#Night shift abductor x reader puppet combo

[skmhlml]

Night shift Abductor x reader.

🥩 what’s worse the a cultist cannibal? A southern cultist cannibal. Take it from someone born and raised in peach Georgia- this man is crazy.

🥩 Despite his ominous and frightening exterior he doesn’t talk much, which often leads you (his victim) to wonder what’s gonna happen as the days protracted.

🥩 since he isn’t good with words, he shows his affection through actions. “Small” gestures like leaving food for you (possibly human), providing a blanket when you’re cold (since you're in a cage), bringing you a gift AKA a full still beating human heart, or even trying to keep the house cleaner for your comfort.

🥩 He enjoys sitting in silence with you, finding a strange comfort in your presence. His idea of love is twisted. He believes that causing you pain or fear is a way to show his devotion, thinking that by breaking you down, he can rebuild you to be entirely his.

🥩 develops habits like checking the locks multiple times or creating elaborate traps around the house (fucking bear traps), all in an effort to ensure “your safety”. This can sometimes be overbearing

🥩 He keeps detailed notes about your habits, preferences, and routines, ensuring he knows everything about you. His need to control and monitor you can be suffocating.

🥩 keeping you in a cage all day can be suffocating. But since it's too risky to let you outside he lets you watch the victims in backward under his supervision, the screaming for help coming from them isn't wonderful at least breathing normal clean air is.

🥩 He manipulates you psychologically, making you doubt your memories and sense of reality. This gaslighting ensures you remain compliant and reliant on him for guidance and support. Just shushing you when you get too rowdy.

🥩 If you disobey or try to escape, he doesn’t hesitate to punish you. These punishments can range from locking you in a dark room to more severe physical harm, all justified in his mind as necessary to keep you safe. If it happens a bit to often he will snap and cut off the limb.

🥩 He installs hidden cameras and microphones throughout the house to monitor your every move. Privacy becomes a distant memory, as he’s always watching, ensuring you don’t try to leave or contact the outside world.

🥩 He has dark, ritualistic behaviors that he forces you to participate in. These can be terrifying and disturbing, meant to bond you to him through shared trauma and fear. Or guiding you on how to chop up humans.

[erosmutt]

　★　Stay Out Of The House　⨟　H. Solo

⠀ ⠀ OVERVIEW.⠀── ⠀❝You'd think it would get tedious after this long, but it really hasn't. If anything, I'm more excited than ever. At some point, I went from dreading being caught to just accepting that I can't be.❞

﹙characters﹚︰ Han Solo as The Butcher, Chewie as The Dog

﹙pairing﹚︰ BUTCHER!Han x KIDNAPPED!Reader

﹙synopsis﹚︰ After being abducted in the dead of night, you find yourself in a cage, with your abductor looming above you. You first wonder why he kidnapped you, then wonder why he's deciding to keep you around. It's all fucked, you need to find a way to escape . . . but why would you escape when you've got a big, strong man willing to take care of you . . . even if he does slaughter people and turn them into a nice stew? Maybe, just maybe, you'll grow fond of playing house with this man. A twisted, depraved game of house.

﹙content warnings﹚︰ dubcon bordering on noncon, religious trauma, abduction, gore, dismemberment, cannibalism, sexism, misogyny, stockholm syndrome, threat of domestic violence, physical violence in the form of slapping, god complex, poorly mimicked shibari, vomiting, collaring, many petnames, husband/wife roleplay, unofficial wedding, forced submission, forced striptease, dry humping, boot worship, humiliation, hair pulling, oral (female and male receiving), skull fucking, rough sex, vaginal and anal penetration, marking in the form of hickeys, bite marks, and small cuts, breeding, pregnancy, near sacrifice.

﹙word count﹚︰ TBA by chapter.

﹙notes﹚︰ Based off of the game Stay Out Of The House by Puppet Combo. I've been losing my marbles playing Stay Out Of The House, the Butcher, I need him to smack me up with that hammer of his. Naturally, I saw a completely unrelated big mean man and thought of Han Solo! Enjoy!

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ EARLY FULL RELEASES ON MY PATREON.

