#a starved man cannot control his hunger

[inkstainedheartbeats]

His parents aren’t coming back. Which is probably a good thing, Steve think looking out the window of a somehow still intact Family Video. They gave him his trust from his grandparents, gave him the college fund he never used but thinks he might once Vecna is put in the ground once and for all, and fled the state. Might have even fled the country. The house is his. It his. He can do whatever he wants! Steve turns, looks at the person unfortunate enough to work with him today, which isn’t Robin, she’s back in school and taking notes for Eddie. Keith looks at him with wide as he starts to vibrate.

“I can have pets now!”

“Cool?” Keith manages to reply after a long pause. Steve doesn’t blame him. They aren’t exactly friendly, him and Keith. But Steve gave him some well meaning tips that landed Keith with a girlfriend so they have a truce.

“There’s no one to complain about the smell or the hair or having to buy food for them. It’s just me. I can have a pet. What should I get first?”

The last bit is more thinking out load than actually talking.

“I like fish. If you want I can probably get you a starter tank? Rennie has rats.”

Steve blinks.

“Rats?”

Keith nods, launching into a ramble that Robin would be proud of. Clearly parroting what his girlfriend had told him about the animals she has chosen as her favorite. Only stopping when a customer comes in. It’s the most animated and… frankly normal, Steve has ever seen him.

“And fish?”

That gets him going until Steve has to leave. Keith’s still there when he gets back, already clocked out and ready to continue where he left of. Robin gives him a wide eyed look as she rushes to clock in.

“So what’s this about?”

“Harrington is considering getting a pet.”

After Keith gets done talking Robin starts talking about her preferred pet. To the surprise of no one who has had to listen to her rabies talk it’s not cats or dogs but rabbits.

Steve leaves that day with Keith promising to bring him a twenty gallon tank to start with and some tetras along with some reading, Steve had shot Robin a desperate look at that, from Rene.

[sai-int]

nosferatu is abt to be my number 1 hear me out. man said “you are my affliction” “i cannot be sated without you” “i am an appetite, nothing more” HELLO?????

thinking about toxic!ex!simon.....

The banging on the door is relentless, a pounding that vibrates through the frame and straight into your chest. It’s raining so hard that it sounds like the sky itself is cracking open, drowning out his muffled voice on the other side. But you hear him anyway, broken and raw. “Let me in. For fuck’s sake, please let me in.”

Your stomach twists. You don’t want to see him. You shouldn’t see him. But your hand moves to the lock on instinct, and when you open the door, the sight of him makes your breath catch.

Simon is on the edge of ruin. Rain streaks down his face, plastering his hoodie to his skin, his hair curling and dripping. His mask is gone, leaving him exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. His eyes—wild, bloodshot, hollow—meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you says a word. He's on the verge of self-destruction.

Then, before you can speak, he collapses to his knees.

It’s not graceful. It’s not controlled. It’s desperate. His body hits the ground with a thud, his palms catching against the threshold like they’re the only thing holding him together. You take a step back, expecting him to get up, to say something sharp or clipped, but he doesn’t. He leans forward, and...

He crawls.

He crawls inside like a wounded mutt, breathing ragged and uneven. His massive hands dragging against the floor until they find your legs. You try to move back, but he follows, until his forehead is pressed to your stomach, his massive frame trembling as he clutches at you. His fingers dig into your hips, holding onto you like he's drowning, his head tilting back to look up at you.

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens. “Don’t,” he growls, the sound guttural, primal. The look in his eyes is feral—something broken and starving and so goddamn human it makes your heart ache.

“Y'don’t get it,” he spits, his voice trembling. “I can't be sated without ya, love, don’t y'see? You’re in me. You’re fuckin' inside me, and no matter what I do, I can’t tear y'out.”

He buries his face against you again, messily planting his lips against any ounce of skin open to worship. “I’ll fuckin' beg. I’ll get on m'knees—between y'thighs—every night if I have to. Just—don’t leave me again. Please. I’ll fuckin' die without you.”

You inhale sharply, your hands hovering at your sides as his shoulders shake. The rain drips from him, pooling on your floor, but he doesn’t care. He clutches at you tighter, his voice dropping into something dark and guttural. “I'm an appetite, nothing more. I was made to need ya, to crave ya. And I can’t—” His voice cracks, and he presses his face harder into you, his breath hot and ragged through his sobs. “I can’t fuckin' live without you, baby—please.”

You should push him away, should tell him to leave, but instead, you stand frozen, overwhelmed by the storm of him—the raw hunger, the consuming despair, the way he folds himself into you, desperate to make himself whole again. He’s feral, ruined, a shadow of himself, and all of it is for you.

How could you deny him?

[star-fandoms]

I for sure cannot be the only one that’s talked about this, but every kiss with Zayne has been so passionate and hungry and filled with so much longing! Like, I’ve heard people say that the newest kiss is hungry, and it is, but literally I think all of his kisses have been so hungry, or at least the majority! And it’s so funny to read fanfics that don’t show that hunger, that man is starved and he loses control when it comes to you. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, like you’re his last meal, like you’re his source of life, and honestly, to him you probably are

[milkfordragons]

How Hannibal Loves vs. How Will Loves

Where one is nourished, the other aches.

Hannibal’s love for Will, when not threatened by the loss of control, is something delicate, brutal in its delicacy, yes, but still tender. He holds Will as one holds a thing of rare beauty, a treasure to be admired, adorned, sometimes with the gentle violence of his own scars. Will is not simply a man to Hannibal. He is art, the most beautiful among all beautiful things, something to be looked at, something precious. Will can wound him, shatter him, break him beyond recognition, and still, Hannibal cannot bring himself to hate him. He cannot even be truly angry.

In another life, in another world, one without blood and hunger, Hannibal would watch Will as he sleeps, or as he does something mundane, with quiet reverence. The sight of him would be nourishment, a sweetness that satiates the soul as milk satiates a newborn. Love, to Hannibal, is something to be savored, something to be held still in time and admired forever.

But Will’s love for Hannibal is something else entirely. If Hannibal’s love is milk, Will’s is liquor: inebriating, intoxicating, draining. It pulls at his sanity, leaves him starved, hollow. Hannibal is an endless well of violent delights, and Will drinks deeply, knowing that no matter how much he takes, it will never be enough. His heart is a vast and cavernous thing, like the womb of the universe, an emptiness that only expands the more it is filled. And so, love for Will is an ache, a hunger that cannot be satisfied. In another life, a life untouched by survival, Will would hold Hannibal too tightly, would press himself against him as if to dissolve into his very bones. Are you real? he would ask, over and over again. And if you are, let me live inside your ribcage.

And so, in the end, Hannibal would crave to die looking at Will, surrendering himself into that final, peaceful oblivion with the last sight of his ultimate beauty. And Will would crave to die in Hannibal’s arms, cradled by the only thing he has ever longed to belong to.

[crimsondinnerparty]

Hannibal, the Cannibal, and the Man Who Made Him Starve

Hannibal Lecter’s entire identity is built on the concept of consumption—of others, of experiences, of power. He devours not just bodies, but lives, souls, and control. It’s what makes him so terrifying: he doesn’t just kill, he consumes his victims in the most profound and intimate way possible. They become part of him, swallowed whole, stripped of their humanity and reformed into his idea of *art*. Hannibal is the **ultimate predator**, and his hunger is insatiable.

But then, Will Graham enters his life, and Hannibal finds himself faced with something he cannot consume. Will Graham isn’t a regular target. He isn’t a piece of art, nor is he someone easily twisted into Hannibal’s vision of humanity. Will is the **mirror**, the one person who sees through Hannibal completely, who resists his manipulation. Will is the exception, and he refuses to be devoured.

The Hunger Begins:-

In Season 1, Hannibal’s interest in Will is almost clinical. He observes Will’s brilliant mind, his sensitivity, his vulnerability, but never truly considers Will as a human being—he sees him more like a **specimen**, someone who could potentially be shaped, remade, or “eaten” in a different sense. He begins to teach Will, **grooming him to be his equal**, but without ever understanding that in doing so, he’s planting the seeds of his own undoing.

Hannibal, used to controlling everything around him, begins to lose that control with Will. He sees Will’s intellect, but more importantly, he sees Will’s ability to feel—to empathize, to understand emotions. Hannibal, who is all about mastering emotions, finds this fascinating, but it’s also something he can’t control. This fascination is the beginning of his hunger, and it’s a hunger that doesn’t easily satiate.

The First Taste of Loss:-

In Season 2, Hannibal’s obsession with Will grows deeper, more personal. It’s no longer just about seeing Will as an extension of his artistic project—Hannibal starts to care. He starts to want Will not just as an intellectual equal, but as someone who can understand him, someone who can *see him* for who he truly is.

But as much as Hannibal desires Will, he also underestimates him. He assumes that he can bend Will to his will—that through manipulation, gaslighting, and a constant game of cat-and-mouse, he can force Will to accept what he’s offering. This plan, however, begins to unravel when Will starts to question his own emotions, his own identity, and his connection to Hannibal. The reversal of roles becomes clear—Will begins to mirror Hannibal’s behavior, pulling Hannibal into his own psychological game.

Hannibal’s first taste of loss comes when Will betrays him. It’s not just an intellectual defeat—it’s personal. The idea that someone he loves could actively turn against him hits Hannibal in a place he’s never acknowledged: his own vulnerability. Will has not only rejected him, but he’s also gone behind his back, actively working against him. For someone like Hannibal, this is a blow to his ego, and the consequences of this loss are more profound than just losing Will.

Self-Denial: The Starvation:-

By the time we reach *Mizumono*, Hannibal is in agony—not just because of Will’s betrayal, but because of the profound emptiness that betrayal leaves behind. He has Will physically within his grasp, but he can’t consume him. Will has already betrayed him, and Hannibal has lost the one person who could have truly understood him.

In this moment, Hannibal chooses to starve.

He doesn’t eat.

He doesn’t kill Will.

And it’s not because he doesn’t want to—Hannibal has never avoided a kill. He’s never been afraid to

The Paradox of Hunger: Control vs. Surrender:-

Hannibal’s relationship with hunger and consumption in relation to Will becomes a paradox. On one hand, he wants to devour Will, to make him his own —to consume him wholly, both mentally and physically. But on the other hand, he wants Will to choose him. He wants Will to surrender, to fall into his arms, to see the world through Hannibal's eyes. He needs Will’s choice, not his subjugation.

