, and needing a job and Sunghoon was right there to give her one. There was one small detail left out of the application form, however, and it left Y/n itching to find out the truth-- why so many people disappeared around the same time as their grand evening parties. What was really going on behind the scenes of such a shady business? And how does Sunghoon always manage to keep his commerce afloat? Welcome to The Red Room. We hope you enjoy your stay.

FEATURING — PARK SUNGHOON x FEMALE READER

GENRE! thriller, horror, murder mystery, there are mild mentions of cannibalism and gore, i'm sorry!! sunghoon is terrifying but he's actually the good guy in the end, mentions of drug use, criminal activity, and abuse.

WARNINGS! NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. viewer discretion is advised.

STATUS! ONGOING , sporadic updates

ᯓ★ AUTHOR NOTE hey this fic is definitely not pretty 😭 it's not my usual, but I found this idea in my drafts from 3 years ago and i decided to make it enhypen based! i initially got inspired when i watched documentaries of billionaire life styles & the fucked up shit they do, and this is merely to highlight these real life horrors and not to promote them! i do not condone anything that occurs in this fic, and nothing said or done reflects the members in real life. this is purely fiction. hope you enjoy it! :D

TAGLIST IS OPEN, SEND AN ASK OR COMMENT TO JOIN!

CHAPTER ONE — NUIT ÉTOILÉE

CHAPTER TWO — PÉTILLANTE

CHAPTER THREE — EFFRAYER

CHAPTER FOUR — RÊVEUSE

CHAPTER FIVE — CHÈRIE

++ more to come!

[323cutie]

i’ve noticed how many biteable spots wy has (nose, neck, thighs, the HIP DIVOTS THAT I GUESS HE HAS) and i’m just worried one of these days someone is (consensually) gonna bite him a lot and leave marks. stay safe out there </3 -🫧

Hey so this is crazy and heartbreaking and miserable. but for the sake of going insane we're gonna talk about it!

i really think wooyo is possessive but in a fun playful way like. both of you know that neither of you are going anywhere (absolutely wrapped around each others fingers) but still... it's nice to let everyone know who you belong to and vice versa. hehe.

just imagining a pretty wooyoung on your bed, wrists tied together with one of your belts -- hands out of the way so you can leave whatever marks you want all over him <3. ohhh and all the little noises he'd make... kissing and sucking gorgeous purple bruises into the skin all over his chest and tummy, listening to his gasps and whines and the dirty words he can't hold back. hes not above begging, either.

running your tongue over those hip divots is what gets him really desperate though. so close but not close enough... "please, baby," he pleads, hips bucking up under your body. "need you so fucking bad, please, touch me."

you could, or you could play with him a little more. running a hand over the tent in his pants, a barely there touch, you say, "like this?"

"h-harder," wooyoung answers immediately, voice tight. "fuck, babe. you're gonna kill me. let me fuck you, yeah? please?"

you hum, pressing your lips together like you're thinking even though you've already made your decision. "...maybe later," you answer after a moment of silence, grinning at the whimper that leaves wooyoung's lips. you lean up just to nip at the tip of his nose. "hold still until i'm done and i'll let you do whatever you want to me."

[buttercandy16]

A Taste of her Masterpiece

PAIRING(s): DarkChef!Agatha Harkness x Reader

SUMMARY: Celebrity chef Agatha Harkness hides a dark secret behind her fame. When a young fan joins her kitchen, obsession takes a twisted turn, blurring the lines between love and danger.

WARNING(s): Dub-con, Cannibalism, Blood, Murder, Manipulation, and other Dark Themes.

A/N: This is sick, and I love it. Don't read if you can't handle it.

The name Agatha Harkness was synonymous with culinary perfection. She wasn’t just a chef; she was an artist. Her restaurants, scattered in the most elite corners of the world, weren’t just places to dine but experiences to be revered. There was something about her food that entranced people. Some described it as divine. Others said it evoked emotions they couldn’t quite explain—comfort and terror, ecstasy and unease, all in one bite.

You had followed her career for as long as you could remember. Watching her TV specials, reading her cookbooks, religiously recreating her recipes—it was a passion, maybe even a mild obsession. She was captivating, her confidence magnetic, and her talent undeniable. When an opportunity came up to apply for a position at her flagship restaurant, Memento, you didn’t hesitate. Landing a job there wasn’t just a career move—it was a dream.

What you didn’t know was that it would also become your nightmare.

Walking into Memento for the first time was surreal. The ambiance was intoxicating, luxurious, and yet strangely eerie. The staff moved like ghosts in their pristine uniforms, their faces stern and obedient. There was no sound of clattering dishes or shouted orders—only silence, broken occasionally by Agatha’s voice drifting from the kitchen like a symphony conductor’s commands.

You didn’t expect to meet her right away, but there she was: elegant, poised, and powerful. Her sharp features were framed by soft waves of dark hair, and her piercing eyes seemed to look right through you.

“So, you want to learn?” she asked, her voice smooth as silk but carrying an undercurrent of something sharp.

“Yes, Chef. I—I’ve admired your work for years,” you stammered, suddenly aware of how small you felt in her presence.

Her smile was faint but genuine. “We’ll see if you’re worthy of my kitchen. Follow me.”

You didn’t realize then that stepping into her kitchen would mean stepping into her world, a world where culinary brilliance masked a much darker truth.

The first few days working in Memento were grueling yet exhilarating. Agatha Harkness was a perfectionist, as ruthless as she was captivating. She demanded excellence and punished failure with sharp words, but she rewarded brilliance with smiles that made your stomach flip.

From the beginning, she singled you out. When your fellow apprentices were scrambling to keep up with her instructions, she pulled you aside to demonstrate techniques herself. Her hands would brush yours as she corrected your grip on a knife. Her whispers, low and intimate, felt like secrets meant only for you.

“Don’t let the others distract you,” she said one evening, as the rest of the staff cleaned the kitchen. You had stayed behind, eager to please her. “They don’t see what I see in you. But I do, darling. You’ve got potential. If you trust me, I can make you extraordinary.”

She poured you a glass of wine, her fingers lingering on yours as she handed it over. The way she looked at you made your pulse race. There was something disarming about her, something that made you want to confide in her. You started telling her things—about your ambitions, your struggles, even your insecurities.

She listened intently, nodding and offering words of comfort. But Agatha had a way of twisting the knife.

“You give too much of yourself to people who don’t deserve it,” she’d say, her tone dripping with venom. “The people you love—do they really love you back? Or do they take and take, leaving nothing for you?”

It stung because part of you believed her. Soon, you found yourself drifting away from old friends, even family, making excuses not to call or visit. Agatha was always there, always ready to fill the void.

“You don’t need them,” she told you one night after a particularly long service. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll teach you everything. You’ll be my masterpiece.”

Her words were addictive, and you found yourself craving more of it, more of her. She was always near, her presence wrapping around you like a fog. But there were cracks in the veneer of perfection. Little things—a peculiar smell wafting from the back freezer, missing staff members who were never spoken of again, whispers from the other cooks that stopped abruptly when you entered the room.

She handed you a plate of food to taste. It was exquisite, the flavors rich and unfamiliar, yet they lingered uncomfortably on your tongue. “What do you think?” she asked, watching you intently.

“It’s... amazing,” you said, though something about it unsettled you. Her smile widened, and for a moment, you swore there was something predatory in her gaze.

“You’re learning,” she murmured, placing her hand on your shoulder.

As the weeks went on, Agatha tightened her grip. She insisted you take more shifts, pulling you away from your life outside the restaurant. Your coworkers began to whisper, their jealousy evident, but Agatha made it clear you were above them.

“Don’t let them drag you down,” she hissed after you mentioned the cold glares the others had been throwing your way. “Mediocrity despises brilliance, and you, my dear, are destined for so much more.”

But there was always an undercurrent of cruelty beneath her praise. If you made a mistake in the kitchen, her disappointment was palpable, her words cutting.

“I expected more from you,” she said once, after a dish you’d prepared fell short of her expectations. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”

Her disappointment was unbearable, a gnawing ache that kept you awake at night. The only way to earn her approval was to work harder, to give her more of yourself.

One night, as you sat together in her office, Agatha poured another glass of wine and leaned closer to you. “Do you know why I’m so hard on you?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Because I have potential?” you replied hesitantly.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Because I love you,” she said.

The words hit you like a thunderbolt, rendering you speechless.

“I see you, truly see you,” she continued. “And I’ve given you everything. My time, my knowledge, my devotion. No one else will ever care for you like I do.”

Her hand rested on your thigh, her thumb tracing slow circles. “And you love me too. Don’t you?”

Your heart raced. It wasn’t true—was it? But the way she looked at you, the way her presence filled every corner of your life, made you question everything.

“Yes,” you whispered, though the word felt like surrender.

Her smile turned triumphant, her fingers tightening on your leg. “Good. Because I’ll never let you go.”

Then came the night when she revealed her “true art.”

She led you into the backroom after service, a place the other staff seemed to avoid. The air was cold, the metallic scent of blood hanging heavy. In the center of the room was a table, and on it lay what could only be described as a macabre masterpiece—a carved human leg, meticulously prepared, the skin glistening under the fluorescent lights.

You stumbled back, bile rising in your throat, but Agatha caught you, her hands firm on your shoulders.

“Do you see now?” she whispered, her voice soothing yet terrifying. “The secret ingredient. The reason my food touches people’s souls. It’s because they taste life itself.”

“You’re insane,” you choked out, but even as you said it, you couldn’t pull away from her.

“No, my darling. I’m an artist,” she said, her eyes alight with passion. “And you... you’ve already tasted it. That’s why you’re still here. That’s why you can’t leave.”

Your stomach churned as you realized the truth. She’d been feeding it to you all along, seducing you not just with her words but with her food.

Whether out of fear, fascination, or something darker, you stayed. She lavished you with attention, pulling you deeper into her twisted world. She claimed it was love—that her obsession with you was pure and consuming, and she began to whisper her ultimate truth:

“When you truly love someone, you must consume them. Body, mind, soul.”

You didn’t fight as hard as you should have. Maybe you were too far gone, too ensnared by her charisma, her manipulation. When the night came, you let her guide you to the table, let her touch you with tenderness as she prepared to take what she believed was hers.

