#them cannibalizing and butchering humans is a good start

[straycath99]

Need people to stop acting like sukuna birthed uraume

[horny-marbles]

Hiiii I’ve never requested anything on tumblr before but I love your EJ work so much I just had to! 💙🖤

Could you do a smut fic similar to peace offering and have the reader as a cannibal but is kind of more cocky about it? Like she thinks she’s as good if not better than Jack when it comes to that even though she’s a human. Also if you could make the reader like she came out of Texas chainsaw massacre that would also be epic. But for a storyline I’m open to anything, the more weird and feral the better! Cheers!

hiii!!! baby im so sorry this took so long. long story short, i wrote and rewrote it multiple times, and when i was finally happy with it and started the smut, i realized i didn't give her A CHAINSAW??? it's in the title bro. BUT ANYWAY HERE SHE IS LOL it's a beast, i hope you enjoy it and i hope it wasn't too extra for what you imagined :')

𝓓𝓸𝓵𝓵𝔂 (𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥!𝐅!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

BIG CW: where do i even start. VERY explicit mentions of violence, cannibalism, butchering, murder, gore; religious mentions, hallucinations and loss of memory, overall disturbing imagery. very dubcon hate sex (noncon if you read it with a magnifying glass), asphyxiation, violent and painful fr, fucking next to carcasses, little dialogue but degrading when it happens, idk what you'd call this but Jack forces meat into your mouth to shut you up?, also forced oral (f giving), orgasm denial — also reader is an arrogant cocky little shit

summary: you're the star of a southern family of cannibals, but uh-oh! you're too good, so you get kidnapped by a faceless cryptid, get your memory wiped and somehow, your god complex survives.

word count 11.5k

You were born into heat—thick, soupy, clinging heat that made your skin tacky before you could even walk. The kind that turned meat rancid in a day and made the flies come heavy. You knew the stench of rot before you ever knew perfume. It stuck to you like memories, no matter how hard you scrubbed.

That house, your family’s house, sat squat like a wound in the middle of nowhere—peeling clapboard, screen doors that whined like kicked dogs, sun-bleached and crusted with the filth of decades—choked by cornfields high as your shoulders and a forest that sat watching from far off, too dry to breathe, too dead to care. There were no neighbors, only travelers, and travelers didn’t last long.

Your family didn’t have a name for what you did. It wasn’t a cult. Wasn’t a tradition. Wasn’t some ancient ritual passed down through whispered Latin or scribbled symbols in books. It was just dinner. Just the way things were. You never questioned it. They were the food. You were the hunter. That’s the order of things. You knew it before you knew how to spell your name.

You mama called you her darlin’, your daddy called you the bait, and your brothers called you their lucky charm. Their sweet little thing, their pride, their angel. You were the face, the lure, the star. Your family handled the most, always. But you? You were the reason the food kept coming. And they praised you for it. Every time. Told you you were special. Chosen. That God had put you here to feed your bloodline, to keep the family strong. And you believed it. Why wouldn’t you?

You learned the weight of a cleaver before your hands could hold it right. You could slip skin from muscle with a flick of your wrist and a hum on your lips, peeling it back like wet parchment while flies buzzed thick around your braids. Your daddy showed you, patient and proud, guiding your little hand with his own—weathered and sticky with blood—through the fatty thigh of a man who’d screamed until his voice split.

"Gentle, now. Let the knife do the work, baby girl," he'd said, and you hummed while you worked, lips sticky with syrupy red. You’d make shapes in the sinew. Hearts. Stars. Sometimes you gave them names and talked to them while you cleaned them up, like dolls. You always had a tender touch for the dead.

Mama’d dress you up real nice—denim cutoffs, soft plaid tied at the belly, cheeks pinched pink and pretty. You had that Southern sweetness, that drawl that sounded like an invitation regardless of what you said. You’d sit out on the porch swing, cicadas screeching like rusty hinges all around, a pitcher of sweet tea beading with sweat at your elbow. Waiting.

“You’re real good at this, baby,” your mama would coo, running blood-wet fingers through your hair like it was a blessing. “Ain’t nobody bring in the meat like you.” And Lord, could you bring it in.

You got older. Sharper. Meaner. But you never lost that shine, that charm. You had a smile that melted asphalt, lips always painted red like roadkill, a voice like honeysuckle and smoke. The kind that made you feel safe even when the hair on your neck stood up. When they passed by—lost souls, truckers, drifters—you lit up like Sunday morning, looking every bit like salvation, inviting them in for cornbread and meatloaf. Telling them they could rest a spell, cool off from the heat. You watched their eyes soften, watched their guard fall, and you’d think: They don’t even know they’re already dead.

Other times you'd cruise real slow in your rusty, groaning pick-up, eyes trained to clock the thumbs up on the side of the road—sun-dazed hitchhikers that would inevitably trust the genuine sparkle in your eyes. Chatting it up the car while you drove a beeline off the highway and towards your slaughterhouse, saying you just need to pick up something from your place before heading for their destination.

“Won’t take but a minute, sugar. Just gotta grab somethin' from the house. Mama’s makin’ meatloaf. You’re welcome to stay for supper.”

They followed you right up that dusty drive with the smell of rotting meat already thick in their nose, but they never noticed. Not until the door closed behind them. Too wound up in the thought that this was the beginning of every porno they loved, buzzing on the possibility of getting a warm meal, a sweaty quickie and a ride home.

They never made it past supper.

They’d sit in the kitchen, drink sweet tea so strong it made their gums ache, eat meatloaf and cornbread and gravy thick as glue. You'd bat your lashes, laugh too loud, and the sound of it would almost cover the creak of the floorboards as your daddy snuck up behind them with a pipe in his fist. Almost.

And when they woke up, that’s when they met Dolly.

She was hanging there from her hook in the barn, humming with the memory of a hundred deaths, always crusted with the blood of the last dumb bastard who thought he’d get lucky.

You named her when you were thirteen. Called her Dolly because she sang when she worked. Because she was loud and mean and old as sin. Daddy gave her to you like a wedding gift, all proud and reverent, like he was passing down the family Bible.

You cleaned her every night. Talked to her. Told her secrets. Rubbed the oil into her teeth with a lover’s care. Dolly wasn’t a tool. She was kin. She was yours.

And the moment she roared to life—when that engine kicked and the barn filled with that screaming, gasoline gospel—that was your church bell. That was your moment of worship.

They always woke up screaming. Always. Bound up in rope, mouth gagged with rags that smelled like old meat. The barn was dark, walls sweating heat, rafters hung with hooks and chain and the slow drip of old blood. You’d stand over them, Dolly purring in your grip, teeth glinting in the sliver of sun through the boards.

Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they begged. Sometimes they pissed themselves. It didn’t matter. You never flinched. You just smiled, revved her once, and the sound alone was a death sentence.

You’d swing Dolly down and let her kiss bone. Blood fountained up like a prayer, slick and hot, painting your arms, your chest, your grin. Flesh peeled like bark. Bone cracked like dry twigs. You never aimed for pretty or careful. You were just putting down cattle.

You would sit at the table and pass mashed potatoes while their cooked flesh steamed on the platter, hands sticky with marrow and sin as they met your family's, saying grace with a sacred hush in your voice. "Father in Heaven, thank you for this food. Please bless Dolly to the nourishment of my family and guide her body to your service as you will. In Jesus name I pray, Amen."

And when it was done—when the blood soaked through the cracked earth outside the barn, and the dogs out back were licking it up like nectar—that’s when you'd go quiet. That was your favorite part. The hush after. The stillness. Just you and Dolly and the heat pressing down like God’s judgment.

You never saw it as evil. It was just life. Just survival. You were made for this. Built for it. Ain’t your fault the world was full of prey. It made you feel like a god. And maybe you were.

Somehow, somewhere along the routine, something started to change. It didn’t happen all at once. It crept in—like mildew in the walls or maggots in the meat. It started slow, a hiccup in the rhythm honed into your bones since childhood. First came the haze, thick and yellowed, like fat congealing in your skull.

You'd be carving, humming some old tune under your breath—something Mama used to sing when she made stew—and suddenly your hands would freeze, the knife halfway through tendon. Your eyes would go glassy. A pressure would build behind them, a high keening note that split your head open like a ripe melon. You’d stare at the meat on the table and swear it twitched. Like it was still alive. Like it was blaming you.

Then came the sounds. Wet squelching that wasn’t yours. Bones cracking from somewhere behind you when no one else was home. Screaming. Far-off at first—maybe a trapped coyote out in the fields, you told yourself—but then closer. Inside. Inside the house, inside the walls, inside you.

The hallucinations got cruel.

You'd whirl around in the barn and see the hooks swaying just a little too much. See the bodies that should’ve been still start to twitch and pull. Eyeless, jawless things, eviscerated and half eaten, ripping themselves free with sickening pops and tears, blackened fingers clawing at the air, slick with rot and rage. Their mouths opened in impossible angles, throats torn but still wailing—a wet, garbled shriek that filled your ears and slithered down your spine. Crawling, twitching, alive again, just to make you pay for what you did. What you loved doing.

One of the fresher ones lunged at you once—bloated belly splitting open mid-air to spill half-digested meat you fed him before your brother strangled him from behind, all across the floor—and you blacked out cold right there in the sawdust, piss-wet and trembling.

When you came to, your cheek was pressed to the ground, one side caked in dried blood that wasn’t yours. None of it was real, you knew that. Didn't you?

You started to get sloppy after that. Fucking up lures. Wrong cuts. You’d black out for minutes at a time, sometimes hours. Find yourself in places you didn’t remember walking to, hands coated in blood that wasn’t warm enough to be fresh. You started feeling watched, like something less than God was looming just out of sight, like an imposing spectre, waiting, assessing.

You stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Everything tasted like rot. Every creak in the house made your heart jump into your throat. You thought maybe the devil was coming for you, but part of you didn’t mind. Part of you wanted to see if he’d praise you too.

You didn’t tell anyone, of course. Mama and daddy would’ve fixed it the old way—duct tape and a hammer until the thoughts stopped. You kept smiling, kept playing the part. But you were fraying.

It all came to a head one blistering summer day, the kind where the sun hangs like a dead thing in the sky, and the dirt cracks like bone under your feet. You woke up flat on your back in the field behind the barn, dry stalks rattling all around you, skin cooked red and hot. Your head felt like a wasps’ nest—buzzing, swollen, angry. You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t even know your name for a minute. Just knew you were soaked to the skin, sweat or blood or both, and your jaw ached like you’d been screaming for hours.

Voices blurred in your ears. Cold slapped your face. You blinked up at sunburnt faces—your family, furious and frantic, splashing icy well water over your cheeks while your brother barked, “She let ‘em run, goddammit! We had—had 'em, and she lost it!”

The food had bolted. One of the hitchhikers—a skinny little thing with sunburnt arms and quick legs, barely enough to feed the lot of you—had run screaming into the fields. And the worst part? You hadn’t even noticed. You’d been out on your feet, blank as butcher paper, staring while he tore ass through the corn.

That’s when you heard it. Sirens. Real ones.

You’d never seen the law move so fast, not out here in God’s forgotten corner. Sirens rising in the wind like banshees. The sheriff’s car tore up that gravel drive faster than you could've prepared for, K-9s yelping, radios barking, boots pounding. It was like God decided to show up for once, and He brought a badge. Your mama screamed at you to run, but your legs didn’t wanna move.

Not until the first warning shot cracked the sky open. Your family scattered like roaches, and you bolted. Barefoot and ragged, tearing through the barn as a shortcut, past the flayed remains on hooks that didn’t even flinch this time—but not before your hand snapped out like instinct, like blood memory, and grabbed Dolly. Hung right on her peg by the door, rusted teeth still wet from last night’s supper.

Your fingers closed tight around her handle and you ran like the earth was coming apart beneath you. Out into the endless gold of the corn, the metal clanking of the shed doors echoing behind you like bells of judgment.

You ran until your lungs burned and bled into your mouth. Maybe it was from the effort, or maybe it was the rot inside you, the old meat you could still taste in the back of your throat. The stalks sliced into your skin as you crashed through them, hands out, eyes wild. The sun glared down so angry it felt like it was chewing through your scalp. You could hear the dogs behind you—barking, hungry. You swore you could feel their teeth on your ankles.

The corn gave way to the forest, and even the light seemed to die there. Trees like dry bones, reaching out, grabbing at your hair, your clothes. The ground cracked underfoot, brittle and dry, every step sending shockwaves through your skull. Dolly bounced at your side with every stomp, the weight of her a grim promise.

That’s when you noticed it. The static.

It wasn’t the radios. Wasn’t the dogs. Wasn’t the wind or the cicadas or the burn of your pulse in your ears. It was something else. A sharp, metallic screech like static from a busted TV, except it was inside your skull. Low at first, like a bad connection. But the further you ran, the louder it screamed. It wormed into your brain, burrowed behind your eyes, grinding against your teeth like gravel. Your balance gave out once, then twice. Your vision split down the middle. The trees started to hum as they grew thicker, the forest yawning open around you like a grave. Blood bubbled up in your throat, thick and bitter. You coughed, and it came up in ribbons, painting the dirt.

You stumbled into the shade, heaving and dizzy. Your ears screamed, the panicked pounding of your heart and the roaring static in your head a nauseating orchestra that blinded you. You tasted rust and rot. Felt wetness trickling down your neck from your ears, sticky and warm. You raised a shaking hand, smeared crimson across your fingertips right as your knees slammed into the ground. The last thing you felt was the heat of the sun leaving your skin, replaced by the cool touch of dry, cracked earth, before the world tilted sideways and got swallowed by shadow.

You had no idea what became of your family.

Whether they were dragged off kicking and hollering to rot in some high-security concrete tomb, or gunned down the second the cops laid eyes on the sun-bleached intestines hanging from the porch rafters like party streamers, never to be stuffed of minced meat for homemade sausages—you didn’t know.

You didn’t care. That whole world, that whole life, every blood-slicked summer afternoon spent in the back, feeding leftover fat or skin to the dogs, every bone-pile supper spent watching the faces of the people you were ingesting flash on the news, every praise-filled pat on the head and hissed warning under a bloody butcher’s breath—it was gone. Wiped.

Flushed into the deep, wet-black cracks of your memory, where even your own thoughts didn’t dare poke around too long.

Decades of ritual. Hundreds—hell, maybe thousands—of strangers with empty stomachs and full bladders, trailing dust and naivety through your front door. Their blood was burned into your nose, your throat, your skin. You could still feel the slick slide of raw tendon under your nails, the tremor of the chainsaw eating through bone, if you focused hard enough. But now? Now it was all buried beneath a thick, impenetrable fog. A swamp of forgetting. Of rewriting.

You couldn’t give a fuck even if you wanted to.

Nowadays, your mind was occupied by something much taller. Much quieter. Wrapped in a dark suit and a heavier presence—one that made your teeth feel loose and your spine ache like it remembered something your brain refused to translate. You spent your time in a rotting mansion deep in a stretch of nowhere, proving yourself to a creature that didn’t speak, didn’t blink, didn’t need to. One look—one twist of static in the air around him—and your guts curled like a dog showing its belly.

You didn’t remember the static from that day in the woods. Didn’t remember falling. Didn’t remember the way your body had gone limp or how something tall had watched from the edge of the treeline, invisible to your eyes but not to whatever still twitched beneath your skin.

But the static came back to you now. In waves. In pulses.

Sometimes it crackled in your ears at night, just under the cicadas and crickets. Sometimes it echoed in the corners of the mansion halls, where no footsteps should be. You caught flashes sometimes—split-second glimpses in the mirror, or in your plate, or in the blood painted on the chainsaw's blade right as it left your assignments. Faces. Fields. Screams. Hooks.

You didn’t ask questions.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The others here didn’t pry. Not really. You were the new one, sure. But something about you—about the way you smiled with that same corn-fed charisma as if the disfigured faces all around you didn't even phase you, about the way you cut meat like you were born with a boning knife in your hand—kept them quiet. Kept them curious.

And you were focused. On proving you belonged here. On ignoring the burning gaps in your past. On staying useful to something ancient and unknowable that hummed with electricity when it got too close.

Because deep down, you somehow knew. You weren’t dragged here. You were chosen. Right?

It wasn't long after making yourself known as a maneater that a name kept popping up again and again. Not many people around here talked for long, but when they did, his name always came up, followed by a change in temperature. Like it left frost on their teeth just to say it out loud.

Jack. No eyes, but always watching. Tall, quiet, moving like he’s part of the walls, like the shadows suck him in and spit him back out in different corners of the mansion.

They were warning you. Not in any outright way, but it was there.

They talked about him the same way folks used to whisper about monsters in the walls—like he was the thing people oughta fear in the dead of night, in the belly of the woods, in the hush between heartbeats. That still silence before a scream. THE cannibal around here. That’s how they said it. Like there was a fucking crown to wear. Like your years of blood-marinated living didn’t put you in the same weight class, if you could remember them.

One night, Jeff had told you that "you might wanna keep that shit quiet around here" when he walked in on you stuffing the ancient freezer in the kitchen with bags of meat slabs. You weren't stupid, you knew it was meant as a warning. And yet, all you heard was the treacly ring of a dare.

You didn’t say anything about it, not even when the mention of him started feeling like a ghost story told over and over with the same shaky flashlight under the chin. Chilling, sure. But you didn’t rattle so easy.

You played the part of the amused listener, lips curled and head cocked, never asking questions you didn’t need answered. You didn’t argue. But deep in your gut—down where instinct and pride still chewed on each other like dogs—you couldn’t help but smirk.

He had nothin’ on you.

You were the girl who could charm a man into gutting himself with a smile and a slice of pie. You didn’t need shadows and silence. You had Dolly.

It was cute, really. Like the others had conjured up a campfire monster to keep themselves entertained. Don’t go near the dark hallway, that’s Jack’s territory. Don’t bother him, don’t try anything. Don’t fucking stare. The usual superstition disguised as advice.

But eventually, the novelty wore off. You got tired of the little warnings they laced into conversation like it wasn’t obvious they were all just a little bit scared of their own housemate.