This is the starvation that plagues Hannibal—he doesn’t just need to eat Will, he needs Will to give himself freely. Without that, Hannibal is left wanting, unsure of himself for the first time. For someone who prides himself on total control, Will’s rejection and betrayal leaves him in a state of hunger that can’t be easily filled by anything else. He isn’t just starving for Will’s body; he’s starving for Will’s soul, for the deep connection that he thought was within his grasp, but ultimately, Will has pulled away from him.

Final Thoughts: The Longing Never Ends:-

By the end of Mizumono, Hannibal's choice not to kill Will—or, even more telling, to let Will survive his betrayal—marks the culmination of his hunger. He doesn’t just want Will because he’s interesting or because he’s a challenge. No, Will becomes the one thing Hannibal cannot control, the one person who has the power to reject him completely. And that in itself becomes Hannibal’s addiction.

Hannibal doesn’t just eat people—he remakes them. But with Will, he finds himself starved, powerless, and completely consumed by his desire to have Will choose him.

The man who devours lives finds himself starving for the one person who refuses to be consumed—and for Hannibal, that’s the most excruciating fate of all.

[kortac-sweetheart]

😭 Simon Riley the man that you are, I'd cook so much for him, he'd never go hungry anywhere I reside, he's the sharp edged goblet containing our sweet honey mead self, holding and reveling in the luxury and indulging in the comfort, soft and warm and safe safe safe, oh to hold his face in my hands, look him in his lovely fish eyes and kiss his face, he'll have so much good food to eat if I have a damn thing to say about it, no more starving 💕💕💕 -Simp anon

YEAHHHH!!!!! i’m a guy that loves to eat well, i know what i want to eat and i love to share food as well it’s one of my love languages and ofc that extends to simon too

god, simon that suffered from food scarcity when he was younger, and now you— you’re just so eager to feed him. to make sure that he’s cared for and full and happy and never left wanting, hungry on your watch.

can u imagine it, simon who becomes a gourmand when he’s retired from active duty. when he’s finally able to enjoy all the delicious food he couldn’t when on deployment or younger, it’s like those “what i eat in a day” youtube shorts where all the food looks delicious. well, it might be more like “what my darling boyfriend eats in a day” and everyone is either oohing and awwing over the food or they’re asking about the built tank-of-a-man that’s your boyfriend.

(big homemade protein breakfast of egg omelette, hashbrowns, sausage, fresh berries, hot coffee etc, takes you to a renowned dim sum place for lunch, and a quaint italian spot known for their gnocchi for dinner, and don’t forget about visiting those picturesque cafes with him either. anybody that sees your “wieiad” shorts are always questioning how simon can afford all of this, to which—you’ll never spill.)

and even if he’s eating well now he never forgets his roots, never forgets that gnawing feeling of going to bed on an empty stomach, hunger so intense he can feel it clawing in his throat— therefore he’s always grateful for whatever food he’s having, always finishing it even if he doesn’t like it (and even then he doesn’t have very intense dislikes of anything, he’s just grateful to eat). and if you’ve cooked a meal for him you can rest assured he’s giving you an appreciative kiss before and after eating and he’s washing the dishes too, no if ands or buts about it .

i got sidetracked lol this was initially abt body image issues, but! this mindset also extends to how he loves your body too.

it’s very simple to him. a full figure = well fed, and therefore he must be doing something right.

(ik he would HATE my habit of intermittent fasting 20-4 hours and only having black coffee for breakfast, he’d absolutely hate it 😭 sorry si)

like sure, he kinda gets why you’re insecure about it but he doesn’t get it all the same. even more so if it’s about things you can’t directly control, like hip dips or facial structure. he loves holding your hips and staring at your face, when he sees you it’s like his vision blooms in roses and sparkles and pink and you’re the only thing that matters. (because to him you are.)

he helps you chisel away at it. knows intimately well that problems and insecurities cannot be surmounted in a single day, and alone. so he holds your hand through it, good days and bad— when you’re twirling in the new outfit he got you or pointedly avoiding reflective surfaces, he loves you through it all the same.

[hannibals-grahamcracker]

Hannibal for the headcanons!

Omg Serri hiiiii!!

Okay so my headcanons for Hannibal:

A: realistic.

Hannibal doesn't particularly care about sex until he and Will are officially together. He's always used it as a manipulation tactic, a way for him to get ahead, and with the men he's been with in the past (because let's be realistic, that man couldn't give less of a fuck about his sexual partners' gender or sex), he's always taken the role of the top because it's the role others naturally assume for him, and what better way to get ahead and lower suspicion than by playing into the role someone already thinks you play? Will changes this, because Will is focused on both of their pleasure (most of the time—he does sometimes have a sadistic streak and we love him for it), he doesn't assume anything about Hannibal's sexual habits. Hannibal actually enjoys sex with Will; he doesn't have to play into a preconceived notion of how he's supposed to act and it's one of the areas of life in which he's learned to let go and give over his control to Will. The first time Will initiated anything sexual, Hannibal found it shockingly easy to let him have control. Turns out he quite likes being a bottom. Who knew? (All of us, we all knew.)

B: maybe not realistic but funny.

We know that Hannibal doesn't like Will's aftershave and thinks it's atrocious. My proposal to you is that he does like it (because it smells like Will and I'm delusional), and his little quip about Will wearing bad aftershave was to save face because he had a slip up and refuses to admit that smelling Will was weird. He needed an excuse and by god, that man commits to the bit. He is nothing if not dedicated.

C: heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends.

Hannibal obviously has deep-seated trauma regarding his sister and what happened to her, although he refuses to admit it. In the show, he says he ate her to forgive her. I headcanon that the reality of the situation is that they were held hostage by Soviet deserters (closer to his original backstory and also because his childhood would have been spent in Soviet occupied Lithuania), who starved both he and Mischa, then proceeded to take her from him, kill her, and eat her. He convinces himself that he made the choice to eat her instead of being delirious from hunger and illness and being forcibly fed her remains via soup. He knows this isn't true, but it's something he can't admit to himself, because that would mean that his entire philosophy on cannibalism as forgiveness and honor/love is flawed, and that he was at a point in his life not in control of the world around him. When he got away, he aimlessly wandered through the blizzard raging outside before being found and taken in, then rightfully returned to the custody of his uncle. As an adult, he learned to cope with his loss and his fear of harsh winters. Until the fall. Both he and Will obviously suffered damages in the fall; Hannibal suffers from a mild to moderate traumatic brain injury and has to learn to cope with this. He no longer has as much control over his mental barriers and therefore cannot reasonably keep certain doors closed in his mind palace. No matter how much he managed to convince himself otherwise before, he remembers what actually happened to him every time it snows more than a few inches. He insists that Will can't go out during snow storms, under the guise of it being unwise because they're on the run and if he gets stuck in the storm and someone recognizes him, they may as well be dead. The one time Will does leave, he returns home to find Hannibal nearly catatonic, unable to speak more than a few words in his native language. Will has obviously noticed changes in Hannibal's personality, especially his ability to hide his emotions, but he's so shaken by this that he refuses to leave Hannibal alone if it so much as flurries.

D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it.

Post-fall, Hannibal is basically a glorified housewife. He cooks, cleans, and looks pretty for Will, and it's his greatest pleasure in life. He buys anything Will wants, and does whatever is asked of him simply because he can.

[fumifooms]

The ultimate dogboy in Dunmeshi to me isn’t Laios, Lycion or even Kuro. It’s Mickbell.

Little dog man’s never had enough. Little dog man has someone in his hands already but it’s not all that he’s wanted and craved. He’s hungered for so long and now he doesn’t know what can quench it. When you’ve been hungry, once you have something it’s hard to not binge eat it because you never know when you’ll lose it. He wants more from them, more of them, more to chew, more safely locked within his teeth, more to taste on his tongue. Hungry greedy unkempt misbehaved. I think he loves like a dog I think he slobbers and digs his teeth in because he doesn’t want to let his bone go and he’s hungry and starved.

And he’s not like Laios he’s not like Kuro he’s not like Lycion, calling him a dog in any way would be the greatest offense to him but also it’s true. Sorry. Dogboy against your consent. You better be ready to unpack a lot of stuff you don’t like hearing about yourself!!!! The unwilling dogboy analogies are the most interesting ones get out Laios and Lycion. Mick doesn’t want to be a dog, it’s dehumanizing, demeaning, but he is, he loves like a dog.

Feeling dehumanized and demeaned by loving so much, by being walked on a leash by your feelings until your body acts on instinct like it’s primal and animalistic, for feelings you cannot control, and you’re drooling you’re drooling you’re clawing teeth snapping but you’re on hands and knees begging for scraps and treats. Just a dog picking up crumbs of a fine meal from where it’s dropped on the floor, affection from coerced hands, peanuts of self-esteem from judging others, anything to soothe while surviving.

It will come back by Hozier save me. "I love like a dog" and everyone is unhappy about this, it’s too much for everyone involved, 10/10. Dunmeshi animalistic metaphors you never miss. Stray dog mick. If I don’t use a dog motif in my mick fics it’s not me someone is impersonating me

This was my train of thought for the mickbell & kuro web weaving i made a while ago I guess. Dog imagery mickbell you will always get to me…

Little dog man wants a white picket fence family and house, somewhere someone to belong to :( Okay that’s more Kuro actually, happy to just have his little kennel day after day just following his owner, shackling yourself for the love. Ough.

Mickbell, my ultimate dogboy... He plays the part so well (derogatory)

Coughing blood

[internetskiff]

The parallels in Ultrakill between Life and the Afterlife, man.. The Machines aren't unlike Hell Itself. Both are beings of insatiable hunger. Both experience unending boredom. Both yearn for violence as a relief from it all, and both spread their influence like a cancer upon everything. Perhaps this is why Hell almost seems to welcome machines deeper into itself. Not only are they entertaining - their cruelty inspires it, or whoever carves the demons that are at it's disposal. Both were created by the hands of another, a once superior being they have surpassed and outlived. Perhaps it sees them as kindred. Sees them as something symbiotic, both alike in purpose - to enact violence on those trapped within itself. Both could stand eternal together - after all, plenty of blood to go around, plenty of meat for the grinder, no? Does it realize they'll just keep feeding until there's nothing left? Does it think it can stop them? Does it want to be wiped clean? If it hungers, is it afraid to die? The machines certainly are. This whole crusade is about delaying the inevitable. As long as there is a Machine left standing in Hell, it is fated to run dry. All that would be left is an empty carcass filled with nothing but monuments to cruelty, frozen in time forever with no audience left to appraise them.