The room was dimly lit, candlelight flickering across the table where Agatha had arranged an array of her finest culinary tools. The knife she held glinted as she tilted it, running a finger along the blade with the care of a maestro tuning their instrument. Her expression was serene, as though preparing for something sacred.

You sat in the chair, wrists trembling against the restraints she’d insisted were “necessary.” Her eyes met yours—intense, full of adoration and madness. “I would never hurt you,” she purred. “This is love, my darling. This is how we become one.”

Your chest tightened. “Agatha, please…” you whispered, though it wasn’t entirely fear driving your plea. Deep down, a horrifying part of you craved her touch, her obsession. The thought sickened you, but her words and actions had eroded your sense of self. You didn’t know where your revulsion ended and your strange desire began.

She knelt before you, taking your trembling hands in hers. Her touch was tender, her thumb stroking your palm as though to calm you. “You’re exquisite,” she murmured. “Every piece of you is a masterpiece. And when I consume you, it won’t be to destroy you. It will be to preserve you. Forever.”

Agatha pressed her lips against your wrist, the warmth of her mouth a cruel contrast to the sharp chill of the knife resting on your skin. The blade kissed the delicate flesh of your forearm, slicing with precision. A slow bead of crimson welled up, and Agatha’s breath hitched, her pupils dilating as though she were beholding the most precious wine.

She licked the blood, her tongue darting out to taste the coppery warmth. Her eyes closed, and a shiver ran through her, a sound of pleasure slipping from her lips. “You’re perfect,” she whispered.

Terror gripped you, but so did something else—a morbid fascination as she pressed a square of white cloth to the wound, pausing only to meet your gaze. “This is trust,” she said softly. “And trust is love.”

You wanted to scream at her, to fight the straps that bound you, but her presence overwhelmed you, her obsession having carved itself into your psyche over weeks of whispered devotion and manipulation. You were hers now. You didn’t even remember what it felt like to belong to yourself.

Agatha turned away briefly, her movements deliberate and graceful as she arranged small bowls on the table: herbs, spices, drizzles of amber-hued oils. She hummed softly, the melody haunting and strangely comforting.

She cut a small piece from you. Your mind blanked, panic giving way to numb disbelief. She handled the slice of your flesh delicately, as though it were a rare delicacy. Blood still oozed from the cut, staining the pristine white of her apron, but she paid no mind.

“I’ll make this beautiful,” she said, her voice hushed in reverence. “Because you’re beautiful, and you deserve only the finest presentation.”

You were shaking now, tears streaming down your face as she seared the flesh on a small cast-iron pan. The smell wafted upward, rich and intoxicating, and it sent a new kind of horror rushing through you. Her movements were confident, almost graceful, as she added butter and herbs, basting the slice of you in its juices.

When she plated it—garnished with an artful smear of sauce and a sprig of thyme—it looked like something out of one of her shows. Perfect.

Agatha returned to you with the plate, her face alight with a mixture of pride and something darker. She cut a bite-sized piece, her hand trembling slightly as she brought the fork to your lips. “Open, my love,” she whispered.

You pressed your lips tightly together, refusing, but her gaze sharpened, her tone turning firm. “You’ll taste it,” she demanded, her obsession igniting into something commanding. “You have to. You’ll understand everything when you do.”

Reluctantly—out of fear, out of exhaustion—you parted your lips. The morsel slipped past your tongue, and the flavors exploded in your mouth: rich, savory, decadent. A groan escaped your throat before you could stop it, tears rolling down your cheeks as you hated yourself for the pleasure that coursed through you.

“There,” she said, smiling as though you had just declared your undying love for her. “You feel it now, don’t you? You feel how special you are.”

Your voice cracked. “You’re insane, Agatha…”

“I’m in love,” she corrected sharply, cupping your face. Her thumb wiped a tear from your cheek before brushing across your lips. “And you will love me the way I love you. We’ll be inseparable.”

Her mouth hovered over yours, and before you could recoil, she kissed you—deeply, possessively. You tasted your own essence on her lips, and something shattered inside you, replaced by a grim acceptance.

Then she pulled away, and before you could think to protest, she took a knife and made a shallow cut across her palm. Blood trickled down her wrist, and she let it drip onto the plate. She cut a thin strip of skin from herself and prepared it the same way, searing it with precision.

“This,” she said, handing you the fork, “is how you love someone. By letting them become part of you. Eat.”

Your body betrayed you. Your trembling hands reached for the fork, and you brought the slice to your lips. The flavor was different—darker, heavier—but no less intoxicating. Agatha’s smile widened as she watched you chew.

“You’re mine now,” she whispered, leaning close, her breath hot against your ear. “Completely. And I am yours.”

In the weeks that followed, the world outside faded into nothingness. Your life became Agatha—her kitchen, her obsession, her love. She continued to take pieces of you, small parts each time, weaving them into her dishes and savoring them with a reverence that frightened and thrilled you.

You didn’t recognize yourself anymore. You weren’t just her apprentice—you were her masterpiece. And as she fed you pieces of herself, you realized the horrifying truth: Agatha’s obsession with you seemed boundless.

 The way she looked at you—hungry and adoring—was equal parts unnerving and intoxicating. But you noticed a shift after she began feeding you pieces of herself and consuming you in return. Her affection deepened, but so did her control.

“You’re ready,” she told you one night, her tone reverent, like a priestess before a sacred ritual.

“For what?” you asked, still raw from the evening’s events—both in body and soul.

“For the next step,” she said, cupping your face with hands that were simultaneously tender and unyielding. “You’ve trusted me enough to taste and be tasted. Now, it’s time you create.”

She didn’t elaborate, but her words lingered in your mind. The next evening, when service ended, she led you into her private quarters. Unlike the rest of the restaurant, which gleamed with sterility and perfection, her personal space was dark and opulent, with velvet-draped furniture and walls lined with bookshelves.

She handed you a glass of wine and sat beside you, unnervingly close. “When I first began my journey,” she began, her voice soft and hypnotic, “I was lost, like you. Then I discovered the art of it all—the power of taking life and transforming it into something divine.”

You felt your blood run cold, but you didn’t interrupt.

“Every great artist begins with an apprentice,” she continued. “And you’re mine. To understand true creativity, true mastery, you must do more than taste. You must take. I’ll guide you, my darling. I’ll teach you how to savor every moment.”

You should have refused, but her words wove themselves around you like a spell. Agatha made it seem so... inevitable.

The next evening, Agatha brought you into the backroom again, but this time, a man was bound to the same steel table where you’d first learned the truth. He was unconscious, his face bruised but breathing steadily.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you looked at her. “Who... who is this?”

“No one of importance,” she said dismissively, brushing her fingers over the man’s temple. “He made mistakes. Crossed lines. But his life doesn’t matter now. What matters is what he will become.”

Agatha handed you a knife—your knife, she said, one she’d chosen specifically for you. The handle was cool and smooth in your hand, the blade shining under the stark light.

“Don’t look at him as a person,” she said, her voice low and coaxing. “He’s an ingredient. A canvas. And with my guidance, you’ll make something beautiful.”

Your hands trembled, bile rising in your throat. “I can’t,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” she said firmly, standing behind you. Her arms wrapped around you, her hands guiding yours as she brought the knife closer to the man’s bare arm. “Do you trust me?”

“I—” Your voice cracked.

“Do you love me?” she whispered into your ear, her lips brushing your skin.

“Yes,” you croaked, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Then trust me,” she said, pressing your hands forward.

The blade sank into flesh, and the man stirred, his groan muffled by the gag in his mouth. You flinched, pulling back, but Agatha held you steady. “Good,” she said, her voice filled with pride. “You’re learning.”

It was agony and ecstasy at once, your body rebelling against the horror of what you were doing even as her praise lit something deep within you.

Agatha breathed, her voice thick with approval. "Now, don't stop."

Obediently, you continued to cut, each slice of the knife sending a jolt of dark pleasure through you. Agatha watched, her eyes glinting with pride and something else—something hungrier, more primal.

When you finally stepped back, covered in blood and trembling, she pulled you into her arms. Her lips found yours in a searing kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth. You moaned, tasting the coppery tang of blood on her lips.

"You're amazing," she purred, breaking the kiss to trail her fingers down your neck. "I knew you had it in you."

She pushed you back against the table, her hand sliding under your shirt. Her touch was rough, possessive, igniting a fire low in your belly. You arched into her, craving more.

Agatha seemed to sense your need. She tugged your shirt off, tossing it aside carelessly. Her mouth latched onto your breast, sucking and biting at the sensitive flesh until you cried out. All the while, her hand worked between your legs, pushing your skirt up and rubbing your clit through your soaked panties.

"Please," you gasped, grinding against her hand. "I need you."

She chuckled darkly, tearing your panties off with one swift tug. "Patience, my darling. I'm going to take care of you."

She plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your dripping cunt without preamble, making you scream. Her thumb circled your clit as she pumped in and out, building a rhythm that had you writhing on the table.

"That's it," she growled, her eyes dark with lust. "Take what you need."

You did, fucking yourself on her fingers as she drove them deeper. Your orgasm built quickly, coiling tight in your belly. Just as you teetered on the edge, Agatha pulled her fingers out.

"No coming until I say so," she commanded, smacking your clit hard enough to make you yelp.

"Please," you whimpered, "I can't take it anymore. I need to come."

She smiled cruelly, pressing the fingers coated in your arousal to your lips. "Suck," she ordered.

You did, moaning at the taste of yourself on her skin. Agatha watched, her expression intense and consuming. "That's my girl," she purred.

She pushed you to your knees, opened her pants and took out her fake cock."Now, put that pretty mouth to work."

You obeyed, taking her into your mouth without hesitation. Agatha groaned, thrusting her hips forward. "Fuck yes, just like that."

She set a brutal pace, fucking your face with abandon. Tears leaked from your eyes as you gagged and choked around her cock, but you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. Not with the way she was looking at you—like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Come here," she growled when she finally pulled out. She lifted you onto the table, kissing you deeply as she shed her clothes.

The head of her cock pressed against your entrance, and you braced yourself for the invasion. But when she pushed inside, it was different. gentler. She filled you completely, stretching you in the most delicious way.