So when word came down that you’d been paired with him for a job, you thought that was just the perfect opportunity to see what the fuck all this fuss was about.

You didn’t bother waiting for the upcoming mission. That’d be too passive. Too obedient.

Late afternoon baked the walls of the mansion in gold and heat, dust floating lazy in the beams through warped windows as you strutted down the hall like you’d owned it since birth, dragging your fingers along the wall like a bored child, the ends of your smirk twitching like it could taste a challenge in the air.

His door sat at the far end of one of the hallways, quiet and colorless, wood grain faded to ash-gray like nothing wanted to stick to it. You rapped your knuckles against it—sharp, intentional. You crossed your arms and leaned your weight into one hip, smug and settled. You waited like you were entitled to be answered. Like he owed it to you just for having the gall to knock.

And when the door opened, all that smoke in your lungs twisted tight. Your smirk twitched.

He was taller than you expected—a lot taller. He had to duck a little just to clear the frame, and even hunched like that, he still looked like he could cast a shadow long enough to cover your entire goddamn body count. Broad like he was carved from raw stone, gray skin stretched over lean muscle, the kind of frame that made you feel human again just by comparison. But what got you—what rooted your boots to the damn floor—no eyes. Should've expected it, naturally, but it somehow slipped your mind.

Just two hollow sockets filled with something you couldn’t quite name—black, uneven, scarred tissue, as if the void itself had tried to fester in his skull and gotten stuck there. And still, they pinned you. Right to the floorboards.

But you didn’t flinch. You just grinned slow, tongue curled behind your teeth.

“Well fuck me sideways,” you drawled, voice syrupy with amusement, “guess the name came from somewhere, huh?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t tilt his head or shift or twitch like people usually do when they’re taken off guard. He just stood there, his entire presence like an open grave—still, silent, and full of something you didn’t want to look too hard at. His voice, when it came, was a low hum of disinterest. Cold. Dry. More formality than curiosity.

“Can I help you?”

God, that was it? No hiss, no looming shadow tricks, no growling threats or blood-curdling stares? The others had practically pissed themselves describing him. You half expected to be picked up by your throat and slammed into the wall. But all you got was calm.

Underwhelming.

You let your eyes drag over him, lazy, appraising. Like you were checking cuts of meat at a butcher’s. His arms looked strong. Veins coiled like roots beneath the surface. If he moved, you imagined it’d be slow and methodical, like some patient predator that never had to chase because the prey always came to him.

“Hm,” you hummed, tipping your chin. “So you’re the big bad shadow with teeth, huh? The one they keep whisperin’ about like a damn ghost story. I figured I’d come see for myself.”

He didn’t reply. Didn’t blink—couldn’t, you guessed—but the silence that followed felt heavier than a noose. You went on anyway.

“I just figured,” you said, casually flicking nonexistent dust from your shoulder, “if we’re gonna be rippin’ apart bodies together, might as well say howdy. You’re Jack, right?”

He gave a slight nod. Nothing more.

“They’ve been real poetic about you downstairs, y’know. Call you all kinds of names.” You let out a small laugh, dry and dismissive, rocking back on your heels as you gave him a look—half teasing, half challenge. “Can’t lie, I was kinda hopin’ for more teeth. Bit more snarl.” You tapped your chin, faux thoughtful. “Not complainin’, but all that talk? Feels like they’ve been talkin’ out their asses.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch of reaction. Not a bite. Not even the courtesy of annoyance. You might as well have been talking to a statue.

So you smiled wider, letting the heat of your own pride seep through. Just a little.

“Maybe it’s time you think about retirement, old man. I’m here now. Meat-eatin’ business is in good hands.”

It was cocky. Downright disrespectful. You knew that. But you said it with a wink in your voice, like it was all in good fun—like you weren’t sizing him up just as much as he was you. Even if you couldn’t see it.

Jack just stood there, unmoving, unreadable, like a mountain that didn’t care what you screamed at its face. Watching you like a noise he was deciding whether or not to acknowledge. The silence stretched, bone-dry and drawn taut between the two of you.

Then finally, he spoke. Low, even, and colder than a blade left out in the dead of winter.

“If you need to announce your worth,” he said, voice flat as a sheet over a corpse, “it’s because no one’s seen it.”

His voice was smooth, not smug and final, like a scalpel against soft tissue. No emotion, no heat—just clinical dismissal. Just standing there like he was cataloging every fragile thread of your ego—and finding it… unremarkable.

The cockiness froze on your face like you were just whipped by something too real to make sense of right away. Bullshit, of course, wasn't it?

And before you could even open your mouth to snark something in return, he spoke again, so bored that you almost wished he beat the snot out of you instead.

"Next time you want to measure your cock against mine, do it somewhere where you can actually impress someone. See you at the mission."

Just like that. No venom in his voice. No snarl. Just ice cold water splashed in your sunburnt face, followed by the slightest nod that only came out of habit rather than a deliberate gesture of respect or goodbye.

And before your pride could even catch up to what just happened—the door clicked shut. No slam. No dramatic ending. Just a quiet, measured click that somehow echoed down the hallway like a dropped bullet casing.

You stood there, staring at it. Arms still crossed but now limp, jaw clenched so tight it started burning at the hinges.

Your ego stung. Not shattered—never shattered—but bruised like a peach left out in the sun too long. Because he hadn’t humiliated you. Hadn’t even tried to. He just... stripped the meat from your words and tossed the bones.

You turned on your heel with a muttered curse under your breath, that practiced smirk now twitching from the wrong side of your face. Heat flushed your skin. Not from embarrassment. No, not that.

From the slow, simmering burn of being dismissed. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of a good fight. You’d get him back for that. One way or another, that much was gospel.

And yet... You had been seething for days.

Not yelling, not pacing—but it burned in you anyway, deep and slow behind your ribs, the kind that made everything else feel sticky. Like Jack’s words were tar in your ears, repeating themselves in that bored, dispassionate drone.

He saw through you. Or worse—he didn’t see you at all. Just another loudmouth with blood on her hands and a chip on her shoulder.

You hadn’t slept since. Just laid in bed with your eyes open, sweat slick on your neck from the heat that never broke in this godforsaken place, thinking about every word he said. Thinking about how he didn’t even say them mean. He said them like he was reading off a grocery list. Like you weren’t worth the effort of tone.

So when the mission night came—Slender’s voice in your head, static clinging to the words like rot to meat, instructions bleeding through the fog—you were ready to prove Dolly's teeth were sharper than his.

The air outside the mansion was stifling and scratchy, moonlight filtered through a haze of pollen and heat like an old bulb dying out. The trees out here didn't rustle—they creaked, dry to the marrow, their leaves brittle and sickly yellow along the edges. The dirt road leading into the woods kicked up dust with every step, and somewhere far off, an owl called like it was mourning something.

Jack was already at the tree line, waiting. Silent and still, like something carved out of the dark.

You should’ve been behind him, chainsaw handle in your hands, waiting for his signal. That was the plan. He’d go first—quiet, invisible—scout the site, get them just where he needed them. Then you’d come in swinging. Loud. Messy. Ripping through screams and woodsmoke like thunder, while he tore into ribs and throats like a famished wolf breaking into a barn.

You should’ve felt the weight of it by now. The hum. That electric buzz up your arms, that promise of carnage curled up against your palms.

Instead, you were empty-handed.

You realized it halfway down the path. That the one thing—the only fucking thing—you were supposed to bring, the piece that would've proved you weren't just a child in a butcher's skin, was still sitting back in your room like a sleeping dog. Dolly. Your Dolly. The growling, howling son of a bitch you'd named and sharpened and carried like it meant something.

Forgotten.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t turn back. Just kept walking. But the burn in your jaw from clenching too tight—that was real. The twitch in your brow. The way your footsteps hit the dirt too hard, too fast, like punishment.

You'd been too in your head, too hellbent on proving something, on making Jack eat his fucking words, you’d left the one thing that could’ve made your point loud enough.

Now, you were back to the role you’d been given by the Heavens, not the one your pride thirsted for. Play bait. Smile sweet. Talk slow. Let them think you’re lost and harmless and pretty enough to keep around. Long enough for Jack to sink his filthy, unworthy claws in.

It seemed easy enough—familiar enough. Like it had somehow been wired into your marrow, instinctual, natural. But it felt less than you. It tasted like surrender, and it tasted bitter.

The campsite glowed soft through the gaps in the trees, the air heavy with campfire smoke and burnt marshmallow sugar. Three of them. Two boys, one girl. Probably college-aged. Young enough to feel invincible, old enough to think they were clever for camping somewhere so isolated.

You stepped into the clearing like you'd always belonged there, face softening into something guiltless and trustworthy. No crunch of twigs, no heavy footfalls—just a sway of hips and a soft smile drawn across your face like honey on a blade.

“Evenin’, y’all,” you said, voice dipped in honey, that Southern lilt curling around the words like smoke. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Got a little turned around out here, you wouldn’t believe how easy it is to get lost in the dark.”

They turned, startled—but not defensive. Not yet.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” the girl asked. “Where’s your tent?”

You giggled. Giggled. Tilted your head and let your hair fall to one side like a trickle of molasses. “Oh sugar, I don’t have one. I was just passin’ through. Got dropped off a bit down the way, then my phone died and—well, y’know how it goes.”

They relaxed. Just like that.

You let them see you—dust on your legs, sheen of sweat on your collarbones, that subtle glint in your eyes that said not harmless, but not dangerous either. Just lost. Just a girl.

The fire crackled. Conversation swelled around you. They asked questions—where you were from, if you needed to use a phone, if you were hungry. You answered just vaguely enough to keep them wondering, but not so vague they got suspicious. You had them. Wrapped around your little pinkie.

And here you were. Drenched in moonlight. A rotten feeling bubbling in the back of your throat. No claws, no teeth. Just charm.

Your heart didn’t race—but your eyes did scan the tree line. Not looking for him, not looking for salvation. But a solution. A diversion. Anything to buy you time, anything to help you reach the finish line unaided.

You were still smiling, but your jaw had tightened.

It was subtle—just a flicker of tension at the hinge, a twitch of your lip that didn’t quite match the sugar in your voice. You crossed your legs, leaning forward like you were settling in for a chat, but your eyes kept straying to the dark behind the firelight. A little too often. A little too sharp.

“What’re you looking at?”

The question broke the air like a stick snapped underfoot. Not hostile. Not even wary yet. Just curious.

You blinked once, slow. Smoothed your palms against your thighs.

“Oh, it’s nothin’,” you said with that breathy, innocent lilt. “Thought I saw somethin’ movin’ out there, but… probably just a raccoon. Or a deer.”

You punctuated it with a soft laugh, a half-shrug, like it was no big deal. But you saw it—just a flicker of something in the girl’s face. That animal twitch of the gut. The what if.

You shouldn’t have looked again. But you did.

And this time, the silence that followed it was thicker.

The fire snapped.

The mood soured. Like milk turning in real time. You could feel it curdle, souring in their expressions, stiffening their postures. Something crawled down the back of your neck—hot, slow, primal.

One of the boys, the one who’d been crouched beside the logs, brushing embers back into place with a stick, didn’t even get to scream.

The sound he made wasn’t human. It wasn’t even a sound, really—just a choked, wet grunt, a stutter of breath that was swallowed up by the crack of bone splintering like dry kindling. You felt it more than heard it. A snap deep and wrong, like a wishbone being pulled apart uneven.

Then came the sound of the fire roaring a little louder.

You turned your head and saw the body—or what was left of it—drop half-way splayed across the burning logs.

There was no ceremony to it—just a heap of limbs and ruined flesh, the kind of thing that didn’t make sense at first glance. It took a second for the brain to register the shape. That the torso was missing something. That the head was at the wrong angle. That something had ripped into it.

It took a moment for the smell of burnt flesh and hair to waft in the air like a shroud. It took a moment for you to snap out of it and realize it was go time.

The girl screamed, a raw, high-pitched, guttural wail that split through the trees like a signal flare, before running straight into your arms. Poor thing probably thought you were a victim too.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your hands went for her throat like they were starved. She could only gasp like a fish on a dock, wide-eyed and stunned as your fingers dug in and your thumbs crushed her windpipe against her cervical spine, pinching the sound into a canid whine. You held her there, straining, gritting your teeth as she kicked, scrambled, fingers clawing at your arms, your face, your hair, but it was panic—sloppy and directionless.

You felt the pulse under your fingers hammering like a hummingbird’s wings. The wet gargle of her trying to suck in air around your grip. Her nails bit into your forearms, but you held steady, grounding yourself in the heat of it. The struggle, the intimacy. The kind of power and control you missed. The kind that started to slip through your fingers like sand.

Behind you, the clearing was chaos.

Jack moved like smoke. Like something ancient that had never forgotten how to kill. You didn’t see his face—you didn’t need to. You saw the aftermath. One of the boys—still trying to stand, trying to crawl away, his legs shredded like wet paper, a smear of red dragging behind him. He reached for a branch. Jack stepped on his arm with a muffled crunch.

Then came the claws—long, black, lethal keratine—sinking into the side of his ribs, dragging upward like peeling back the skin of a fruit. You heard the ribs crack and split, flesh folding open in ribbons.

The boy keened once before Jack’s second hand came down. Right into the soft spot of the stomach, reaching in and tearing. Steam curled in the air, viscera spilling onto the ground with a wet slop, like the forest was vomiting up something rotten.

You didn’t stop choking the girl, even as she went limp, face puffed up in sickly blues and reds. You watched him work, eyes narrowed, chest heaving with a feeling that poked and scratched uncomfortably through the high of power.

She sagged against you finally—twitching like a puppet with the strings cut—and you let her fall into the dirt like discarded meat.

Jack stood in the middle of it all. Calm. Composed. Painted in gore from collarbone to boot, untouched and unflinching. As if this truly was just another Thursday for him, another task to cross off a list, another mission he completed without breaking a sweat. While you were panting from the nauseating mixture of exertion, and envy, and an ugly, bubbling sense of failure.

He turned his head slightly, like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear. Then those eyeless sockets tilted toward you. And something deep in your chest buzzed—low and bitter and uncomfortable.

You’d come here to show him up, and you were beginning to realize you might not be in his league.

The forest was still again.

That strange, unnatural hush that came after carnage settled over the clearing like a second skin—thick, heavy, cloying. The kind of silence that soaks into your ears, makes your pulse feel louder than it should. You stood there in the red hush of it, heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.

One of the bodies was folded inside out against a log, limbs bent wrong, half his face missing. The other had his guts draped out like some sick garland, trailing behind him in a sticky line as he lay twitching, godless. And the girl, who should've been minced to unrecognizable pieces by Dolly's teeth, lay mostly complete at your feet like a physical manifestation of everything between ego and failure. Like it was mocking you.

Your hands were shaking.

The adrenaline was still flooding you, washing over the seams of your bones like hot tar. It burned, made your teeth grind and your fingers twitch. It had kept the anger at bay for a minute—just long enough for you to kill her, just long enough to revel in it. But now it was loud again, fast and unforgiving, rising like bile in your throat.

Because he’d stepped in before you could do it your way.

You weren’t stupid. You knew the fault was yours, your improvisation shallow, delivery shaky, the atmosphere turning too fast to play your hand. But you could’ve fixed it. You would’ve fixed it. Somehow. Right?

But Jack had ended it before you had the chance. Cutting you off again, like this was merely an inconvenience for him. Like you were just a minor setback. And now the anger was coiling tight in your stomach, bleeding into your limbs.

You turned to him.

He stood there, still slick with blood. Some of it glistened on the curve of his throat, some of it dried to a matte across his arms. The empty voids of his eyes were unreadable, as they always were, fixed somewhere through you.

“You couldn’t wait five fuckin’ seconds?” you snapped, voice too loud in the quiet. “Jesus, I had it. I was handling it—”

“You weren’t.”

It wasn’t even a rebuttal. Just a plain fact, said like he was pointing out the color of the sky.

Your spine went rigid. “Excuse me?”

Jack finally looked at you. Really looked—head slightly tilted, mouth in its usual flat, unimpressed line.

“You were unraveling. They noticed. I stepped in before you wasted more time.”

Your hands clenched. “I wasted time? You actin’ like I wasn’t doing what I was told to do—”

“This was supposed to be an ambush,” he said, cutting you off again. “You got sloppy. Kept looking for me when no one asked you to. Gave yourself away.”

“I was checking if you were—”

“You weren’t supposed to check anything,” he replied, and now there was just a hint of steel in his voice. “You were supposed to do your part. Wait and jump at my signal. But you couldn’t even do that.”

You stepped toward him. He didn’t flinch.

“You’re a real piece of work,” you hissed. “Walk around like you’re too good to breathe the same air as the rest of us, like you’re some apex fuckin’ boogeyman—”

“You forgot a weapon,” Jack said, louder this time. Still calm, still infuriatingly collected. “No... Chainsaw, was it? No blade. Not even a shard of glass. You came out here to prove something and brought nothing.”

You froze.

His words hit like dull nails hammering into your ribs—slow and deep and exact. Your chest heaved. Your hands curled and shook, but now it wasn’t just adrenaline—it was fury. Pure, pulsing. You could feel your lip curl, a snarl almost forming, and for a split second you thought about punching him. Just to break that lack of expression on his stone cold face. Just to prove that something about you could land.

You stepped up to him. Got close. Closer than you should’ve. Chest to chest—or, chest to his abdomen—chin tilted up so you could glare into that abyss of a face, your rage clawing against the inside of your ribs like a caged dog. You stared into that featureless calm and you wanted to set it on fire. Wanted to see anything there.

But Jack didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. He just looked down at you and said, so casually it nearly made your jaw unhinge, “Start carving."

Your breath caught.

“What?”

“She’s yours, isn’t she?” he asked, gesturing with one blood-darkened hand toward the body you’d dropped. “You choked her out. She’s yours to clean. Start carving. We don’t have all night.”

And then... silence.

Because you hadn’t brought anything.

You looked down at her body, pale and cooling, throat bruised but not broken open. Flesh still intact. Unopened. Useless without teeth or steel.