Angels, meanwhile, are not so different from humanity in their ways. From what little we know of them, they, too, are full of arrogance and hubris just like humanity, that built the machine that devoured it's creator and went on to devour itself. Hell seems to be the cause of Heaven's fracture. It is the root of the Father's guilt. It's creation set His eventual disappearance in motion. It snuffed the fire out, directly or indirectly. And without guidance, Heaven split and began to consume itself in cruel war. The only thing that kept Heaven from sharing Earth's fate is the Council, that took advantage of the chaos and swiftly took control and unified the Angels once again. But that doesn't mean they put a stop to Heaven's cruelty - in fact, I'd argue they only stoked the flame, kept those beneath them complacent through fear. But at least Heaven regained structure, though it seems like it's a mere shell of what it used to be. The Father is gone. They follow an echo, a memory - or perhaps simply a lie. Still, it's a necessary lie, no? An almost noble one? It's not, of course, at most it's a lesser evil compared to the inferno of warfare, but is there really any other alternative? When Gabriel slaughtered them and showed the rest of Heaven their weakness, did he really do what was right? Heaven had no hand to guide them anymore. It was severed. All that's left is a bloodied stump. How long will it take before the rot spreads, before Heaven erupts into warfare once more? Gabriel can't stop it - he'll be dead soon. If he - one of the most respected and revered angels in the highest ranks - cannot stop the chaos, who can? There's no one left. No one will trust the empty promises of order ever again, seeing how easy it is to destroy.

The world will eat itself out of existence. This is the only way it should end. There is no other way it could end. It's all too far gone. What would be left would either starve and join it's brethren in stillness, or eviscerate itself in one final act of violence. No final words. No concluding statement. No point. Perfect closure.

[chris-continues]

Maybe another idea if u would like :P

What if Vash or Nai get into a big fight and is loosing a dangerous amount blood, maybe the reader could offer help?

What if Nai turned feral because he hasn't been drinking enough blood because of how much he hates wolfwoods blood?

OH HO HO FERAL NAI HHEEHEHEEH U KNOW ME SO WELLLL LUNE MWAHAHAHAHAH

ahem.

*straightens out papers* shall we begin?

Suggestive?? But not really- Nai is hot and cold (when is he not tbh) pining (do we know if it’s mutual? OOoOo) (the header is lowk satire but also not)

TW: blood, biting (although that’s expected so)

TAGS: @lune010 @vashfantasy @coffinbeananteiku

“You, with your kind words and wonderful laugh, and Nai hates, loathes you even. Do you taste as sweet as you act?”

Nai hated having no sense of control.

Control was what he craved, every second of the day. The hedges in front of the manor were to be trimmed in this exact manner, the books organized in their usual fashion, and his collar straightened out just the way he liked.

His urges, feeding- that was one thing he could not control.

While Vash found it plenty fine to feed from an undertaker such as the human he’d welcomed into their home once a week to feed, Nai turned up his nose plenty times at said offering. It wasn’t like anyone was clamoring for him anyway- all of said visitors only came for Vash’s company, bright smiles and joyous laughs. He was so pathetic in that way, pleasing them as if his company wasn’t enough.

Hmph.

Well, aside from their usual visits, now he had you. You resided in the castle amongst them, entertaining Vash with your feeble presence and conversation- tending and assisting wherever and looking into the library whenever.

How did you plan to pay them back? You couldn’t just live here for free. You cleaning up every now and then didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, as servants tended to such matters all the time, clamoring to his feet as head of household.

The minute Vash had offered some of Nicholas’ blood to him, he adamantly refused. The man reeked of cigarette smoke and musk from outside, and the scowl he’d been giving him was returned in full.

His hunger continued to grow.

Vash could tell- the chew of his lip constantly, his slight jumpiness to his straight dazed state on occasion- he was losing control.

Slipping.

Vash truly believes his cravat being tucked slightly to his dislike would drive Nai wild, minuscule irks seeming to irritate him to no end, even more so than before.

And that’s where you come in.

Sweet and attentive, truly just wanting to help- he hopes Nai has taken more of a liking to you than Nico. Would you be preferable to him? He truly doesn’t know, but he’s hoping for the best. Seeing his brother starve before him isn’t something he finds enjoyable, worrying him greatly into the hours of day and night.

When Vash proposes the idea, a hand gesturing to you in a flourish (as if marketing a new product), Knives’ eyebrows furrow further in rejection of the idea.

“Absolutely not.”

Depending on you? A human? Knives’ supply of blood began to run low awhile ago, the dwindling amount that had gone to 0 fluid ounces a known fact that he had tried to lock away in the recesses of his mind- as he did with every other issue.

“They just want to help, and you do need the blood.. it’s either them or Nico, Nai.” Vash’s voice is patient, as it always is, but he can detect a hint of pleading.

And he supposes you’re a bit less insufferable than Nicholas, and your neck is exposed revealing any moles or freckles or-

No. No. He cannot accept. No.

The smell of you is intoxicating. The way you saunter from one room to the next, cheeky comments and, god.

Vash doesn’t comment on his refusal over the next few days. But by god does he note the antsy habits of Nai starting to kick in. Drumming his fingers against the hard cover of a book or his mahogany desk in the study, his study, where you sat now with one of his books.

“I apologize- Vash handed it to me as a recommendation.” Which you’d found strange, considering he wasn’t one for literature, unlike Nai, who found comfort in the world of reading often.

His face was unreadable. Eyes set on the book in your hands, forearms resting on it as it lay on your lap, silence thick and swimming in the room.

“Uh, here you go..?” You stood up, chair moving back as you rested the book onto his desk. Your wrist was so close, he could grab it and take a bite if he really wanted to. Your outstretched wrist was practically dangling before him, and before you knew it a large hand clasped around your wrist and tugged you closer, your hip bumping into the front of his desk as he brought your pulse point to his lips.

The thrumming of it was routine, he noted silently, flow of blood felt against his lips as he takes it in, snowy eyelashes fluttering closed in temporary relief. From your point of view? He was absolutely ethereal, comparable to a seraph with his angelic appearance. He’d always been painstakingly beautiful, and unbelievably cold, but for some reason his touch felt.. warm. Well, as warm as he could be.

“…May I?” His eyes open in questioning up at you, and despite the fact you’re towering over him as of currently (as he’s still seated in his plush armchair), he still exudes some sort of power.

At least he’s trying to.

“May you what? Hold my wrist?” A breathy chuckle escapes you, a huff leaving his lips. You can feel it on your skin.

He speaks as if he’s exposing some inside joke you should’ve gotten by now, “Feed from you.” His voice is uncharacteristically small to its usual commanding tone- it’s quite the change of pace, adding onto the surprise striking you. He doesn’t miss how you swallow thickly, he can hear it. Doesn’t miss how your heart picks up, he can feel it,

He doesn’t miss how you nod, hesitance evident in your mannerisms yet he pauses once more, “Pull up your chair. It’s better when you sit.” He instructs curtly.

Had he fed from many people before? Vash never disclosed such details with you, but the thought still crosses your mind as you sit back in your chair, scooting it closed until your knees bump into the wood and your elbows rest comfortably on the surface of his desk. His fingers clasp around your wrist again, lips meeting with an unexpected tenderness as he.. kissed your pulse point.

The rhythm of it is almost soothing, the motion almost too sweet. Maybe he’s being considerate for once and preparing you for the pain, you think, as he checks for your reaction once more. Pecks meet your wrist once more, your palm grazing his cheek as he wonders what you’d taste like.

And he was just beginning to satiate that need as his fangs dug into your skin, the initial bruising soreness nothing as painful as you’d imagined. In fact, you’d studied from the books in the castle’s library that high class vampires had the ability to calm who they fed from, injecting some sort of substance to momentarily comfort their prey.

Although strangely, you didn’t feel like prey. Rather, he worshipped you in some strange way, even with him continuing to suck greedily on your arm, you could feel the blood leaving you but the needy grip on your wrist was telling.

He needed this.

His other hand came up to grip your arm, holding you still. As if you’d pull away. It didn’t truly hurt besides the starting sting of the bite, which had faded into a dull ache by now. His thumb was against the back of your hand, stroking the skin. Perhaps it was in hopes to coax more blood out of you? Or maybe do you wouldn’t attempt to struggle, to writhe in pain and try to hide away? There was the idea he was being loving, but that most definitely wasn’t true. Not with him. He clearly held a distinct bitterness for most, and that included you. Sadly.

But as he pulled away, slight daze in his gaze as he looked up before you… with his lips stained cherry, tongue laving at the wound in hopes to get one last taste- the sight alone caused your breath to hitch in your throat. An understandable reaction, you’d say.

He forced himself away, curling back into himself and laying in his armchair. “..you’re free to go now.”

“Ah. Yeah.” You respond curtly, having no true idea on what to say.

The minute the door to his study closed shut behind your person, his eyes closed as his hand covered his brow bone, tongue running against his teeth and lips to taste the remnants of you.

You were a nuisance, remaining in his study and conscience even when you weren’t truly present.

The next time hunger strikes him, it’s around a week later.

Vampires are supposed to feed multiple times per week to sustain themselves- how Nai had managed to curve that hunger for so long was either through status or sheer willpower and determination.

Hunger hides for nobody though, as one night you find neat stationary underneath your chamber door. A black wax seal is pressed into the parchment, the initials, K.M. , in rich lettering engraved into what must be a seal stamp in one of his fine desk drawers. The parchment is thick and rich beneath your fingers- even his letters were extravagant, his neat handwriting detailing:

Arrive at my study tonight, 6:45 o’clock.

-Knives

How informative of him. No hi, hello, or perhaps even a basic explanation as to why, but Knives was above the formality of a simple greeting, pfft. With a roll of your eyes, you focus on the letter once more. Hm. His signature was rather elegant, swooping K ending with a sleek S.

It suited him.

Being punctual was something Knives appreciated, your timid form knocking at the double doors of his study, knuckles hesitantly knocking.

“Come in.” He sounded almost.. bored, (although that was far from the truth), fang prickling his tongue in preparation for what was to come. His trenchcoat and outerwear had been hung neatly on the coat rack beside his desk, cravat a bit looser around his neck as if he had been trying to destress.

You seated yourself before him like last time.

“..any reason why you requested my presence?”

It had occurred to you a long time ago Knives loathed explaining himself or his behaviors, believing he could go about as he pleased. To an extent? That was true. But he couldn’t just summon you and not have any sound reason.

His eyes darted to the side before settling onto you once more, eyeing you wearily. “..your blood.” He muttered, hand crossing over his chest and sighing.

…you waited for further elaboration, but clearly none was to come.

“You.. you need to feed again?”