"Mine," she whispered against your lips, starting to move. "All mine."

You clung to her, your nails digging into her back as she rode you hard and deep. The table creaked beneath you with each thrust, the scent of blood and sex mingling in the air.

Agatha reached between your bodies, finding your clit. She rubbed it in rough circles, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Come for me," she commanded, her voice rough with need. "Let go."

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your cunt clamping down around her cock. Agatha followed shortly after, burying herself deep as she came with a hoarse cry.

She collapsed on top of you, both of you panting and sweat-slicked. You looked over to the lifeless body, the reality of the horror of what you've done finally sets in. Agatha cradled you in her arms, her fingers stroking your hair as you sobbed. “You did wonderfully,” she murmured. “You’ve taken your first step into becoming truly extraordinary.”

From then on, Agatha began involving you in her process. She taught you how to choose victims—how to find the “undeserving,” those who wouldn’t be missed.

“You’re not taking life; you’re elevating it,” she explained one evening as you watched her methodically butcher a new victim. “Without us, they’d vanish into nothing. But we make them immortal, unforgettable.”

Her justification worked its way into your mind, twisting your guilt into something almost noble. You began accompanying her on hunts, watching as she charmed her targets with her beauty and wit. When the time came, she’d make the kill swift, then turn to you with a smile of triumph.

“You’ll do the next one,” she told you after a particularly successful hunt. Her tone was light, as though she were offering you a new recipe to try.

And when the moment came, you did. Your hands trembled as you held the blade, but Agatha was there, her voice soothing and encouraging. “That’s my girl,” she whispered as the life drained from your victim’s eyes.

You felt sick afterward, but she kissed your forehead, wiping the blood from your face with a tenderness that only deepened your confusion. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “You’re mine now, completely. And together, we’ll create something the world will never forget.”

The more you killed, the more natural it felt. Agatha’s voice became the only thing grounding you, her touch the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“You’re perfect,” she said, pulling you into her arms. “You’ve surpassed even my greatest expectations.”

Her lips met yours, the kiss passionate and consuming. You melted into her, unable to tell where you ended and she began.

“You and I,” she whispered against your lips, “we’re gods in the kitchen. Together, there’s nothing we can’t create. And nothing we won’t destroy. You’re everything I ever dreamed of—my equal, my masterpiece.”

And yet, no matter how deeply entangled you were in her world, you couldn’t quite banish the small voice of doubt within you—the part of you that still longed for freedom, for the version of yourself that existed before Agatha.

But Agatha knew. She always knew.

“You’re wondering if you can leave,” she said one evening as the two of you stood side by side in the kitchen, preparing the next course. Her tone was calm, but her eyes glinted with something dangerous. “You can’t. You’re mine. And if you ever try to escape, you’ll realize just how far my love for you truly goes.”

The blade in her hand gleamed as she worked, the casual threat lingering in the air between you like smoke. “Love isn’t something you can abandon,” she continued softly, slicing into the meat before her with precision. “It’s something you surrender to. Completely. Just as I’ve surrendered to you.”

Her words left you paralyzed, your mind a storm of fear and dark infatuation. Escape was no longer a possibility. You were trapped, not by the physical confines of her world, but by the chains she’d woven around your heart and mind.

And as Agatha stood behind you, her arms draped possessively over your shoulders, she whispered the words that sealed your fate:

“We are one now, my love. And nothing—not life, nor death—will ever change that.”

In that moment, you knew there was no going back. You were hers, just as she was yours, bound by blood, obsession, and an unholy art that would forever define you both.

Her love was a cage, but it was warm. And you couldn’t imagine life without her.

_-_-_

Please don't forget to vote, reblog, comment, and follow 💚

[sivyera]

Httyd request here!

The gang’s reaction to reader having a cannibalistic dragon?

(Death song, Deathgripper, Cavern crasher, Red death, Slither song, etc.)

Fem!reader

that's such a cool idea! problem is that red death and some other cannibalistic dragons cannot be tamed, i know that, so let's pretend that they can be tamed. i really hope you like it, enjoy!

httyd characters reacting on you having a cannibalistic dragon

ft. hiccup, eret, tuffnut, snotlout, grimmel, astrid, ruffnut, valka,

༺☆༻

⤷  Hiccup

-Hiccup would find it so cool but dangerous at the same time. He'd be really proud of you and he'll brag about it to others, saying something like "yeah heh my love actually has a cannibalistic dragon Deathgripper (od other dragon you like), she tamed him, cool hm?"

He'd ask a lot of question and will definitely write them into his notebook. He'd wanna know everything that's possible, most of all he'd want to know how you managed to tame it. He would touch it only if you are near so he's 100% sure that your dragon won't accidently hurt him, because your dragon listens only to you.

⤷  Eret

-Eret would be really surprise and he wouldn't trust your dragon that much. I mean he still has some hunter reflexes so even know when he doesn't hunt them anymore, he's still focused and careful around them, just in case after all they're just animals..

After some time he will get used to it, he would want to hear what your dragon can actually do, how to met it, tame it, all these stuff... maybe he would be interested more in some cool stories/memories of yours with your dragon like hunting with it. He'd also be really proud of you, telling others how cool his girlfriend is.

⤷  Tuffnut

-Tuff would find it epic and awesome and so cool! Like you managed to tame a cannibalistic dragon and now you are dating him?! He'd brag about you to his twin sister or Snotlout all the time, just to make them jealous.

He'd ask a lot of questions like if your dragon ever eat other dragon in front of you, if it does it often etc... but he'd never go and pet your dragon, never! When is Ruff being a little more annoying then usual, he'll tell her something like "you know what, i will tell y/n to come over with y/d/n (your dragons name), i bet it's hungry!" and this will shut her up most of the time.

⤷  Snotlout

-Snoutlout would brag about it the most, like really! Mostly to Hiccup or Fishlegs telling them how you're cooler then them and much tougher and badass. From the start he'll be confident saying stuff like he can tame dragon like this, that he himself has a pretty dangerous dragon, but soon as he hears your dragons roar, he's gone.

At night, when no ones listening, he whispers into your ear that he's proud of you and that you are strong and all these stuff just because you managed to tame your "special" dragon.

⤷  Grimmel

-Well Grimmel has himself cannibalistic dragons but he still holds big respect for you, because he control his dragons with venom, you somehow managed to tame it with your bare hands! He was thinking about it whole night when you first told him.

I believe he'd be more careful around your dragon because he can't control him, it's "wild" animal yk, so he's more careful because he knows what they can do.

⤷  Astrid

-Astrid would have a huge respect for you, because of that. She'd also ask a lot of questions and she would want to introduce your dragon to hers because Stormfly has her venomous thorns so Astrid thinks it will be alright.

She will often stare at you from a certain distance when you interact with your dragon, she admires you. She always say that you and your dragon are like beauty and the beast. Deep inside she thinks that you are much better then her, much stronger and cooler, but she'd never say that.

⤷  Ruffnut

-Ruff's reaction would be pretty similar to her twin brother's. She'd ask a lot of questions and be really really curious, with confidence until she sees your dragon, then all of the sudden she's hugging you from behind.

She admires you a lot, she finds you really really strong and badass because of it. And when she cannot sleep or when she's bored she will ask you to tell her the story how you tamed your dragon over and over again until she falls asleep, it's so cool that it's like a fairy tail to her, almost unreal.

⤷  Valka

-Valka lived with dragons most of her life so she knows everything but when you told her that you have a cannibalistic dragon (probably deathgripper) she was surprised and curious.

She'd want to meet him and try to "tame" it again, she knows dragon body language so if she notice that she's making your dragon uncomfortable, she'll stop. But be prepared for tons of questions even more then Hiccup would ask. She's really proud of you and really glad that she has such a strong partner.

[deathbyday]

-'⁠🫧*⁠.⁠✧ mouthwashing ✧.⁠*⁠🫧'⁠ -

P8

EAT. EAT. EAT. EAT. EAT. EAT. EAT.

Daisuke x implied F!Reader

TW: hallucinating, weapons, death, puke, cannibalism

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Written By: DeathByDay

(Also written on Mobile)

0 HOURS UNTIL JUDGEMENT

Seeing your loved one’s face sliced by the hands of yourself made you sick. You felt saliva gargle in your throat, triggering you to puke on the ground, droplets falling onto your jumper.

You were lucky enough to turn your body, leaning down before letting out the gruesome sound, followed by the liquid. You gasped, staring at the scene in shock. Tears flooded your eyes, rolling down your cheeks and onto the pile of puke.

Your breathing quickened, the tears swallowing your vision. Everything was blurry. You regretted what you had done, but it was necessary. He needed to go, otherwise he would’ve just suffered. Just like Curly.

Your eyes widen more, remembering the man in bandages who laid in the medical room. You instantly gained the strength to stand, ignoring the calls of Swansea behind you.

You ran to the room, your legs shaking as you walked inside. You lifted your hand, hiding the poor black haired woman from your view, settling your eyes on Curly. There he sat, his eye right on you.

Stepping over Anya, you placed your free hand on the side of the medical bed, staring down on him. You looked crazy. Sweat pooling over your forehead, hair matted and sticking out of place. Not to mention the tears, eyes widened and all.

You didn’t say anything, instead lifting the bandaged man in your arms. Although he was only flesh and bones, his body weight was still fairly heavy. You struggled to carry him, grunting as you stepped out of the room.

You needed to get Curly out of there and fast. You couldn’t let Jimmy get to him, knowing what he was capable of. You were too dumb to realize it before. It only took a friend and lover to figure everything out.

As you walked, you stared ahead of you, feeling Curly’s eye watch your every move. “It’s going to be okay.” You repeat to yourself, eyes darting around the hallway. You couldn’t let the brunette man know where you were.

Suddenly, you paused. You glanced down at Curly before grinning, relief washing over your features. “W-..Wait here.” You muttered, setting him down. His body laid flat on the hard metal ground, pain itching his body.

You ran back into the medical room, lowering your body to the bed before pulling out a briefcase. Your memory was a bit faded, but you could still recall the code to get inside.

You accidentally stumbled upon Anya in the medical room one day, who slid a briefcase into a little compartment in the bed. You wouldn’t let her leave until she would tell you the code, complaining that you may need it for safety.