You didn’t move. Not at first.

His words hung between you like smoke, clinging, choking, bitter. Do your share. Like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. Just a faulty cog in the machine, a mouth that ran too hot and hands that brought no tools. That calm detachment of his stoked the fire already roaring in your chest—made it blister, made it seethe.

And the worst part? He still hadn’t stepped away.

Your chest—your whole front—was still pressed up against his abdomen, close enough to feel the slow, infuriating rhythm of his breathing. He was warm through the blood and grime and fabric. Solid like a wall, like something that had never been moved against its will. You tilted your head back just enough to see his face, that inhuman, blank slate with its tar-black sockets aimed somewhere over you, through you.

God, he was tall. And broad. And so composed it felt like mockery.

You hated him. You hated him and his restraint and his accuracy and the way he made you feel small without even trying.

So you did something stupid.

“Why don’t you do it then?” you snarled, your voice low, sharp with something almost trembling at the edges. “Since you’re so big and bad and feral. With your claws and your calm and your fuckin’—void eyes. Go 'head, Jack. Do it all. I’m sure you’ll jerk yourself off to how efficient you are later.”

And you shoved him. Not hard. Not really. Just a bristling, angry push to the chest. All bark.

And you should not have done that. Because he moved before you could even have the chance to realize what you'd done.

Your back slammed into the dirt with a thud, shoulder-blades skidding across leaves and wet moss and bits of stray flesh. His weight followed, crushing, one hand flat across your throat, just shy of cutting air flow. The other planted beside your head in the soil.

Your breath hitched.

The pressure was exact. Controlled. Terrifying in its restraint.

And his face was suddenly right there, above yours, looming in your vision like the sky collapsing, and this close, you could smell the meat on him. Metallic. Old. Wet. It clung to the curve of his jaw, smeared across his temple, soaked into the seams of his shirt.

You were caught between fury and something that shot white-hot through your gut and up your spine.

“You couldn't even bring your personality the one time it was needed,” he growled, voice low and even but taut now—barely containing something sharp, serrated. His breath ghosted across your cheek, steady and unshaken. “You sabotaged the mission to stroke your ego. You were sloppy. You were loud. You made it worse. And you have the nerve to bark orders when you brought nothing.”

You grit your teeth, rage bubbling up so hot behind your eyes it burned. But you couldn’t let him finish. You wouldn’t let him.

So you did another stupid thing.

You socked him in the jaw.

It was clumsy—sloppy—but it hit, sent his face turning just slightly on impact. You felt the shock travel up your arm, the dull ache already blooming in your knuckles. Satisfaction flared white-hot in your chest for half a second.

That half-second was all you got.

The shift in him wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was a drop. Like something slipping off a ledge inside him, something patient shattering into something else entirely.

His hand on your throat, already hot and heavy, tightened. Slowly. Like he wanted you to feel every millimeter of breath leave your windpipe. Your eyes snapped wide as the pressure crept up and up, turning the inside of your head into a hot, ringing cavern.

You gasped. Tried to, but no air came.

Panic lanced through your spine, white and spiky and mean. Your hands scrabbled at his wrist, digging, clawing, nails useless against the iron band of his fingers. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just leaned closer, until his chest was pinning yours to the ground and the blood on him smeared slick down your sternum.

Your vision started to blur at the edges, a dark vignette blooming with each thudding pulse of your heart. Your ears roared. Your legs kicked weakly against the dirt.

And then—then—he growled. Not a man’s sound. Not even an animal’s. It tore from his throat like it came from deeper, from somewhere hollow and starving, a sound that trembled through your ribcage and made your bones ache with a fear instilled in your marrow since Hell tore from the Heavens.

You tried to scream. Couldn’t.

The tips of his claws punctured your neck.

Pain exploded across your skin—white-hot, real, a searing twin stab on either side of your windpipe. You felt the exact points where they entered, where blood welled up in hot little trickles to meet his palm, and you couldn’t stop the choked, mangled sound that crawled out of your throat.

You were thrashing now. Legs kicking, hips twisting, teeth bared in an ugly, helpless snarl.

And still—he didn’t move. Not to ease up. Not to finish it. You felt your strength ebbing like bathwater draining slow—vision ghosting out, brain screaming in a static haze—and somewhere in that blood-slick panic, a thought skidded through your head like gravel.

Maybe the others were right.

About him.

About the way he moved. The way his silence held something much more disturbing. The way he killed. They weren’t exaggerating. If anything, they’d undersold it.

You were going to die.

You were going to die, and it was going to hurt.

But then—God—something twisted in your gut. A deep, low burn you didn’t understand. You were shaking, body failing, barely conscious, but the pressure between your legs was real, sharp, unmistakable. The dull throb of arousal that shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t exist, not now, not with him holding your life in his hand like a meaningless speck of dust.

You didn’t even notice the heat between your thighs, not until he did. His head tilted just slightly. Those eyeless sockets bore into you with a sudden, vicious awareness.

And his voice sounded like a death knell when it came slicing through the dark.

“Really?”

One word. Flat. Disgusted.

You couldn’t answer. You were barely breathing. But he didn’t need you to. He smelled it.

His grip didn’t ease, not even a little. His claws stayed embedded, his thumb pressed up under your jaw.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he said, voice low and cutting, no inflection beyond disdain. “Is this what you wanted? Hm? To get put down like a bitch in heat so you could get off on it?”

Your heart stuttered. Your breath rasped.

“I should tear your throat out and leave you twitching.”

He dipped lower—close enough for your blurred vision to catch the glint of blood drying on his chin.

“But you’re not even worth the cleanup.”

You were thrashing beneath him now, wild and raw and animal, but it didn’t do a damn thing. His body didn’t budge.

Your nails scraped at his arm, trying to claw him off, trying to find purchase on that cold, iron grip cutting off your air. Black spots flickered in the corners of your vision, pulsing in and out like a camera shutter—your pulse thudding so loud you couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t—

You tried to spit the words out—fuck off, maybe, or get off me, something half-mangled and slipping through your crushed throat. But it was too late. The second your mouth opened, the second your back arched in that desperate, useless kick under him, he slammed his knee between your thighs. Punishment.

“Fuck off?” he repeated, voice low, detached.

It cracked up between your legs like a sledgehammer. Blunt, cruel, bruising. Pain screamed through your pelvis, throbbed through bone and flesh, made your limbs seize before they could go slack. You gasped—tried to—and your mouth fell open around a ragged, voiceless wheeze. The weight of him held your body taut around the pressure, your cunt grinding instinctively into the bone of his knee, something primal overriding the ache. Your hips rolled before you even realized it, before the mortification could catch up to your nerves.

Your muscles screamed to get him off you—and your hips ground into his knee all the same, frantic, obscene, desperate like they belonged to someone else entirely.

He fucking felt it. His claws dug in just a little deeper, blood rolling warm down your neck as he looked down at you like something scraped off his boot.

“You needy little hole. If I split you open right now, you’d die with your pussy clenched.”

You gasped again when he finally—barely—let you breathe, the grip on your throat loosening just enough for air to wheeze back into your lungs. It felt like fire, like dragging breath through razors, but you sucked it in anyway, coughing, heaving.

And then—like a fucking curse—you tried your luck again.

You didn’t know what possessed you to throw another hit when your lungs were still clawing for breath. Maybe it was the firestorm behind your ribs, or the bitter heat of humiliation pooling low in your stomach. Maybe it was that twitch of his lip—barely there, not even a smirk, just the absence of one—that made your blood howl.

Your fist didn’t make it far. He caught your hair like he’d been expecting it, a fistful of it gripped tight at the crown of your head, claws pricking your scalp so sharp your vision spat sparks. There was no warning. No preamble. No care.

The ground spun as he hauled you over like you didn’t weigh a thing, and slammed you face-first into the dirt so rough and fast your cheek split on a rock. Your breath left you in a choked grunt, lungs burning and the wounds on your neck stinging with the sweat that clung to them, limbs scrambling, half from shock and half from instinct.

You tried to cough but choked instead, nose crushed half into soil, throat still raw and burning. You should’ve stayed still. Should’ve let your humiliation rot into the mulch and swallowed it down with the blood. Still, the ever proud and defiant, you snapped your teeth like a chained thing.

"Big, bad fuckin' demon... need all that strength just to take a girl half your size."

He didn’t give you another second to think. You wasted your chances. One hand slammed down between your shoulder blades, flat-palmed and unforgiving, driving your chest into the ground until your ribs ached and your cheek split deeper against the grit. The other flew down between your legs, claws catching on the middle seam and ripping down.

The sound was awful, the feeling was even worse. Denim gave way with a shriek that made your teeth feel like cotton, flesh just behind it splitting from the sheer force, and your ass hit the air fully exposed, raw and scraped and red. A breeze passed and made it worse. You twitched, but he shoved your face down harder.

He didn’t prep. Didn’t spit. Didn’t warn. You didn't even hear when he unzipped his fly. Didn't give a single fuck about whether or not you had a change of heart at the threatening sensation of his head, thick and angry, sealing your fate as it pressed between your folds.

The shove of his cock was sudden, one long, solid thrust splitting you open from behind like a fucking sword. Too thick, too deep, too fast. The air ripped out of your lungs like you’d been kicked. Your stomach turned so hard you almost barfed, eyes bugging wide, mouth hanging open in a soundless scream against the earth.

Your hips jerked. He didn’t move. Just sank in until your cunt was forced to take every brutal inch of him. No stretch, no slick, just the bladed ache of it all, and the sick realization that he was rock hard.

The motherfucker was just as gone as you were.

But he wasn’t panting. Wasn’t twitching or thrusting fast, like someone caught up in the moment. He was still. All control. Letting your body struggle to make room around him, letting your walls twitch and flutter in panic. The wet squelch between your thighs was all you could hear over your own labored wheezing.

"What, can't take it?"

He started fucking into you. No rhythm. No mercy. Just the relentless punch of his hips slamming into the backs of your scratched up thighs, over and over, like he wanted to drive you through the ground. One hand fisted in your hair again, yanking your head back with zero care as the other kept your jaw pinned to the filth. The position twisted your back, bent you like the lifeless carcasses littered around you like godless spectators.

Each thrust forced you forward an inch, face dragging through blood and dirt, your knees scraping raw. The stench of blood and fresh meat curled up your sinuses as your lungs scraped for air against dust, the smell once sweet and promising a full stomach, now sharp and nauseating.

You tried to squirm away. Like you hadn't brought this upon yourself.

Your body was betraying you. Fingernails carved grooves into the dirt like a dying animal, grit and rot wedging under your nails, clawing at the earth like it could offer salvation, your hips pulling forward, trying to escape the merciless pounding of his cock against hour cervix. But your back arched for him, like your cunt was torn between fleeing and begging.

And God help you, your throat was pushing out these tiny, desperate moans, like it wanted to humiliate you.

Every thrust slammed you forward like you weighed nothing—hips bucking, back arching in a spasm as Jack drove you closer and closer to the heap of what was left of one of the campers, opened to the sky like a slaughtered pig.

Without a word, without giving your cunt a single moment to heal, Jack leaned forward. His chest skimmed your back, hulking weight pinning you harder into the rot and every inch of cock forced to the hilt in your stretched cunt until your breath left you in a wheeze. One hand stayed on your hip, claws biting into your skin through the denim like hooks, but the other reached forward past your head.

You didn't look. But a wet rip—a sound like thick silk tearing underwater—made your eyes snap wide open.

You tried to twist, but he was already looming over your arched body like judgement day, one palm flattening against the side of your head to turn it and force it still into the dirt. The other—dripping, gore-caked—pressed something still warm and yielding against your lips.

"Open up," he grunts through bruising thrusts, motion knocking you back and forth against the wet flesh in his hand.

"Eat— My shit," you spit back through gritted teeth, lips barely parting in an attempt to keep him from forcing it inside your mouth.

But that moment of bravery was quick to screw you over, like they all had been so far. You refuse to learn. You refuse to give in.

The fingers splayed on the side of your head started curling, so slowly, so calmly, tips of his claws pushing into your scalp like shards of glass until your mouth fell open on a failed yelp. He shoved the torn chunk past your lips and teeth, stuffing your cheeks with it like a Thanksgiving turkey, before slapping the same blood soaked palm over your lips with a stinging, wet smack.

You couldn't even tell what the fuck he even tore from the body—too spongy for heart, too fatty for liver, maybe lung—but it didn't matter. You wanted to barf. Not because of the taste, or the texture, or even the gesture—but because you fucking liked it. Your moans spilled through his fingers like the taste of sweet, tangy iron was the cherry on top to the relentless pounding of his cock into you.

Jack's thrusts came to a screeching halt behind you, balls deep into your pussy, twitching in angry throbs against your g-spot like even his cock couldn't stand the loss of friction. And you whimpered—fucked out and strained and desperate—like you were confessing all your sins. You were left raw and pulsing in the hollow absence of him, muscles spasming, skin clinging to the ground with sweat and spit and blood and whatever sense of dignity you had left wrong out of you. It all ached.

"...You have to be fucking joking." His voice was nothing like the steely, monotone mockery of calm that grated your ears until now. No. He was in complete and utter disbelief, that even with your cunt brutalized and your mouth stuffed to silence, you were still moaning, taking it, enjoying it.

"Get the fuck up."

But he didn't wait for you to obey—he knew you wouldn't. Couldn't. Not when your knees buckled under you the moment he pulled out with an obscene, slick sound, not when your pussy sobbed and clenched helplessly around nothing.

His hand knotted into a fistful at your roots, dragging you backward until your spine folded, your knees buckling and your ass hitting the ground in front of his hips.

You opened your mouth to snarl, spit, whine—and his cock was already pushing past your lips.

"Shut the fuck up. Shut— the fuck up."

No teasing. No slow slide. Just a hand on your jaw and a hard, bruising shove of his hips, stuffing your mouth full like it was owed to him. He held you there—hand wrapped tight around the back of your skull, fingers in your scalp, pelvis pressed to your lips so all you could do is take it.

Your nose mashed against the base of him, breath catching in your chest, throat convulsing. You were choking on your own slick, retching around him from the sheer pressure in the back of your throat, and he was dead silent, like this was just another means to shut you up.

He fucked your mouth the same way he fucked your cunt—rough, unforgiving, like he was trying to scrape something out of you.

And somewhere in that hot, wet fog of spit and gagging, with tears leaking down your cheeks and your body limp from the brutal rhythm, something shifted.

You looked up at him through your clumped lashes, through burst capillaries and glassy veil of tears, and you swore you were staring into hell. The black smears that pass for eyes, the sickly sheen of sweat on a face carved from stone, the teeth that flashed when he bared them like an animal losing patience with its prey. Breathing hard through his nose, jaw tense, every inch of him trembling like a thundercloud waiting to split.

You saw the Devil. And for one fractured second—just one—you saw your past. When days started blurring together into visions and rot and dread—and you thought the Devil was watching you. And you wanted him to be proud.

He wasn't.

He was punishing you with every violent slam of his cock that left your throat raw, with every yank of your hair when you choked and tried to pull away on instinct. And God, you couldn't stand the gaping hole he left between your legs, throbbing and needy because of him. Because of the taste of you on his cock, the feeling of your lips stretched taut around his shaft, the burn in your jaw.

So, without thinking, out of sheer instinct—your fingers found your swollen clit, slick and aching, rubbing frantic circles in a desperate bid for some fucking relief. Something to hang onto. But you didn’t even get to swipe twice.

His hand shot down fast—no warning, no hesitation—and caught your wrist in a bruising grip, tearing it away from between your thighs like you’d tried to steal from him. The movement jolted through you, and in the same breath—

Smack.

The sharp crack of his palm against your drenched pussy echoed louder than it should’ve in the blood-soaked clearing. Pain bloomed instantly, raw and stinging, your thighs jolting inward like your body didn’t know whether to flinch or clench.

He didn’t snarl. Didn’t raise his voice. His tone was low, calm, but ragged at the edges—like he was barely keeping it in check while balls-deep in your throat.

“You don’t get to come.”

That was all he said. Like it was a fact. A verdict.

You whimpered around his cock, drool sliding past your lips as your jaw twitched from the weight of him. He didn’t let go of your wrist. Just slammed it down into the dirt, grinding your palm into the filth like it didn’t belong on your body.

“You didn’t earn that, whore."

Then, just when your lungs started to ache from holding your breath, when the buzzing behind your eyes started to creep in—he shoved forward. Deeper. Until your nose crashed into his skin again, until your throat clenched around him like a vice and your body bucked involuntarily.

And he just held you there.

Fingers fisted tight in your hair, body pressed flush against your face, cock twitching at the back of your throat while you gagged and choked and couldn’t do anything but take it. Your nails dug uselessly into the dirt, knees raw, breath gone. Tears streaked your cheeks in slow rivers as your body trembled, cunt still throbbing and aching and stinging from where he slapped you—so close to breaking, needing, empty.

Finally, he pulled back with a slick drag of spit and heat, his cock sliding from your raw throat with a wet pop that left your lips open and twitching, jaw slack. You gasped, collapsing forward on your hands, spit and leftover blood stringing from your mouth onto your dirt caked shirt.

His hand slid down over your chest, steadying you with a firm press before he fisted your shirt at the collar and yanked it down the front of your body—until the fabric stretched taut over your belly, until it was all exposed and helpless and shaking beneath him.

Jack grunted—quiet, tight, barely audible—and heat splattered across your skin in thick, hot ropes, coating your chest, your stomach, your shredded shirt in streaks. His cum hit your skin like a final insult, mixing with blood and sweat like it belonged there.

You didn’t dare move. Not when he was still looming above you, not when your cunt throbbed in open defiance, empty and twitching with frustrated, raw need.

Your skin stung. Your chest heaved. And when the last drop dripped from the flushed tip of his cock, he tucked it away, zipped up, and turned.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at you.

The crunch of boots in dead leaves was the only thing that told you he was walking off—away from you, away from the three corpses cooling nearby, away from the bloodbath he left you to clean up alone.

No blade. No bag. No help.

Just you. Your aching cunt. Your slick, sore throat. And three disfigured bodies you were expected to carry like penance.