♱ @102hannah ⋆ @addictedtohobi ⋆ @brooklynb8by ⋆ @darthrenswiftie ⋆ @speaknow-sw ⋆ @judasprieist ⋆ @lacebird ⋆ @schizo-toddhoward ⋆ @grymghoul ⋆ @ashley-slashley ♱ @zapernz ⋆ @jediavengers ⋆ @enchant5d ⋆ @trippyhippywitch ⋆ @valloos ⋆ @piastricentric ⋆ @gallerygourmet ⋆ @anakinsbbgirl ⋆ @ilovekmchenzie ⋆ @s1ck-skv1l ⋆ @offthethirlwall ⋆ @soleil825 ⋆ @loliskywalker ♱ @starlmbed ⋆ @slutforfinnickodair ⋆ @necromancerrrs ⋆ @theladykassia ⋆ @thesassypadawan ⋆ @cocobear18 ⋆ @anisangeldust ⋆ @fredswrite ⋆ @byunnue ⋆ @hellokittyyloverrrr ♱ @cherriies-snake ⋆ @haydenslittlegirl ⋆ @espinathena-17 ⋆ @fallout-girl219 ⋆ @xhunnybeeex ⋆ @radiantvader ⋆ @urmomsgirlfriend1 ⋆ @hayden-christensen-verse ⋆ @dreamygirli3 ⋆ @awhhayden ⋆ @haydenchristensenisbae

I try to keep up with who wants to be tagged in what, but please by all means, let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist for STAY OUT OF THE HOUSE ; HAN SOLO.

[skmhlml]

the butcher x fem!wife!reader, she's his accomplice, acts all hurt and lures people in, only for her big ass husband to rush out of the cornfields and bash their heads in. bonus points if they fuck while covered in blood. i want to write this myself but I'm a hayden christensen and star wars blog so it wouldn't get much traction lol, but I know you can do it justice!

The Butcher x Fem!Wife!Reader – Headcanons (SFW + NSFW)

🔪🚫 Warning: Graphic violence, blood, gore, toxic romance, sexual content, implied cannibalism, dark horror themes. Minors do not interact.

🪓 You met him when you were just as unhinged—a runaway with a taste for pain, desperation in your eyes, and not much else to your name. He found you trying to dig through his trash, looking for anything edible. Instead of bashing your skull in, he brought you inside and made you his.

🪓 You learned quickly how to survive. Your sweetness, your voice, your bruises—they became weapons. You walk barefoot through the fields, tear-streaked, limping, whispering for help until some poor soul follows you into the maze of corn.

🪓 That’s when he comes. A hulking shadow breaking through the stalks like a nightmare, apron already soaked in drying red. He doesn’t say a word—he just swings, and the field swallows another scream.

🪓 You laugh when it’s done. That dainty, delighted giggle of yours echoes through the blood-drenched rows. He grunts in satisfaction, dragging the fresh meat back to the shed. And you follow—his good little wife, all sunburned and barefoot, proud of another successful kill.

🪓 The townsfolk know something’s wrong. People disappear when they pass near the corn. But no one ever suspects you—the quiet woman with bruises on her neck and that big, distant husband who “doesn’t talk much.”

🪓 You love him in the sickest ways: cleaning his tools, soaking his shirt, licking your fingers when you taste the seasoning in the “special meat.” He doesn’t show affection with words. He shows it by keeping you fed, letting you sleep close, and giving you someone to hurt with.

🪓 The aftermath of a kill turns you both feral. The blood’s still warm on your skin when he grabs you, lifting you off your feet like you weigh nothing. He presses you against the inside wall of his ‘work’ room, hands sticky, mouth feral.

🪓 Flesh slaps against flesh, blood smearing between you both, matting your clothes and hair. His apron’s still on, your dress is torn, and he ruts into you like he’s possessed—grunting, breathing hard, leaving bruises you’ll proudly show off in the mirror later.

🪓 You whisper things to him while he’s inside you—sweet nothings and wicked promises. “You’re such a good boy, baby. You split his skull in one hit.” He growls when you praise him, fucking you harder, messier, grabbing your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

🪓 Sometimes, he doesn’t wait until the victim is dead. He’ll press you down right next to the fresh body, rutting into you while the blood pools under your knees. You moan louder just to drown out the dying gurgles.

🪓 He marks you with his bloodstained hands, spreading it over your chest, your thighs, your throat. And you do the same—painting him with streaks of red, biting his shoulder, leaving your teeth marks like a wedding band.

🪓 After it’s over, he always holds you for a minute. Just a minute. In silence. You both lie there in the dim room, the tools above your heads, corpses cooling nearby, and your heart still thumping from the thrill.

🪓 You’re the perfect bait. You know just how to tilt your head, how to cry just enough to look like you’ve been running for hours, how to stumble out of the field barefoot and bleeding—self-inflicted, of course. A little scratch across the stomach, a bruise on the cheek. You even let your lip swell when you bite it too hard.

🪓 People can’t help themselves. They approach. They fall for the helpless act. And right when their voice softens—“Are you okay? Do you need help?”—he’s already behind them.

🪓 The crunch of bone against hammer is almost sexual at this point. You flinch, sure. But it’s an excited kind of flinch. You gasp like it’s foreplay. And when the blood sprays across your chest, you lick it off your collarbone with a grin.