In an instant, you rolled the correct numbers on the lock, hearing a click of the case before it slightly opened the latch. You fully open it to see the same gun that the woman had told you about.

After grabbing the weapon and making sure it was loaded, you ran back towards Curly, seeing him in the same position as before. Your grin softened, shoving the gun into your back pocket before picking up the man once again.

Making your way through the halls, you ended up finding the brunette you really didn’t want to see in the halls beside utility. He held Swansea’s axe in his hand, glaring at you from the other side of the hallway.

You couldn’t take out the gun without dropping Curly first. And you certainly didn’t want to risk his life. So, you stood still, frozen in fear and hesitation. You were almost to the Cryostasis pods. Why did he have to come out now..?

You opened your mouth to speak, but Jimmy cut you off with a chuckle. “Are you that fucking stupid?” His voice was quiet, but you could still hear him clearly. His tone was harsh, almost as an attempt to make you scared.

And it worked a little too well. Almost immediately, you forgot all your fears and held Curly up with one arm, his unbalanced legs barely touching the ground. Your arm wrapped over his chest, holding his upper body.

You grab the gun out of your back pocket, pointing it at the brunette. Yet, he didn’t drop his act. In fact, he got closer, taking light steps towards your figure.

“Go away!” You shout, backing away from the manYou choked back a sob, not ready to kill another person in the span of under a day. “I said go away!” You scream once again. Curly watched the scene in front of him, not know what to think.

Your poor, pathetic self couldn’t shoot the damn guy, yet that same guy was ready to axe your head off with no hesitation. If he could, he would’ve just taken that gun from your hand and shoot him himself.

But, that was only if he still had arms. He could’ve protected you, helping you get away from this whole thing. But that’s not how this story goes. Before his mind could go any further, your voice pulled him out.

“Please, just go!” You shout at the man who now stood a few feet away from you. Suddenly, you felt a slight breeze hit your shoulder. You choked back a sob, taking your eyes off Jimmy and adverting them to the side, wondering what hit you.

You heard an older man’s voice in your right ear, being muffled for a moment before shouting at you. You recognized that voice as Swansea’s.

“Shoot that bastard!” He would cry. “C’mon, just do it!” As he plead with you, your mind suddenly went blank. You couldn’t focus on anything but his voice.

Your breathing became faster, the weapon shaking in your hand, your palm getting sweaty from the pressure. You stepped back once more, finally hitting the metal wall behind you. As the voice of Swansea would continue, you finally pulled the trigger.

Jimmy fell back, the bullet landing in between his eyes. You stood there, staring at him as blood oozed out of his head. You fought the urge to puke once again, glancing down at Curly.

The voice of Swansea finally stopped, your mind becoming fuzzy. Your vision became a blur.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” You whisper, lowering yourself to the ground, knees to the floor. You cradled his head to your chest, wrapping your arms around his fleshed body. Relief washed through your veins, realizing the man who rose up for hell was finally gone.

He was on the ground, a bullet in his head. He was dead. You were free, but not for long. You didn’t have any food left, not even mouthwash. You sighed, taking one last glance at Curly before lifting him up into your arms.

You step around the body of Jimmy, not bearing a single eye down towards him. You turn to walk into the utility room, ready to end this nightmare. You groan, struggling to open the Cryostasis pod’s door. After a few seconds, you finally got it open.

You widen it with your foot before setting the wounded man in the compartment, leaning forward to do so. You unwrap your arms from him, staring into his one eye as you shut the door. You then turn to the small screen to the side, hesitating before pressing the freeze button.

You heard muffled cries from Curly, causing you to lift your head to him. You watch as the window becomes blurry, his figure fading from your vision. The cries suddenly stop, making you aware that he was gone.

Your hands formed fists before you left the utility room, guilt spreading in your blood like jelly. Your legs shook as you walked back into the lounge area, the air heavy.

The people you cared about were gone. You murdered one of them, the other gone on their own. The monster who started this paid for it, but the guilt couldn’t just be washed away with water.

Tears flooded for eyes for what seems to be the tenth time that day as you dropped to the ground, curling in on yourself. You wrap your arms around yourself, forehead hitting the floor.

Opening your mouth, you screamed. It was raspy, full of emotion. It hurt, but you couldn’t stop. You felt that familiar touch on your shoulder, causing you to scream louder, this time with words.

“No, don’t touch me!” You cried, attempting to shake the hand off. But it wouldn’t let go. You continued to cry, your body trembling from the weight of the hand. “Stop it, go away!” But it wouldn’t. It felt so real.. like someone was really behind you.

The weight of the hand became heavier as if it was trying to cause you pain. You shook your head, tightly shutting your eyes. “It’s okay.” Someone spoke in your ear, attempting to ease your mind.

You recognized that voice as soon as your ears registered it. You opened your eyes, glancing towards the side where the voice came from. There, you saw it. A brunette haired man who had an axe through his face. The same brunette who held a special connection to you.

You stared in shock for a few moments, trying to process what was happening. “Daisuke..?” You whisper, releasing your tight hold on yourself. Your fingers swept the metal ground, cold as ice. Your boyfriend only grinned, causing you to instantly embrace him.

As soon as you did so, he disappeared. Your eyes widened, staring at your hands in disbelief as they sat in your lap. You turned your head back towards the real Daisuke’s body, seeing it still lie on the floor.

“No..” You muttered, your body turning around before you crawl towards him. After a few moments, you sat in front of him, staring at his axe’d face. This time, you were too exhausted to puke or even cry.

You just stared, your breath at a normal pace for the first time in ages. You felt your body become weaker due to starvation. You haven’t drunken the mouthwash for a while now, making your stomach rumble, begging for something.

You glanced over his figure, disgust flowing through your body. You knew what you were about to do. He was dead. He wouldn’t feel it. He’d probably want you to eat him if it meant for your survival. You took a deep breath in before leaning over his forearm.

You held it in your hands, fingers grazing his skin. You opened your mouth before lowering your teeth, biting into his flesh. You softly groaned, closing your eyes. You tried to imagine his skin as meat. After all, it technically is.

But it wouldn’t work. You pulled on his skin, taking a small chunk of it off. You chew, ignoring the way your stomach twisted. After a few seconds you finally swallow, the taste of metal sitting on your tongue.

You lifted your head, staring at the corner of the ceiling. Red liquid spilt out of your mouth, dribbling down your chin. You let out a soft giggle, a bit embarrassed as if the crew was actually beside you, watching you eat Daisuke’s skin.

“I-..I’m sorry.” You chuckle, leaning your upper body on your boyfriend. Your forehead rests on his chest, wishing that his heartbeat was still there. “I don’t know what I just did, but ‘m sorry..” You stumble on your words like a drunk person.

“I’m so, so.. sorry, my sweet b-..” Cutting yourself off, you let out a small whine. You weren’t yourself. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your brows turn upwards, tears falling down your cheeks, replacing the dried ones. They drop onto Daisuke’s clothed chest as you snuffle, tightening your grip on his arm. “What the fuck did I do..?!”

Cries spill out from your mouth, gradually getting louder as time passes on. Your body slowly shuts down, feeling the coldness of Daisuke’s arm in the grasp of your fingers. Blood spills out of your mouth, dripping onto his chest.

Your cries slowly calm, feeling the deprivation of sleep take a toll on you. One hand let go of his arm, wrapping your own around his torso. Your breath settled, eyes finally shutting after fighting to stay open for too long.

“I’m sorry..”

______

Those were the last words uttered from your mouth. The beating of your heart slowly withered away, skin decaying as you stayed in your spot beside Daisuke, barely moving.

There was no point in trying to survive anymore. There was no point in trying to escape the aching pain that laid upon you. You had given up. You knew it would end up with you dying in the end, but you never thought it would happen like this.

Your stomach continued to twist in knots as if it were begging you to eat something. But you couldn’t. You were too weak at this point. Licking your chapped lips, you stared at Daisuke.

You imagined he was still there, smiling beside you with his arms wrapped around your waist. But his touch was cold. One that was one warm and loving, now turned rough and cold.

Each day you opened your eyes, it got harder to do so. Day, after day, after day, you were just hoping you suddenly fell limp, heart finally stopping it’s rhythm. After staring at your boyfriend’s body for a few minutes, your eyes felt heavy.

You didn’t fight back this time. As soon as you shut them, the pain stopped. It was like it was never there to begin with. Your heartbeat slowed, your fingers gently curling around your palm.

You felt free for the first time in ages. Free at last, your lover beside you. The only person who understood you. Your body fell limp, letting out one last breath.

If someone were to tell you this is how you would die as you were boarding the space freighter, you would’ve chuckled before they finished their sentence.

You’ve heard many horror stories about people dying in space. Either due to suicidal thoughts or because of their idiotic behavior. You didn’t know which category you fell into, though.

It wasn’t like that mattered anyway. You were free. You were gone from the shitty hellhole called Tulpar.

Maybe in another life, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you were living in a mansion with a loving husband. But, not in this universe.

Sometimes, stories don’t have an happy ending. Sometimes you just have to accept your fate, and that’s okay. You did what you could, and that’s what matters.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

authors note

thank you all for supporting this story throughout the past month or two. it means so much knowing i’ve gotten many people to see my work.

this fanfic has come to an end. but, there may be a few one shots aside this, showing more of interactions between the reader and the crew.

but again, thank you all. i appreciate each and every one of you. goodbye for now<3

[dollwhite]

Low-key wanna change my theme to a more dark one 😓

Ok so just imagine a reader that sings?? She’s popular like has 2million followers. BUT when reader sings people get put under a hangover type feeling. And reader basically feeds off of people like she’s lures men to ally why’s and they think their going to hook up with this hot famous woman. But in reality she’s going to eat them literally like, just takes a big ass bit off of their neck.

Blood all around her mouth with a huge smile 

And the guy is just horrified, he can’t even scream, can’t move, he can’t do anything. But stand there and let it happen.

Right and so reader is on a tour and her next stop is Gotham and it would be so chaotic if one of readers biggest fan is cass and Steph.

Steph def introduced cass to reader’s music. And now it’s something they can bond over, like they can just sit in a room doing to different things and your music could be playing in the background.

