#pseudo cannibalism | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charliemwrites · 5 months ago

Text

Unfamiliar Nobody

You are a witch preparing for winter. Luckily, you have an extra set of hands - if they'd ever help.

Content: Possessive behavior, Semi-Safe/Semi-Sane/Consensual Intimacy, implied (pseudo) cannibalism, Violence and Death, Unhealthy but Happy Relationship

You haven’t been the same since the ritual.

Souls are tricky things, somewhere on that rickety fence between the Seen and Unseen, a bit of practical magic so common that people don’t think much of it.

Souls are like stones or plants. Abundant, but varied. Some are rare and precious, some are beautiful, some are poison. One soul does not weigh the same as another, and the beings that deal in their collection and sale value them differently. Souls aren’t rare and only some of them are powerful.

It’s a narcissistic misconception of humans - even the ones that can perceive beyond the physical world. That a soul is considered precious and coveted and powerful by all things of heaven, hell, and beyond.

Not so.

That said, like a bit of gold or a well-woven blanket, a soul can be commodified. Reshaped and displayed, butchered for parts, sold…

The selling of a soul has its merits, though not many. High risk, high reward sort of gamble. Tempting for clever witches - or desperate ones.

You were neither when you built the summoning circle that night.

You weren’t looking to forge any contracts or make deals beneath that moon. Didn’t expect to invoke any infernal beings or heavenly apparitions with the stars.

Well, best laid plans and all that - not that it had been an especially well laid plan anyway.

Baring your soul that deep into midnight had not yielded the results you intended. Or maybe it had and your expectations were just skewed. Souls are tricky things.

And yours hasn’t been the same since.

You always rouse as the sun begins to set. Late afternoon at the earliest, when most everyone else is finishing their suppers.

You can manage stark daylight, but poorly. It hurts your eyes and prickles your skin. A deep hood and long sleeves does the trick when required, but you don’t make a habit of it if you can help it, if only for the teeth that bury in your throat when you return.

Tend the garden in the dying rays, light the shop candles before night nestles in. Say your blessings, leave your offerings, wriggle out from beneath clingy weight to secure any provisions or materials from the town.

As the temperature cools and the shadows deepen, you settle into your work.

The shop once belonged to an apothecarist. Died in a plague some four decades ago, or so you’ve been told. No one of any skill or natural talent replaced them afterwards. Too frightened, perhaps, of what could be lingering within.

It wasn’t haunted until you (and your shadow) occupied it.

You’ve stocked it up quite nicely now. Herbs and spices, vegetables and fruits, roots and seeds. Thistles hang from the ceiling and bones rattle in the drawers. Mortars and pestles line a wall, weights and measures beneath the counter. Not a single thing labeled or organized, the latter of which disconcerts your… companion.

Fickle is not the word for him, but it’s the one you use.

(And he is a he, at least according to the long, thick cock he crams into you every chance he makes for himself. Though you suppose such trifles as gender are superfluous to nonhumans. A categorical fallacy for your own ease of reference.)

You told him once, that if he did not like the disarray of the shop, he was welcome to rearrange as he saw fit. In response, he left teeth rings around the base of each of your fingers, telling you how easy it would be to bite them off. He didn’t, of course - wouldn’t - but you spent a good portion of that evening updating the inventory logs (sat on that long, thick cock.)

The shop was never reorganized.

Tonight you wake to his tongue, a dark and wicked thing, improbably dexterous, lapping at your thighs.

“Winter comes,” he drawls into your skin. His voice is dredged up from the deepest pit in his chest, scrapes against his throat before nuzzling into your ears.

“I thought so,” you sigh, sleep laden and languorous. “Felt it on the wind yesterday.”

He hums. Or maybe it’s a growl. It’s hard to say when he’s sinking his teeth into the plush of your thigh, though he does it without hurry.

For a creature without definite expiration, there is little need to be hasty.

You click your tongue when he threatens to break skin. His jaw locks like that, just on the verge of taking without being asked. This is his price for greeting the evening with you - or so he claims.

“We’ll have to begin preparations,” you muse to the inky ceiling. “I’ll make a list over tea. You’ll help, won’t you? What kind of winter will it be?”

He relaxes his bite, laps at the iridescent fluid left on your skin. His saliva, or what passes for it in this vaguely human form.

“Long,” he drawls. An unseen thumb rubs circles into your calf. “And frigid.”

You hum, can already see it in your mind. Howling winds and a silent earth. Still and peaceful, little creatures huddled down and hibernating. It was a good, warm, lush summer that promises a sweet, abundant harvest.

“A lot of snow?” you ask, fingers buried in something almost too coarse to be hair.

He unseals his mouth from a fresh, livid mark on your hip. “Da. Snow.”

Your fingertips trail over the gnarled, raised topography of long-healed wounds. Marks that go beyond flesh, wounds of essence. No matter his appearance, he will always be scarred - disfigured, even.

Sometimes you fancy that he was some fearsome fae king or warlord of hell before retiring to become yours.