🪓 Afterward, you talk to the corpse. “You shouldn’t have come here,” you murmur as you squat beside the twitching limbs. “He gets jealous.” You stroke their hair as they bleed out, looking up at your man like he just gifted you a bouquet.

🪓 The Butcher is huge. You’re dwarfed by him, practically thrown around like a ragdoll when he gets into one of his post-kill highs. His body is thick with calloused muscle, meat-fed and brutal. His grip? Possessive. Bruising. Irresistible.

🪓 You whimper into his chest as he takes you right in the dirt. Your body rocks forward with each thrust, knees scraping against gravel, blood from the kill still warm on your thighs. He ruts into you like it’s instinct. No words. No love songs. Just raw need.

🪓 You’ve come to crave the terror in others’ eyes. It gets you wet, how they scream and beg, thinking you’re just a hostage—until you look at them with a tilted head and whisper, “He’s not going to stop. You should run faster.”

🪓 You and him don’t just kill. You hunt. You plan, you clean, you feast. There are rules: never leave witnesses, never kill kids (unless you’re hungry enough), and always save a piece for later.

🪓 private, he’s quiet. Gentle in a grotesque way. He brushes blood out of your hair with thick fingers. He bandages your wounds after a struggle. He even hums lowly when you fall asleep in his lap, surrounded by fresh meat.

[skmhlml]

NightShift Abductor x Reader (HC)

Note; slight sfw, unhealthy relationship, yandere (not necessarily abuse, but he hurts you so you can't get away.) PS: slowly getting into his character in a way that respects the characters and creators of the game.

Game; Stay out of the House (By; Puppet combo)

Wordcount:

He is much like Pyramid Head in a way but more empathy due to the placement of his mother. it makes some sense...he is not just a killer, but a follower, a worshiper, and a cultist.

(Copied of the wiki)- "Coupled with the total abandonment of his hometown due to economic decline, it was likely during this crisis of faith that he came into contact with an alternative religious group known as CFV, which had gained traction in the local area and ironically contributed to the mass exodus of small towns in the region on account of their twisted interpretation of the Bible."

And you...You weren't seen as a regular victim of the so-called god he worshipped but as a gift to the great undying loyalty he always gave to his god. a gift...someone just for him. That's how he saw you. And that's what you're going to be.

yeah sure- his home is as decrepit as the ruined buildings of the rest of town, with barricaded windows and doors, junk scattered all over the floor, rats running around, the walls covered in mold and paint peeling off. but no home is perfect, right?

The state of his mother, who appears to be partially decayed and the presence of the mutated baby also point to either him or 'his god' possessing the power of organic life manipulation, so even death can escape you from him, hell always comes back, be immortal, together forever...

-

He's a biter, a cannibal after all (I could make a real good joke about being eaten out but I haven't been that ruined yet. Human meat is tough by itself depending on age, health, and strength. That's why he bites so hard, so so hard. he draws blood and leaves it deep enough to get infected.

His victims are kept in squalor and are imprisoned in either large cages inside of his house or in the backyard inside two reutilized chicken coops in cells of six...

Usually killed right away or left to starve and then slaughtered, and you would have gone through the same fate if his mother, who seemed invisible to death, got sick. With a desperate plea to live, you hesitantly offered to take care of her with a sledgehammer only inches away to the back of your head.

Even if he could bring her back if she did die, taking care of her would save him the trouble of doing all that. Plus, he had 'work' and other victims to attend to.

His silent mother, as much to him, was grateful in her own way. You were smart enough to ignore the victims who so desperately cried out for help. As much as you wanted to, sometimes the only way of survival was to turn a blind eye...

After she got better, you were sure that your time was coming, though somehow, with silent communication between the two, you stayed. You didn't cause any problems or go against his mother at all while taking care of her, so in a way, you were useful.

That didn’t mean liberty, you were still a victim but just a long-term one. You weren't kept in a cage but you were still locked in a bedroom by the ‘NightShift abductor’, or for shorter, the ‘butcher’.

The only advantage you had was not being slaughtered. That and his mother liked the extra company of a more normal living person, one who she knew wouldn’t blow her brains out to escape.

Being a live victim meant you just had more cameras on you everywhere, want to take a filthy ass bath? BAM, camera. Changing? Camera. Other stuff…

📸😳

📷🤨

Freaky ahh…

But catching shit like that on camera for this 6,4 brainless, aggressive, monster of a man can make him question some stuff. Soon enough he doesn’t even notice the sledgehammer in his pants!