You didn’t even have enough voice left to laugh, or to pray that you'd have the strength to get up and figure out a plan.

[simonbrain]

cw cannibalism

No because the idea of Simon loving you so much he’d be willing to feel your flesh in his mouth :( ties in greatly with his history as a butcher. His love is all-consuming, overwhelming. This carnal desire for you to take something so inherent to you to give to him. He hasn’t known gentleness or kindness. When you two consume each other it’s the only way for him to truly express his love. Always have a piece of you in him. For him to feed off of the sustenance that only another human can provide. It’s pure intimacy, what could be more vulnerable than letting someone become a part of you?

my goddd anon this is perfect like you get me!!! also it's funny bc i'm listening to the first taste by fiona apple and like. yeah. i think it fits here kinda

cw: graphic depictions of cannibalism, body horror, and death

i like the idea of simon trying to fight it at first, assuming it's just his brain juggling around a few intrusive thoughts in an attempt to taint the only reason he's even alive still, only to slowly give in because he loves you so deeply it aches.

his heart shouldn't flutter at the image of snapping you between his jaw and tearing you apart, huffing and snarling until blood is spilling into his mouth and pieces of flesh stick in his teeth. he shouldn't swoon at the thought of swallowing you down, of treasuring a part of you in his rotten body so that you're with him always.

he doesn't know how to muzzle his hunger because all he knows is to take, to bite with the intention of breaking skin until his prey eventually becomes pliant, if it isn't already dead. but when it comes to you, it's how he shows his unconditional love and devotion, and you know this.

he wonders if you'd let him eat your heart next, just so he can understand what perfection tastes like. he wants to feel your innards flow down and settle in his belly, warming his body from the inside. he almost mourns the fact that he can't just take a piece of your heart and shove it next to his own, just so that you're connected even when he's halfway around the world.

it's what he loves so much about you: the fact that you're not easy to break, that you also have teeth—sharp, pearly whites that like to beam gleefully at him—and he wonders if you've ever thought about consuming him too. if you've gotten the urge to replace all of the ugly scars on his body with your bite marks, or if you've wanted to just completely rip them off his skin and greedily gnaw away. the one on his ribs would be a good start, and he can imagine you prodding around his insides after feasting on him, maybe blessing his poor little heart with a few kisses.

he says a quiet prayer in his mind when he sits you down one evening, hoping to whatever is out there that you won't take off running as he unboxes all of his inner turmoil. he doesn't see the way you lean in closer, too busy minding a spot on the carpet, but it does catch him off guard when you cut him off mid-ramble about how lovely he thinks your blood would taste on his tongue with a kiss. the feel of your soft lips against his while he was talking about something so horrific should have been enough to snap him out of his sick fantasies, but the way you kiss him so deeply, as if you're impatient for him to taste you, too, has his stomach twisting in all the right ways. he can't wait to feel close to you, to truly be one with his girl.

his very own bread and wine.

alternatively, the first and last time simon gets to taste you is when you're dying, very bones-and-all-esque. you're lying on the ground, a bullet lodged in your chest as he tries his very best to keep you alive, only to realise with choked-up desperation that you're not going to make it. he doesn't even question it when you shakily reach up to tug his mask off, nor does he pull away when you weakly guide his head down. you mumble a faint eat me, baby, and he does. gorging himself on your body because even in death, you give, and he takes.

[redtsundere-writes]

Part 6: Harvest Season

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

Tags: MDNI. +18. Murder. Blood. Cannibalism. Sukuna Ryomen Is The Warning Itself. Nudity. Sexual Display. Vaginal. Fingering.Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst.

Word Count: 5083 words.

Beginning. | ← Previous | Next →

The cold morning tickled your toes protruding from the blankets that barely covered your body. You curled into a ball as you slept with your five sisters while the sun peeked through the hills of the green valley. They were squashed together like sardines to make the most of the small bed's cramped space. The room in the cabin where they lived was practically empty, they only had a small closet with all their clothes, some stuffed animals for decoration and a semi-transparent white cloth that served as a curtain. You were in your fifth dream when you felt a hand pulling your foot. You snapped your eyes open to see your mother at the end of the bed. 

“Let’s go to the market,” she asked you as you whittled your eyes wide awake. 

You nodded in response so as not to wake your sisters. You carefully slipped out of bed to get dressed in a brown dress, you wore it so much that it already had holes in the skirt. Your mother had sold most of your fancy dresses, so your sisters could buy new ones for the dances they were invited to. Your mother was always obsessed with the idea that one of her daughters would marry a rich man and take them all out of the misery in which they lived. Every morning she used to repeat the same thing: “Up my future princesses because men don't flirt themselves.” You quietly left the room and picked up the old worn-out basket they used to carry the loaf of bread and potatoes they could afford to buy. 

Since your father died a couple of years ago, money was always tight. Your mother, to keep her hopes up and not starve to death, had slowly sold all the furniture in the house. She started with the living room, then the dining room, then her bed and then the decorations. Little by little, they were running out of options. Someone had to sacrifice in the work field, and your mother would not be one of them. 

The sun was barely rising over the green horizon. It was too early to go to the human market, but you just followed your mother without question. The grass crunched under your worn boots and the cool air ruffled your hair. As you walked along the path you had created from the many times you had gone to town, your mother was quieter than usual. She was a hard woman to keep quiet, always having to have an opinion on something. “The mornings are horrible,” “it hasn't rained in months,” “everything is more expensive.” She always prattled on about any topic that crossed her mind, but today she was different. She just looked straight ahead, walked hurriedly and hadn't even wished you good morning. “Maybe she wants some peace,” you thought. You should have realized it at the time. 

You knew you reached the main town when the smell of fish intensified. Every morning, fishermen set out to sell their booty among the busy main streets of the Sukuna kingdom. A place full of humans who were ruled by curses. Since King Sukuna had conquered their lands along with his army more than five hundred years ago, the humans who had already lived there for centuries became easy prey for the hideous deformed monsters. Half of the population was eaten, while the other was left alone as soon as their stomachs were full. The only thing that stopped them from eating more was their own limits. From then on, the curses began to coexist with the humans. Only instead of treating them as equals, it was a cow-butcher relationship. 

Since the curses owned the main town, it was rare to see so many humans walking down the street. They were all heading in the same direction, the gloomy castle of King Sukuna. A striking architectural structure of charcoal color and huge windows with blood-red roses. It was so large that despite being surrounded by towering walls, you could still admire the rest of the castle and its imposing watchtowers. Your astonished gaze kept going up to admire the terrible place. Your eyes could not continue because the top of its towers were hidden among the gray clouds and the vultures flying overhead. 

Unfortunately, they had not arrived at the market but at the gigantic wooden bridge that led into the castle. Several curses in fine armor paraded around the perimeter as you watched two of them lead a lady into the castle. Your breath hitched as you realized what day it was. Today was harvest day. Once a year, King Sukuna asks those who want to work for him to report to the castle and in return their families would be rewarded financially, but everyone knows it's a trap. No one knows exactly what goes on inside the castle, but a tyrant who mistreats his people does not usually offer “work.” All the people know that once you enter his castle, you don't get out. Even though it is known that entering his castle was like entering a torture machine of your own free will. People in need of money or resources send older relatives or children they can't support to get rid of them. 

You dropped the basket in shock at why your mother had only woken you up so early and was so quiet. She was about to sell you. As soon as the basket creaked against the floor, you ran away to avoid your painful fate as the daughter who was betrayed by her mother. You didn't manage to run that far, because two curses pinned you to the ground. You screamed, kicked and twisted your body in failed attempts to escape. Your eyes filled with tears as soon as the curses lifted you off the ground to drag you back to the castle. It was the end, you knew that for a fact. 

“We must part ways, my adorable daughter,” your mother said goodbye without looking you in the eye. 

“Are you really going to sell me to the tyrant? You know what happens to those who enter!” You yelled while tears fell desperately down your cheeks. 

“Don't be like that, you know we need money. The king may be a tyrant, but sometimes he is generous,” she said as he showed you the sack of gold coins the curses give her for you. 

100 gold coins. That was all you were worth. All your years of life equaled a year's worth of food. Not even luxuries, expensive furniture or beautiful clothes. Your mother had traded you to eat one more year without worry. You hang your head in defeat. She was treating you as if you were a nuisance. One more pitiful mouth to feed. 

“I can work at the market, at sea, in mining, in anything!” You protested. 

“How are you going to work there? I educated you as a young lady so you could marry a rich man, and you failed me,” she emphasized, spitting in your face the disappointment she felt. 

Your chest ached, snot was building up in your nose and your eyes were beginning to redden from the hot tears coming from your sad heart. Your head was starting to hurt, you couldn't believe this was happening to you. You were always a good daughter. You were the perfect daughter, polite and compliant. What have you done wrong? The frustration of not being able to do anything was eating you alive.  

“Think of your sisters. With this money, they will be able to buy new dresses to impress rich men. Next week there is going to be a ball, they say King Gojo will be there,” your mother said excitedly. 

“Say goodbye to your mother, we must get you to the castle.” A curse ordered you with a harsh voice. 

“I don't have a mother anymore,” you mumbled between sobs. 

“My sweet daughter, don't be like that…” your mother called you with disappointment. 

“And you no longer have a daughter,” your mother gasped, surprised at the minimum act of rebellion. 

From the time you were a little girl, your parents knew you would be a good girl. You always did everything orderly, knew what to say to stay out of trouble and educated your sisters when they were wrong. You were the perfect daughter in their eyes. The only thing you weren't good at was talking to men. At dances none of them would come up to you and none of them would catch your eye. While the sister next in age to you, Yorozu, danced with almost everyone, you always stood on the sidelines as you watched the night unfold. Your mother always scolded you on the way home for not being good enough to get a husband, but that never mattered to you. You knew inside that someday you would marry a good man who could see your true potential. 

Curses threw you into the parade ground and closed the gate behind you. You felt worse than dirt itself, you wanted to lie on the ground where you belonged. You wished the earth would swallow you up and disappear at that instant, anyway, you had nothing left to fight for. You didn't even have the strength to cry anymore. 

A loud sobbing sound reached your ears, causing you to look up. A little blond boy was crying his eyes out as he desperately searched for his mother. You were in the same situation as him, only you didn't have a little teddy bear to cheer you up. In a place full of old people, no one wanted to pay attention to you. No one had enough energy to soothe the crying of a frightened child. 

You stood up and dusted off your dress. Quietly, you approached the child with a red face from crying. He was dressed in a torn white shirt and dirty overalls. He couldn't have been more than 10 years old. You got down on your knees to stand by his height and wiped away his tears with your thumbs before shaking off his clothes.

“I want my mommy,” the boy shouted as he sniffled. A lump rose in your throat. You wanted the one you used to have too. 

“She'll be back. You just have to be a good boy, alright?” You asked with a weak smile. The boy nodded as he rubbed his watery eyes. “Whatever you do, just behave well and she will come back.”

 “Do you promise me?” he asked you between sobs, raising his little pinky towards you. 

“Of course,” you answered, intertwining his little finger with yours. 

An old woman approached you both. A granny with a cotton head, raisin skin and a sketchy smile, handed him a piece of candy she had in the pocket of her once-white apron. The boy gladly accepted it, forgetting for a second why he was crying in the first place. Children were always easy to please. 

“Poor little boy. He hasn't even started his life, and he's already this lucky,” the old woman whispered to you as you watched him eat the candy and play with his teddy bear perched on the grass. You could only nod in sorrow.

After an hour of waiting and watching the curses hurl more sold humans onto the parade ground. The doors of the gigantic castle opened. A white-haired person with a red stripe and splendid white robes made an appearance along with a scroll under their arm. You stepped in front of the boy to hide him behind you. 

“Welcome to this year's harvest. Thanks to your relatives or communities, you have been chosen as the most useless beings of this year. So the great king Sukuna has decided to give you the opportunity to work for him as servants,” The person began to read the scroll aloud in front of everyone. 

A collective sigh was heard when he read the word “useless”. Most of them, being elderly, already knew that they were only a burden to their families. Therefore, there was no need to stress it further. It was like squeezing lemon on an open wound. 

“As every year, we give those who are completely useless a chance to leave. King Sukuna needs real servants and not stupid dogs.” Along with that announcement, the castle gates opened.

There it was, the door that would lead them to freedom right under their noses. Hearing that, most of them ran towards their escape route, desperate to return home to their loved ones. You took the child in your arms and were about to run away until the thought that the offer was too good to be true settled in your mind. “Those who go in, never come back” you thought. 

“Come on, dear, let's go,” the kind old woman asked you while she pulled you by the arm to escape quickly. 

“If they do this every year, why doesn't anyone come back home?” You asked her. “It's a trap, I can feel it.” The old woman looked at you puzzled at first, but understood your point after processing it for a couple of seconds. She was so blinded by the brilliant exit that she hadn't boasted about it. 

Once the first to escape was about to reach the door, the grille slammed shut. The evil laughter of hundreds of curses echoed through the place like a war chant. In less than a second, a gigantic flock of armored curses began to eat all those who were about to flee. A massacre, desperate screams and blood spraying everywhere. You had never seen anything like it in your life. You knew the curses were evil and ate humans, but you never thought it would be such a disastrous sight. You covered the child’s eyes. The lady covered her face as she realized the hell they had been sent to. 

“Traitor dogs do not deserve to live,” the white-haired person said as soon as no human who had tried to escape was left alive. 

“You were right…” the old woman whispered next to you between silent sobs. 

You looked back at the front of the castle while your eyes were still drowning in tears. The person who was summoning you was glaring at you, as if offended by your mere presence. You looked around, less than half had stayed. The other elders were crying, vomiting and some lucky ones hadn't even turned around to see what was happening. Your arms were shaking from the cold of the morning and the terror that consumed you whole. You squeezed the child against your body to protect it. A little creature was not to blame for being in a place like that. You had to protect him, it was the only way he would have a chance to survive. 

“I congratulate you for surviving the first round. My name is Uraume, and I am the right hand of your king, Sukuna Ryomen,” they introduced themselves in a loud, monotone voice so that we could all hear them. “Next you will introduce yourselves to the king. He will have the final word as to your fate,” they explained before returning to the castle. 

After finishing their feast, the other curses rounded up the survivors to form a line in front of the castle gates. They were sheep being led by shepherds who were also wolves. No one said a word, they only obeyed by bodily proximity to where they were supposed to be. You did not let go of the child at any time, you had already proclaimed yourself as his guardian. Maybe it wasn't the best idea in hell, but you knew it was the right thing to do. You were willing to protect him as if he were one of your little sisters. 

Your beloved little sisters. You hid your face in the little boy's hair so no one would see you cry. Once you entered the castle, you would never leave, either by slavery or death. You would never see your lovely sisters again. You would never see them play, comb each other's hair or sing happily after dinner. You cursed the time when you had grown up and were not woman enough not to marry someone. In your mother's eyes you were a disappointment and were to be discarded. You only prayed internally that your sisters would not have the same fate. Yorozu was only a year younger than you. If she did not marry soon, she too would be sold. 

The survivors passed 5 at a time into the castle. The walls were so thick that they could not hear what was happening on the other side. There were 5 more people left, and it was your turn to pass next to the old woman, who was repeating the same silent prayer several times. The curse at the front of the line signaled the 5 people to pass, making everyone move in sync. 

“The child must enter,” the curse ordered you. 

“But they already let 5 in. It's his turn to go in when I go in,” you defended, holding the little boy tightly. 

The curse smiled maliciously before snatching the child from your hands. The difference in strength was crazy. You managed to grab the child by his white shirt to prevent him from being stolen. The child began to cry out loud because the curse had hooked its claws into his back. The curse pulled harder on the boy, leaving you with only the torn piece of cloth in your hand. As you tried to reach him again, the curse kicked you in the stomach so that you fell to the ground. Your body fell, and your eyes could only watch as the boy was mercilessly thrown along with the others. 

“Just do what they ask you to do!” You shouted at the boy between sobs before another curse kicked you in the face to shut you up. 

The last thing you could see was his face full of tears and snot as you bled from your nose incessantly. The castle doors slammed shut as the curses taunted you. You didn't care what they had to say, you just wanted the child to be okay. The woman you had befriended helped you up as your chest closed, and your eyes hurt from crying. You couldn’t do it anymore. 

After about 10 minutes, the doors opened again. The curse kicked you in the back to get you inside. The old woman and three other old men followed close behind. A servant with a grim face welcomed you and led you into the king's hall. A room filled with luxuries along the walls, costly works, candles bathed in gold foil and glowing obsidian candelabras. It was a pity that the beautiful room was bathed in the dark blood of your kind. The walls were splattered, some candles had been extinguished because of it, and there were several dismembered bodies all over the room. 

Despite being surrounded by light sources, the deepest part of the room was in complete darkness. Where you assumed the throne was supposed to be, there were many curtains that kept the king in the shadows. The only thing you could see was one of his giant feet being struck by the light of a nearby candle. 

The servant asked them to stand in a side row so that the king could get a good view of them all. Once they obeyed, the servant retreated at a brisk pace. Everyone was silent. You could only hear their breaths being disturbed by the situation they were in. Your eyes traveled around the room. The bodies of the discarded individuals were cut into hundreds of cubes, making your blood run cold. It was an extremely perfect job, almost impossible to do. Had the king done that or was someone else in the room with them? You didn't want to see, but it was like a morbid exhibition of what an abominable being could do.

Your eyes roamed around the room in curiosity and terror, until they saw a teddy bear soaked in blood. The teddy bear of the child you swore you would protect. The child's head had been cut off, his eyes had popped out of his skull and were held in place by its corneas, and the rest of his body was completely mutilated into perfect rectangles of flesh. You closed your eyes and clenched your skirt to keep from screaming in despair. The frustration and disappointment in you could not be compared to anything else. You could do nothing to save him. You were pathetic. 

“5… 4…” The king started the countdown. For what? You had no idea. 