Sensing the direction of your thoughts, he nips at the meat of your thumb. Draws blood the time. You hook your index finger around a too-sharp canine and shake a bit. He grunts and slides his tongue over the pinprick of blood.

“Any storms?” you ask.

“Two,” he rumbles around your finger. “Maybe three.”

You didn’t used to love winter so. But this will be your third with him. As the climate chills and the nights lengthen, he comes into his patron season. It’s helpful to have a thing of the cold and dark when times are lean and everything (even people) lose their pretty foliage.

“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”

You balked the first time he brought (more) death to your door. Thought him cruel and ruthless. Perhaps he is without you to metamorphose the slaughter into necessity.

Furs for warmth, meat for food, bones for your work. Nothing gone to waste under your care.

“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”

You trace your thumb over the bridge of his crooked nose, press between his brows when he tries to tilt his head into the warm apex of your thighs. He bares his teeth against your wrist but cannot defy you.

“Tea for that drop of blood,” you bargain.

He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”

Before slithering from your blankets, though, he buries his nose against your pubic mound and takes a deep, noisy inhale.

“Nikto!”

A village girl comes a little after the sun has fully set.

You finished your tea (and bread, for the price of a wet, filthy kiss) while making a list of preparatory chores. Have started grinding up rosemary to replenish your stock.

Nikto senses her before you do, pthalo eyes flicking up. She hesitates at the closed door, poised to knock, then decides against it and simply pushes in.

You pretend as if you’ve just glanced up from your mortar, an easy smile at your visitor.

“Good evening,” you call.

“E-evening,” she replies, lingering in the door.

While you’ve taken measures to keep the air of the shopfront clean and light, it’s something of a fruitless endeavor when Nikto’s made his den here. (Or more accurately, in the room behind the shopfront, where you dwell.)

Still, she only wavers another moment, finding nothing immediately alarming or perilous. She can’t see him lounging on the back counter like a lazy cat.

“Have you need of something?” you ask.

Your easy, friendly tone loosens her shoulders, coaxes her from the doorway.

“I’m here for something for my grandmother?” she says.

You tilt your head. “Anna?”

She blinks. “How did you know?”

Because Nikto grumbled it just now.

“You have her eyes,” you lie. “I have her medication just over here. One moment.”

You turn away to collect the little parcels that make up Anna’s bi-weekly order. Brews for her tea, ointment for her joints. You’ll mix extra as the chill sets in, fewer trips while seeing her through the harsh season.

“Usually Alexei comes to collect these things,” you say.

She rocks back and forth on her heels, a more curious eye trailing over your wares now.

“Mama and I have come to take care of nana. She’s getting older, you know. And this town has better prospects than our old village.”

You hum in agreement, neatly bundling all the items in a cloth and tieing a length of twine to secure it.

“Uncle Alexei is away with papa to finish sorting matters back there.”

“So you and your mother have come ahead, then,” you summarize.

“Mhmm!”

“Well, Anna is lucky to have you. She speaks fondly of you and your mother,” you say.

The girl lights up, cheeks rosy with pride. You slide her grandmother’s order across the counter.

“Anything else?” you ask.

“No, thank you!” she replies, dropping coins into your palm.

You glance at them (overpaid as usual, oh Anna) and sigh fondly.

“Hold on,” you call, “here.”

You pass her a little jar sealed in wax. She accepts it with a bemused smile.

“What is it?”

“For travel sores, when your father and Alexei return.”

She absolutely beams. Any apprehension she had when entering your shop is long melted away.

“Thank you, Miss!” she chirps, waving, and sweeps out the door.

Niko pounces in an instant, arms so tight around your waist that you don’t even stumble from the force.

“What’s gotten into you this time?” you ask.

“You were thinking of those men,” he grumbles. You’d call it childish if he wasn’t damn near mauling your neck.

“They’re well-paying customers,” you scoff, “and more good will is never remiss.”

He snarls, but moves on quickly. “You were so kind to that little girl. She had stars in her eyes.”

You hum in question, surprised.

“Makes me think of you with little ones. Younger ones.” He’s near rambling, drool soaking into the collar of your dress. “My brood. Clinging to your skirts and your hips. Getting sticky hands in the beeswax.”

You huff out a startled laugh. “You’re thinking of babies?”

He moans into your ear, pressed tight to your back. Broad palms knead at your lower abdomen.

“Little voices calling ‘mama’. They would all adore you, want to be just like you. Mother is god in the hearts of children.”

“All?” you repeat, twisting to stare owlishly. “How many is ‘all’?”

“As many as you will let me breed into you.”

Another laugh escapes you, a bit bewildered. He’s never spoken like this before, never seemed interested at all by the women (or their husbands) that come to the shop to ease their pregnancies or births.

“You couldn’t stand to share my attention,” you scoff. Which is to say nothing of it even being a possibility. You’re not sure that you and he could produce viable offspring.

He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.

Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”

You’d thought so.

It’s not just the change in your natural sleep rhythms. You crave the iron of raw meat and inhale deep the burn of black smoke. Sometimes, you’re too preoccupied with the spill of ink on parchment, or the length and depth of shadows.