*Vine boom insert*

He’s a violent man with sick thoughts that would make the devil hurl…the thoughts about what he wants to do with you are ten times worse, he doesn’t know its wrong, he wasn’t molded into knowing his rights and wrongs only to give to his belived god.

If you had enough one day and ran off he wouldn't hesitate to run after you. Following the reacker he implanted into you while you were asleep. Grabbing your ankle and yanking it as you fell on the ground grabbing his sledgehammer and slamming it on your ankle, tears swelling in your eyes as you cried your lung out, to the point where it felt like there was blood in your throat.

He had no remorse for his actions as he dragged you back to his house while your wailed out. Dropping you on the ground and walked away, leaving you in agony.

[skmhlml]

The nightshift abductor x Reader

🪓 He doesn’t just snatch people randomly. Once he noticed you, he obsessively learned your schedule—memorizing when you leave work, which routes you take, and even what snacks you buy from the vending machine. He has an unnatural knack for knowing things about you he shouldn’t.

🪓 The way he moves is eerily quiet, almost like he’s floating. His footsteps are soundless, making him appear out of nowhere.

🪓 When he takes you, it’s impulsive. He may not be smart but he's strong and hefty. He throws your ass in the same cage he would with any other victim with the tv playing.

🪓 Your freedom isn’t taken all at once. He allows small movements and privileges, then abruptly revokes them for minor infractions to keep you on edge.

🪓 if you don't struggle for a few days and eat the mystery meat he gives you get more privileges.

🪓 His preferred method of control is silence. He’ll sit in the room with you for hours, staring, saying nothing. His stillness feels unnatural, almost inhuman.

🪓 His punishments are meticulously designed to prey on your specific fears. Afraid of the dark? He’ll lock you in a pitch-black room for hours. Claustrophobic? He’ll keep you in a tight space, whispering through the walls to remind you he’s still there.

🪓 he purposely breaks a bone or twitst your ankle just so you can't get away and he can take care of you longer, therefor your close and dependent on him.

🪓 He’ll deliberately drag objects across the floor or knock them against walls just to create noise in the otherwise deafening quiet. You can’t tell if it’s accidental or intentional, which only heightens the tension.

🪓 When he stares at you, it’s not just observation—it’s dissection. His unblinking gaze feels more like an autopsy than an interaction, as if he’s mapping your vulnerabilities.

🪓 The worst punishment isn’t physical—it’s when he abandons you in complete isolation for hours or even days. No light, no sound, no hint of his presence. When he eventually returns, you find yourself relieved, even though you hate him for it.

🪓 He has a disturbing fixation on your appearance. Every day, he meticulously brushes your hair or adjusts your clothing, his touch clinical yet invasive. You can’t tell if it’s affection or a way to dehumanize you further.

[skmhlml]

Hello!

I think the guy from stay out of the house is so cute! I love your fanfic that you made of him😭😫 so I was wondering if you could make a fanfic of like when you meet his mother or like just a little moment when he talks to us or just stares at us honesty I’ll take him what ever he does 😏

I got chu bbg, let me take care of you🍵

🔪 Okay, so you’re barely holding it together after being dragged into his creepy big ass house, getting ringing wars from the loud alarms and almost bleeding out because of the best traps for ‘your own safety’, and now you meet his mom…

🔪 His mom is giving off major “old horror movie villain” vibes. you feel her watching your every move, but you can’t tell if she hates you or if she’s weirdly proud her son brought someone home. “Oh, finally, a guest,” she’d say, with the creepiest smile.

🔪 There’s this awkward, suffocating tension in the air—his mom asks you questions like, “Do you like blood?” and “Are you a good cook?” (Ma’am, I’m a hostage not a house wife)

🔪 Imagine being in a dimly lit, dingy room, with the Butcher sitting across from you. He’s not saying a word, just staring at you. it’s not normal staring. it’s that intense, unsettling, you’re mine look. (freaky ah.)

🔪 You’d think it’s creepy (and, well, it is), but you can’t help but feel like he’s silently worshipping you, like his mind is filled with all the ways he’s going to keep you safe. His way of safe is terrifying…

🔪 Sometimes, when you catch him staring, you’ll nervously ask, “What are you thinking about?” and he won’t answer. The same weird, possessive look will remain on his face, but his breathing may become heavier, as if your presence overwhelms him.

🔪 You’d also catch him standing outside the door sometimes, just waiting. Not knocking or trying to come in. Just standing there. And the thought of him doing it for hours? Yeah, you kinda get chills, but at the same time, you wonder if he’s standing guard or just… obsessed.

🔪 You catch him watching you while you sleep. Not just from across the room, standing over your bed, so close you can feel his breath on your skin. He’ll stay like that for hours without blinking. Sometimes, he might whisper something low and unintelligible, like a twisted mantra only he understands.