OoOOOOOO and what if reader is a villain!!! Reader is a villain that appears in readers home city/town

But now they appear anywhere reader is?? And the vibe reader brings well as a villain is siren/ vampire energy. And they have a concert, and like 5 five men go missing that night and more and more men start to disappear. Leaving no clue on we’re their going, so it’s cass turn to choose the family active. Something Alfred is making them do every two weeks. So she chooses to go to one of readers concerts, right!!! So the concerts ends and readers just doing her thing right eating men left and righttt. This was just something I thought of last night so yeah also I told my Bff about my account so um yeah 😔 I think I wanna change my name to dolling 😭😭😭

Bye dolling signing out

[tipsynight0]

Anatomy of affection

Parings - eyeless Jack x female reader

Word count - 1.1k

TRIGGER WARNINGS - medical procedures, surgery, graphic descriptions of blood and organs, use of paralytics, body horror, gore, blood, cannibalism, descriptions of anatomy and dissection.

Summary - (y/n) is giving Jack a snack.

Author's Note: Not sure why I enjoyed writing this so much, but explaining it to my boyfriend and watching him look at me like I'm the freakiest thing he's ever seen was... interesting. Anyway, if you're squeamish about organs or cannibalism, maybe skip this one! <3

The cold metal table pressed unyieldingly against (Y/N)'s back, its chill seeping through her skin, heightening her awareness of her immobility. She lay paralyzed, her gaze locked on her lover, Jack, who moved with deliberate, practiced grace across the dimly lit room. The acrid scent of alcohol hung thick in the air, a hasty attempt at sterilization given his scarce supplies. Beside an operating tray, Jack's hands skimmed over his instruments, lingering briefly before selecting each one, his fingers brushing the tools with an expert's familiarity. He listened intently to the rhythmic pulse in (Y/N)'s neck, sensing her heart beating faster.

He leaned close, his calloused fingers tracing a gentle path over her stomach, claws lightly grazing her skin. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice soft yet intense, "I know what I’m doing." Despite herself, (Y/N) let out a nervous laugh, nodding ever so slightly. She attempted to wiggle her toes, flex her hands—anything—but her body remained numb, just as Jack had planned with the precise dose of vecuronium. This moment was one they'd prepared for, an experience she had willingly chosen.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she took in her surroundings—the familiar concrete walls lined with shelves of carefully arranged medical supplies and the slight glint of tools on the nearby tray. Jack seemed engrossed in his setup, double-checking every item with a meticulousness she recognized and loved. He finally pulled off his mask, revealing his grey skin and the unmistakable gleam in his eyes. One of his many tongues darted out to moisten his lips, a glint of hunger flashing across his face. She watched, captivated, as he inspected the monitor, satisfied that her vitals remained steady. Just in case, he had an Ambu bag at the ready, a trophy from one of their nighttime scavenging trips to abandoned clinics. They had both invested in this, carefully planning each aspect of this night.

Jack leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering briefly before he grasped his scalpel. "Alright, baby," he said with a smile that, despite its toothy sharpness, held a tenderness she trusted, "it’s time." His hand moved to her face, cupping it gently. His surgical gloves snapped into place, and his fingers began to trace a path down her abdomen, a silent promise of care. When he made the first incision, (Y/N) could only assume it had happened; her body remained numb, yet she could sense his excitement. Jack’s tongue flicked out, practically salivating as he worked, pausing only to press gauze to the incision and lap up the blood with reverence.

"Everything going good down there?" (Y/N) asked, her voice wavering but full of curiosity.

Jack nodded, casting her a reassuring glance. "Yes, darling. You’re doing great." For a rare moment, a look of genuine expression crossed his face—a mix of pride and fascination.

"Did you enjoy being a medical student?" she asked quietly, trying to break the silence that seemed to press down on them.

He chuckled softly, the sound rolling through the room as he continued to focus on removing layers of fat and tissue with precise, careful cuts. "It was… fine," he murmured, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. "I just wanted to help people." For a moment, his mind drifted to those less careful procedures he'd performed in the past, crude and impersonal compared to this. This was different; this was for her. Every detail mattered, every movement was intentional. She was his priority, and he’d take hours to ensure her recovery.

The procedure continued, his hands working methodically as he navigated around muscles, vessels, and organs. With skilled precision, he reached the ureter and blood vessels before finally removing the kidney. Holding it up triumphantly, he allowed himself a brief, reverent pause, admiring its color and texture. (Y/N) felt a shiver race up her spine, offering him a shy, almost giddy smile.

"It’s beautiful," he breathed, his voice filled with admiration. "The scent is… intoxicating." He placed the kidney into a basin of ice, his attention undivided as he resumed his work. The following hours passed in quiet conversation and careful stitching. His words were soothing, his lips occasionally grazing her forehead as he worked his way through the final sutures. "Almost done, darling," he whispered, his voice rich with affection.

At last, with a sigh of satisfaction, Jack pulled off his gloves, his fingers finding her face as he leaned down, pressing soft kisses along her cheeks, forehead, and neck. "Alright, alright, go eat," she laughed, flushed from his touch.

Jack sighed, nodding, but his gaze shifted to the basin, where her kidney lay on ice. Slowly, he lifted it, placing it in a pristine white bowl, adding a dash of salt and pepper. Seated near her, he picked up his scalpel and fork, slicing through the jelly-like texture. She watched, utterly fascinated as he lifted the fork, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of iron and freshness. This was not just any organ—it was hers, a part of her.

He tilted his head back slightly, letting the first bite linger on his tongue, savoring it fully. A low, appreciative groan escaped him. "You taste… perfect," he whispered, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

(Y/N) bit her lip, captivated by his enjoyment, as he tried to maintain some semblance of decorum while eating but couldn’t help himself. Each bite was savored as though he were tasting something divine. Once finished, he leaned over her, his tongues intertwining with hers, the taste of iron and warmth flooding her senses. She gripped his sweater, pulling him closer.

Pulling back, he whispered, "I love you," his hands cradling her face as he pressed his forehead against hers. "Don’t worry; I’m going to take good care of you for the next few weeks."

[horny-marbles]

I read your Toby fic and ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT! So I humbly ask if you could feed my deranged monster loving brain with some Eyeless jack filth.

I trust your amazing brain to think of something. But if I could request something... maybe it involves tongue and teeth :3

omg thank u anon 🫶🏻🫶🏻 i freaked when i saw this bc i was already halfway into writing this already, i call that divine timing :p i hope u likey <3

Peace Offering (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: biting, blood play, size diff, oral (f receiving), breeding, a bit of spit, a bit of choking, overall monster fuckery

word count 4.5k

you're a cannibal too!! no graphic descriptions of cannibalism in this one but just a heads-up lol. also, mating szn!!

The hall outside Jack's door smells like antiseptic and viscera. Different from the stench of death and rotting wood permeating the rest of the mansion. You’ve been standing in front of the door for a full minute, fist raised, frozen in decision paralysis.

You don’t even know Jack. Not once spoke to him, or even held eye contact. But you supposed that was the default.

You just knew that he’s tall. That he doesn’t speak. That he moves like smoke and shadow and his claws gleam like scalpels in dim light. You’ve passed him a few times in the mansion—once in the kitchen, where you stood still as a statue holding a raw pancreas while he silently poured black coffee. Once in the hall, where his shoulder nearly brushed yours and you were sure you were going to die—and then he just kept walking.

You’ve only been here a week. The others mostly leave you alone, but you can feel the eyes. You smell like flesh and dirt and bad decisions. They know what you are. You’re a cannibal, same as Jack. But Jack’s been here longer. He’s not just another creep—he’s the fucking cannibal. And you’re afraid he’s gonna see you as competition.

Or worse, an intruder.

You’re not here to offer a sacrifice for his mercy. You’re here to be normal. To knock on the door like a grown-ass human being and say, “Hey, just wanted to introduce myself, I’m new, I eat people too but I’m not gonna step on your turf, all good?”

Y’know. Professional courtesy.

You don’t even know if he cares, but it's been gnawing at you all week. He hasn’t looked twice at you, hasn’t said a single word—but that just makes it worse. You can’t tell if he’s ignoring you, tolerating you, or planning to dissect you in your sleep. So you’re gonna clear the air.

You take a deep breath, straighten your spine, and knock.

You expect silence.

You expect slow, heavy footsteps.

You expect him to open the door with that same blank stillness that makes your stomach twist—stoic, unreadable, the kind of presence that makes you feel like prey even when you’re not. You hope you're not, at least.

You do not expect it to swing open less than a second later like he was already there.

And you definitely don’t expect what’s behind it.

Jack stands in the doorway, bare-chested and heaving. His presence hits you like a freight train—six foot seven of solid, silent terror. Black, scarred, empty sockets that somehow still manage to pin you in place. His skin has a weird, almost too-warm flush to it—gray tinged with red, like stone under heat. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his collarbones. His hair is damp. His claws twitch, flexing in and out of fists at his sides. And worst of all—he stinks.

Not like gore. Not like antiseptic. Not like you. Not bad, but strong.

He smells like sex, like pure pheromones. Like heat and musk and ozone and blood and salt, like ancient stone cracking under pressure, like the kind of sex that leaves bite marks and bruises in the shape of hands.

“...Hi,” you say, weakly.

His head tilts. His nostrils flare.

“New proxy,” he says. Voice like gravel, deeper than you imagined. Rough.

“Y-Yeah. I—I just came to say, like, I’m not here to… step on your toes or anything? I know we’re both, uh. Y’know.” You gesture vaguely, too nervous to say the word cannibal for some reason. “I don’t want beef. Pun not intended.” You're rambling. God, shut up.

Jack exhales through his nose. It almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.

“I know.”

His voice is slow. Controlled. Too controlled. Like every word has to push through clenched teeth.

You shift in place. “You, uh… okay, man?”

He closes his eyes—what’s left of them, anyway. His claws clench into his fists, then relax.

“No.”

Oh.

You blink. “...Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

Your brain makes a soft popping noise.

You try to take a step back anyway, but one of his claws lifts, just slightly—not threatening, more like a halt gesture.

“It’s mating season.”

You freeze.

“I—what the fuck.”

Jack doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t leer. Doesn’t do anything—he just stands there, flushed and feverish and breathing like he ran a marathon. But the air around him feels hot, electric, heavy. You feel it in your stomach, in your teeth.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he says, jaw tight. “I have control.”

