filthyheaven

[filthyheaven]

"pathetic" is almost the hottest thing a man can be, second only to "in pain"

[filthyheaven]

changed my username hello long time no c

[filthyheaven]

first post in a million years due to personal issues and school making me fall off just to tell yall im absolutely insufferable over those doomed gay fuckin old men in s2 of squid game and yall are getting some fics SOON its lit a fire under my ass and im getting my commission done just to fuckin write toxic porn

[filthyheaven]

does anybody on here have spacehey??? I finally made an acc :3

[filthyheaven]

check it out, i jsut made blood and flesh actually kind of sexual and epic. I put a bit of catholic vocabulary in there as well, "the divine" makes an appearence. itslike if romance and death was eating.... well... you get the picture. do you like it? do you? what if i showed you another one? what if i showed you this one? what if i showed you the first one again? what if i showed you another? what about this one? what if i included more raw meat and reference to biting and teeth in it? its good right? ok let me explain its like if, love meat consume godly fuck possession blood gnaw kill each other sexual. yes?

[filthyheaven]

[filthyheaven]

once again opening a ship tag on AO3 and opening a dozen fics and closing out of almost all of them immediately because they would not fucking act like that

[filthyheaven]

headcanons for eric newlon / john carver when he caughts his s/o cheating on him.

you make the mistake of cheating on your significant other, Eric Newlon, a coworker of yours kissing you at an after-work function at the local bar. You pushed the coworker away, but you were drunk enough that you kissed them back for just a second before you realized what was happening.

Eric demands to know every detail when you admit guilt to him, making you run through it several times to ensure you were telling the truth, to process your side.

He is angry, more angry than you've ever seen him without the mask

He isn't angry enough, or possessive enough, to risk the both of your safety by butchering the person you cheated with, no matter how badly he wanted to

He's more attentive and even takes a short leave off work to spend more time with you, internalizing it as a majority his fault

Every day of his leave, and every night for weeks after, he fucks you with a fervor and passion there hadn't been in your relationship in months

But sometimes, the passion-filled sessions were tinged with angry, condescending questions in your ear and a knife to your throat in threat in case you answered incorrectly, "You think you can let someone else feel you, taste you, and get away with it? You think I won't gut you both? You think you belong to anybody but me?"

[filthyheaven]

I’m gonna play Fortnite for a little bit then fill requests that have stacked up :3

[filthyheaven]

in my carlykisser era 4ever….

[filthyheaven]

every time I check the thanksgiving tag I see people simping for the teenagers and like. me and two other people simping for the dilf. where is the dilf love. Where is it. Where is it?????

[filthyheaven]

the amount of requests I have y’all…. Keep it up but just know I am SO thankful so many of you want little drabble fics from me !!!! I plan on filling every single one, just bare with me <3

[filthyheaven]

[filthyheaven]

[filthyheaven]

hhahahahaha lol i was over 1k into a request wip and it erased itself when i went to sleep

[filthyheaven]

"i love toxic yaoi" you guys couldn't handle harringrove

[filthyheaven]

detective/cop reader? Hot on the trail of carvers secret identity. There's only two people in town that has motive, and the time to be John Carver. And reader has the list narrowed down to Eric and his best friend. Hearing that, Eric offers to come over to "answer any questions" the reader might have. Just to "clear his name" ;333€ and obviously reader doesn't tell anyone, he's coming over

It had been months since the last kill, but you were finally hot on the trail of the killer. Or, at least, you'd narrowed it down to two possible suspects, both the only people in town with motive, time, resources, and personality type to fit the crime.

Ironically, they were best friends, so perhaps you were wrong and it was both of them. Or neither. Once you'd narrowed it down, you called your boss from the small side office you had at the Sheriff's department, temporary as you investigated, and informed him of who you'd narrowed it down to.

He was not pleased that you were calling with non-news, so you hung up and gathered your things, rushing out of the room and almost running down the Sheriff in the process. He was holding a cup of coffee for himself, one for you. He gave you a sheepish smile.

"Listen- I'll be honest, I just overheard your phone call while I was waiting and-"

"This conversation is finished."

"No! Wait- I- I wanted to clear my name, if that's possible. I have proof that it wasn't me. I'll bring all of the evidence I've collected on the case-" Sheriff Newlon explained, holding out the coffee for you, but you cut him off.

"You've kept details of the case hidden from me?"

"You don't exactly let me talk to you. At all." He defended himself. You eyed him and took the coffee, sighing.

"Alright, just leave it all-"

"I was thinking I could make you dinner, we could pour over the evidence together, I could make my case, then you could kick me to the curb," he offered, having an entire plan set out for the two of you.

You stared at him. You couldn't be caught fraternizing with someone you had just named one of the lead suspects of the most violent case the town had seen in decades. You weighed your options and eyed him carefully, nodding.