“Yes, I need to feed again.” He exhaled in exasperation, “Is your offer still on the table?” It was amusing how depraved he must be, and it entertained you until at the end of his retort you caught a glimpse of his fangs peeking from his lips once more. He was clearly annoyed with you, but something else seemed to irk him moreso than his usual pissy self.

It was probably just the hunger talking.

Scooting your chair forward, you allowed your knees to bump the front of his desk once more, extending a hand silently in waiting.

“Close your eyes,” he muttered, moving his lips to your skin. His breath cascaded upon you, leaving you to quietly savor and relish in each ministration. Do vampires have the ability to do such magic? To entrance whoever they feed upon? If they do, Knives’ surely must be strong.

He’s a high class vampire, one of his kind, so it truly only makes sense.

Your eyes flutter closed at his command, awaiting a bite that doesn’t come. Instead, he continues to kiss your wrist once again.

But he doesn’t stop.

Plush lips laying chaste kiss upon kiss up your forearm, hand holding your wrist before moving to encapsulate your smaller fingers in his as he twirls..

Closer to you now. His footsteps are practically silent, as terrifying as that may be it only thrills you. His palm on your shoulder is the first solid touch you feel aside from his hand holding yours, breath shaky as he takes you in.

His nose nudges your jaw, free hand laid upon your collarbone. Each sensation astounds you, coalescing and building upon one another and leaving your mind in a heavy fog alike to the smog surrounding the manor.

Hands cool against your quickening heartbeat, he barely has the patience to feel it with his hands, then lips, then his fangs.

His proximity is intoxicating. Almost pressed against you, he can hear and feel your chest below his hands as your breath hitches from his teeth digging into you. You flood his senses like no other, it’s a nuisance, truly, and this is the only way he can subdue it.

With his fangs hitched into your neck and him relishing in the slight gasp you give, pulse quickening with a silent hum of his lips.

A depraved, guttural groan leaves him as he holds you by the junction between your shoulders and clavicle. Thoughts of you have been running rampant in his mind for what feels like an eternity, painstakingly on loop in his mind constantly- with you holding him closer, as if you.. enjoy this.

That thought alone twists something within him as he forces himself to pull away, a few stray drops of blood dripping down his chin and dirtying his cravat.

“You.. you are dismissed.” He cooly disgregards you-

You and the split crack in his composure you cause in your wake, as he loosens his cravat around his neck once more, desire thickening. It’s soon to become palpable, as your presence in the castle is more apparent.

[evita-shelby]

Strawberries and Cream

I have been visited by the smut fairy and this is pure filth

No minors 🔞

Cw: mentions of past substance and alcohol abuse, some truama, unhealthy coping mechanisms, inappropriate use of strawberries, outdoor sex, cunnilingus, p and v sex, cum eating, food play(i think?)

Gif by @violaobanion

Inspired by this post by @zablife

Jack x eva taglist: @justrainandcoffee @thegreatdragonfruta @emotionalcadaver

1916

Instead of her aunt in Mexico City, it had been decided that Eva must be sent to her Uncle in New York.

At 20 years old she is a wanted terrorist in two countries, but one is willing to forget all she did against them in exchange for money.

The witch has not been the same since the last of her siblings died. She began to hate wearing color, developed an unhealthy attachment to Francisco’s fiancée and coped with her terrible luck with booze and drugs.

She was clean now, only did those last three things recreationally, but black has become her favorite color.

It is out of place here in a brunch hosted by her aunt for a business associate and his stepson.

Kennedy and his 22-year-old stepson were from South Boston, involved in some illicit businesses with her uncles while swimming in riches thanks to the legal ones.

Kennedy was upper class, a failed politician who controlled his party like a modern Kingmaker and would leave it all to the young man devouring a strawberry like she knows he’d devour her pussy.

He is not what they call lace-curtain Irish like the man seated beside him. John ‘Jack’ Nelson had grown up poor, born to a widow and a man plagued with visions of his own death, he knew hunger, cold and that sometimes what you must do is take the weapon in your hands and make sure you don’t miss.

She wants him.

But she cannot let him know that yet. No, right now, she is to make him feel like he’s losing his shot as he ignores the men talking business and her aunt asking him about his studies in Harvard.

The witch wants nothing more than to put his skills to the test.

Once the men leave to resume business, Eva puts her scheme into motion.

Sunbathing in gardens away from prying eyes and where he will come to in his boredom. He may be the heir to Patrick’s fortune, but he is still not privy to all the older man’s secrets. He said he’d go on a walk in hopes of finding her and find her he shall.

Her aunt is away taking care of something or the other with her younger children, Eva’s eschewed the corslet under her dress because the infinite number of hooks are not sexy and she is sure her lace panties are soaked by now.

She lays on the picnic blanket, a naughty book in her hand and the other brings the juicy red strawberries she eats and discards with a performance whores would envy. The witch hates being wasteful and the stickiness of the stems and juice on her bare thighs, her chin and even the perfectly calculated line from her bottom lip to the valley of her unrestrained tits would invite bugs sooner than later, but it’s worth it.

Jack grins when she spreads herself to show him the promised land. Her invitation couldn’t be any clearer and the rising star of Boston is joining her on the blanket faster than mercury.

“So wasteful, some people are starving and you’re here leaving them half-eaten.” He plucked a half-eaten strawberry from her thigh and finished it as he knelt between her legs.

“I recall you leaving a few half-eaten earlier.” The witch tossed her book aside and pulled the burly man by his shirt up to her face.

He tasted of whiskey and cigar smoke and strawberries as he took the hint and began to kiss her like there’s no tomorrow. Jack followed that trail of juice down her chin, her neck and pulled the top of her sundress to reveal her tits.

Jack buried his face into her breasts and wasted no time in leaving a love bite on the underside of her breast. He’ll leave her covered in hard to explain marks by the time he leaves.

“Bet your pussy tastes like strawberries, doll.” One hand bunched up her skirt and the other kneads the breast he hadn’t been servicing with his proud mouth.

“Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Nelson?” the witch ran her hand through his now disheveled hair as he went lower and lower until he reached his goal. She doesn’t mean to pull his hair when he kissed and bit her inner thigh as he set down to business, but the groan vibrating through her cunt has her pull harder to make him do it again.

She wants him. Not just for today, she wants him to be hers forever.

If anyone heard or saw this, they’d be forced to marry to cover up the scandal.

And yet the sounds he has her make, the vulgar sound of him eating her out spurs him on. Eva can bet he’s hard as oak underneath those trousers of his.

As the witch cries out louder and louder as he goes deeper with his fingers and tongue making her buck against his face, she knows she can live with that.

The gangster doesn’t stop finger fucking her even after he’s lapped up all of her cum, no, he wants more just as badly as she does.

Jack kisses her, savors the taste of her pussy along with her like the gentleman his stepfather wants him to be.

“I think, “ Eva’s barely recovered the ability to say more than his name and with a smirk she tells him exactly what she wants from him. “ I think I prefer strawberries with cream.”

“Your wish is my command, Mrs. Nelson.” If they’re already going to end up doing the time might as well do the crime.

The witch leans back on her elbows and enjoys the show as he undid the buttons on her trousers and sprung free from its confines. It’s hard, already sporting some pre-cum at the head and ,if Jack hadn’t prepared her, the witch would say it looked like it would hurt.

“I want them to hear in their office how good I fuck you, how much of a whore you are for daddy. Ignoring me all morning and now they’ll see how you’re begging me to fill you up with a bastard.” His words contrast how he takes his caution to keep from hurting her, she knows it won’t take long for him to jackhammer into her and have her forget who she is.

“Is that a threat, daddy.” She used to find that type of sexual play odd and strange, but it spurs him on to hear her call him that. And who knows, Eva may end up making him a real daddy after this.

That thing of his doesn’t look like it’s capable of missing it’s mark.

“Not a threat, doll, a promise.” He punctuates his words by throwing her leg still sticky with strawberry juice over his shoulder and making her see stars with this new angle.

Jack could ask her to kill the president with a shoestring and she’d agree if he kept hitting that sweet spot inside her while playing with her clit.

They are sticky with sweat and strawberries when he comes with her name in his demonic mouth. A harsh kiss as he settles beside her and the hand on her clit leaving it to grab one of the remaining strawberries in the porcelain bowl and rubbing the fruit where his creamy seed spills from inside her.

They laugh in between kisses and she greedily consumes the cum covered fruit with a moan.

She wants to do this every day for the rest of her life, and she tells him so as they lay there fucked out and as good as married.

“Give me a second and I’ll make sure they have no choice but to get us hitched.” Jack pulled her to her side and chased the taste of his own cum as a prelude for what was to come.

Its to no one’s surprise that Miss Eva Smith is pregnant when she walks down the aisle wearing white like a virgin.

[milkfordragons]

On Hannibal Lecter's Frozen Heart. Tell me when you hear my heart stop, you're the only one that knows.

Is it fair to say that Hannibal loved Mischa? A child’s affection may be pure, but it is immature, untested, lacking the depth of experience. It is often conditional, fluctuating with the small emotional scale of youth. What makes more sense is to say that Hannibal loved the imago of Mischa, the idea he created of her. It is easy to love something that died before it could hurt you, before it could break your heart and test the true limits of your unconditionality. Mischa was the one thing in his life that required no struggle to love, no effort to understand. As her older brother, she likely idolized him, and in that, he found comfort. But Mischa is not Hannibal’s true first love. Love, as he describes it, is a force of nature, an entity beyond rationalization or control.

Hannibal claims that he ate Mischa to forgive her for making him betray himself. But this is not an act of divine absolution, nor an assertion of dominance. It is delusion. It is a fragile narrative constructed to hold his fractured psyche together. The truth is simpler, more human: he ate her out of shock, out of trauma. He was a child who had just experienced an unimaginable horror, and in that abyss of grief and hunger, he consumed the last remnant of what he had lost. The idea that he could, at such a young age, rationalize this act as a philosophical exercise, "I love you, and your existence made me vulnerable, therefore I will consume you to absolve us both" is absurd (unless he came to that conclusion later*). This is not the mind of a god, but the defense mechanism of a broken boy.

Hannibal does this often, twisting reality into something more palatable, more controllable. His mind, though dazzling, is held together by little more than spit, not even glue. For all its intricacy, it is fragile. And what is fragility if not the unwillingness to face truth? He can endure physical torture without screaming, but at the first taste of true emotional pain, he collapses inward. He tried to kill Will not because Will betrayed him, but because Hannibal felt affection for him. He risked everything for Will, long before he ever had to. That is not the reaction of a man in control. That is the reaction of someone shattered at their core, a child who never healed, who buried his heart so deep within his own mind that even he cannot reach it.