You believe him. That’s somehow worse.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “I didn’t know. I—fuck. I wouldn’t have come here if I knew.”

“I know.” Another breath. “You couldn’t have known.”

He leans a shoulder against the doorframe like his legs are tired—his body vibrating with the effort of staying still.

“I can smell you,” he murmurs. “You’re afraid.”

“Yeah. A little.”

“I’m not a threat.”

You almost laugh. “You sure look like one.”

That earns a sound from him—low and dry, almost a chuckle. Barely. Not really. “I won’t hurt you. But if you’re going to stand there, I need you to say what you came to say.”

Right. Words. You had a plan.

“I’m not competition,” you blurt. “I’m not here to challenge you, I don’t even want the woods, I’m barely domesticated enough to live in a house, and I’m scared shitless of you, so please don’t eat me.”

Silence.

Then, deadpan: “You’re not very threatening.”

You look up sharply. He’s watching you, what’s left of his expression unreadable—but his mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. Still tense. Still fevered.

Like a beast in a cage, pacing internally, chained by sheer willpower and nothing else.

You manage a laugh. Weak. Awkward. “Right. Okay. I’ll just—go.”

His fingers twitch. You take a step back.

And then, his voice—low, raw, almost slurred with restraint:

“If you don't have a peace offering, you could always offer yourself.”

It hits you like a bullet.

You freeze. Blink. Your brain throws up the blue screen of death.

Your eyes snap to his. Not that there’s much to see—but something moves in his face, a flicker of realization. Like his mouth acted before his brain.

Jack’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the air feels razor sharp.

Then:

“...That was a joke.”

Bullshit.

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You just stare, pulse hammering, skin prickling. He’s not smiling. He’s not leering. But something about the way he said it—low, even, matter-of-fact—is so much worse. Like it wasn’t a threat. Like it wasn’t even fantasy. Just a passing suggestion. A biological truth.

Your breath catches. You definitely didn’t mean to look at him the way you did—like you’re not just scared, but curious. Like some lizard part of your brain is weighing it—like it wants to know what kind of creature could say something that filthy with a face so blank.

And he smells it.

Your arousal isn't loud. It's not dramatic. But it’s there. A flash of curiosity through the panic, an ugly little throb in the base of your spine, something your body registered before your brain could veto it.

His body goes still.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

But his chest rises, slow and deep, as he inhales—and you see it hit him like a goddamn punch. His throat bobs. His claws twitch. His stance shifts just barely forward, toward you.

“…Fuck,” he mutters.

Your heart seizes.

“Okay, what the fuck was that—”

“I told you,” he says—voice low, rough, tight. “It’s mating season.”

“That didn’t sound like a seasonal allergy just now, man, you sounded like you were about to—”

“I wasn’t.”

“You aren’t now?”

“I’m not going to touch you.”

He says it like a promise. Not to you—to himself.

You swallow thickly.

Jack’s chest is still heaving, slow and deliberate, like he’s meditating through it. You don’t miss the flex of his fingers. The faint tremble in his shoulders. And worst of all, the fact that he’s still staring, like you’re a threat, or prey, or a goddamn solution.

“…Didn’t mean to say that,” he mutters.

“You did,” you say quietly.

“Didn’t mean for you to hear it.”

You should leave.

You know that. Every cell in your body is screaming it—but your feet don’t move. You don’t want to die or find out what happens if you don't die. But your mind is tangled, twisted, caught somewhere between fear and intrigue.

“...You’re still standing there,” he says.

You nod. “So are you.”

Silence, another breath.

“You should leave.”

You nod again. “I know.”

Neither of you moves.

And in that moment, everything is suspended—your pulse, the air, time itself. Jack stares at you like he’s memorizing you. Every molecule of scent, every twitch of your breath. Like he’s holding himself together cell by cell.

“You’re not a threat,” he says finally. Quietly. “But you are dangerous.”

“To you?”

His mouth twitches. That almost-smile again.

“To me,” he echoes, “and to yourself.”

You swallow. “...You’d still fuck me, though.”

That catches him.

Something flickers under his skin, his jaw flexing tight as he stares at you like he didn’t just imagine it—but heard it, loud and clear, from the source. He doesn’t answer right away.

But when he does, it’s barely a whisper.

“...If you asked.”

You almost shudder.

The weight of those three words drops into your spine like a stone. Not if he wanted to. Not if he could. If you asked.

You don’t know how the words come out of your mouth. You don’t even feel your lips move. It’s like something else in you—deeper, hungrier—took the wheel and said,

“I’d ask.”

His breath stops.

The silence that follows is indecent. Your ears ring with it. You watch Jack go still, not like a man—like a beast feeling the air shift before a quake. His head tilts the slightest bit down, his nostrils flare again, and his lips part like he’s tasting your fucking soul in the air.

Then, slowly, like he's afraid to break the spell, he steps aside.

You cross the threshold.

And you're immediately hit with a wall of scent so thick and delicious it curls into your lungs and lingers like smoke. Blood, coppery and sharp, but not stale—fresh enough to hum beneath your skin. A faint iron tang, the subtle, meaty funk of consumed organs. And underneath all of it, him—that deep, heavy, impossibly male scent that makes your legs tremble and your mouth go dry.

The door closes behind you with a click.

Jack doesn’t move right away.

He just looks at you. The tension in his body is so sharp it practically hums, his shoulders rigid, hands flexed and trembling at his sides, claws curling like he’s trying to crush the air. His chest rises in slow, shallow gulps, like every breath is work.

Then he speaks. Voice low. Graveled. Careful.

“One last warning.”

You don’t answer. Not out loud. Your gaze stays locked on him. He watches your throat move as you swallow.

“You don’t know what this is,” he says, and for the first time, it’s not calm. It’s strained. “This isn’t like fucking some guy in the mansion. I'm not human. It hurts. It's violent. I’ll lose control for hours. It’ll leave marks. You’ll feel it for days. Maybe longer.”

He’s not boasting. Not posturing. There’s no lust-drunk swagger here, no smirk, no game. Just raw, desperate honesty, dragging out of him like it physically hurts to say it. And despite every survival instinct shrieking in your bones, you stay.

You nod. “I know,” you whisper.

“You don’t.”

“I don’t care.”

You mean it. You don't know why, but you mean it. Even if your hands are shaking. Even if you feel like you might pass out from sheer adrenaline. You don't know if it’s insanity or instinct or just some deep, terrifying desire—but something in you wants this. Wants him. Like an offering to a god that never learned how to be merciful.

Jack takes one step toward you.

Then another.

You don’t flinch.

His fingers reach out—hesitate—then curl just barely beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His touch is hot, impossibly warm for someone who looks like a walking corpse, and his claws tremble where they rest near your throat. You can tell he’s holding back by the millimeter. That he could rip through your skin without trying.

His voice drops lower, almost broken.

“I won’t take what isn’t offered,” he murmurs. “Say it. Or walk away.”

You stare up at him, skin buzzing, breath shallow.

“…I want you."

Jack’s restraint snaps.

Not in some sudden, ravaging burst—but like a beast unchained. Controlled, deliberate, inevitable.

His lips barely graze yours. Just hovering.

“…Fuck,” he growls.

And he lunges. Not with speed—just momentum. Gravity. A controlled collapse.

His mouth crashes onto yours, and you feel the teeth first—sharp, pointed, dragging—but not biting. Not yet. They graze. They threaten. They tease the edge of pain. And then his tongue follows.

It drags over your lips. Slips past your teeth. You can’t breathe, can’t think, and then he bites—your lower lip, a clean tear—and you gasp into him.

The taste of your own blood floods your mouth, and he moans. Deep, equal parts strained and relieved, like you just fed him.

His hand fists in your hair. The other splays across your lower back, dragging you flush to his chest. You can feel every taut, strained inch of him. Every hard line.

Then his tongue pushes back into your mouth, thick and intrusive, and it carries your blood with it, making you taste it. Your whimper tastes even sweeter in his mouth.

His claws rake lightly up your back—not enough to slice, just enough to make your skin scream. And then one palm cups your ass, the other grips your waist, and he groans like your body just did something to him.

“You taste good,” he pants into your neck. “You smell like—fuck, you don’t even know—”

He licks a stripe up your throat. You feel his tongue flick over a pulse point, but you swear you feel something more there. You don't have time to dwell on it, but your pulse is fluttering now.

His teeth nip your skin. Break it. Blood wells. He laps it up, groaning again—feral.

Hands roam. Bold. Bruising. Claiming. Gripping you like you’re already his. His mouth stays locked on your throat, jaw, shoulder—biting, licking, drinking. And for a moment, he pulls back just to look at you, lips wet with your blood.

“I can't go easy on you,” he repeats, voice barely held together. “I’m not human. I can’t do human.”

You don’t answer. You grab his face and kiss him again, and he breaks. Moaning into your mouth, hands everywhere, blood smeared between you, tongue tangling with yours like he’s trying to devour you from the inside out.

You’re still reeling from the kiss—bloody, deep, consuming—when his mouth moves back to your throat.

This time, the teeth sink deeper.

No more testing, no more gentle nips. He bites, hard enough that your knees almost give. Sharp canines sink into the soft muscle where your shoulder meets your neck, and you yelp—half pain, half fucked-up thrill—and he moans around the wound like it’s the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever tasted.

"That's better," he growls into your skin, lapping at the blood. “That’s what I wanted.”

Your clothes don’t stand a fucking chance.

His claws catch your shirt and rip. Fabric tears like wet paper. He’s not even trying to be careful. Just shreds it off, mouth biting its way down your chest, your ribs, your stomach—leaving bruises, welts, more shallow punctures. Blood blooms in hot trails, and he follows every drop with his tongue.

His hands—huge, clawed—grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he throws you onto the bed, clothes half-hanging off, breath caught in your throat.

You're still catching up, still blinking at him towering at the foot of the bed, shirtless, panting like he ran miles, sweat slick on his chest and broad shoulders, your blood staining his lips, and then he's on his knees.

You expect his tongue again.

You expect a tongue.

When his mouth drops between your legs and his face splits open wider than it has any right to, you barely have time to process it—because you see them.