🔪 Sometimes, he’ll just snatch your wrist. Not forcefully, but firmly, as if he’s reminding you that he’s right there. It’s his way of saying “Don’t forget about me” without having to say a word.

🔪 when you’re sitting together in this painful silence, he’ll reach out and touch your hair, just sort of running his fingers through it. It’s weirdly gentle like he’s afraid to hurt you.

🔪 If you even think of escaping, he knows. You don’t know how, but he always senses it. The first time you tried, he didn’t say a word—just caught you mid-act, his grip on your arm so tense it hurt. He hauled you back, hurled you into the dim room, in the human-sized cage, and locked the door. For days, you weren’t sure if he was going to let you eat or if you were going to make it out alive. But you did.

🔪 When he catches you hesitating or staring too long at the door, he’ll remind you what happens to those who leave him. He doesn’t have to say anything; a quick glance at his knife collection or the blood-stained rags in the corner does the talking for him.

[skmhlml]

hey......solike...... cohld you do ...... a butcher x m!reader ........ if u did nt already....... if u did can you do dylan miller.... x m!reader..... both are from pupoet combo..... bgw.....

The butcher x Male!Reader |General + NSFW |

Warning: NSFW, Noncon, Knifeplay, Gore, Dubcon, Yandere, Fearplay, Bloodplay, Size Kink, Horror Erotica, Monsterfucker, Twisted Aftercare

You lock up and flick off the neon sign, the empty street yawning ahead. The only sound is your own footstep echoing down the alley. A white van glides past your line of sight. Because of who it belongs to—The Butcher—you know you shouldn’t ignore it. Fear flares.

His van doesn’t stop… it waits.

You pause. Heart hammering.

Suddenly, from the van’s back, a hulking figure emerges: 6′7″ of rubber apron, burlap mask bound by rope, blood-splattered jeans. He stalks forward, hammer in hand.

CRACK!

Your senses black out as he knocks you into the back.

You regain consciousness in a damp, concrete-walled cellar. Chainsaws echo, a low growl somewhere beyond metal doors. You’re shirtless, chest heaving. Cold steel cuffs bite your wrists, chain rattling. Fetid air wraps around you—you hear distant dripping, a low mutter of voices, the sound of butcher’s knives clinking.

He stands in silhouette: muscular, looming. That burlap mask hides everything, but you feel his smile.

Over the following hours, your ordeal is systematic torture—physical, psychological, and brutally intense

He hums, whistling as he brings you scraps of meat, slaps them against the cage’s bars just beyond reach.

He dangles your clothes, pressing a heated coin to your skin before letting it cool. He drags cold blades across your chest—painful but superficial

In the next room, muffled screams— maybe other abductees. A chainsaw roars, a splatter of what sounds like meat hooking. The gutted smell drifts in

He dwarfs you—physically overwhelming, easily pinning you down with one massive palm on your chest.

His favorite position? Bent over the butcher table with your wrists chained to the meat hooks above, legs spread forcefully apart while he grinds up behind you like it’s a religious offering.

Before taking you, he performs bizarre cultic rites: paints your chest with animal blood, chants softly, and binds your wrists in leather.

There’s always a power dynamic—you’re not a lover to him; you’re a chosen vessel.

The more humiliated you sound, the more aggressive he gets—he gets off on breaking your spirit as much as your body.

He doesn’t just fuck—he marks. He runs blades across your body, leaving shallow cuts in intimate places as he watches your blood bead and drip.

After a particularly violent round, he might force you into his lap, rocking slowly and whispering in tongues while still buried in you.

He doesn’t always wait for you to be awake. He’ll take you while you’re sedated, relishing the helplessness of your unconscious body shifting beneath him, lying on your stomach like a little good boy.

Finishing inside you is non-negotiable. He believes in claiming you over and over until your body’s too stretched and used to belong to anyone else.

If The Father demands it, he will share you— force you onto your knees in the middle of a cult ceremony. But he always takes you first and last— you’re still his.

Jealousy flares after the ritual. Expect him to drag you back to the main house and fuck you hard and fast out of rage, reminding you who you belong to.

He treats oral as consumption. He’ll press your face against him like you’re some starving creature, growling.

It’s never gentle. He uses your mouth like it’s a tool— facefucking you until you gag, tears running, nose crushed into his groin, your throat sore for hours after.

He doesn’t ask. He drags you down by the hair, presses your face to his belt, ‘showing him how much you want to stay alive.’

Sometimes you’re forced to do it in front of others—cult ceremonies, where he uses you like a holy vessel. He’ll moan loudly just to shame you, thrusting down your throat while you sob on his cock.