You knew you wouldn't have the answer if you asked him because of his reputation as a foul tyrant. You didn't know much about the dastardly king who reigned over the land of your birth, the only thing you knew was that he hated humans more than anything else in the world. You looked around for answers as to what exactly the king wanted. Nothing about the decorations gave you answers, the only thing that kept catching your attention were the bodies. “If he has servants, why are the bodies still here?” you thought the servants would get rid of them before bringing in any more prospects. 

“3…” His deep voice echoed through the walls along with a devilish smile. 

Sukuna watched you comfortably from his large stone throne, hand carved by the best sculptors in the region. He was amused to see your eyes darting everywhere. “What a fool,” you thought disdainfully. Nothing in the room could help you know what to do. 

“2…” You could hear a small smile escape his lips as he approached 0. 

You analyzed the bodies before you and they all met the same characteristic. None of the heads were connected to the rest of the body. Their heads had been cut off before they were mutilated. If none of them had heads, it is because they must have been at the same height, that is, they were standing when their heads were cut off. Standing in front of a tyrant? Complete blasphemy. That was it. That must have been it. 

“¡1!” 

“Get down, ma'am!” you yelled before pulling the lady down to the floor with you so she could kneel. 

You knelt with your head on your hand as a pillow while the other still held the lady's arm. A thin slice rang through the room. It was so fast that you didn't hear a scream or even a whimper, you only heard the bodies of the others in the room fall to the floor under their own weight. The blood of the old man next to you began to trickle down to your fingers. You didn't dare look at the result of what had happened. You were just relieved that you were in one piece. 

“Finally… Someone with manners,” the king uttered with disdain. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it wouldn't go away. “The one in the middle, come closer,” he commanded. You were dead, you sensed it. 

You struggled to your feet and walked towards him without looking his way. You entered his little sacred place in the middle of the dark, but you could see him clearly. His pink legs were gigantic. His thigh was thicker than your legs put together. That already gave you hints of the giant in front of you. Despite being dressed in a large white robe, he still showed enough skin to be considered vulgar. As soon as you approached, his hand took your head easily as if it were a ball, directing your gaze towards him. Your eyes widened at the eerie sight in front of you. A malevolent face split in half that watched you morbidly. His four eyes roamed your body shamelessly. His half-naked body tattooed with different lines astonished you at a closer look.  

“How old are you?” He asked you while he moved your joints with his four arms as if you were a doll he could play with. You answered obediently between stutters. “Tell me, did your husband sell you?” he answered with a mocking tone. 

“I am not married, my king,” Sukuna arched an eyebrow at that response. You decided to elaborate your answer to that reaction. “My mother sold me because I didn't marry.” 

“You are still old enough to get married,” Sukuna said, still not letting go to observe you better. 

He turned and moved you around like a globe to inspect you completely. It's been a long time since I've seen a girl of your age, to be always in the castle or conquering lands, she always sees young men but almost never women. For someone of the lowest possible class, you had your certain charm. Sukuna saw you as if you were a strange doll in an antique store, odd but striking in your own way. 

“We were starving, my king.”

“It shows,” he replied with a certain mocking tone. “You know… I'm not used to seeing girls like you around here. They always send me decrepit old men or children who didn't die in their mother's womb,” he explained, annoyed. 

Despite the terrifying distance and the fact that your heart was pounding a mile a minute, you were glad he wasn't hurting you. He grabbed you by the head as if he were examining a fruit to dictate whether he could eat it or not, but he didn't squeeze you as if he were squeezing you between his claws. 

“I keep the old people because they work the hardest for their daily meal and I kill all the children because I hate how loud they can be.” You quickly realized right there that you never had a chance to save the child. An unruly tear rolled down your cheek, taking a second to mourn the little boy in silence. “So tell me, what should I do with you, kill you outright or give you a chance?” he asked you with a sinister smile. 

“Dying before I live through hell doesn't sound so bad,” you thought pessimistically. What was the point of going on living? Your mother had sold you, and you trusted that your sisters would marry before you, especially Yorozu, so you didn't have to worry about her. You no longer felt you had any value, but you were afraid of dying. That inexplicable, but useless fear left you frozen. Why did you want to keep breathing if you weren't going to live anyway? Your mind couldn't make up its mind. 

“I trust your decision, my king,” you replied in a sigh of surrender. 

Sukuna's smile disappeared, he did not expect that answer. I thought you would beg him for mercy for your life, but you had completely surrendered to him, leaving your fate in his hands. He smiled again, this time, satisfied. 

“Why?” he asked curiously. 

“Because you always have the last word.” 

“Interesting,” He answered before pulling you by the neck to bring you closer to his face. “You are someone special, aren't you?” Sukuna asked with eyes full of interest in you. He had found a gold nugget in a pile of shit. 

Your eyes slowly drifted to his. Have you heard correctly? Had he, an almighty king, called you special? You no longer knew if your heart was pounding from the flattery or being so close to the king. You were so close that you could decipher what he had for breakfast that morning, probably people. 

“Do you know how to cook and clean?” he asked quietly. You just nodded. “Well, you better not let me down,” he reluctantly let you go, making you stumble backwards. “Now get out of here with that old bitch so you get your uniforms,” he ordered with a harsh tone. 

“Thank you, my king. I will not disappoint you,” you thanked him with a weak smile as you bowed several times before retreating from his presence. 

Sukuna couldn't take his eyes off you. You ran to the shocked lady to help her out of the bloody room. She laid her head on her fist as she followed your anatomy. There was something about you that caught her attention. You were submissive, but you were not stupid. You were perceptive, but not rebellious. He liked what you had offered him so far, he just needed to do a little more observing. 

“Thank you very much, thank you, child, you saved my life!” The old woman cried once they left the room into a candle lit hallway. A small smile crept onto your face. You may not have saved the child, but you saved your new friend. “I am forever in debt with you.” 

“No need, ma'am,” you said so as not to make her feel guilty. 

“Mrs. Inoue,” she introduced herself in tears as she bowed politely, you did the same as you let her know your name. 

They both walked until they reached the end of the hallway where the few survivors were. An uncomfortable silence ruled the place. Mrs. Inoue and yourself sat down on a small bench to wait for instructions. Uraume and a group of servants carrying piles of clothes arrived not long after. Sukuna's right hand looked at everyone with disdain as the servants handed out the uniforms to the new servants who would be under her command. “So she survived…” they thought interested of you as you changed out of the old brown dress into the new uniform. 

You lifted the wet apron against the sunlight to check it for any unwanted stains. Your first anniversary as Sukuna's servant was a month away. You couldn't believe that you were about to complete one lap around the sun since you survived the harvest and received your maid's uniform. A long black dress with a contrasting white apron with black boots and a scarf in your hair to keep your hair off your forehead. You returned the apron to the sink to continue washing it by hand with soap and water. A small smile crept in as you realized you had survived the worst, you just hoped you had the same luck for the rest of your life. Now, you could rest for a very deserving week. 

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[lullydoesstuff]

- TOP DYSTOPIAN BOOKS -

Well, since I want to use this blog for personal stuff too and not just for requests or stuff concerning my MANY Demon Slayer AUs, here we are talking about some of my favourite books ever.

I love dystopian ones so these three will be very hard-core, I love the Hunger Games, I love Maze Runner, I love 1984 but these three just hit different.

Let's not lose time and let's begin!

3 - Tender is the Flesh (Augustina Bazterrica)

I decided to start with a book that has arrived in my country just this year, I didn't know about it before and I'm so glad I red it, even if it really disturbed me... do you know what the Promised Neverland is? Well, take it but make it Supersayan. And this is the less disturbing one here.

Plot: Marcos works in the meat industry, he always did but recently a virus started spreading, and animals couldn't be edible anymore so what does the government do? They start searching for vegan replacements? NO! They legalize cannibalism. Marcos has a troubled life, his father has gone mad since this "transition" from animal meat to human meat and his wife left him after they lost their son. He works in the meat industry but he swears to himself that he's not like the others, because he doesn't eat meat.

I know what you're thinking, "but this is a book to bring people close to veganism, it's the whole point"... no, congratulations, you didn't understand ANYTHING. This book is way more complex, this because it's about the line that divides humanization/objectification, and this will be a recurring theme in this post.

This book is full of gore (what did you expect?), graphic descriptions, violence, sexual violence so I don't know if I recommend this book to everyone, it's very short but be aware of this if you decide to read it. In any case, the plot is very interesting and it's very well written.

2 - The Handmaid's Tale (Margaret Atwood)

I'm sure many of you have seen the TV series, I've seen it too and it's one of the few cases I say that the series is better than the book, maybe because the series has a more modern setting and so I can actually be terrified by it.

Plot: the world has been almost destroyed by wars and this caused the birth to decrease to 0, and what happens in America? After a coup a new government is instituted... a totalitarian theocracy where religious confessions that aren't Christianity are banned, let's fucking go, this new country's name is Gilead. In this new world women have an only job: being literal baby machines given to rich families to have children.

This is so damn disturbing because, the insemination thing is wild, the man reads a Bible verse from Genesis, and then he just... does it. It's gross, go check for yourselves, human butchering was nothing compared to this.

We follow June, an Handmaid and we just see how things work in this new... amazing... world... I guess.

1 - Unwind (Neal Shusterman)

This deserves the first place, I've never stopped reading a book I loved because it disturbed me too much. I wanted to support the author, he's very good, so I bought all the other books from the Unwind distology... but I finished the first one and never red the second one, please tell me in the comments if it isn't as disturbing as the first one so I can give it a chance or not.

Plot: in the USA a second civil war is fought, but that's not a war where you shoot people from aontoher country to conquer it, or to oppose the government (well... kinda), it's about reproductive rights, many discussions, many things but in the end people decree that you can't abort in any case (*Lully already screaming and tearing off her hair*) BUT you can... well... Unwind your child if you don't want them anymore. But just when he's from 13 to 18.

What does unwind mean? Basically you give your unwanted child to some clinics that literally vivisection them (yes, the person is awake during the process BY LAW) and give thier organs to people that need transplants.

Now you can easily understand why this is the number 1 in this list, it's the destructive combo between "Tender is The Flash" and "the Handmaid's Tale".

We'll follow the story of Risa, Connor and Levi (and this last one oh my God, I wanted to punch his family so bad), escaping their fate of being unwind.

And yes, that scene comes, yes, you will see a vivisection, and yes... you will feel physically sick and need to throw up after, you'll probably have nightmares and life crisis. Also because... the unwind isn't exactly one of the "good guys".

Ah, dear pro-life people that care about a bunch of unborn cells and can't distinguish a human embryo from a dolphin embryo... Read this book, then change your mind about other people's body and take choices just for yours, because it seems we're going back and not aiming foward as we should.

[arshooo]

Killer Chat fantasy/folklore au hcs

Thinking about if killer chat characters were in a horroresque fantasy au kinda like baldurs gate 3.

Gore warning for Ronin and sort of Angel. Not too much detail for her though and slight spoilers for V and Misaki lore.

It started off as just me thinking abt Angel and wendigos cause they stem from cannibalism. The like actual version of wendigos aren’t the usual half deer eldritch horror ppl usually think of and are more akin to just more humanoid corpses in a way. Taller and rotting flesh, sunken eyes, sharp teeth and the such. Now Angel sure isn’t like that description at all but I can’t see her as the half deer version either. I could see her being some holy form of one, deceptively beautiful while still a walking corpse, gore and all that’d fucked up while still divine in a sense. Not exactly sure how that’d work but I’m sure I could figure it out with enough thought. She’d wander the forests and hunt on thieves who rob from passing caravans and the poets of the nearby city sing of her beauty and biblical terror. Perhaps her dead vocal tones would be soft from not being used and would lull them in, thinking she’s a messenger of God sent to guide them with divine words. However, Angel wasn’t always this way, she had to put flesh to the bone.. er.. teeth to be turned, no?

V is a cecaelia, half human half octopi, a deep sea dweller that lurks in the dark of the ocean. His mother was murdered and he took to land to avenge her from the human nobles who captured her and killed her and he ends up seeing the bad of the world and stays to help. I feel like V would make his way to be some form of noble, high status as he tracks his mothers killers. V would work his way through the ranks with money first, selling riches from the sea from sunken ships, then giving to the poor of the city and building a good reputation for himself. With the fact that he swiftly slays his enemies, he ends up claiming those social ranks for himself in time. Still a vigilante pursuing evil in the night, just fishier lolllll. I imagine he still has pets like in canon, probably finding land animals curious things since he spent so long in the sea. Currently his main target is a rumored hell spawn by the title of the Devil’s Butcher.

Ronin. Oh how I’ve thought long and hard about this one. During the day, Ronin works at the cities blacksmith in the Uptown, his strength simply overlooked as “he’s been working with metal for a while.” He’s relatively tame in the day, normal job, normal diet, normal normal normal blah blah blah. Anyhow. Vampire. Not the hot and sexy kind. Well. Sort of. If you’re into it then maybe. He lives in the city, the dark side of it. The criminal side where dead bodies lie and no one bothers to clean them up unless it’s to sell their corpses. Nobles and the lavish pretend that area doesn’t exist, proceed to do nothing and let the wicked run rampant. Mysteriously, some clerics of the city find themselves drawn to this area. When the sun rises they may be found dead, torn limb from limb and blood spattered on the walls of a gruesome alleyway, decorated in piercing holes along their body, skin tearing into long rows of gushing blood and bones sticking out every which way, ribs always shattered and their heart missing from their hollow chest. Ronin transforms at nightfall, his own limbs cracking, elongating, a painful process that takes anywhere from 5 minutes to 40. Less than human hands become that of a demons, claws as sharp as knives. His flesh would morph to adjust for his newfound height, stretching across his bones, remolding his body into that of an unholy beast. Jaws slackened, dripping with saliva and fangs as long as a human head built to tear into bodies, drain their life force and consume their hearts. At night when the wills of evil come alive he have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given him blood to drink. (Rumor has it that the Devil’s Butcher lurks in the forests some nights, hunting with a divine Angel, a duo promptly sent from Hell and pity be to the unfortunate souls that happen into their path.)

Misaki is simply human. They live a few cities away from these three, unawares of the urban legends of the others for a time. They live with their parents, helping to assist their small potions shop and a job on the side to help bring in more money. A freelance rouge adorned in black, good with cats, bad at opening up with their troubles— wait isn’t that just Mhin..? KIDDING‼️ Anyhow Misaki sometimes does travel and will occasionally end up in the area of the rest of our beloved Slaughter House Losers. She takes jobs from nobles, the semi rich and poor, taking what she can get so if it pays they will go to help her parents make enough money to keep their store open. Knew Angel before Angel’s turning after they bonded during a trip Misaki made to her city. Met V through Angel and they still send each other letters frequently and they visit when in town. Met Ronin once at the smithy having lost their knife (tripped looking at a cat and fell into a river 😔) and he made her a new one, sharper than any one she’d owned before. Really not all that different from kc! job wise except it’s a knife instead used for their jobs.

THE OTHERS

• Luca is a sailor out at sea, a beautiful dames blanche by the name of Feli aboard his ship that had died in a ship wreck after an arson attempt went wrong.

• Ai Hua owns an apothecary, house above the shop in town square, selling poisons to women in need and her husband Vince stays home to watch their kids.

• Dare I include Executioner Bot? A bird that Ronin keeps. It mimics human speech and is definitely cursed asf.

Anywho, I’ll probably expand on these ideas later if anyone wants lol

[gaymarasov]

I feel like people who are calling Shauna and Melissa out as "cringe" rather than frightening, the choices the girls are making as nonsensical rather than grounded in reality, etc are missing a big point of the show. At the end of the day, the Yellowjackets are just a group of young adults completely separated from everything they've ever known. We're watching them slowly descend into mystical thinking and play-pretend to cope with their deadly reality. Whether or not you're on team paranormal or team trauma doesn't actually matter- The girls' actions do.

It's so fucked at this point it's almost a comedy, but they're still barreling on, full speed ahead. It's like... God, okay:

Shauna, lets take Shauna. Shocker, the Shauna guy wants to talk about Shauna, I know. But SOMEBODY has to be The Butcher, right? To do the girls' dirty work, when The Wilderness chooses. Sure. That's Shauna. She has to.

... But does she, though? Does anybody?

Or could they all learn how to hold the knife? And if things got bad enough that they had to start eating people again, could they not establish some kind of rotating schedule to determine who is on Human Gutting Duty?

Sure, absolutely. That would make more sense.

But that isn't the point the show is making.

(Rambling meta and a non-zero amount of Shauna Shipman glazing under the cut. You've been warned.)

Anyway. The point the show is making, in my opinion, is that doing that would be hard. Put even more simply, doing the right thing is hard in general. It's easier to do play-pretend. It's easier to create an artificial role in society of "crazy evil bitch who cuts things good", and assign it to someone who has already demonstrated that they have what it takes to get the job done and get it done well.

Currently, that person is Shauna. And if the other girls stopped making a LARP scenario out of the death of her best friend, the stillbirth of her child, and the cannibalization of a little boy they ALL cared about, Shauna would not be LARPing so hard that she's starting to scare them.

She's embraced the role because the role is easier to embrace than the reality. It gives her a semblance of power, perceived or otherwise, in her otherwise powerless life.

There's this sentiment from the others of "Well we have to listen to Shauna." "She's so dangerous." "She's so frightening."

"You don't have to enjoy it so much."

Except end of the day, she's eating the same slop as the rest of the Yellowjackets, was pregnant like twenty minutes ago, and is deeply (understandably!) unstable. If they were really afraid of her way of thinking, if they were uncomfortable with its results, if they really wanted to take action, they could. There are what, ten of them, not accounting for Shauna and Melissa? Let's just go with ten.

...So if all ten Yellowjackets got it together TOMORROW and confronted Shauna and her boytoy on their way out of their Evil Bitch Shed Where Evil Bitches Sleep, Shauna and Melissa would fold! Ultimately, they'd have no choice. There'd be pushback from Shauna's groupies, sure, think Gen and Robin- And someone would probably end up needing stitches- But as a group, there's a good possibility that once things had settled, they could build something more healthy from the wreckage of that initial interaction.

But they won't. Because that's not the point the show is making. And it would be fucking boring!