Three tongues. Long, thick, slick with saliva. Moving independently. And they descend on you, no warning, no tease. He doesn't have time for that shit.

Just devastation.

He shoves your thighs apart and dives in, tongues moving like they’ve been starving for this—two spreading you open, one plunging deep and curling inside your cunt, fucking you while he holds you up like you weigh nothing.

You scream. Not just moan—scream. Because it’s too much. Wet, hot, writhing pressure on every nerve all at once, like his mouth was built to destroy you.

"What the fuck—" you yelp, hands flying to his hair, half prying him off, half pulling him deeper like you can't take it but want to.

And he growls into you. Deep, low, inhuman. The sound vibrates against your pussy, against your fucking soul, a guttural snarl like some wild thing burying its face in a fresh kill.

He's jacking himself off the entire time—fist pumping slowly, strangling, pre-cum drooling from the head of his cock, but not enough. Not nearly enough. This isn't for pleasure. It's just to keep from exploding.

His claws dig into your thighs as he lifts your hips off the bed like you're weightless, mouth working between your legs, tongues licking, twisting, ravaging.

Your back arches, you can’t breathe. You’re crying out his name—just guttural syllables and sobs—because it’s so much. So wet. So loud. Slurping, snarling, every movement feral and unrelenting.

When one of his tongues flicks over your clit and the others deepen, you lose it. Your orgasm hits like a brick wall, blinding and sudden, and you keen again—legs shaking, thighs clamping around his head, and he growls louder.

Moans.

Keeps fucking eating you.

Keeps jacking himself harder, like your orgasm made him hungry.

Because it did.

He breaks off only when you're twitching, overstimulated, barely conscious—and even then, he doesn’t speak. He just pants against your thigh, teeth latched to the soft skin there like a leech, blood and slick and saliva smeared across his mouth, stroking himself like he’s about to burst.

You're still trembling when he yanks your hips down the bed, claws dragging over your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s touching you that hard. There's leftover blood, slick, spit, and he licks it off his palm like he can't help himself, before bracing himself over you—and that's when you see his cock.

Big is an understatement. It's obscene.

Long, thick, heavy, and curved just enough to make your insides clench on instinct. The skin is flushed dark, veins bulging, and it looks angry—like it’s been aching, throbbing, desperate for this for years.

You flinch when he lines up, heart thudding, and he hears it.

You expect another warning, maybe some stoic restraint. But no.

Jack leans in—panting, black sockets narrowed like every second he's not bruising your cervix is fucking strenuous—and spits in your mouth.

Heavy, hot, thick—your blood, his saliva, the mess of you—and your mouth is too open in shock to stop it.

"Swallow," he growls.

You do.

And that’s when he thrusts in, like the spit was only a diversion, like a doctor distracting a patient with small talk before driving a needle into their arm.

No teasing. No easing you into it. Just shoves the whole thick length of himself inside you in one brutal, unforgiving motion.

It's so fucking vicious that your scream catches in your throat, strangled and pained.

The stretch burns, splits you open, the pain folding over into something too deep and too hot to name. And he doesn’t fucking stop—doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s got both your legs bent and pinned to your chest, folding you into a goddamn pretzel, pushing deeper.

His strength is terrifying.

He holds you down like nothing. Just one hand pinning your thigh against you, the other wrapping tight around your throat, thumb under your chin to tilt your head back, making you look at him—if you could see anything past the blur of tears and fucked-out haze.

His hips snap forward and you wail.

“Ohh, fuck,” Jack groans, voice thick, rough, feral, pace already too fast, too hard, too deep. “Tight little thing. Been starving for this. So—fucking—tight.”

The praise isn’t sweet. It’s raw. Like he’s talking to himself more than you. Like every inch of him is relieved to finally, finally bury himself in something hot and wet and clenching and have the weight of this blistering heat lifted off his shoulders.

“Feel that?” he grits through his teeth, pounding into you so hard the bed rattles beneath you. “Sucking me in—like you were made for it.”

You whimper, mouth open, barely forming words. His grip on your throat tightens—not enough to stop your air, just enough to control it.

“You’re gonna take every fucking inch,” he growls. “Take what I give you. Take—all of it."

His pace turns brutal. Every thrust punches a sound out of you—raw, helpless cries drowned out by the wet slap of skin, your blood and slick smearing between your bodies.

And still—he holds you there. Bent. Exposed. Pinned.

You can’t move. Can’t run. Can’t breathe. Just heave and wheeze out broken wails while he fucks into you like his sole purpose in life is to breed.

And when he shifts his angle, grinding deep, dragging against the spot inside you that makes your vision white out, you cum with a strangled sob. Instantly, without as much as a heads-up from your pussy.

He feels it.

“Fuck—there it is,” he snarls, still rutting into you, relentless. “That’s it, yeah— So fucking good for me. Just like that—fuck yes—just like that.”

The overstimulation has you clawing at his arms, legs shaking, breath catching on every moan that tears out of you, but all Jack does is growl. Low and heavy in your ear, dark praise melting into the crackling static of pure need.

"God, keep fucking clenching," he pants, voice thick with hunger, hips slamming against yours with brutal rhythm. "Tight little cunt. Gonna make me lose my fucking mind."

You’re whimpering—high and broken—when he finally pulls out with a wet pop that leaves your pussy gaping, twitching around nothing.

Before you can even think of begging for a break, you're flipped onto your stomach, your face barely sinking into his sheets before he slams back in from behind with a ragged, guttural snarl. You cry out, hands scrambling for grip, spine arched in a shiver of pain and heat as he bottoms out in one vicious thrust.

The stretch is horrible all over again. You're soaked, so open and used already, and still—he splits you wider.

Jack’s claws dig into the soft meat of your ass as he grabs two full handfuls, dragging you back into every sharp, hungry thrust. The sound is feral—skin clapping, bedsprings shrieking, his lupine growls vibrating in your chest.

Then his hand finds your hair.

He wraps it around his fist like a rope and yanks your head back, arching your spine and baring your throat. His pace never falters—he fucks you like he needs it to survive, like your body was made to take this. (It wasn't.)

You barely get a breath before his grip changes again—his arm slides around your neck, elbow snug against your throat, and he pulls you upright into him. Your back arches tight like a drawn bow, head lolling on his shoulder as he bends down to snarl into your ear.

The other hand slides over your stomach, down low, low—palming the spot where his cock bulges inside you, visible and so fucking deep.

“Feel that?” Jack breathes, breath hot and ragged. “That’s how fucking deep you're taking me. That's how deep you're gonna take my seed."

You can’t even speak. Just shudder and whimper, stuffed so full it aches deep in your belly. The arm around your neck tightens just enough to make you dizzy—floaty, pliant, mind slipping out of your control.

Right where your shoulder meets your neck, his teeth sink in deep again, sharp teeth and longer canines piercing skin like butter. You yelp, back arching harder, but he just holds you there, locked tight in his grip as blood wells up and rolls down your chest. His tongue drags over it, lapping it up greedily, moaning like your essence is just fueling Chernabog inside him. To breed, to fuck, to relieve, to destroy.

“Fuck... fuuuck me,” he snarls, every word a tremor. “Gonna fucking fill you— Breed this tight pussy, shit—"

He slams into you. Once. Twice. A third time—

And then he groans, loud and shaking, as he cums.

It’s hot. Endless. You can feel it pulse through his cock, feel the flood of it painting your insides, thick and heavy and too much. His hips don’t stop moving—slow now, dragging through your overstretched cunt just to make sure none of it goes to waste.

"Yeah—yes, yes—fuck," he rasps, breath stuttering as he presses in deep, so deep you feel it in your lungs. "Finally. Finally... fuck, take it—

Like he's been waiting for this. Like he’s been going rabid over the idea of this for months and now he’s got a warm, bleeding body to fill instead of his own fucking fist.

You feel so full that it would make you nauseous if you weren't on the brink of passing out.

Jack's still holding you there. Still buried deep, arms locked tight, cock twitching as the last of it seeps out of him.

“Mine now,” he murmurs against your ear, voice wrecked. “You feel that?”

You do. You just can't fucking answer, only managing a strangled little whine, more wounded animal than human.

[rdmasevi]

A Taste of You

Title: “A Taste of You”: a Hannibal fanfiction

Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Reader Fem

Genre: Dark romance

Warnings: NSFW/smut, psychological manipulation, blood, mild noncon/dubcon undertones, cannibalism themes, obsession, dominance, violence-adjacent intimacy.

Summary: You are a profiler with the FBI, brought in to assist Jack Crawford alongside Will Graham. Hannibal has taken an interest.

It starts with his eyes.
Dark, reflective—like the surface of a wine-dark lake, still but hiding something deep beneath. He watches you, and you feel it. A subtle pressure on your skin. Like hands not quite touching, like breath on your throat.

You’re new to the team, an outsider, but Jack trusts your instincts. You’re intuitive, methodical, but never cold. You see the monsters for what they are—but you never let them touch your soul.

He finds that fascinating.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter invites you to dinner the first week you’re there. Will warns you with a glance, his eyes unreadable. But you go anyway.

The house is perfect—elegant, warm in an old-world way. And Hannibal is nothing if not the consummate host. He greets you with a soft smile and a glass of red so deep it’s nearly black.

“This is one of my favorites,” he says, handing it to you. “Full-bodied. Complex. Let it linger on your tongue.”

You do. It tastes like sin.

Dinner is delicate, tender, exquisite. You ask what kind of meat it is, and he tilts his head, smile curving just slightly too far. “You’d be surprised what we grow fond of, if only we allow ourselves.”

That night, something shifts.

—

You begin to see him more. Consultations. Crime scenes. Briefings. He always has time for you.

He listens to your thoughts with rapt attention, like your voice is music. Sometimes he says things that feel too sharp to be compliments, too true to be polite.

“You see more than you should,” he murmurs once, after a case that left you shaken. “And yet you walk away unscathed. How do you manage that, I wonder?”

You shrug. “I compartmentalize.”

He leans in, lips near your ear. “You’ll find that only works… until it doesn’t.”

—

It happens on a rainy evening, months later.

The two of you are alone—another dinner, another wine. You don’t remember what you were laughing at, only that the sound died in your throat when he stepped behind you, so close your breath hitched.