But love, as he puts it, is a force. And that force came in the shape of Will Graham. Will, without realizing, reached into the frozen well of Hannibal’s heart with a sharp blade and left a gaping wound, a hand-shaped burn engraved upon it. Hannibal is capable of love, but only in the way that a starving man is capable of devouring a meal. He does not love with gentleness, but with desperation. His heart, abandoned after Mischa’s death, was left to wither. Starving, yearning, ravenous. Only someone with an emptiness just as vast, a hunger just as profound, could awaken in him the capacity to love again. Will Graham, who embodies a lack of love so deep it is almost a void, became the only vessel worthy of receiving Hannibal’s devotion. Hannibal needed to fill him, to pour into him every starving impulse he had suppressed for decades, not out of malice, but out of sheer, visceral starvation.

Hannibal is capable of care and affection, as we've seen. And he is capable of loving. But is Will? * If that was never his thought process in the moment, but a later construction, an intellectualization born from the need to shape his own history into something he could live with, Hannibal is still a master of self-mythologizing, and this is perhaps his grandest illusion. The truth, raw, unfiltered truth, would be much harder to accept. Because to admit that it was not a conscious decision, not a deliberate act of absolution, but rather the response of a terrified, grief-stricken, and starving child, would shatter his carefully curated sense of self.

To say, I ate her to forgive her is poetic, grandiose...it transforms an act of desperation into an act of power. But to say, I ate her because I didn’t know what else to do, because I was afraid, because I was lost, because I was just a child who couldn’t comprehend the enormity of what had happened, that is something Hannibal Lecter could never allow himself to believe. It would mean admitting that something did happen to him, that he is not the godlike, self-created entity he claims to be. And so, as with all the wounds he refuses to acknowledge, he seals this one with a story, one where he was not weak, not helpless, but merely enacting some grand metaphysical truth.

But beneath the myth, the reality lingers. Mischa was not consumed as a philosophical statement. She was consumed in fear, in grief, in an unbearable solitude that Hannibal has spent his entire life trying to outrun.

[fearhims3lf]

TIMING: A few weeks ago

PARTIES: @amonstrousdream @fearhims3lf

SUMMARY: Leila finds out who the mare was that haunted Cass.

WARNINGS: None

The Abstract was the place mares wandered next to beings of ethereal quality, picking out meals through glimpses into the physical realm. Mateo had never ventured much farther than that, knowing and respecting there are some boundaries that cannot be crossed and should not be tested. Besides, his hunger was in need of sating and that was his first priority.

“Hmm…” Mateo rocked back and forth on his feet, shaking his head at the brief glimpses of a potential meal. Not enough ingredients, he thought. He wanted more. “Maybe the next one,” Mateo muttered to himself, eyes still stuck to the preview as he began to move on. He bumped into a stranger, almost irritated until he caught a glimpse of how pretty she was. “Oh damn–my bad, ma.” Shuffling to the side, he smiled, tilting his head curiously. “Never seen you here before. Who are you?”

The Astral was one of the few places where Leila really did feel like a ghost. Mares were nothing but whisps of shadow flitting from place to place, following the sugary scent of dreams wherever it led them. For a long time, she had never really paid attention to the place. By the time she had become ethereal and gone hunting for a meal, she was absolutely starving. Metzli had put a stop to that. Nightmares had become more of a regular thing- a necessary evil in order to keep surviving. Without the blindness that came with hunger, she could meander freely and see more than just her next meal. 

Which was important. Especially now that Cass was being tormented by someone. Now, the astral was a place where she stood vigil as well. Leila could still remember the nights of terror that slowly drained the life from her, and she wouldn’t let that happen to their kid… Well, no, not theirs… She and Metzli were just looking out for and taking care of the girl. But she wouldn’t let anyone else hurt her. Neither of them would. 

She was trying not to let the intoxicating smell of dreams drag her away from her post. But little by little, she strayed, dreamy eyed and lost in the astral. Until someone bumped into her and sent her mind reeling back to attention. A man. A mare. And friendly, surprisingly… Leila stared for a moment, surprise making itself evident on her face. She’d never encountered another mare in the Astral before… “Sorry, it was my fault. I should have watched where I was going… I’ve never seen anyone else in here before. My name’s Leila.”

“Nah, fam. You’re good.” Giving his best charming smile, Mateo looked Leila up and down, pocketing his hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mateo.” His eyes wandered to the ethereal space around them, and he shrugged. Leila wasn’t the first person he’d run into.

Hell, Inge was the first to stumble into him his first week in Wicked’s Rest, though he wasn’t even sure she resided in the town. She very well could be in a neighboring town, or even state, but only time would tell. Mateo was on a subtle search, waiting for her familiar face to pop up. Until then, all he could do was be on the lookout.

“Wait.” Mateo took a step back, surprised. “You really never seen anyone else? Shit, you’re probably the second homie I’ve run into since I moved to town.”

Fam. A younger mare by the sound of it. But it did beg the question of if mares were, in fact, some strange family by way of the dust that ran through their veins. Leila hadn’t ever had cause to question it- but now, after meeting several of her own kind in the span of what felt like a blink in her life, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Er- no… not until coming to Wicked’s Rest, at least. And in the Astral, not once, not ever.” Her fingers wound and pulled themselves together, a modicum of control that brought her a little peace. If her fate was out of her control, at least she had control over herself. Who she was, how and when she fed, how she acted… it was a fight against being what she had become. And Leila was determined to win. 

She’s never been caller homie before… a first. “Maybe Wicked’s Rest is a hotspot for people like us…” Her voice was nothing more than a murmur as she contemplated it. But the clouds of her own thoughts vanished and bright red twinkled back at bright red. “It’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

“You ever just chill in here? It’s peaceful as hell. My brother taught me how nice it is.” Mateo smiled fondly, reminiscing silently for a moment before returning his attention to Leila. She looked uncomfortable, in a way. If her hands were any indication, at least. It was similar to what Mateo did to calm down. Wringing his hands together felt as close to a relaxing massage as he could get at any random time. 

Mateo breathed, tapping his chin as he began to peruse again. He waved Leila to follow, welcoming her to join in on a meal. He’d done it before with his brother and figured it was the friendly mare thing to do, especially in a place like Wicked’s Rest. Or a hot spot, as Leila called it. “Yeah, might be a beacon. Been having fun honestly.” 

Humming to himself, Mateo spotted a familiar cave, looking a bit miffed. “There’s so many people to feed from. Like this chica.” He jutted his thumb toward a sleeping Cass. It wasn’t possible for another visit thanks to whoever helped her mare-proof the place. Assholes. Mateo rolled his eyes, “She’s got real problems. Kinda sad I only got to visit once.”

The man spoke and left her with a million more questions. Who willingly spent time in the astral? The idea of being surrounded by dreams at all times felt overwhelming. Leila had only just gotten a handle on spending more time in that strange place between dreams and waking. But what puzzled her more was a brother. Had a nightmare fed upon two people, gorging itself on every terror it could before two hearts stopped beating in the same home? Or was it a title of affection- another mare, made family by experience rather than blood… 

She followed after him, whoever he was, curiosity taking over all logical thinking. That was, until the cave came into view, and the gentle whisper of a dream tugged at her- a terrible invitation. One she could ignore now, thankfully. Besides, even if she were starving, the cave was safe from the likes of her. Safe from him, too… 

Or so she had thought.

Leila froze in place while the other mare spoke, red eyes rolling casually as he spoke about Cass like she was nothing. Like the pain he’d left her with, the terror and hurt he’d instilled in that poor girl was nothing. In another situation, she might have spoken rationally. Another time and place, another dreamer in another bed. But something snapped. His words were a match that unwittingly set a blaze. 

“You…”

Without a thought in her head, Leila lunged at the stranger. Not Cass, he’d hurt her Cass, Metzli’s Cass… Not again, though.

“Me?” Mateo quirked a brow, confused as to why there was a burning ire in her expression. She had seemed so innocent and sweet before, the energy changing in an instant. “Whatchu mean, fa—” There was no time to finish his sentence, his body being sent to the ground by Leila tackling him.

“Yo, ma, what the hell is your problem?” Leila was quickly shoved away effortlessly. She practically weighed nothing, standing at what, five feet? Mateo towered op ver her, at the very least. “If you wanna cut of a meal, all you gotta do is ask, but right now it’s a firm no.” He scowled at Leila, standing back up and dusting himself off.

“Besides, like I said, the little puta made it impossible to get into her crib.”

Leila was not an angry person. In life and in most of her death, it took a lot to get anything more than a bit of frustration out of her. But as she knocked Mateo to the ground, all she felt was rage. He hurt Cass. It was the only thought she could wrap her head around. He hurt Cass. The dreams that she fed on, that they fed on, the nightmares they created hurt people, whether or not they meant to. 

He shoved her aside as if she were nothing, sending Leila scrambling to get to her feet. In that moment, Leila didn’t notice how much taller the other mare was. She didn’t care that he was stronger. Her hands were balled up in fists as she marched right back up into Mateo’s face. “What’s my problem?” The words came out of her mouth like a snarl, eyes flashing like some wild thing. “I don’t want a cut of your meal, Salopard-” 

While she was by no means an expert in swearing in spanish, Leila knew what puta meant. Without another thought, she took a swing at him, her fist colliding with his jaw. “That girl is my family!” Her voice was hoarse with rage. “You want to call someone a puta? Mírame, connard. I have to protect her from meeting the same fucking fate I did! You want a meal, go find some asshole. But don’t you dare try to feed on her ever again.” 

Oh shit, this lady was mad. Now, Mateo had seen his fair share of angry women in his lifetime, most of them having charged out of room after messing up a bed, but never had a mare attacked him for doing what he was made to do. Mateo supposed it made sense. If it were his kid, or really, anyone in his family, fists would start flying immediately. That’s just what you did for your family. So when Leila’s fist made contact with his face, Mateo couldn’t help but feel impressed as his back hit the floor. 

“Damn, ma. That was a nice punch.” He rubbed at his jaw, face contorted with pain. When Leila began to make her speech though, Mateo rolled his eyes and began to stand up. If she was going to punch again, he’d be ready. “Look, how was I supposed to know she was your kid? I eat where I eat and don’t ask questions. Everyone gets nightmares, ma. It ain’t my fault hers were particularly tasty.” He hissed, crossing his arms and backing away in preparation for Leila to retaliate. And to leave, but he wanted to see how she reacted first. After that, Mateo was positive that he’d need to make a run for it before things got worse. Not like it’d be right to kill Leila for protecting her kid. Plus, she was pretty hot when she was angry. 

