dolllmaker

[dolllmaker]

The Lady Daughters were actually super geeked to have a new face around the castle despite the first few encounters

Valentina had to get used to the banter like lollll whaaat this isn’t grand silence

[dolllmaker]

A werewolf partner that has to make sure you always carry their scent. Every time you shower, they have to put their scent all over you again.

[dolllmaker]

the dove might not be dead but it’s certainly not doing well

[dolllmaker]

honey | 25 | they/she

donna & heisenberg enjoyer | fic writer

ao3: dolllmaker | main tumblr: letters2vera

18+ ONLY, dead dove, do not eat!!!

open to mutuals !

[dolllmaker]

falls into a meatgrinder

did anyone hear that it sounds like something cute happened

[dolllmaker]

hello ♡ my name is honey. i write resident evil: village fic, particularly centered on donna beneviento and karl heisenberg. i am over 21, and all of my content is 18+, since it is frequently nsfw.

i would love to make friends with other people in the fandom. please do visit my blog to get a glimpse of what i write; if you follow me, i will likely follow back.

[dolllmaker]

donna’s hands must be so steady, so worn and calloused from so many years of crafting her dolls. yet so gentle — porcelain is fragile, just the same as your skin, your bones. when her hands trail down your limbs as though inspecting you for signs of wear, of damage, she does so with immense admiration of the perfect smoothness of your skin, the warmth of blood rushing where it never did with her dolls.

lie still on the table, she tells you. of course you obey the woman with the scalpel.

the blade presses into warm flesh and you can imagine the expression donna wears under her veil — the smile of a gentle sadist, a loving executioner, the shepherd who wishes to show tenderness to her lamb before slaughter.

but donna is an anatomist, not a shepherd. she knows where to drag the knife to raise the fine hair of your arms, how to raise gooseflesh on your thighs. and she does it all with sick enjoyment.

i’m only curious, my love, she defends herself. but the scalpel slips, and crimson warmth drips down onto the wooden table beneath you, mingles with shards of glass and bits of doll hair. you inhale sharply. she giggles.

the dolls are never so responsive, she says. she’s having such fun. she drags the blade further down, splitting skin enough to bring tiny rivulets of blood to the surface. barely a scratch. you can take it.

it’s up to you entirely to tell her to stop. but where is the edge of desire? how does one quantify “enough” when such ravenous hunger demands such a gentle hand beneath the ribs, such dextrous fingers around the heart?