“May I?” he asked, fingers brushing your shoulder.

You nodded. You should’ve said no.

His hands were skilled. Purposeful. He touched like he was sculpting, like he already knew your shape, like you were something to be created—not possessed.

But he did possess you.

He kissed you like it was a test. And you passed.

—

In his bed, Hannibal was not gentle.

He was methodical. Attentive. Thorough. Each movement was calculated, precise. But every now and then, something wild broke through—an edge of teeth, a hand too tight around your throat, a sound that didn’t belong to any version of a man you thought you knew.

You moaned his name, and he inhaled like you’d fed him your soul.

When he came inside you, he whispered, “Bella mia. So soft. So willing.”

You were still catching your breath when you asked him what he meant.

He smiled.

“You give yourself so freely. Most people… take more time to carve.”

—

You began to notice things.

Small inconsistencies. Missing reports. The way he knew too much. The scent of something metallic beneath his cologne.

One night, while tangled in his sheets, his lips trailing down your stomach, you ask, “Have you ever killed someone?”

His tongue pauses. Then continues. He doesn’t answer.

You don’t ask again.

—

The deeper you fall, the more you lose the line between predator and prey.

You think you’re investigating him.

He knows you’re indulging him.

He feeds you meals you don’t question.

Touches you in ways that leave bruises and wetness pooling between your thighs. Marks you like territory. Speaks to you in tongues that don’t require words.

And you let him.

You want to.

Because Hannibal Lecter doesn’t just make you feel desired. He makes you feel chosen.

And in the dark corners of your soul, that’s what you’ve always wanted—to belong. To be devoured.

He cups your face after one particularly vicious session—your thighs still shaking, your nails bitten into his back—and murmurs, “You taste better every time.”

You believe him.

Even if you don’t know what part of you he’s sampling.

Even if you don’t care.

He doesn’t love you. But you are his.
And that is far, far more dangerous.

My main masterlist

[bewitched-hours]

Forsaken | C00lkidd & DeityChild!Reader (Purely Platonic)

Felt like writing something more chill today and had this idea related to an old ARG I saw about this girl who went from having a terrible home life to controlling her own world by freezing to death and being manipulated by some shadow entity to turn people into mindless dolls- Anyways, yeah, that's basically what happened to you now ✌(◕‿-)✌

The Reader's getting She/They pronouns here!

It was so cold...

Despite your "Happy Home", you suddenly felt eerily cold... Why...?

But before you could try to do anything about it, you blacked out.

Only to awaken in fear as you found yourself in a strange Cabin with strangers all around.

"New friend!" You heard one of them say while the others quietly observed and offered you explanations.

Seems the Spectre has chosen you to be a killer... Not like you could protest after having used your friends for food so many times... And turning them into puppets... And Forcing them to practically worship you...

There were a lot of questions and a lot of answers but they decided to pair you up with C00lkidd, seeing as you were both children. He would've been noticeably taller if it wasn't for your Deity Form. Even though it was shrunken down significantly.

C00lkidd took his time showing you around and explaining the rounds. He described it as a game of 'Tag' but you already knew from the other's whispering that you were gonna have to kill people.

Did you want to though? Sure, you had a similar routine back in your world but there was still a part of you that didn't want any of this.

Not to worry! The Spectre made sure to fill you up with enough hunger to fulfill your job as you and C00lkidd were thrown into your first round together. He was ecstatic about it and you didn't have the heart to tell him what the reality of it all was as you both moved out to 'tag' the survivors.

The hunger was near unbearable, you just wanted to eat, you could take anything... But you knew what you were expected to eat...

Just like home...

You decided to use your wings to oversee the map a bit, roaming the skies as you saw C00lkidd off chasing someone with a burger hat... You remembered him mentioning his dad had one of those. You didn't get why anyone would wear a hat looking like food...

But as expected, your rumbling stomach reminded you to keep going and you soon landed behind a pair of survivors. One in a suit and one in a red uniform. They were obviously in shock at your appearance and you just grinned sadistically. "You'll be delicious..."

You didn't know why you said that but they seemed to pick up that you were another child getting dragged into this mess and the pity on their faces as they backed up was enough to make you snap and lunge at them, sword in hand.

You had to get some kind of weapon after all because you weren't corrupted or mutated.

By the time the round ended, C00lkidd and you won and you felt saturated for the first time in so long...

Although, C00lkidd decided to just congratulate you on a good first round and you decided to play along, not even questioning the blood and stuff suddenly cleaned up from your avatar.

You were just glad he didn't see what you did with your kills...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[moonjellysfeast]

Watched a short video essay on feminized labor in leatherface and am now imagining an au where you kidnap Belphie and force her to hunt and kill people in a twisted imitation of 'traditional' gender roles. Making her fill a breadwinner role whilst you cook and clean. Calling her your wife and dreamily discussing your future with her. All while she tries to grapple with the confusing feelings of horror and delight. She was raised to be hyperfeminine so putting her in a role typically seen as masculine feels simultaneously uncomfortable and freeing. She also is horrified at being made to murder, instinctively repulsed by the act. Though, the power over someone else is refreshing and new and the sweet praise you give her for a fresh kill is nearly addictive. Even with the horrific situation, you're not violent with her, yes she feels pressured to kill and she knows for certain if she fails as a wife, you won't hesitate to snatch up a new bride who can actually provide for you. But you hardly raise your voice at her, much less threaten physical violence, and for some reason that unspoken threat quickly changes in her mind from "He'll kill me if I don't do as he asked" to "He won't want me if I can't provide". Worse, the new threat feels much more frightening to her. Eventually she does settle and accept her new roles in life, gladly chatting with passers by about her "sweet, angel of a husband" and gushing about how happy she is to be your wife, usually only hours before taking their lives, but not always. She also becomes very proficient at hunting, bringing plenty of meat home so neither of you are ever hungry.

Of course, if you want to fill out the family, she'd have to take maternity leave for some time, but stocking up on food isn't too hard and you can occasionally hunt if it comes down to it. Or you can 'adopt', plenty of folk pass by your home on family road trips, simply taking a child in would ease the potential strain on your dear wife, and when the child(ren) grows old enough, they can choose to either follow you into the kitchen or your wife to go hunt. It'd be a blissful, bloody life.

[cheeseatlantic]

BODY OF CHRIST

hi! before we start this is like sanctified’s much darker creepier older sister, there will be mentions of blood, canabalism, gory details and such. and by no means am i endorsing this kind of thing obviously its NOT okay in any way shape or form but it is horror, if your not into that kind of thing i would advise scrolling past, take care of yourself and ill see you in the next one.

The chapel rots.

Its ribs splinter open into the forest, spires broken like snapped fingers pointing up at nothing. Moss chews the stone, ivy coils like veins across the pulpit. There’s a cross, crooked and burned black, sagging above what used to be an altar.

You’re already there when he finds you.

Laid out on your back, pale against the grime, arms at your sides like the dead. There’s blood on your shirt. Not enough to be fatal—yet—but enough to catch the eye. Enough to make him pause in the doorway, boots halting in the hush.

The air is heavy. Not warm. Just thick.

Simon doesn’t speak. He steps forward.

The deer skull around his neck swings low as he kneels beside you. A crude mask—sun-bleached, worn smooth by hand and time. His face is hidden, but not his breath. You feel it ghost over your cheek, hear it crackle against the silence.

You don’t ask what he’s here for. You already know.

This isn’t the first time he’s been called. This isn’t the first body offered to him in the quiet cradle of this godless place.

But it’s the first time the offering smiled back.

He brushes a gloved thumb under your eye, slow and strange and almost soft. Then drags it down, down, over your jaw, to your throat. He presses, gentle at first—testing. Measuring the beat.

You don’t flinch. Not even when he hums, deep in his chest, like a wolf scenting blood beneath the snow.

He climbs onto the altar like he belongs there. His knees on either side of your hips, his hands pinning yours to crumbling stone. The weight of him isn’t cruel. It’s reverent. Hungry.

You stare up at the fractured sky through what’s left of the stained glass, watch it spill rust-red light over his shoulders.

And then he leans down.

Not for a kiss.

For a taste.

⸻

He starts at your throat. Teeth scraping the skin, tongue chasing the blood. He opens you like scripture, slow and deliberate, hands guiding your head to the side so he can sink deeper. Your pulse sings beneath him, each beat a benediction.

You go limp. Not in fear—but in offering.

He bites. Not clean. Not neat. This isn’t a surgeon’s cut—it’s a carving. His mouth opens over the wound, warm and wet, and your blood floods into him like wine.

You whimper, breath stuttering. It hurts. It should. But it’s also holy.

Simon groans, low and guttural, something between prayer and possession. He grinds down against you, blood-slick and panting, like your body is the last altar he’ll ever kneel at.

There’s a noise deep in your throat—something broken, something grateful—as his teeth scrape along your collarbone. Your fingers twitch, scrabbling weakly against his grip, but he doesn’t stop.

He drinks.

Because this is what he came for.

Not your voice.

Not your love.

Just you.

⸻

By the time he pulls back, his face is slick with red. It drips down the corners of his mouth, stains his jaw, pools in the hollow of his throat.

You blink up at him. Dazed. Hollowed out. Alive, somehow, and more than you were.

He licks his lips.

Doesn’t smile.

Just lowers his forehead to yours, still panting, still shaking, and whispers something you don’t hear. Or maybe you do, but the words aren’t meant for your ears. They’re meant for your bones. Your blood. The parts of you he’s taking.

The parts he’ll keep.

⸻

He doesn’t leave when it’s done. He lies down beside you on the altar, both of you soaked and trembling, bathed in rot-light and silence.

Your breath stutters. Your ribs ache. Your throat pulses weakly where he marked you.

But you don’t cry.

You turn your face toward his. Look at the mask still perched on the side of his head, the streaks of red drying on his neck.

He’s still hungry.

But for now, he’s full.

⸻

Something stirs in the trees. Crows, maybe. Or something older. Something with more teeth.

The forest leans in. The ruined chapel shudders in its bones.

And Simon?

He lifts your hand—bloodied, bruised—and presses it to his chest like a relic. Like something that will keep him fed long after your breath stops.

He closes his eyes.

And the world holds its breath.