He likes it when it drips out of your mouth. Sometimes he’ll let it collect on your chest, then push your head down to lap it back up.

The way he drops to his knees in front of you? It’s not romantic—it’s predatory. There’s no tenderness, no warning—just a growl, his fingers bruising your thighs as he spreads them and devours.

He doesn’t just suck—he moans into it, grinds his masked face against you like an animal marking its territory. It’s wet, obscene, messy—his spit drips down your balls, pooling on the floor as he slurps and groans like he’s in a feeding frenzy.

He calls it worship, but it’s really control. He makes eye contact while your cock’s shoved down his throat, masked face bobbing aggressively, then licking the mess off your inner thighs after.

The moment you cum? He keeps going—sucking you dry while you writhe, overstimulated and gasping.

On rare, freakish occasions, he becomes… almost reverent. He lays you out on the butcher table, muttering verses to his “Father,” and kisses the inside of your thighs like they’re sacred scripture. He wraps his arms around your hips and sinks down slowly, groaning like your taste is divine.

[skmhlml]

more with stay out of the house please its my sustenance 🙏🙏

keep up the great work!! 💕

Note: hey sorry! Haven't been on for a while, but let's get this started. 💕

🥩 what better way to start off the month of shamelessness then a stalker who is incredibly strong but can’t speak. Like a brainless hunk almost.

🥩 though mindless—he stalks his victims first, studies their patterns. But when he first lays eyes on you, working the graveyard shift at the dingy gas station, something snaps in him. You’re isolated, easy prey, but there’s something else—something that makes him hesitate instead of snatching you immediately. Instead, he watches. Watches how you sip cheap coffee to stay awake, how you lean against the counter in boredom, how you barely flinch when some drunk comes in looking for trouble. He knows then; you’re his.

🥩 He starts coming around more often— lurking just outside the glow of the gas station lights, hidden behind parked cars, watching you through the grimy windows. You'll feel a presence, a weight on your shoulders when you're alone outside by the dumpsters or locking up for the night.

🥩 Sometimes, you swear you hear heavy breathing nearby. Maybe even a glimpse of something in the darkness-bulky, masked, waiting.

🥩 The Abductor doesn't just want to take you—he wants to break you, to make you his before he even drags you to that filthy house. He starts messing with you: slashed tires so you're forced to call for help (but no one answers), the security cameras mysteriously cut, the store phone dead when you need it most. Then, the more personal touches start-bloody handprints smeared on the glass, a severed finger left near the back door, a Polaroid tucked into the cash register of your sleeping form (taken from inside your home).

🥩 the day you're taken, It's not quick. He makes sure you feel it. Maybe you find a dismembered body in the station bathroom, one of your regulars who had the misfortune of getting too close.

🥩 Maybe the power cuts out, and by the time you fumble for a flashlight, he's already inside, breathing heavily behind you. He lets you run, lets you taste that fleeting, hopeless sense of escape before his gloved hands wrap around your throat and squeeze. The last thing you see before blacking out is the gleam of his mask in the dark.

🥩 When you wake up, you're chained -cold concrete under you, along with a mattress, in a human-sized cage with TVs around it playing some religious culty show.

🥩 the air thick with rot.The Butcher's house is worse than a nightmare; blood-streaked walls, the muffled groans of other victims who weren't as "lucky" as you. You're different…He wants you. Loves you. That's why your restraints are just tight enough to bruise but not break. That's why you get fed when others rot.

🥩 He doesn't just want obedience-he wants devotion. Like his god. He's rough and cruel, but in his twisted mind, he thinks he's teaching you. If you scream too much, he carves his name into your thigh as a reminder.

🥩 If you try to run, he takes a finger slowly, savoring every second of your agony. But if you behave? If you finally whimper his name instead of begging for help? He's gentle in the way a wolf nuzzles its wounded prey before the kill. He'll cradle you, hold you against his bloodstained chest, shushing your sobs like a lover.

🥩 his mom…The moment she sees you, her rotting lips twist into something grotesquely close to a smile. Her yellowed, broken teeth glisten with spit, and she lets out this wheezy, gurgling laugh that sounds like something bubbling up from a corpse's throat. "Ohh, my baby boy…finally brought home a girl," she croons, her voice a whispering rasp. "Told you, I told you! You ain't gonna die alone, no sir!"

🥩 She adores you in the most twisted way possible. To her, you're not a victim-you're family now. A perfect little bride for her boy. And if you try to escape? If you so much as look at the basement door with longing? Her frail body shakes with fury, her claw-like hands curling around the arms of her wheelchair as she shrieks, her voice raw and ragged; "No! NO! You don't leave my boy! No, no, no!"