The longer the girls refuse to take meaningful action against Shauna (because it's easier not to), the more she models for other, more impressionable girls that This Is The Way To Live, This Is The Way To Be Strong, and the harder it gets to dethrone her/condemn the way of thinking she's grown into.

Whatever bloodbath is on the horizon could be avoided, but it won't be.

In the society the girls have built, the bloodbath is the point, because the bloodbath- and pretending it's inevitable- is easier than doing the right thing. And by the time they're finally uncomfortable enough to actually stand up rather than just taking snide jabs and potshots from the sidelines, it's going to be far, far too late.

[kelppsstuff]

Let’s make a deal

Okay so I had this idea that Alastor sold his sold to Y/N when he was alive and that’s the “deal” he trapped in.

Masterlist

Warnings: mentions of death and cannibalism

Taglist: @fandomsbookclub @leathesimp @sashaphantomhive @ladyninggs @strangerthings36 @carylinflors @michelleszn @sirenetheblogger

Summary: Alastor made a deal with a demon and when he couldn’t fill his end of the bargain his soul was all he had to give.

Human Alastor x Demon F!Reader

—

Y/N was never one to interested in the mortal plane. Once she died she didn’t care to go back. She had the power too sure. She was one of the highest ranking demons in hell. But there was one human she started to grow an interest in.

A soul came to her begging for her to kill his son. Claimed that the son was a bastard, and that he killed him. Said he didn’t deserve to die. Obviously he did considering he was in hell.

“And just what is your sons name?” You were bored, and thought why not give him hope you would act on his request in his favor. “Al-Alastor. Alastor Hartfelt.” What an interesting name. “Noted, now run along and go do whatever you do. We’ll discuss price later.”

—

You came to learn that this ‘Alastor’ was a host of a Radio broadcast. You had also come to learn he was a complete mamas boy. His father — the man who begged you to kill him — had killed his mother. In an act of revenge he killed him.

That’s not what interested you though. He didn’t get caught, he go away clean. So when he killed another deadbeat of a man and didn’t get caught you started to find interest in your dear radio host.

But what made him useful was he often busted a underground joint. One that a certain angel you knew visited.

—

Alastor walked into his house, it was late and his hands were covered in blood. Once he had them washed he walked into his living room.

He was about to turn on the overhead light but the lamp from his desk in the corner turned on. The lightbulb slightly.

A female figure sat on his desk. Looking through his papers. He was about to question you but you spoke first. “So who you kill this time?” His eyes widened, but only for a moment.

“The hell are you talking about? What are you doing in my house?”

You hummed and dropped the papers back on the desk — leaning back in the chair. “Your right, I suppose that is foolish of me to ask. Considering I already know the answer.”

Alastor swallowed, who the hell was this woman? What did she want. He took notice of the cigarette in your hand and made a side comment.

“It’s not last like to smoke in another’s home — let alone nice.”

You scoffed out a laugh. “Nice? No what isn’t nice his butchering people for you meals.”

So this woman knew about his nightly acts. Fuck. She could tell. Alastor wouldn’t kill her, he’d kill no girl.

You tossed the cigarette in the ask try and stood. While looking at a photo frame of his and his mom you spoke. “I’ve come to offer you a deal.” A woman? Making a deal?

“What is it you want.” Alastor wasn’t dumb, he knew to get something he needed to give something. As far as he knew he wanted nothing from you. “I want something indeed but right now you should be asking me what do you want.”

“What do I want.” You started to walk around the table. Away from the chair, and closer to Alastor. “Vengeance. You see I was quite impressed with the way you gruesomely killed dear daddy. And even though you did a good in the world getting rid of a man like that, that moment was the moment you lost your ticket to heaven. Heaven, where your dear mom lies.”

Heaven? This girl was crazy.

“You expect me to believe in heaven and hell?” Your eye twitched. “I forgot that humans want proof. Very well.” Your eyes glowed (F/C) and the all the lights started to flicker, windows and door’s flying open, and a strong wind blew throughout all the house, scattering all the papers. “Okay! Okay! Stop!” Alastor yelled out over the noise.

“Good. Now dear daddy went to hell. You’ll also be going to hell. I happen to have your father in my possession so when you get down there he’ll be all your to torture for all eternity. That and I offer my silence on your activity’s. Even though I’m a girl my voice can be quite leading.”

He’d be going to hell. You were from hell. His dad was in hell — where he deserved to be — and his mom. His mom was in heaven. His mom was in heaven cause she was dead. From the same man your offering to him on a silver platter.

“What is it you want?” You smiled at his cooperative attitude. “Everything this does come at a price, so here’s mine. There’s this angel. She visits the same club you do, quite often.” You snapped your fingers and a small vile laid in his hands. “Pour this in her drink and your end is done.” Alastor wasn’t stupid, this was poison. That’s not what he focused on, he focused on the fact it was a girl.

“Her?” You rolled your eyes at his concern. “Forgot about your code. Look she’s a real pain okay? I need her gone.” Otherwise you’ll be gone. You picked up the photo frame before and walked to Alastor’s side. “Don’t you want to avenge dear mommy?” He grabbed the photo, silent.

“What did she do to you?” He looked back to you. You pointed to yourself. “My business.” You pointed to him. “Yours is how far are you willing to go for your mother?”

“What does she look like?”

“Now we’re talking.” (F/C) smoke surrounded your hand for a second only to reveal a paper. A long, long scroll. “Sign here.” Alastor picked up the scroll from your hands and placed it on the table signing it.

Alastor Hartfelt.

—

Alastor hummed a quite tune while he waited for the angel to make her way to her usual seat at the bar.

Y/N had said she would be there very shortly. All he had to do was charm her then spike her drink. Which shouldn’t be too hard, Alastor thought as he saw the blonde take a seat next to him. Ordering a gin martini.

“Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you.” He shook his hand out for the lady, only to kiss the back of her hand when she stuck hers out as well. “Belle.”

“My what a lovely name.”

The two talked all night. He realized how sweet and kind she was. He couldn’t kill her, so when he got home and didn’t see you there he thought you thought he’d done the deed.

He never would think you’d find out. A foolish mistake on his part.

—

“So you host the Radio broadcast?” Belle asked. She had recognized Alastor’s voice, but she didn’t think he’d be from there. “Why yes I am. Quite a passion of mine really I must say.”

Belle laughed, and Alastor thought on how sweet and good hearted she was. It was no wonder she’s an angel.

Over the course of two months Belle never told Alastor she was an angel, and Alastor never told her he was a killer.

Also over the course of two months he hadn’t seen Y/N. That streak had run out today. There you sat, in his office at his broadcast tower. In front of a chest board. “Play with me.” You commanded, he obeyed. He took a seat across from you and moved his pawn.

“I have to ask, how did Belle look before she died. Cry out for help?” You moved your pawn next.

“She was to busy choking.” He moved another piece.

“Really?” Your move.

“Really.” His move.

Over the course of twenty minutes you two played the game in silence. Though towards the end you spoke up again.

“I find her chocking hard to believe.”

Alastor swallowed as he made his next move. “Why?”

“Well with you dancing with her today made me think otherwise.” You placed the final move. “Checkmate.”

Alastor felt panic spreading from within his body. “She didn’t deserve to die.” He hurried the words and he stood quickly as he spoke.

“Didn’t she?” You spoke slow. Standing up and turning to the window. You could feel the rage that you’ve been holding for a thousand years boiling. “You have no idea the kind of her person she really is.”

“Right and I’m supposed to trust the Demon from hell instead of listening to the kind actions of an angel.”

You breathed in and out. Trying to get control over your emotions. Over your fury. “You had one job.”

“I would have offered you everything. All the riches you could imagine. A broadcast tower tht over looked thousands. Vengeance for your mother.”

”I wanted her dead, and so now I should have your soul.”

Alastor shook his head. “But you haven’t even given me my father. We can just call the deal off.”

You took a long sip of the whiskey you had poured your self — back still turned to him. “The deal can only be called off if both sides of the deal isn’t up held. I’ve kept my silence about your killings.”

Alastor scoffed. “That wasn’t even the main point of our deal. My father was. As far as I’m concerned I still don’t have him!”

“Because he’s in hell! Do you wish do die so early?!” You could feel the little control you had snapping. “When you die trust me I plan to give you to him. But as I stated before you can’t get something for nothing.”

“I won’t kill her.”

You laughed and the contract appears in front of Alastor’s face. “We’re done talking about assassinations. We’re dealing with souls now.”

Alastor looked to the fine print which was now bold. If failure to kill then a soul shall take her place. Your soul.

Alastor didn’t know what selling your soul really meant but he knew it couldn’t be good.

A chain wrapped around his neck and you pulled him to you, you meeting him half way.

You grabbed his jaw and kissed him harshly.

“Your now mine, my pet.”

—

Hiiii so I don’t have any the request done yet, but I may have one out today! But I am working on them, this is just a emergency work I had in case I didn’t have any work ready for upload day.

I also plan to kinda make this a series, would that interest any of you?

Part one | Part two

[heelsofboreas]

Like Real People Do - 1308 words

This is probably going to be a series of shorter things where Dream explores anatomy on an awake Punz who doesn't feel pain. Like that's kind of fucked up and fun. This was just going to be cannibalism but it turned into kind of a pre-amble to that. It'll be more gorey and worse the next time. Author used to work in the medical field. (tw blood, mentioned but not heavily described gore, symptoms of blood loss)

It was that easy, really. Humans weren't that different from animals when it came down to it. Just glorified slabs of meat that reproduced with reckless abandon and got stressed out about flickering lights. Gross and disgusting masses of flesh and ignorance. They were fueled by desires and sensations that Punz never felt like they fully understood. For a variety of reasons.

Like many creatures of flesh, the redstone lights in their lab always bothered Punz as with every tic it seemed to subtly flicker. It made their forehead tense in a way that was mildly discomforting. They'd get up and turn them off themself but Dream needed them to see and today they weren't quite in the mood to inconvenience him. And, to be very fair, their left leg wasn't in any state to be standing on.

Dream had been curious about the limits of their particular ailment, and Punz had been willing to let him push them. When weren't they willing to let Dream push them closer and closer to the edge? Killing Vik and Lazar over and over again had been just the beginning of how far they'd go with the book. Killing each other had come next. Now, Punz was laid out on a stone slab table like a sacrificial lamb. To be butchered by Dream for the sake of understanding.

Even as the knife cut up to the edge of their boxers they didn't flinch. They felt skin split and muscle slice and all they did was lift their head in an attempt to see whatever new fascination Dream was taking with his work. The simple act made the world spin though. The room rotated in a way that it probably wouldn't ever naturally and that was enough for Punz to know they were probably starting to reach the limit of the amount of blood that they'd normally be okay with losing.

Their head falls back on the sheet lined stone with enough force to rattle their teeth. Good thing they weren't meant to make it out of this in one piece anyways. Punz wouldn't need to spend several hours looking over their body to try and find if there were any injuries they couldn't feel. No one ever believed them when they first brought it up. People thought they were just being edgy, but Dream had learned pretty quickly how real it was after watching the older walk around with a nail in their foot until their sock got uncomfortably squishy.

Despite that, he was still breathless with disbelief when he spoke, "You really didn't feel any of that."

"Pain wise-"

"Yeah. Yeah, pain wise. You just didn't feel any of that, pain wise? Like you just felt the knife and nothing else?" Dream continues to poke for the explanation again.

"I felt the knife. I felt, like, my leg get cut, but it doesn't hurt. I won't even get adrenaline or whatever unless I look at it," Punz repeats with only a hint of bore. Their words slowed down with each passing minute. They could feel their body getting heavier. Harder to move, but they weren't scared yet.

"Or unless things get, like, bad?" He continues hardly leaving space between their words. Dream could practically barrel over anyone in conversation without realizing it. They didn't mind anymore. In fact, the excitement it showed was pretty fucking endearing. Everything about Dream was always growing more and more endearing.

It takes a moment for Punz to piece the words together, but in the end they don't need to. "Well, like you said you get dizzy, you feel sick, you feel cold, and then somewhere around when your body stops working you feel scared? Then you're like, not anymore?" They feel something get pressed hard against their thigh. Is it Dream's hands?

"Mostly, yeah," they respond with a slight shrug. When did they start breathing so hard? The warmth spread down their leg pooling faster than it had been when Dream was just slicing up their calf and pressing his fingers between their tibia and fibula. "How deep did you cut?" They ask. They force their head up to take a look, slightly easier now for some reason than moments ago.

"Don't worry! It's fine just..." Dream starts with a strange lilt. "Just- Just drink some of the regen." He sounds like he's doing his best to stay calm, but failing. Punz feels their eyes widen at the amount of blood on his hands when the world finally comes into focus. They pull themself onto one elbow, it shakes under their weight but they manage to meet his hand half way. His hand is covered in blood and it stains the glass as it’s passed over to Punz. They feel the warmth on their fingertips and furrow their brows. Spots form in the corners of their vision.

Fuck. He definitely hit something vital this time. There was still more they wanted to do, so Punz didn’t argue this time.

They spill some onto their shirt trying to get even a drop of it down their throat. Their hand was shaking but the motion got much steadier after it found their lips. Their nose scrunched up in displeasure, but they swallowed gulp after gulp regardless. It was just thick enough to be uncomfortable and sent a shiver down their spine as they pulled the bottle away. Their eyes loosely lock on a blur of brown hair, sunkissed skin, and red. “‘M okay,” they slur. It sounds like nothing to them, but it also sounds like far too much. Time moves too slow and too suddenly for Punz to keep up. Dream is suddenly face to face with them. The bottle was removed from their hand and put into the void for all Punz could understand. All they could see was his face. 

Beautiful green eyes and freckles that Punz traced with a scarred fingertip sometimes framed a nervous smile. Their shoulders were carefully pressed down until they were lying down on their back with Dream looming over them. The light over them casts Dream in a halo of yellow and Punz completely misses the words coming out of his mouth between the muffled ringing in their ears and visual distortion of his soft lips. Their mind should be anywhere but where it was. They wanted to see him smile. They wanted to make him happy. They’d give anything to him. At any point. All he needed to do was ask. They’d even let him -

“-eat me sometime,” Punz follows with a cough as the regen gives them back control of their lungs. Sputtering from heavy, rapid pants to something more normal. They blink a few times, only to realize that Dream is doing the exact same. His mouth hung open in shock. “What-” they start to ask.

The male bursts into laughter. He practically doubles over and has to catch himself on his elbow to keep himself from collapsing onto Punz. He cups his face and hides his eyes. “Oh my- oh my god, Punz,” he chokes out before it's drowned out by a wheeze. 

Punz’s face would be red if there was enough blood in their body to go there. “What? What? Did I say something?” They push. Suddenly intensely wanting to know what all slipped out of their mouth. 

It takes another moment for Dream to calm down. When he moves his hand away from his face, he takes one last deep breath. Then nearly bursts into giggles again as he answers, “‘You could eat me sometime.’ I think.” 

“Wait, fuck. I didn’t mean it like-” 

Dream bursts into laughter again and their fingers twitch. As much as they’re shivering they suddenly feel too warm. They don’t know if that’s annoyance or the regen. Bloody hands find the sides of their face and they nearly freeze. Dream was so much closer. Punz could practically feel the ghost of his breath against their lips. With anyone else this would be uncomfortable, but with him it was something that felt so right. “You’re fine. I mean, it might be fun. Another thing to try, right?” He smiles as he says it, and they can’t help but agree.