Maybe he could…no, no. Bad idea. 

She’s never been a violent person. She’d lived in fear of such harm coming to her. But Leila’s unlife was so very different from the life she’s lived two hundred years prior. Survival had become something to fight for. There was a difference, however, in fighting for herself to live and fighting to protect a loved one. She would hide and starve to save herself. But for her petits? The family that she had found for herself in the strange little town of Wicked’s Rest? She would go down swinging for any of them.

Leila rubbed at her knuckles, the feeling of bone against bone making the mare cringe. His argument was stupid. All nightmares were tasty to them. If there was terror in sleep, it was a meal to them. “I don’t care if she is the only meal left in this town. You do not eat from her. If you know other mares who even think about her, you tell them the same. She is not a meal to be made. She’s protected by me.”

Yeah, it was definitely about time to leave. Shit was getting boring, and as much of an asshole as he’d always been, Mateo knew better than to get between a mama bear and her cub. To both save his ass, and out of general respect. Fact was, Mateo could see Popa in Leila, and that made it harder to instigate her further. There was no fury like a mother’s, and Mateo had always been a mama’s boy. 

“Okay, okay, hot-shot.” He tried to keep playing his part, hiding the fact that Leila had indeed won in their little battle of the wits. It had been since the summer of ‘98 since Mateo had lost such a battle, and while he hated losing, he had to admit, Leila was a good opponent and he had a wicked streak. Oh well, he thought. Time to set a new record. 

“Guess I’ll just—” In a blink, Mateo disappeared with that grin he loved to tease others with. One that read, I had fun at your expense, with a snide tag of catch ya later!

He was gone in a flash, vanished from the astral. As to whether or not he would listen to Leila’s warning was a mystery to the mare. His attitude was so unbothered. But Cass would not be made a meal of, not on her watch. 

And so the mare sat and sat and sat outside of that cave, far into the night as the stars whirled past and the moon turned into day once more.

[minoshkakotoshka]

Laika

I am dying. It is true, in Moscow we live dying, but this is different. Dying of sadness is a thousand times worse than slowly starving to death because it’s close to impossible to find a scrap to eat in winter. We are scavenging for food when my mother is hit by a truck. Now she lies on the pavement, her eyes glazed with sadness, her life slipping away. The driver doesn’t even glance back after he runs her over. I pull her out of the way, but I cannot take her to the nook where we take shelter from the cold at night. I lick her face. I nudge her with my nose for encouragement. She locks her gaze in mine until her last breath disappears in a curlicue of ice. I howl with despair. Other dogs come to investigate. One of them is my brother. He lies next to me, sad, though not undone like me because he left us sometime ago. At first he doesn’t say anything, but when the cold presses down on us like an icy slab, he pushes me away to take shelter. From a doorway we watch as our mother freezes. 

The next morning, she is torn from the street by the machine that scraps ice from the pavement. My heart shatters. I try to throw myself over the remains of the mother who protected me until the day she died, but my brother stops me. Dying in Moscow is easy, he tells me. Here you die every day of hunger, of cold, or cooked in a trash can by the vagrants who die of the same things we do and on top of it kill themselves with alcohol. Only those who are vigilant survive, he reminds me. Despite his warning, my enormous sorrow weighs on me like a shackle and I become clumsy. I am snared by the dog catchers. 

From the cage where they lock me, I watch them go after my brother. Fortunately, a heart fat with sadness does not drag him down. He jumps away when they throw the net over him. I am able to breathe again. He runs away as if chased by demos; I know that I will never see him again. 

I throw up my guts from bouncing in my cage when the truck lurches at full speed. From the choking smell that permeates the black box where I’m caged, I realize that I am not the only one vomiting fear. The streets of Moscow, where death lurks around every corner, I know well. What terrifies me is not knowing what lies beyond this darkness. 

After what seems like an eternity, the truck stops with a scream of brakes. I am bruised from bouncing in the cage, with a heart that wants to flee my throat. The metal curtain that hid the light rises noisily. I flatten myself on the floor wishing to become invisible. A man inspects the cages. The terrified barking of the other dogs is deafening. Stray dogs don’t dare to expect kindness from humans. We are the scum of the animal world, as hated as rats even though we are descendants of the same wolf that domesticated herself out of pity for the naked creatures she found cowering in a cave. Instinct told her that they needed her protection. We haven’t left man’s side ever since. 

For some reason unknown to me, my mother’s line ended up on the streets, where we are chased to be put in cages while our captive brothers are bought for thousands of rubles. I don’t understand how captivity and a piece of paper can determine someone’s worth, but this is the way humans have decreed it. They all share the urge to categorize and confine, to control everything by assigning it numbers so that they can know where each thing, each individual, each organism is. Freedom from this—my kind of freedom—is appalling to them. They combat it rabidly. 

I wonder what the she-wolf who nursed the twins she found naked in the forest would say now, upon seeing the importance that the descendants of those babies give to the gilded cages they build for themselves or the bills I sometimes see rolling on the streets. When I am indifferent to them because even I can tell they are just pieces of paper, I have seen men fall on their knees to take them. They clutch them adoringly and press them to their lips. More than one has struck me with his boot upon realizing that I am watching, therefore I observe them from afar, still unable to fathom how a scrap of paper can be given so much worth whilst life is so devalued. 

The metal curtain is going down again when a sudden command stops its fall. The box is dimly lit, the foul smells in full bloom. I venture a glance. A man is watching me. He instructs someone to take me out of the cage. His name is Oleg Gazenko; he is the man who saves my life to kill me. 

The driver brings me to him. Gazenko lifts my lip to see my teeth. Apparently satisfied, he then inspects my ears and my coat. After that, he pats my head. I kiss his hand not knowing that the other one conceals a dagger. I become his faithful friend, I, who has never had a master. 

Albina and Mushka, veterans already when I arrive, find my enthusiasm amusing. Those two are true cynics. Gazenko is surprised because I never fight with them and decides that the reason is my phlegmatic character. He does not know that this is the nature of strays. Only those who live dying know what it is to survive by the skin of our teeth. 

I am bathed, my nails are clipped, my ears cleaned, my eyes treated with eyedrops. I am dewormed, blood is drawn, my chest is shaved and smeared with iodine. I am connected to devices that measure my blood pressure, my heart rate, my breathing, my bowel movements. After a full battery of tests, I am put in a cage and fed a high nutrition content gel. I throw it up immediately because I am not used to nourishing food. 

Gazenko comes to see me. He pats my head and sits down to read. When he catches me looking, he reads aloud. The following week he orders for me to be put in a smaller cage, and still my enthusiasm does not diminish. I sell my life in exchange for two daily meals. 

Mushka is the first to travel. When she returns, she is plugged to the machines for a complete checkup. Stress knotted her guts, she shakes with pain. She is purged without result. She is under observation for days but does not improve. Nikita Khrushchev, a blood-thirsty pen pusher turned tyrant, gives order for the Sputnik II to be launched in November to mark the anniversary of the October Revolution. Hard-pressed for time, Gazenko decides it is me who will go. Time is running out; I will take Mushka’s place. 

Jealous because it was Stalin who turned Russia into a super power, Khrushchev wants to be great, but his petty bureaucratic heart won’t permit it. Unable to admit his inadequacy, he tyrannizes whomever is subject to him, which is practically all of Russia. He unleashes his wrath against the space scientists because they cannot make the Sputnik return to Earth once it has been launched. 

“Ready or not,” Khrushchev decrees, “you will launch the Sputnik.” 

The scientists are aware that sending me to outer space will be my death, yet nobody dares contradict the madman; he wants to prove to the Americans that in the space race, Russia has the lead. Albina, Mushka, Strelka, Belka, me, are instruments to magnify his vanity. 

Oleg Gazenko and doctor Vladimir Yazdovsky call a press conference to announce the launch of the Sputnik with me in it. The photographers take my picture inside of my simulated interstellar capsule. I wear my Outer Space harness, but it does not impress the photographers. A Pravda reporter decides to slide a fish bowl on my head. They call me Laika when I bark to protest the outrage. 

I receive bags full of letters that Gazenko reads to me. Someone answers them and I put my paw print on the page, just as Rin-Tin- Tin did with his film contracts. Gazenko knows that I like to hear him read, but he doesn’t know that I prefer books because almost all the letters say the same thing. When he realizes that I lose interest, he takes a book from a drawer, reads a paragraph, and laughs. 

“Listen, Laika,” he tells me using my new name. I bow my head to indicate I am all ears even though the name does not please me. “War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.” Gazenko doubles-over with laughter. “This is how it is in the West.” 

In the next bag of letters comes a request for a photo session. After the photo shoot I give interviews to the русские газеты, then I am invited to appear on television. Shortly after that, Khrushchev sends for me. 

Gazenko takes advantage of the meeting to remind him of the Sputnik’s problem. He tells him that if I am sent to space as it is, I will not return. From the sudden tick on the tyrants eye, I gather that the only thing that matters to him is that his decrees are obeyed, no matter how deadly they might be. He wants the Sputnik to be launched, and he wants Laika to be in it. He is too busy planning the parade of the Revolution, where he will take center stage, to care whether I make it back or not. 

“Have you decided what to do?” the dictator asks when he tires of being photographed with me. 

“The amount of oxygen that the Sputnik can carry is limited,” Gazenko explains. “If the Sputnik does not return before the oxygen runs out, the cosmonaut will asphyxiate. It’ll be devastating for the Russian people to know that their space hero died such a cruel death.” 

The dictator’s eye redoubles its twitching. “Then the people mustn’t find out.” 

“Of course, Mr. Premier,” Gazenko bows to conceal his outrage. “Maybe with you being so wise, you can suggest a more humane alternative?” 

“Why not poison the food?” Khrushchev says, checking his watch. 

“You’re right, Mr. Premier,” Gazenko says, gripping my leash. “I don’t know why I didn’t think about it.” 

Khrushchev pats him on the back in exactly the same manner he patted my head moments before. “I can’t always think for everyone, eh? I’ll give instructions for a signed photograph to be sent to you.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Premier.” 

“That’s an honor I don’t grant to everybody, but I know that you will earn it,” Khrushchev says. He leaves the studio without even glancing at me again. I am already dead to him. 

Albina and Mushka conspire to share their food with me. They insist on fattening me up so that I don’t have to eat the capsule’s poisoned rations. They remind me that before wolves self-domesticated, our ancestors survived the glacial cold hibernating like bears. They advise me to cocoon in the capsule once it begins to orbit. It then occurs to me to ask what happens to the dogs that are not taken from the truck. 