🥩 She calls for him when you misbehave.

The moment you make a move to flee, she starts wailing like a banshee, a sound so shrill and unnatural that it rattles your skull. And he always hears her. Always comes running. You think her body is frail, that she's too weak to be a threat? Wrong. She doesn't need to chase you-she only needs to scream. And the moment she does, he is there.

🥩 She laughs when he punishes you.

Watches from the corner of the room, her eyes glittering with sick pride as he drags you back, bloodied and broken. "Atta boy," she coos, rocking slightly in her chair. "Gotta teach her, gotta make her love you properly. Women need discipline, son. She'll come round."

🥩 the canabiles, obviously. When you refuse to eat, she takes it personally. "Don't you like my cookin', darlin'?" Her voice is all innocence, but there's something vicious underneath. If you push the plate away, she grabs your wrist with a strength that shouldn't exist in her brittle fingers. "Eat." And if you don't? He force-feeds you. Raw meat, blood-soaked stew, things you don't even want to name.

🥩 In some ways, she's worse than him. The Abductor is cruel, violent, obsessive, but his mother? She's patient. She wants you to love her-to see her as your new mother, to sit at her feet like a dutiful daughter while she combs her skeletal fingers through your hair. She whispers horrors into your ear, stories of past girls, of what happens when you try to run too many times. "He made a rug outta the last one," she murmurs, grinning as you shudder. "But you? You're different. You're special."

🥩 She wants grandchildren. The thought of her "sweet boy" keeping you all to himself, making sure you stay forever fills her with insane joy. "Gotta keep the family going," she cackles. "Ain't no legacy without a strong woman 'round. And you, darlin'? You're gonna make a mighty fine mama."

🥩 "Ain't nobody out there who'll love you like we do, sugar. The world's a cruel place, full of men who'll use ya and throw ya away. But here? You're safe. You're home. My boy'll take good care of you. Forever."

[skmhlml]

i love your sooth stuff, i get really exited when i see a new post! my personal headcanon is that the butcher would want to get married (in his own kind of way) and maybe you could writing something about this?

Note: Yes! Yes! Yes! Don’t make many one-shots but you’re gonna love it! Reader is GN, either way your wearing a dress😈

The NightShift Abductor x Reader

“A Marriage in Blood”

You don’t remember how long you’ve been here.

The house breathes with you, its walls rotting, sagging, whispering secrets through the vents. The air is thick with the scent of old meat and copper, heavy enough to stick to your skin no matter how hard you scrub. You used to cry every night, clawing at the walls, screaming until your throat bled. Now, you just listen to the rattling breaths from the room down the hall.

His mother.

She is more dead than alive, slouched in that rusted wheelchair, her lips smeared red, her breath slow and syrupy. She doesn’t speak to you, only watches with milky, unblinking eyes. You aren’t a guest. You aren’t family. You aren’t food—at least, not yet. You are something else.

And then there’s him.

The Butcher.

Your captor. Your keeper. The one who looms over you in the dark, who drags you by the wrist when you try to run, who forces scraps of unknown origin into your hands when you’re too weak to protest. He does not speak, but you can hear him. The way his breath hitches when you flinch. The weight of his stare pressing into your skull when you turn your back. The slow, deliberate way he wipes the blood from his hands after… after whatever he does in that room at the end of the hall.

You thought, at first, that he kept you here for the same reason as the others. The ones whose faces are now unrecognizable, their suffering reduced to stains on the floor. But you’ve been here too long. And something is changing.

The first sign comes with a gift.

A dress, if you can call it that. It’s crudely stitched together—fabric that doesn’t match, pieces of clothing that once belonged to others, dyed dark with age and filth. He presents it to you without a word, standing still as stone as he holds it out. You don’t want to take it. But you do. You always do.

You hold it up, staring at the mismatched seams, the jagged cuts, the way the fabric sticks together in places with something darker than thread.

He watches.

You swallow hard and glance up at him. His mask is as expressionless as ever, but his hands… his hands twitch slightly, as if waiting. Expecting.

Something sinks in your gut.

This isn’t just a gift.

This is a preparation.

The second sign comes when he takes your hand.

It happens at the dinner table—or what passes for it. His mother gurgles quietly from her chair, her head tilting unnaturally as she chews. The Butcher sits across from you, watching. You don’t eat. You learned long ago not to.

And then, his fingers wrap around yours.

You freeze.

His grip is firm, rough, calloused from the work he does. He doesn’t pull away. He just… holds it. Like a statement. A claim.

His mother lets out a wheezing laugh, wet and gurgling.

Your stomach twists.

You wake up bound.