"Fine. Come over at 5, be gone by 7:30, and I'm not cleaning up your mess."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Detective," he gave you a glowing grin, toothy and confident.

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒷꒦

At exactly 5:05 p.m., Sheriff Eric Newlon was on your doorstep with a brown paper bag of ingredients. When he knocked, you let him in, still wearing your work attire, but he was dressed down. Or dressed up.

"If I wasn't a smarter person, I'd think you thought this was a date," you warned softly, smiling at the man. He shrugged.

"Why? Because I wore a button-up, brought steak and wine, and hope you get to know me better? Shame on you, I'm trying to clear my name here."

You couldn't help but smile at the man.

"You brought steak and wine?"

"I'm buttering you up, what else would I have brought?" He stepped up to the kitchen counter and put the bag down, pulling everything out. He packed potatoes, garlic, asparagus, steaks, a sweet, decadent red wine.

"I won't be bribed, Sheriff. This is a civil discussion over dinner," you said firmly, sitting at the island in the kitchen, watching him work from behind. He asked where the pans were and you pointed.

"Thank you, Detective," he hummed, looking around, "You have a beautiful home. It's a shame you never get to be in it because of work."

"Thank you. Maybe once I reveal that you're the killer, I'll get a promotion and can stay home in Plymouth for a while," you teased warmly, watching him turn and eye you with caution and something else in the look. Something warm.

"Maybe. Maybe you'll find that I'm good company," he countered.

You smirked at him, watching him in silence before getting down from your chair and retrieving two wine glasses from the cabinet.

You let him make dinner in peace, asking him if he needed any help, but he didn't want any. By the time he was done, your house smelled delicious and you were both a glass and a half in, which was a complete accident. You'd gotten to talking about your lives as he cooked, which is what he'd planned.

He hadn't planned on getting tipsy. Hadn't planned on looking at you over the meal like he'd rather be eating you.

Much to your lack of knowledge, he probably would rather.

You didn't expect the look to stir something inside of you.

The steak was the best steak you'd ever had, succulent and tender, with plenty of garlic and butter. He'd paired the steaks with homemade mashed potatoes and garlic butter-roasted asparagus. And of course, more wine.

By the end of dinner, you were pleasantly full and on your fourth glass, having pulled a chilled bottle of wine out of your fridge to continue the evening in the living room.

"Come. Bring this "evidence" you claim you have," you ordered loosely, pointing at his messenger bag draped over his table chair. He grabbed it on command and followed you to the living room, wine in one hand, forged innocence in another. He was drunk in more than one way, so close to slipping out of your sights as a killer that it felt heady.

He laid out all of the papers he could on your coffee table, handing you a written, organized time sheet of when he was on the clock, times he'd been seen on camera during kills, even helping clear his best friend's name in the process.

You were drunk, but you weren't stupid, "Can I keep these? Just until tomorrow, so I can look them over with a clear mind?"

He nodded, amenable to the idea.

"Thank you, Detective, thank you. For considering my innocence."

"Don't thank me yet, but... You seem to be fine. No need to tie up any loose ends with loved ones, I mean," you joked, eyeing your glass and downing the half-glass of wine.

There was something warm coming to a head in your gut, becoming more and more obvious to you the longer his eyes lingered on you. You caught him staring at where your lips met the glass, caressing it, coaxing him and the wine closer. It was intoxicating, the attention with the alcohol.

"I uh. I thank you for that, then, Detective," Sheriff Newlon cleared his throat and straightened his back, finishing his glass.

"Of course, Sheriff. You've proven your innocence for now, and that's good enough for me," you explained slowly, only just realizing how drunk you were. He smiled at you, a lazy, warm thing directed at you and only you.

"Please, call me Eric, Detective," he said warmly, something close to sultry slipping into his voice.

"Only if you keep calling me Detective like you do, Eric," you said back, with just as much warmth, just as much want.

He leaned in close to you, eyeing your mouth, scooting closer on the couch at the same time as you did the same thing, "Oh, I can promise that, Detective."

"Fuck," you muttered, leaning in, feeling his hand snake up your throat and jaw, pushing into your hair slightly. You bared your neck, leaning into the touch.

His watch went off, alerting you both that it was 7:30 p.m. and it was time for him to leave.

He pulled your head back by your hair gently, kissing up your throat, speaking softly between kisses, "I should call a cab."

"Crash on the couch," you mumbled, head swimming with wine and lust and a need for something more, starved for touch, "Or the bed. Or the floor."

You were slurring your words slightly, snaking a hand up the back of his neck and into his hair, tugging.

"I don't care, but let's not pretend you weren't always going to stay te night," you said boldly, pulling him up by his hair into a kiss. He moaned into your mouth, smirking against you and nodding into the kiss.

"Deal, no more pretending."