They are taken to the pound, Mushka tells me because she is the one who has traveled. To be put down. My heart lodges in my throat at the thought of my brother. Now he is young and agile and can evade the nets of the dog catchers and the skewers of the indigent, but what will happen to him when he grows old? Strays are aware that we cannot hope for anything better than the fate we’ve been dealt. Ours is a hard life and we live it as it comes. On the streets we are at the mercy of the elements, of the cars that run us over, of the homeless who eat us, of the master who abandons us because the protection pact sealed inside of a cave thousands of years ago, no longer matters to him. 

Roman Centurions trained us as warriors. Our masters dressed us in armor and we marched beside their horses. We have been giving our lives for our masters for thousands of years without a second thought because that is our nature, except it is one thing to give our lives willingly, another for the master we have protected since the beginning of time to rob us of life whenever it suits him. 

On 30 October 1957, doctor Yazdovsky takes me to his house. I spend the afternoon playing with his children, surprised, grateful, in love with them, in awe of my own yearning to belong to this family. I let the little ones pet me, I permit them to pull my tail, I run after a stick even though I am a cosmonaut because it feels good to pretend that I am a cherished pet who has a loving family. 

When they tire of playing, the children ply me with so much candy, that my stomach aches. As in so many other occasions, I think about my brother, about the pieces of my mother being swept by the wind. I surprise myself wishing I was one of those dogs with a place in the heart of the family and not this mockery of a pet that I am permitted to be for one afternoon. I want this house for myself, this garden, these children. I want to feel their hands stroking my fur, not the hands that shave it before they connect me to a tangle of sensors. I want this life so much, that my insides ache when Yazdovsky takes me back to the lab that night. “I wanted to do something for her, even if it was just a small gesture. The poor thing has so little time left!” 

Gazenko does not respond. He locks me in my cage and goes back to his office in worried silence. 

The following day, the Izvestia and Pravda photographers show up to document the historical moment. Gazenko supervises my bath, the shaving, the smear of iodine on the raw patches of my skin, then he feeds me. I wear my space harness for the photo session and Gazenko takes me to the Sputnik. I settle in my pod, where the photographers take more photos. Once they leave, Gazenko removes the harness and connects me to the monitors. He caresses my ears without realizing that he smells of sadness and regret. I kiss the murderous hand one last time. 

I spend two days locked in the capsule without anything happening, bored, constipated, sleeping all day because there isn’t anything to do. When the device that releases my food doles out my ration, I don’t touch it, as I promised Mushka. The second time I do this, Gazenko comes to investigate. He stays with me until I eat both rations. Because I’m constipated, the double ration gives me gas. Gazenko leaves. 

The Sputnik II is finally launched on 3 November. The supersonic speed with which I am catapulted to outer space very nearly kills me. My fur pulls back, my eyes roll in my head, my lips curl away from my teeth. I gasp for air, my ears ring, my teeth chatter. The sudden calm that follows the violent launch takes me by surprise. My ears are ringing still. 

I spend the following hours memorizing the sounds of the capsule, the purr of the machines, the wild beating of my heart, until fatigued, I doze. 

Upon awakening, I eat my first ration even though I promised not to touch the food. Stress makes me hungry. Within six hours of being in orbit, the capsule begins to overheat. Connected in my pod, I feel that I am cooking alive. I jump with such force, that I disconnect from the devices. I don’t land on the floor. I try to run, but the only thing that I achieve is to spin from one end of the Sputnik to the other without knowing where is up and where is down. I am so scared, that I stop being constipated. 

The moment I disconnect myself, Russia stops receiving my vitals. The technical crew thinks I am dead. Energy consumption is reduced to a minimum. This lowers the temperature of the capsule, which is perhaps what saves me from boiling alive in that pot. When the temperature reaches a near freezing point, I manage to descend back into my pod. I roll in my blankets and fall into a comatose sleep. 

Every now and then, I rouse. My world is black. Silent now that Russia disconnected everything. Sometimes I see shooting stars pass by or the blue marble that I circle again and again. I feel cold and close my eyes again. 

Nikita Khrushchev sends Gazenko an autographed photograph. Bent over with grief, he puts it in the bin. He wants to retire, but the dictator orders him to go on with his work. The Sputnik II continues to orbit Earth. The Russian people continue to believe that I am alive. Personnel at the base declare me dead without knowing that I cling to life. They are ordered not to reveal the truth. 

Gazenko begs the engineers not to make the same mistake with Strelka and Belka, who are sent to space in 1960. He urges his team to find a way to make certain the Sputnik III does return. 

Upon her return, Strelka mates with a pedigreed dog. One of her puppies is presented to President Kennedy as a gift. The leader of the Western World is resentful because the cosmonaut dogs have Russian names instead of being called Rover or Fido. To add insult to injury, Yuri Gagarin makes his first trip to outer space in the Vostok 1 in 1961. He goes beyond the moon at full speed without thinking about landing to stick a flag there. 

When people ask about my fate, Khrushchev announces that the Sputnik II was lost in space. He even manages to squeeze a tear out of his treacherous eye. But I don’t die in the Sputnik six hours after being put in orbit nor am I lost in space as the world is led to believe. I do not suffocate from lack of oxygen. I am not poisoned because after the first ration I don’t touch the food again. Like my ancestors in stressful situations, I fall into deep hibernation. Almost without realizing it, I do 2570 orbits around the Earth before its force of gravity pulls back the Sputnik in April 1958. 

Because of the haste with which the launch was planned thanks to the dictator’s wish to be celebrated as a hero, the engineers were not given enough time to find a way to reduce the Sputnik’s friction during reentry. Not until later is it discovered that a hydraulic system is the solution to the problem of atmospheric reentry. 

As I promised to Albina and Mushka, I cling to life. I yelp with joy when I feel the pull of gravity, when I see that the Earth’s Orb is no longer a blue marble, but a sphere that looms larger and larger as I approach it. 

I am so happy, that I forgive Gazenko. Gladness makes me yearn to kiss his hand again. And if I get a chance, I will sink my teeth into Khrushchev’s. I can’t wait to see Mushka and Albina, to surprise Strelka and Belka, for Yazdovsky to bring me back to his house as he promised his children. I shall run after a ball until I’m so tired that I stumble, I will feel the children’s hands on my fur, I will let them feed me candy until my belly aches, then at night, after the children go to bed, I will curl by Yazdovsky’s feet because my most ardent desire in life is to belong to a family. 

The capsule disintegrates upon reentering Earth. 

[nyoomerr]

in this house we go feral for worm art 10000% of the time and this is no exception, so please accept this small fic drabble inspired by this absolutely insane art 🙏

cw: implied vore -----

When Luo Binghe first meets Shen Yuan, Luo Binghe hasn’t eaten in a month. He isn’t sure how long his body can keep itself alive without eating, but he can’t risk eating the beasts in this part of the Abyss - their flesh is loose and hangs on their bones in a way that speaks of rot and disease. Luo Binghe could survive eating something like that, but it would put him out of commission for a day or so. 

Besides, Luo Binghe is used to being hungry. He’s been hungry his whole life, in one way or another. Hunger is proof that Luo Binghe is still alive.

Shen Yuan worries more about Luo Binghe’s hunger than anything else, and more intensely than anyone who has only recently met Luo Binghe ever should. To Shen Yuan, Luo Binghe’s hunger is worse than the burns festering with infection on his feet, worse than the fingers on his left hand that haven’t grown back yet. 

“You can’t heal those other things if you’re this hungry,” Shen Yuan stresses. “Please - you need to eat. Let me feed you.”

Luo Binghe can’t afford to trust any part of the Abyss that offers him respite. An oasis of fresh fruits and water will turn out to be an illusionary trap; a demon that offers a meal will just as surely turn out to have poisoned the meat.

Luo Binghe wants to take the poisoned flesh into himself anyway. 

Oh, he’s been hungry all his life, but he’s never been hungry like this. It’s never burned him, never made him feel like life might not be worth living if he can’t partake in this meal. Luo Binghe has spent ages with an aching stomach, and has spent years starving for the touch of someone who cares for him, but this - 

Luo Binghe has never been hungry for a person before.

“Please,” Shen Yuan says again, looking for all the world to be an innocent and earnest man, worried for his new friend. “Please, let me feed you.”

Shen Yuan cannot be an innocent man. Shen Yuan is a demon native to the Abyss - native to the place that Luo Binghe has been banished to - and so naturally Shen Yuan must be as awful as Luo Binghe himself is. 

Even more damning, Shen Yuan has been begging to feed Luo Binghe for over a week, now - for as long as Shen Yuan has known him. Even before Luo Binghe had slain the beast that Shen Yuan had been hiding from, Shen Yuan had started asking if he could feed him. When Luo Binghe had rebuffed the obvious attempt to poison him, Shen Yuan had silently begun following Luo Binghe through the Abyss, chasing Luo Binghe with unasked for advice and superfluous compliments.

A week is not long enough for Luo Binghe to learn to trust someone. It is not long enough for Luo Binghe to think Shen Yuan does not mean to poison him, or lure him into a trap, or strike when he lets his guard down. It isn’t even long enough for Luo Binghe to begin believing that Shen Yuan really means the praise he lavishes on Luo Binghe.

It is enough time for Luo Binghe to become addicted to it anyway.

“Please,” Shen Yuan says, and he says it like a prayer, like Luo Binghe is worth praying for. 

Shen Yuan is in front of him on his hands and knees, his head bowed, keeping a respectful distance. His hands are on Luo Binghe anyway: light touches to his cheeks and neck and feet, small pressures resting on his shoulders and his back. 

This is the nature of the demon Shen Yuan is: the sort that can multiply. 

Shen Yuan’s clones are significantly smaller than he is - only as tall as the length of Shen Yuan’s palm - but Shen Yuan has assured him that they share senses with Shen Yuan’s main body, and that Shen Yuan’s thoughts control their every moment. 

They are also the food that Shen Yuan has begged to feed him.

“They’re safe for you to eat,” Shen Yuan insists. “Biologically, I’m not so different from a human, so they should taste the same as one. They may not have so much meat on them, but I can produce enough of them to fill you up anyway.”

One of the small clones tugs at Luo Binghe’s hair lightly. Luo Binghe knows without checking that it was unintentional; the clones seem almost obsessed with wrapping themselves in his hair, leaving small braids everywhere they can reach. Every part of Shen Yuan is obsessed with touching Luo Binghe in a million small and gentle ways.

Even when Luo Binghe is on guard against it, Shen Yuan’s manipulation is devastatingly effective. It’s harder and harder to remember that Shen Yuan cannot be trusted, when Shen Yuan touches him so sweetly.