[perfectfangirl]

notes after rewatching fallout s1 ep4

• cooper and lucy wandering the desert and mans starts coughin', somethin' settin' in • whoa i just realized you could hear roger roaring from outside • roger was at a clinic, probably trying to find something to help him ☹️ • i wrote a whole entire post on this scene but anyways can i say we see full blown uncooked cannibalism hardly ten minutes into episode four like is everyone ok • the fact this scene is presented with a lot of tension, like a horror film and truly it's just a guy named roger fighting to stay not feral • i wonder how cooper met him? ghouls tend to know each other after a while [on account of the discrimination], i'm sure he was checking with this man every now and then tbh. perhaps. a friend. • cooper asks roger how he's feeling and he says "you know... it's hard out here. dang smoothies can be so unkind" and i just 😞 • "i see you got a smoothie of your own" ding ding ding ghoulcy this one's for you • you know what's particularly sad about ghoulification is for example that roger has had to isolate himself from others, even ghouls, because he was turning • roger asking for a vial and cooper looking at lucy [cooper, you botched the using lucy for bait, come on] • firmly in the camp that if cooper had vials left, he would give one to roger. cooper has shown himself to be crude and cruel seeming at times but i just know he went there with purpose • roger accepting he's turning and telling cooper and lucy to leave as a warning, roger seemed so nice, why and how did he get like this

• "i did ok" 😞 • going from standard human to turning into a feral ghoul in less than twenty eight years in the fallout universe is insane and idk if there's a lot of lore on why someone could end up like this and someone like cooper not • the difference in cooper's and roger's symptoms are pretty stark--- not entirely sold on him coughing and passing out is from ferality and more inclined to think chem withdrawals but i digress • "say, you remember how good food use to taste?" post war life is so bad, nobody in the wasteland remembers when food use to food 😭

• because roger is really nice and having a conversation, roger turns, speaking to lucy. cooper using this as an opportunity to kill roger seems so sudden and a betrayal until • look at cooper's eyes and his reaction after pulling the trigger--- not exactly the expression of someone who is in it "for the love of the game", in fact, i have come to view this act as a mercy kill • which is ironic of course because as we've all come to see, lucy does the exact thing for her own mother four episodes later • once feral, ghouls roam the wasteland operating on two instincts alone: hunger and defense. they are a threat to all those around them and i don't recall much on reversal. that's no life. roger would've turned feral and harmed them or others, it is sad • cooper mercy killing roger was in some ways compassionate, he had a sweet conversation with roger giving his last thoughts something warm and nice. cooper then going on to butcher and consume his flesh was an uh choice 💀

• and lucy immediately confused was like "wait?, why'd you do that? he was sick." i don't know if she entirely understands ghoulification, seems she thought maybe he could be helped • lucy is basically confused, begging cooper to not like, eat this guy 😭 • i'm gonna have to agree that he didn't have to eat roger, radroaches is everywhere and for free, still pondering if he did this to fuck with her or because some reason i am missing • cooper asking lucy what her name was [hold on, why he care about that?" and lucy so nearly coming this close to finding out what hank did and who cooper is [since she didn't ask his name] • "sometimes a fella's got to eat a fella" is my all time favourite quote in season one of this show lmao • cooper be funny as fuck for no reason like this man's brain is cooked • i would personally like to ask walton whose idea it was to go "mmm. mmm." while eating irradiated human flesh like that, like why is the pre war actor cooper howard like this • lucy is incomprehensibly disgusted but then goes on a thing [a vulnerable thing] about vault 32 starving [in the great plague of '77] and that she lost her mother during this time and that her father never resorted to cannibalism. there's some time and memory discrepancies here • "well there's what people say they did and what they really did" i wanted cooper to be wrong so bad here when he went on to clown hank by saying "i'll bet your daddy was first in line at the cookout. i bet he had a bib with a drawing of his neighbour's ass on it" • lmao they gave all the best lines to cooper, i'm sick, he was right • lucy, having had enough and not finding cooper's humour being used as a way to cope like this asks this disturbed little man • "how do you live like this? why keep going?" and for the briefest moment, and i do mean brief, cooper feels the crushing weight of who he is when lucy confronts him like this • of course he shakes off a moral inquiry and transfers it to another as he asks "why the fuck am i doing all the work?... ass jerky don't make itself." and forces lucy to do it instead • twice now this man has talked about ass in less than ten minutes and for everyone's sake i'll move along 💀

• woody basically trying to interrogate the raider prisoners and getting nothing, meanwhile--- i think they already starting to be poisoned • ooo ok but betty telling norm he's the last standing maclean in the vault so his words carry and people listen. it occurred to me maybe he inadvertently inspired the poisonings of the raiders but it's also occurring to me that because they couldn't just all be shot outright, being poisoned was the best follow through method, nobody notices until it's already too late. now who is sneaky enough for that? • "when clever boys like you are angry, you're lucky not to have seen where that can lead." so... was betty present for shady sands? hmm • betty asking norm to tread lightly is very... not a threat, but she's watching him, right

• ok! we have that second water scene. it's confirmed here cooper is fetching water from an irradiated source [hence why denying lucy any makes sense] he puts it in his canteen and drinks it just fine. lucy is obviously mindlessly thirsty because she defeatedly drops down to drink the murky, stagnant irradiated water. it's so irradiated, her pip boy is going crazy, she literally gags in the scene • "now you're getting it. how does this golden rule jibe with what's going through your head now?" well i mean we knew cooper been fucking with her the whole time and showing her the wasteland streets but it is also unlikely she would have found a clean water source where they are, i guess her getting radiation sickness may have been inevitable but cooper denying her water kept her from being sick • after another insane string of sentences from this centuries old movie star, lucy finally asks "what are you?" and it's more like "what the fuck is wrong with you?" • "oh i'm you, sweetie, you just give it a little time" is majorly menacing after everybody just drank stagnant rad water like it's koolaid • cooper felt so smug then was zapped with karma again because he has a coughing fit directly after telling lucy this lmao • walton has such a good old man cough ❤️ • lucy takes cooper coughing up a lung as an opportunity to run [where i don't know but] • cooper uses his lasso skills he used to use at kid's parties to pull lucy back and then says some shit like "where you think you going? you ain't going nowhere."

• so we have arrived at the infamous and intriguing finger biting off scene--- can i just say she bit his finger off with such ease and then! cooper doesn't even act like it hurt, he seems... pleased he got that kind of reaction out of lucy. he's like into it 💀 • "there you are, you little killer" i'll keep this pg13 and say cooper really wanted to get a rise out of lucy, to bring the dog out of her, huh • he... then proceeds to cut her [corresponding hand's] finger off. ironically applying the "do unto others as you would have done unto you" tit for tat, if you will • i was surprised he did this because like ok, she spat it out? pick it up and reattach it, fella 😭 but there's more under the surface here because • cooper says "now that right there is the closest thing we've had to an honest exchange so far." and he's being framed in a close up so close, you can see his dainty eyelashes, sun shining in the background, his hazel eyes sparkling--- this is not on accident ☝️ gdgkdkfd • there's a lot of symbolism to be had but for now, i'll save that for next episode notes when cooper does the thing • ah chet! and steph. i kinda am of the idea she strategically got with him but anyways! who wouldn't! chet hot as fuck! and steph look like an assassin • bert's shoes so small gldgldfl • steph is definitely angry and sad dealing with bert's death in her own special way [trying to fuck chet] • excuse me but why they turned an almost sex scene into a birthing scene 😭💀 • lucy been walking the wasteland without a shoe, how she do it 😭 • i did not pick up on cooper bartering lucy for two months' worth of vials [thanks subtitles] • "mint condition" [looks at a bloody stump on hand] "near mint condition" now who fault is this?? lmao • "you got problems out here too, sweetheart" like, shut up 😭 • cooper every time he interacts with a mr. handy is one of the only few places he gets to hear a voice of this old friend • "best you try your luck behind that door" well at least he untied her • this is like the third time he's gotten instant karma with lucy because either he pretended to keep it together until she went in or genuinely didn't know he was going to pass out but • went through the five stages of grief trying to figure who he sold her to because i deadass was thinking the same thing lucy was 😭 • lucy being given the finger of like, a corpse or something because it's grey 😭 forever changed by the wasteland, always carrying a little bleakness and death with her ❤️ • lucy never experiencing real cotton [or maybe only rarely] • lucy calling cooper a creature 😭 • "he put a leash around my neck and made me drink from puddle water that i'm pretty sure was some kind of animal pee" sending 😭 she talking to this evil mr. handy like it's a person • her recounting her captivity with cooper like he was simply being mean to her is just • "and i thought i was here to be a sex slave." "what?! no! what a disgusting idea. i'm simply going to harvest your organs." damn, fallout which one is worse, like fuck---

• hope the jello cake veronica got wasn't poisoned... • "what are you looking at?" "a murderer in a cage, paying the price for what you did to us. for what you did to the innocent people in vault 32" and norm gets circumstantial evidence from a raider by accidentally cross examining one of them with it being more than anything woody could coax out of them • one thing about the macleans, they smart • i also think it's excellent writing that intrigue was spurred like this by a raider saying vault 32 wasn't innocent because they were running an experiment like all the vaults did, everything isn't so black and white • norm reads every situation correctly because why he read chet by saying chet came along to investigate because norm reminds him of lucy fkdgkdkg • still piecing together the full extent of vaults 31, 32, 33 together but at first i couldn't understand why it looked like so many took their own lives--- apparently them discovering what vault 31 was about started a rebellion but two years seemed so recent to me. curious how this overlaps with shady sands if it does • they showed the spooky ass rat utopia experiment still playing on the tvs in there but i wasn't sure if this was explicit about that being vault 32's experiment

• lucy being prompted to continue on because of a flashback from her mom upon awakening 🥲 • "lucy sweetie what are you doing out here?" and those were her memories on the surface [nevermind cooper calling her [[condescendingly]] "sweetheart"] • i did not realize the ghouls were being kept in the freezers but it looks like they either only sell ghouls or keep the ghouls "on ice" [not unlike how dom pedro would keep cooper and cut pieces off of him] and collect the organs of standard people right then and there • "sir, you can't do this. please, i need my organs" lucy, it's just a robot bulter, he's not a real guy 😭 • the way lucy got out of this pickle quick, almost got snip snipped but short circuited the murderbot • lucy putting her murdercap on and putting drano in the murderbot's syringes, clever girl • it was so "star wars" of her to treat mr. handy like a person and then the guys running the organ trafficking scheme going "you might as well be holding an air conditioner hostage" 😭 • the organ traffickers running the super duper mart ring are so dull and banal evil types, it's so satire

• i just registered those two organ trafficker guys got a camera and can see cooper laid out in front of the store • lucy freeing the ghouls 🥲and one even thanking her [even the feral ones 💀] • poor martha, i peep how we see lucy's grey finger and it being shown used to defend herself against martha in her feral state • organ traffickers got ate up bless • nothing lucy did besides shoot was going to honestly stop martha, sometimes your pacifist playthrough doesn't go as planned • the pip boys still being on and running on the not alive people in vault 32 • "death to management" and it's directly the reference to vault 31's experiment, right there

• lucy walking out of there with mismatched shoes but two shoes nonetheless ☝️ • i guess lucy sincerely did not comprehend cooper is a ghoul or ghoulification, i suppose most vault dwellers literally would never know, that's post war history, wow • lucy asking cooper about if the vials keep him from going feral and he cannot even speak, he can only nod, from a prone position, on the ground--- the power/framing trade off is excellent • lucy bends down, briefly rolls the gun in her hand, while cooper lies helpless, she delivers a fatal line • "i may end up looking like you. but i'll never be like you" harbouring not enough ill will against him despite mistreatment, she gives cooper several vials, directly near his hand. didn't have to do none of that shit! • if i was cooper, i'd be scared as hell of this lady, she took down an organ trafficking ring in a grocery store ran by two armed guys, a murderbot, with some feral ghoul hostages, all of the bad and dangerous people fucking died • she really could've ended cooper right then and there, his devotion in season two gone be unmatched lmao

• i truly think he had a hint of a smile on his face after she helped [save his life] by anyways • lucy walks into the proverbial sunset meanwhile this man shambles into super duper mart about to go on the biggest bender the wasteland has seen since the bombs dropped • cooper gets so fucked up, i lost count how many things he ingested, king said all of 'em • cooper is so goddamn famous, his film "the man from deadhorse" is just sitting next to a tv • you could say here is where cooper has a crisis of conscience whereupon he holds the tape in his hand but truly we know already he had that centuries ago when he filmed "the man from deadhorse"

• cooper watching the scene, the very moment in his life where things started to shift--- he tries to cock an invisible fun, being unable as he remembers his trigger finger is gone [neutral, disarmed, here's where i think he decides he wants to sew on lucy's finger to his hand] it's like he's starting over, a moral rebirth but with his trigger finger • they really made cooper say "you commie son of a bitch" in a western, just ugly propaganda • let's examine "feo, fuerte, y formal" again! "ugly, strong, dignity" does post war cooper have two out of three on that front? is this his step into regaining dignity again? • cooper was always playing characters, it was expected of him and he got paid for it. it feels like a wall is being torn down, something is being shed here. and maybe it's this character he's masquerading as • cooper and lucy both having revelations in the super duper mart--- lucy realising you can't always reason and logic out of a situation and cooper being confronted with the fact you can keep your morality and sense of self intact and a horrible place and situation doesn't have to change you

[6feathered6siren6]

"Good soup" (Angel x Reader)

Authors note: This was for the prompt: "Bleed it out", and thought of hunting and how it's preserved. I also feel like it's not my greatest work so ¯_(ツ)_/¯

Trigger warnings

Death

Cannibalism

Managing a restaurant was easy enough for you, making the food and dealing with customers, and the bills for keeping the lights on. Luckily the new food product was a hit, more people were coming for the cute sandwiches that looked like animals. A few bears, cats, and dogs. 

After the heat died down from a couple weeks, there was a regular that stayed for a little bit to talk to you. “Got any new items?” 

She holds her blonde and pink hair into a bun, casual comfy clothing but she still looked amazing in them. Her soft blue doe eyes were filled with enjoyment. Maira, or what she prefers you to call her, Angel. 

“Hello, Angel.” You said, as you placed her usual beverage on the counter for her. “And that I do, a new item I’m trying out. But for being such a loyal customer, I’ll let you try it first.” Your smile was genuine. She always makes you smile when she walks in. 

She oo’ed, as you turned away to grab the new food item that's soon going to join the menu. It was a new soup idea you got from the internet. Placing the hot soup in front of her. 

“I hope this is up to your taste.” You said, leaning onto the counter as you saw her picking up a spoon to take a sip of the base. Then she takes bites of it, a few of the meat and vegetables. 

“It’s good, I really like it. The meat is… different from what most people use. What is it?” She looks up at you, placing her spoon down, giving all of her attention to you. 

“I can’t give all my secrets, you already have my famous cookie recipe.” Winking at her, as you got up from leaning on the counter as a customer started walking to the register. “I’ll be back.”

You walk away as she lightly giggles. 

–

Walking back to her, she was on the phone. You didn’t know what but she seemed stressed. Leaving her to her privacy, you did see she did finish the soup you made, grabbing the dish and placing it into the sink in the back while preparing her another beverage. As you came back, she was rubbing her temple.

“Was that your work again?” You placed down her new drink. Grabbing the old cup closer to yourself. 

She sighed, “Nope, a friend of mine. He’s being himself again. Telling me to rest, and I am. I’m here with you, resting.”

You lightly snorted as you leaned against the counter again, “Well, I’m glad my shop is relaxing to you.”

And what felt like ten(10) minutes, it was hours. She had to leave, her friends were having a movie night, and she needed to be there early. It was quiet and lonely until closing time. You have many tasks to get done tonight, luckily, your assistant manager is coming in tomorrow so you can work until 4 am again. 

Washing the counters, you see that Angel left something behind. What seems to be her wallet, picking it up, you put it in your restaurant office. Making sure it’s locked. Then getting back to cleaning the front.

After mopping, you placed your cleaning equipment when a knock happened at the back door. New shipment is in. 

Opening the door, “Got the goods?” 

A tall male walked in, grabbing cash and counting it, after you handed it to him as two others dragged a dead human to your butchering area.

Thanking you for the purchase, they left, leaving you with your meat to process. It’s going to be a long process but pushing up your sleeves, you got this with practice ease. 

Letting the body bleed itself out, you went to get your supplies, getting it from another room, not hearing any sound, other than the blood dripping down into the bucket. Putting your apron on and tying it. As you walked back in, you saw her. She was staring at the body until you made a noise. 

“Shit. It’s not what it looks like!” Putting your hands out after putting the knife down, trying not to seem like a threat. 

Angel, the one who actually saw you as a person instead of a restaurant owner, stared at you then back to the body. Then lightly laugh. “That’s why it was familiar.” 

Not expecting that answer, you felt your hands drop. Your muscles that felt so tense it was going to rip apart, soften, relax. But your heart felt like it was going to explode. “Huh?”

She walked closer to the body, “Did the job yourself?” Tracing the table softly, you stared at her moving but you couldn’t move.

You felt like your throat closed in as you spoke, “N- no. I.. didn’t.” How is she so… calm?

“I never got to say this again, the soup was delicious, I still want to know how you make it?” She turns her body around, looking at you, a soft smile. The one that welcomed you as you greeted her. “So would you teach me?”

“Woah, woah, woah! HUH?” You tilt your head as you stare at her, feeling so confused. 

She softly chuckled, “What?”

“Y- you’re fine… eating… that?” You point at the dead body. 

“I’m not calling the cops am I? Now. Are you going to show me?” Her expression didn’t change. 

Releasing that breath that was holding in your throat, you picked up the knife. Putting it right next to the corpse. “If you answer my question, why are you here?” 

She leaned against the table, careful not to contaminate the ‘food’. “My wallet, I was going to sneak in and steal it back. But then the light was on, so I had to see what was going on. Didn’t think the wonderful, innocent restaurant owner used human meat in their food. Human meat is addictive, it’s no wonder why people come back for more.” 

She looked at the knife you placed earlier. You did say you would show her how you made the soup. A promise was a promise. 

Showing her that human skin was used in the soup, and the others went into sandwiches. Any scraps that weren't used were put into a waste basket. Afterall, they are ‘animal’ scraps.

You didn’t expect your number one(1) customer to accept your ways for food. Or teaching her how to make human soup at 4 am. 

She sat on a counter, taking bites of the soup you both made together. “Now, I have an arrangement, a deal, if you agree to. I’ll give you bodies, if you teach me how to make them. After all, making them with someone you like, does make the food taste better.” She winked at you as you sipped on your drink. Almost choking you upon the deal. 

But you thought about it, you wouldn’t make any more body purchases and it would be cheaper. 

“I’ll also sweeten the deal for us, let’s make this our next date. I do want to know how you make those cute animal sandwiches.” Her smile was sweeter, sirening you into taking the deal. But, this is your favorite customer. So why the hell not. 

Getting upon the counter next to her, “Deal. Next week, at this time?” 

“Can’t wait, Sweetheart.” Leaning her shoulder onto yours. A cook and a hunter, making food together. 

[feli026]

Assigning every Graveborn a song or two (Part 1):

1) Igor

Necromancin Dancin is just full of undead chaos and evil whimsical energy, just like our tombstone jumping mosquito man :3c, while Vibrant Eyes can be seen as Igor struggling to repress the Graveborn energy during his early Graveborn life (failed to calm Cedartown residents' fear, accidentally scared his child friend by killing her bullies)

Typical Me by kroh can be a good replacement for Vibrant Eyes but I think Vibrant Eyes fits more (even though I don't listen to CG5 as much anymore aha... Anyways)

2) Viperian

Viperian gives off heavy Alastor vibes for me, he mass murder people with a permanent, sadistic smile, and also would act all nice to manipulate his victims (citation: the girl from Rat Infestation side quest). He is also the type of person who is so obsessed with human anatomy to the point he CRAVES to take a bite of it, therefore Butcher Vanity.