Your wrists tied behind your back, your legs useless beneath you. The air smells of rust and rot, thick and suffocating. The room is unfamiliar—stone walls, flickering candlelight. The sound of dripping.

He stands before you.

The Butcher.

A table sits between you, an altar stained dark, something ancient and hungry carved into the surface. A knife gleams in his hand.

Your breathing is ragged, shallow. Your body shakes. You’ve seen this before. You know what comes next.

But he doesn’t touch your throat.

He kneels. Grabs your ankle.

Your stomach lurches.

“No—”

It’s the first word you’ve spoken in days. Weeks. You’re not sure.

He doesn’t react. He presses your leg down against the table. Holds the knife to your skin.

You thrash. Scream. Beg.

He doesn’t stop.

The blade bites deep.

The pain is immediate and all-consuming. It sears up your leg, through your spine, rattling in your skull. You feel the crack of bone, the wet tear of muscle, the gush of warmth spilling onto the floor. You wail, voice breaking into raw, animalistic sounds.

And he—he holds you through it. A steadying presence as he saws, as he cuts, as he takes a piece of you away.

When it’s over, when your body is wracked with convulsions, when your screams have died into broken sobs, he lifts your severed ankle in his hands.

And he presents it.

To the altar. To the carved-out maw in the stone.

A gift. A sacrifice. An offering.

For his god.

For you.

Your vision blurs. The world sways. Blood pools beneath you. He kneels again, pressing something against your wound—cloth, thick and scratchy, already damp.

Your body trembles violently. You can barely keep your head up.

And then, gently—so gently—he touches your face.

You flinch, but his fingers are careful. Reverent. He wipes the sweat from your brow, strokes along your jaw.

You are his now.

And this was your wedding.

[skmhlml]

hii :3 i know you just did one but can i pleaseee have another SOOTH one :3 your writing is really good ^.^ thanks! <3 i love your stuff sm

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒇𝒕 𝑨𝒃𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

Note: Let’s top this off for once with some SFW!

🥩 He’s obsessed with routine—he knows exactly when your shift starts and ends, watching from the shadows of the gas station. He likes to toy with you, leaving small signs that he’s been there, like moved objects or a faintly smudged handprint on the glass door.

🥩 Even when he doesn’t actively make a move, you can feel him watching. The sensation of eyes boring into your back becomes familiar, but there’s a strange comfort in knowing it’s him.

🥩 If anyone lingers around you too long at the station, expect the poor soul to mysteriously vanish after your shift—he’s not fond of competition. In his mind, he’s protecting you from the dangers of the night. If you ever seem scared or distressed, he lingers closer, making sure nothing (and no one) threatens you… except him.

🥩 He likes to corner you in the dimly lit stockroom, hand pressed against the wall, breath hot against your neck—there’s a thrill in making you feel trapped.

🥩 Expect a lot of teasing and edging; he enjoys seeing you squirm, begging for him to let go of that iron control. He’s a man who takes his time, savoring every reaction.

🥩 His hands may be calloused and demanding, but there’s an almost reverent way he touches you—as if he can’t believe you’re real, his own dangerous little secret.

🥩 He likes to make you run—maybe not far, but enough to get your adrenaline pumping before he catches you. The thrill of the hunt makes the inevitable outcome all the sweeter.

🥩 Bruises, bite marks, and handprints—he doesn’t hide his desire to leave evidence of himself on your skin, a reminder of who you belong to long after the night is over.

🥩 The cage is a punishment, yes, but more than that, it’s a reminder: you’re his, and any attempt to defy him comes with consequences.

🥩 He doesn’t immediately approach. No, that would be too easy. Instead, he circles the cage, boots heavy against the cold concrete, dragging out the anticipation. You can feel his eyes on you—burning, predatory.

🥩 When he finally kneels beside the cage, the proximity is suffocating. He’s so close, but the bars keep you separated—almost. His fingers slip through the gaps, brushing your cheek, tracing down your neck, knowing you can’t recoil. The fact that you’re trapped, exposed, and utterly at his mercy seems to arouse him even more.

🥩 The punishment isn’t about pain; it’s about control. He toys with you, keeping you on the edge of desperation. He might reach through the bars, fingertips barely grazing sensitive skin, but never giving you what you need. When you beg, he only smirks, telling you that begging is exactly what he wanted—and that you’ll have to do better than that.

🥩 The more you resist, the longer he makes you suffer. He enjoys watching you squirm, watching frustration build into desperation until you’re practically pleading, telling him you’ll be good, that you’ve learned your lesson. Only when he’s certain you’re completely broken—mind and body—does he finally unlock the cage, dragging you out like his personal plaything, and rewarding your submission in ways that leave you breathless, shaking, and marked as his.