“Will it hurt you permanently, if I eat them?” Luo Binghe asks. 

He knows well enough it will hurt Shen Yuan temporarily. He only wants to know if it can be healed from. 

“Not permanently,” Shen Yuan assures him. He looks especially eager at Luo Binghe’s questioning, thrilled that Luo Binghe has not instantly shot him down like he usually does. “I can produce this many of them every few days or so, as long as my main body is not terribly injured. I can keep you fed for as long as you need me.”

Luo Binghe hums, looking down at the tiny clones of Shen Yuan that are tugging at his robes, their small faces crumpled in distaste as they silently tut at the tears in his old disciple robes. There are perhaps ten of them, including the ones he can feel on his shoulders and in his hair. It’s only enough for a few mouthfuls. 

Luo Binghe plucks one of them out from where it has climbed into his sleeve. It goes limp in his hand, letting itself be held and moved without resistance. It only looks up at Luo Binghe, smiling with the same dopey grin Shen Yuan’s main body wears when Luo Binghe lets him chatter about the beasts in the Abyss. 

Luo Binghe pinches at its body, and its little face turns pink, its smile bashful. There isn’t much fat on it. Ten of these every few days won’t be enough to fill Luo Binghe up.

(Luo Binghe doesn’t think any amount of Shen Yuan could fill him up. He thinks he’ll be hungry for Shen Yuan forever, for as long as Shen Yuan keeps playing at being good and kind and perfect, for as long as Shen Yuan pretends to care for Luo Binghe.)

“Why,” Luo Binghe says, still pinching the small creature in his fingers, “do you want to feed me? Why should I believe your flesh isn’t poisonous to me?”

“Even if it is, would it matter?” Shen Yuan asks. “You’re immune to all poisons. You could start by just eating one if you’re worried; that little won’t be enough to weaken you so much that you couldn’t fight back if I suddenly attacked you.”

Luo Binghe licks his lips. If he gives in to this hunger, he won’t stop at just one. He wants to eat all of Shen Yuan - he wants to absorb Shen Yuan’s flesh into his until Luo Binghe is more Shen Yuan than he is himself. He wants to feed the addiction he has to Shen Yuan’s touch by turning his own touch into Shen Yuan’s. 

He almost wishes he weren’t as immune to poisons as Shen Yuan says. He almost wishes to die by consuming Shen Yuan’s flesh.

“Why,” Luo Binghe says again, “do you want to feed me?”

Shen Yuan looks up at Luo Binghe, genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t anyone?”

Luo Binghe shudders. He’s so, so hungry. 

“No one has before,” Luo Binghe says.

“Everyone else has been a bitch,” Shen Yuan says, his eyes cold. “They’ll get what they deserve soon.”

Luo Binghe closes his eyes. He can hardly smell Shen Yuan over the sulfuric stench of the Abyss. He brings the small clone he’s holding up to his face, breathing in deeply.

It smells of salt, of sweat. Does Shen Yuan’s main body smell the same? Or would it smell more metallic, tainted with the blood that must surely be spilled when Shen Yuan tears a part of himself off to form a new clone?

“Alright,” Luo Binghe says. “Feed me, then.”

Shen Yuan does. Luo Binghe’s hunger does not abate. 

Obsessive Devotion

For @nyoomerr for the SVSSS Gotcha 4 Gaza!! The prompt was "Bingge using Shen Yuan as a chew toy" and I kinda ran with it and went in the extreme direction. Had loads of fun with it :3c They're so normal!! CONTENT WARNING: Blood, Implied vore, Implied cannibalism, Vivid Neons, Eye Strain

[okkotsuus]

wrapped around your finger (michael k.) !

features: michael k.

contents: suggestive. kissing. making out. public making out. kaiser is indecent. i hate him. alcohol is mentioned. club setting. very descriptive. 1.6k words.

for my kaiser kisser babe @daiseukiis

kaiser’s mad, you can see it in the ticks his jaw makes about every three seconds. not to mention his clenched fists or the darkening in his ocean eyes. regardless of how he looks, you can just feel that he’s mad.

his eyes track across the man’s face that has been eyeing you up since the moment that you stepped into the bar, he wants to memorize the bastard he’s going to ruin. he’s not violent, per se. but the thought of slamming his face into the bar has crossed his mind a bit too many times to be considered normal. 

he just can’t help it. sweet thing like you, shit, he’d stare too. but he’s with you, so ogling you up is like an act of disobedience. an act of disobedience to their kaiser, their emperor.

you can feel the rage that courses so widely in his veins, you can feel it in the bruising grip he has on your thigh. you can’t help the excitement that coils in your stomach. maybe it was the lighting or the strawberry daiquiri you just finished, but the way his adam’s apple bobbed with every enraged swallow was becoming more and more appealing.

the booming music around you begins to fade out as all of your senses begin to dedicate to him. in a sort of halo of lights around him, he is the center of your vision. you cannot see anything or anyone else, but you don’t need to. his skin glows under the faint colored light like some sort of silk.

his gaze flickers to you for a moment, catching you in your awestruck daze. it gives him the biggest ego boost to see you like this: pupils were blown and your mouth hanging open just from looking at him. he can’t help but want to show off for the audience that had been unintentionally generated.

his fingers trace shapes into the skin of your thigh, leaving a flurry of goosebumps in their wake. your body responds naturally to him, he knows it like he knows nothing else. he knows everything that has you curling further into his side, wanting to be ever closer to him.

lips drag up the side of your neck in a blazing trail, everything feels hot, maybe it wasn’t just the drink. his tongue drags across your lips almost obsessively before he sinks to mold his lips to yours. it’s messy, mashing of teeth and tongues, but it’s so beautiful. he relishes in the shuddering of your form against his, the hurried pants that escape into the brief spaces you part for. he loves the way you sound when you chase him as you pull away.

he loves the desperation he draws out of you with just one kiss. just one touch. just one look. 

kaiser knows the power he holds over you, he abuses it every chance he gets. but he also knows the power you hold over him.

thinking he’s in control until you whine out some unintelligible affection and he’s on his knees again doing whatever you want. he thinks he has you wrapped around his finger until he’s under your thumb with a single look from those sparkly eyes. that’s why it’s giving him all the more ego boost to have you keening so debaucherously into his mouth in the middle of a club. in the middle of a club with a pair of eyes on you.

kaiser stares at the guy who was checking you out, he maintains eye contact as his lips slide against yours, spit dribbling down your chin. his hand briefly leaves your neck to flip the guy off, his gaze turning to daggers. it works and he’s gone, but kaiser hasn’t had enough of you yet. hands glide up and down your sides, his lips growing more and more fervent against yours. he’s like a man who had been starved and is finally allowed his first meal. he swallows every whine and whimper that glides from your chest as if they are the finest delicacy. he takes you in all you are, and he savors it so thoroughly.

he loves you in a way that he has loved nothing or no one before. he hungers for you, he misses you, he likes you; everything about you. not in some shallow sense of the word love, he does not just like you. you are his endgame and no one will ever be able to fulfill him as you can, this he knows. he knows that he is yours just as much if not more than you are his.

that thought itself drove him into an hungered frenzy: you are his. all his. no one else’s. now he really can’t help it. he can’t be blamed. you’ve been asking for it by being so damn sweet and perfect for him. so pliable and lovable. he can’t help but take advantage like the wolfish man that he is. you should’ve known better if you didn’t want this.

that bruising grip comes back against your hips as he holds you in place, using his weight to push you against the plush leather seats you sit on. when he hears your flustered mutter he just 

kisses you harder, kisses you speechless, kisses you breathless.

kaiser needs you, in every sense of the word. he needs you in its purest ways and he needs you 

in its most scandalous of meanings. he needs you.

his body craves for you as he feels shivers run up the base of his spine all the way to his neck. pulses of heat emanate from the core of his body as they creep further and further, like roots burrowing into his entire being. the aching desire festers in him like some sort of parasite as it consumes his waking mind, each thought trailing back to you somehow.

for the first time, kaiser is truly grasping just how truly in love with you he is. how easily you have him at your beck and call.

what was once rage pulsing through his veins turns to something more, something hotter that burns with a brighter, more persevering flame. it coils in him like a snake waiting to strike, biding its time until the time is just right.

kaiser pulls away from you, panting like a dog under the scorching sun. his eyes are glazed with want, it oozes out of his pores. his lips are swollen and bruised, coated in a sparkling sheen, cheeks are flushed a bright, rosy pink. his chest falls and rises heavily as he stares you down.

you know you aren’t much better right now. eyes blown as soft pants fall from your parted lips, blooming an even more intense color than before. your skin shines in a thin layer of sticky sweat. all you can hear is the rapid thrumming of your heart against your chest. you can’t feel the finger-shaped bruises that stir under the skin of your thighs.

his eyes flutter as he leans forwards, falling right back towards your lips: towards you.

when he’s but a hair’s breadth away, his eyes are fluttering shut, anticipating a kiss.

“beg.” his eyes snap open as he looks at you with the briefest shock, it all is replaced by a smirk with a less appropriate thought behind it. his hands grip tighter against your hips as he pulls you flush against his front. chest to chest and nose to nose he stares you down.

“oh sweet thing, you’re mistaken…” his eyes dip to your lips briefly, before flicking right back to shoot his piercing cerulean gaze at you.

his lips ghost over the shell of your ear as he leans forwards, the way his breath fans over the side of your neck sends excited shivers down your spine. he gives your hips one final squeeze, fingers digging into you in a way that you know will leave those possessive bruises he loves.

finally, he speaks, lips brushing against your ear with every word. “you’ll be the one begging by the end of this.”

his fingers dance dangerously on top of your thigh, slowly creeping further and further to somewhere that you didn’t think even he would dare in public. heat creeps up the back of your neck as he inches further and further.

a finger tilts your chin up to meet a wolfish grin as he speculates you, eyes tracing every contour and highlight of your face under the dim-colored lighting in the club. his lips are right against yours as he talks, brushing against yours in a way so tantalizing you feel yourself fold.

“what’re you thinkin’ of? you dirty, dirty thing…” his words drawl out in a sickly-sweet, honeyed tone. his eyes are hypnotic as you feel yourself falling under the spell that is michael kaiser, hands grabbing at his shirt to try to steady yourself somehow.

he presses the faintest kiss to your lips and cackles as you lean forwards to chase him, deviously staring down at you. his fingers dance against your skin, tempting but never satisfying. they’re addicting… no, he’s addicting. he knows what he’s doing.

kaiser really had you wrapped tight around his finger too.

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