If it's not obvious enough I headcanon him as a cannibal. I don't know IT JUST MAKES SENSE IN MY HEAD

(Bonus song: I'm Sane by Axie. Literally this song is basically Viperian creating the Kraken /j)

3) Cecia

Cecia. A beautiful opera singer. An absolute queen that is egotistical, yet has a soft side of her that she doesn't show quite often. She often expresses her being above everyone else's, a noble to be respected (and maybe worship????) so yeah Pomegranate Lips comes to mind. Her design also reminds me of Alice Angel from Bendy, and since both of them are talented singers and are harsh and egotistical, I kinda see any Alice Angel songs as Ceciacore

4) Niru

Now Niru only has one song simply because THIS SONG PERFECTLY ENCAPSULATES HIS INSANE MIND and him slowly lost it when he touched the art of necromancy. "Now I must finish what I started" can be referred to him being executed when he got accused of failing his duty as a doctor. IT'S SO SO SO GOOD Y'ALL SHOULD LISTEN TO IT SHAYFER IS SO UNDERRATED

5) Thoran

Shoutout to an oomf of mine who recommended these two songs for me when I was dumping Thoran lore to them, Thoran building his Graveborn Empire and dealing with the devil Quaedam can be expressed by both these songs respectively

Andddd the list ends here for now! I'm sleepy and I have English as my last test tomorrow so I'm gonna eep++ find more songs to fit Ludovic and the others hehehehhe

[aquarichor]

TW for semi graphic depictions of cannibalistic behaviors!!

Butcher Vanity - Vane Lily, Jamie Paige, ricedeity

Toki was abandoned and left to fend for himself at a very young age. He has no real memory of his parents, if he was genetically modified, or if he was bred for any purpose. All he remembers is the howling pit in his stomach.

He’s… always hungry. Nothing satisfies his stomach. He’s learned to deal with it as he grew older, even if it got more difficult once he was taken to ANAKT Garden. His current guardian found him hunched over a dead body, gnawing flesh off the bone of the poor human soul who didn’t stand a chance against a starving thirteen-year-old. The alien that found him was put off by the crude sight, to say the least, but it persisted and took the child away.

Toki went down with a fight. He bit, clawed, and scratched at the alien who took him from his meal, only to be drugged and subdued, eventually put in a collar. His guardian made sure to put his cannibalistic tendencies on his file, so that he can be closely monitored around his classmates.

His start at ANAKT Garden was rocky, and he was incredibly rebellious. He would constantly get into fights, leaving the other person with bloody bite marks and deep scratches. This led to him being muzzled 24/7 and treated more like a misbehaving pet than any of the other human-pets. This is around the time he realized that he won’t get what he wants if he doesn’t behave.

It was also around the time he befriended Innamorati, another student in his class. A boy with light blue hair and royal blue eyes. Toki found him pretty, to say the least, but he liked him more because of his blind kindness. If Inna knew what Toki did, or what he does, he clearly doesn’t care and sees past it.

Inna has drawn things for Toki. He keeps all the drawings Inna gives him and puts them all over the walls next to his bed. He’s not allowed to have a roommate, nor is any student allowed to be alone in Toki’s room with him, so there’s no one to complain about him hanging up Inna’s art. (Inna doesn’t know Toki does this btw)

Inna also taught Toki how to dance, which is where he found his love for it. He loves dancing, even more so with Inna.

Issues start to arise once again whenever he becomes aware of Macbeth’s presence. Whenever he becomes aware of… everyone’s presence. He sees other people playing and interacting with Inna and can’t help but feel anger towards these people. Inna should have his eyes on Toki.

But Toki behaves. He decides to go the route of studying people. He studies Inna the most, obviously, but he also studies the people he talks to. He learns what makes them tick, what’s special to them, and their mannerisms. He learns to smile and entertain people to get as much information as possible. It even helps him get on the good side of his guardian and earn his label as a good pet. Once he knows enough about another person, he turns everyone onto them. He frames, backstabs, blackmails, and gaslights. (gaslight gatekeep girlboss yk)

His first victim was Macbeth, and now no one likes Macbeth. He knew a lot of people already didn’t like them very much, but the things Toki did to make Inna hate them was enough to get everyone to hate them. Toki sees the poor thing sit and sulk in a corner, closed off and ignoring anyone and everything. He feels no pity.

All he feels is his love for Inna, and the still, slow growing, pit in his stomach. Maybe Inna can satiate his hunger.

But maybe not… Rabbits aren’t meant to be predators, so he’ll continue playing prey.

☆

Other fun things to note!!

Toki is toxic as hell with so many red flags... Inna is colorblind /j

Cannibal!! ...willingly

Obsessive and possessive personality

Severe lack of empathy

Semi black and white thinking

Ridiculously manipulative

With his obsession over Inna, he can still have friends and does enjoy others' company, but he ultimately turns on them if they get in the way of him and Inna.

He would only let Inna have friends if they were friends with Toki, too

Toki's name means rabbit in Korean!! "토끼" "Tokki" (hehe there is a specific meaning for this :3)

Naturally pretty flexible, does a lot of stretching before bed and in the mornings. In a modern/actor au, he'd have a background of childhood gymnastics.

Sits in some really strange and compromising positions... (my little pretzel <3)

I make playlists for all my OCs across many fandoms, and Toki is no exception. His playlist is already done and it is here:

At the top of each lore post will be a song from the playlist that I feel fits the post :3

☆

Innamorati/Inna and Macbeth belong to @alien-til-i-stage !!! hii pookie :3

[afanofmanyships]

WTDS Iruma-kun! Prompt #1

tw: venting

———————————————————————————

I, 1,000%, believe that Iruma was a cannibal at one point because

AN’T!

NO!

WAY!

That this child just survived in that FOREST til his teen years unless he, IN EMERGENCY CASES, had eaten another human being!!

I DON’T BELIEVE THAT HE COULD’VE SURVIVED THAT LONG WITH HIS NEGLECTFUL PARENTS FORGETTING THAT HE EXISTS UNLESS THEY NEED HIM!

Bitch know how to kill, and DID, a BEAR at FOUR FUCKING YEARS OLD!!

Yeah you can say, uhh, stored rations and can go out to get more! But what if a storm happens and he stocked up and it lasts longer than expected. His stock runs out! The storm got heavier he go out! He starves and starves day after day, the storm is NOT letting up. It continues it mean streak, Iruma passes out from hunger and he continues to wake up and pass out from hunger for days maybe even weeks!

Iruma’s parents conveniently ‘remembered’ that their son is still out THERE in that TERRIBLE storm and that they, AS PARENTS, searched for days for ANY SIGN him only to catch a high fever. And only we’re strong enough to pick up the phone to call our kind neighbor’s to ask them to go search for their son *cough**cough**cough* and house him for them!! Oh~ you expected.

Where is he? He usually plays in the forest, he loves the forest so much that he set up a BLUE TENT so that he can sleepover with the animals! ISN’T THAT ADORABLE!! Yes yes! Thank you, so much we don’t know how to repay you! Oh~ you don’t want to be repaid and want to make sure that that little Irumy is okay!

They find Iruma.

Take him home.

Lays him in bed.

Heats up leftovers and cooks some food.

Starts running a bath.

Iruma wakes up.

He does not know any other human except his own parents.

He is feral and thinks like an animal.

They don’t know that they shouldn’t turn their backs to him.

Sees that Iruma is awake.

Goes to call Iruma parent’s.

The other is still cooking.

Iruma’s mom picks up.

All she hears are screams.

The other turns off the stove and rushes out of the kitchen to look for his roommate.

The other finds her on the ground.

Iruma stabs him in the back of the head and drags the knife down.

Iruma stabs him under the neck then dragged it down.

Iruma’s mom waits until it’s silent.

Iruma repeats the maneuver over and over.

Iruma starts stabbing the bodies over and over to make sure that they stayed down.

Iruma stops.

Iruma’s mom starts calling him over.

“Iruma~ Iruma~ Iruma~!”

Iruma looks over at the home phone.

He puts it up to his ear.

“Iruma~! Is that you baby~?”

“Mowmy.”

“Yes baby~?”

“Irumys hungwry.”

“Don’t worry darling~. There’s a bath running for your stinky self and~ plenty of ingredients for that fresh human meat you have with you~.”

Iruma let’s go of the home phone.

Iruma’s mom is still on the phone.

Iruma goes to were the water is running.

He turns off the faucet and gets in the tub.

Iruma’s mom waits until he comes back.

Iruma walks into the kitchen and walks out with a butcher knife.

Iruma’s mom hears his approach.

“Iruma~ Iruma~ Iruma~!”

He puts the phone near his ear.

“Uhm!”

“Now now Irumy~. Remember your manners~!”

“Irumys sorwy mowmy…”

Iruma’s mom sighs.

“It’s okay baby~. Mommy just wanted to remind you clean up EVERYTHING after you are done eating~! Then come home~! Okay baby~!”

“Yes mowmy! Okay mowmy!”

He leaves the phone and started cutting the ‘meat’.

Iruma goes to the kitchen to grab some bowls and ingredients.

He grab a few strainers then put the meat in and placed it in the sink.

He grabbed some pans and turns on the stove.

Iruma’s mom hangs up.

Iruma’s dad walks through the front door.

“Honey~ why are you smiling~? Did something good happen~?”

“Dearest,” turns excitedly to her husband, “I’ve won the bet~!”

She gets off the bed and helps her husband get out of his camouflage gear.

“Aww~,” her husband stomps playfully, “I for sure thought he’ll attack them in his natural habitat~!”

She laughs, “that’s what you get for challenging my knowledge on Iruma~!”

He frowns as his wife steps back from him.

“Yeah~. I really shouldn’t have~!”

“Now~,”

He looks up at his wife.

“-let’s talk about my reward~.”

She unties her robe revealing lacy underwear.

“Oh~”

She reps her arms around his neck and steps closer.

He begins kissing her passionately.

“Remember to wear a condom this time.”

He umf’s in conformation.

Right under their floor is a man who has family staying over. They were originally there to help him move out but then the storm hit. The reason for his move is because of the ‘family’ upstairs.

He was lucky that his family was watching a horror movie when the screams started.

There’s a knock on the door. On a normal day he would have answered. No matter the time of day. Especially if it’s Iruma at the door. When it’s a normal day, he would’ve brought Iruma in. Cooked up some food, tell him that he doesn’t need to apologize or do anything other than eat, bath, and sleep. But it’s not a normal day.

On storms like these. The ones that last more than a week. No matter if Iruma is at ‘home’ or in the forest. He will starve. His ‘parents’ like to made a game out of it. There’s another knock at the door.

It’s midnight and no one is expecting a package.

*knock* *knock*

“Iruma’s at the door,” the man thought as he closes his eyes, “I have to pretend to be asleep.”

*tap* *tap*

“He must be standing on the boxes I left out there,” the man thought. Even though there is a wall between him and the kitchen. He lays on the couch with his eyes closed.

*scratch* *scratch*

“Looks like he’s trying to get in,” he thinks, “it’s okay. Just pretend to be asleep and he won’t do anything.”

*click*

Iruma got the window unlocked, only to stop when the man’s neighbor opens their window. Sounds of a party exited and where there’s a party there’s food. He leaves the window and goes next door.

He knocks on the door. It was his neighbor’s mistake on opening it.

Thank god his family are deep sleepers, he thinks as a fell asleep.

What the man didn’t know is that he sometimes mutter his thoughts out loud and that it just stopped one of his family members from moving.

Master List

[thatfreakmythosmedia]

Book Title: Tender is the Flesh

Author: Agustina Bazterrica

Ranking: [4/10] ●●●●○○○○○○

TWs (DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT): cannibalism, gore, body horror, misogyny, sexual violence, physical/emotional abuse, dehumanization, child sexual abuse, animal abuse, homophobic slurs

A book review is not a substitute for reading the actual book. If you are interested, please purchase the book, read it yourself, and support the original author. This post will contain a non-spoiler and spoilered section. All criticism is made in good faith and is not an attack on the original author.

TLDR:

This book has a very blunt writing style, so it doesn’t hold back on the disturbing scenes. Also, the concept is very interesting, and it does play with some very interesting world-building. Due to the book being so fast-paced, it’s hard to keep track of all the characters and fully understand what’s happening. I also don’t feel as if it's characters and world-building are developed to their full potential. 

Though if you are willing to extend your disbelief and not think super hard, it’s a quick and interesting read for those with a strong stomach.

SPOILERS/LONGER REVIEW BELOW CUT

(Reader discretion is advised)

In this dystopian world, a disease has spread throughout the planet that has made all animal meat poisonous. It only spreads through animals, but it can easily kill a human. The government has killed off all animals and transitioned into breeding humans for meat. The timeline is rather confusing, because the disease only occurred a few decades ago; however, the author describes this world as if this has been reality for centuries? 

The story explores a man named Marcos who works for a meat processing plant, and how he has poorly adjusted to the world transitioning into eating human meat, his father having dementia, and his wife leaving him due to the death of their child. Soon, he is given a female head (a head is what they call humans made for meat) that he is meant to butcher, but he can’t seem to, and eventually falls in love with her. 

Marco clearly has stopped seeing humans as humans and sees all of them as just possible meat, but he’s honestly not a well written character. He’s just rather boring and the book can’t seem to decide how he is supposed to develop. 

However, everything fell apart for me when I got to the time skip. If you read the book, you would know. 

When I first heard about this book and started to read it, I was most interested in a few things, 1) how our main character slowly grows attached to this human head he is supposed to feed on, and how that changes his worldview 2) the world building. For me, both of those are rather disappointing. I find both of these are disappointing for me because of the writing style. 

The writing style is very blunt, which I can see turning some people off from this book. It doesn’t pull its punches. The sentences and chapters are generally very short, and it’s very fast-paced. However, because this book was not first written in English, it seems like the translation wasn’t very good. Some words are very strange and don’t always make sense. Due to the fast-paced nature of the writing, it can be a little hard to keep up with what is happening, as the author doesn’t give the reader much time to digest what’s happening before moving on to the next scene. 

Also, because almost every single important character in this book is a man, sometimes without names, it can make it hard to tell what character is saying or doing what, which makes it even harder to follow. Some chapters are only a page long, and I just have to wonder why the author thought she needed to cut it up? Sometimes the sudden short chapters sort of break the follow of the story and the immersion of what’s happening. 

There are a lot of brutal scenes in this book. As for world-building, it feels like the author is talking right to the reader to drop and explain the world, and not weaving it in naturally. I also feel as if the author is adding in new ideas to the story instead of expanding on the already interesting ideas she already has. Yes, it can help expand the world, but it mainly muddles down what is already there. I wish the author had focused on a few interesting parts of the plot and characterization instead of just adding in every new idea to the world she thought of. I wish it would focus on the main character and how he slowly grows to get attached to the head, how he becomes almost toxicly attached, and how this new woman affects his previous marriage. But the main character is just so nothing…There are a lot of scenes that I feel could have been cut, but I also feel that with another editor and 50 more pages, this book would immediately be improved 

This book plays with the definition of who in this world counts as a human, and, as I stated earlier, doesn’t hold back on the descriptions of what the factory workers and meat processors do. That’s because the author wants to draw comparisons with the actual meat industry, mainly the beef industry. Characters in the world often compare how they used to work with beef or how they had family who did, and how the process is similar. They use very similar terminology, like calling the person about to be slaughtered a “head”. Some characters hunt humans, and some do brutal experiments on humans; the author is not holding back on how deranged the people in this story are.

I, however, as an animal welfare activist/nature conservation student, will say that this theme does kind of fall apart. I personally never enjoyed this idea that if we as humans treat animals poorly, we could as easily treat fellow humans this way. While no, don’t twist my words, I don’t support the unethical treatment of animals, animals are not humans, and treating them the same will only do more harm to animals and humans. That is a different post, however, and I don’t have the energy to fully expand on that at the moment.

For the sick freaks, I’d say the most disturbing scene for me personally is a scene in which rich businessmen have just finished hunting humans and proceed to eat them. One of the humans they ate was a pregnant woman, and the other was a famous rock star who was hunted for having too much debt. In this dinner scene, they describe in great detail how the human meat is presented. One of the rich men eats the penis of the rock star, saying it improves his own sexual health? However, the paragraph that made me put down the book for a few minutes was a paragraph describing how one of the rich men raped a 14 year old trafficking victim to death, then procceed to eat her. I could feel myself going pale. 

Finally, the ending… is very controversial. After seeing a few other reviews online, it seems as if fellow readers either love the ending or hate it. I am personally in team hate. It doesn’t feel like the story comes to a satisfying conclusion. The story doesn’t finish; the book just stops. 

I’d say if what I said didn’t dissuade you, and you have a strong stomach, this book could be an interesting read for you. It’s rather short, only 200 pages, so it would be a quicker read. 

[eltheabberation]

Oc for @tokyoghoulartfight2024 :>

Finally got around to drawing this guy lol :> Not the greatest work of art, but it’ll do ig ;w; He technically wasn’t a tg oc but he started out as being part of a tg au that became so far removed from canon that it became it’s own thing and now he’s circled back around to being a tg oc :>

Details under the cut!

Name: Mason Leech

Nationality: American

Species: Human

Age: 25

Backstory: Originally grew up in a small town with a very high ghoul population, when he got older he became a butcher and started making a living by selling meat to ghouls who wanted to be more pacifistic or simply couldn’t hunt for themselves. He eventually moved to a larger city but got caught pretty quickly and had to flee. Repeat that cycle a few more times and he eventually made his way over to Japan which is where he’s set up shop by the time of tg.

Personality: Acts very friendly towards everyone he meets (so friendly in fact that most people find him unsettling), though in reality he only really cares about himself and how much of a profit he can turn. If he does end up caring about someone it will be in a very controlling and unhealthy way.

Other Information:

He supplies meat to both the Ghoul Restaurant and to Anteiku when their usual methods aren’t working

He sometimes hand out eyes wrapped like candy to ghoul children who come in

He engages in cannibalism, but he’ll usually only really eat whatever’s left over at the end of the day, since he doesn’t want to waste good meat that he could sell

I’d imagine he’s met Shuu, Touka, Hinami, and Kaneki before. He has a fairly positive relationship with Shuu (he likes having someone else to talk with about food) and Hinami (she reminds him of someone he knew back home), and a fairly negative one with Touka (he gives her the creeps). He’s only met Kaneki once, and finds him interesting

He’s a musical theatre fan

He keeps a poster of Angela Lansbury in his room

He doesn’t just sell human meat, his shop also just functions as a regular butcher’s shop so he sells normal meat too

I’m fine with almost everything, the only thing I’d ask is not to ship him with any minors.

If you have any questions, lmk! I’d be very happy to answer them :>