Subtle things, perhaps. A change beneath the skin, in the dark parts of your eyes.

You used to ask your questions in the sun, and look for the answers in the bloom of flowers or swirls of clouds. Now you whisper into abyssal shadows and they whisper back with a man’s rasp.

Not everyone can see it, the unusual glint in your eyes or the sharp edge to your smile. For those that do, it’s something of an open secret - that you provide more than helpful tonic and tinctures for common ailments.

A serum against pregnancy. A syrup for unkind spouses. Cut cords for bad friends and bent coins for poor business partners.

Tonight it’s the smith’s daughter. She’s just come into adulthood this past spring. A crown of youth on her brow, vitality draped around her shoulders. Darkened, this eve, by deals made with her as the currency. You see it beneath the sweep of her skirt, a chain of her father’s own making, a key in the hand of the mayor’s son. It drags her step in your doorway, rattling along the wood floors.

“Irina,” you greet.

She doesn’t admit it right away, demuring to purchase her father’s usual burn salve. You don’t pry, instead taking your time to spoon the thick, cloudy mixture into a small jar.

“You’ve…”

You tilt your head to show your attention, expression open. She clears her throat, smooths her skirt, tries again.

“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”

She blurts it like the words escaped between the gaps in her teeth, looks shocked in their wake You flick Nikto a reproachful glance.

“Is that so?” you reply mildly, as neutral as you can manage.

“I don’t want to,” she whispers, as though it is a shameful secret. But there is little shame to be found in your presence, and when your expression only reflects polite interest, she repeats herself, stronger. “I don’t want to. Boris is a coward and his father is…”

Mean. Lascivious. A bastard with a heavy hand and wine for blood, kind only to coin.

You don’t make her say it all aloud, you’ve heard it just fine.

“Is it an ear you’re after?” you ask. “I’ll listen.”

You do not offer more. It is something she must request of her own will. For your sake as much as hers.

It only takes another breath for her to gather the courage.

“Would you help me?”

“I would.”

You don’t jump as Nikto pours himself over your shoulders, teeth already scraping the nape of your neck. He’s hard and insistent against your spine, where scars of his teeth have begun to blossom. You sense that you’ll have a new notch for the collection soon, already feel slick and achy with the promise of his maw.

“What will it cost?” Irina asks, fidgety.

Your cunt three times over. Your blood on my tongue. Your juices down my throat.

“That will depend on our solution,” you say over Nikto’s sibilant entreaties.

Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”

“Maybe coin,” you correct. “Do you want any of these three men dead?”

She startles, pales. Nikto groans in your ear, hips jerking hard, cock catching on the laces of your corset. Irina mistakes the sound for your shop settling, eyes flicking nervously around as if either of you will be caught.

“N-no!” she answers. “No, that’s too - I just want papa to change his mind. O-or for Boris to… to wed someone else. Is that wicked of me?”

You shake your head, soften your smile to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, you stood on the other side of the counter like she is now.

“Then coin won’t be necessary. I have a different price.”

Her shoulders lower, just a bit, curiosity where she should be wary. Coin is a paltry payment in comparison to things a creature like you could request instead.

“What is it?”

“Scrap from your father’s forge, as much as you can manage, and whatever Boris gave you for your hand. Bring them to me tomorrow night.”

You fish a shirt button from beneath the counter. Prick your thumb on a needle and press the droplet of blood that wells into the smooth surface.

“This is a contract of my services,” you explain as it dries in the open air. Nikto inhales deep and ravenous, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear.

“If you take this, there is no going back. Do you understand?”

Irina hesitates; she’s always been a smart girl. That’s why she knew to come to you.

“What happens if I don’t come back with the payment?”

You flick a glance at Nikto, but he’s too busy toying with the ribbon around your throat. Patience fraying with each beat of your heart.

“Even I don’t know, but I’d rather neither of us find out, yes?”

“Alright. I understand.”

She accepts the bloodied button and drops it into the pocket of her frock.

“Tomorrow,” she promises, and steals out into the night.

Nikto bends you over the counter, heavy body flattening you to the polished wood. It’s unnaturally warm beneath your cheek. You suck in as much air as you can while he paws at the hidden parts in your skirts. He growls to find you wet and willing (always, regardless of what your mouth says) between your thighs.

“Tithe,” he rasps, sinking to his knees.

Massive arms snake around your thighs as he finds his home between them. Buries his nose in the soft crop of curls so that his tongue and lips and teeth can partake in the sweet offerings below.

“All this for a severed tether?” you gasp, hips twitching in a bid to escape the too much, too fast, too good of it all.

His grip does not relent. On the contrary, it only tightens, dragging you down to smother himself in your cunt.

“Yes,” he hisses.

He takes and takes and takes. Sucks your clit until it’s throbbing at the slightest touch. Licks at the rim of your cunt, forcing his tongue deeper and deeper. Impossibly deep, until you feel the tip of it curl against the hard wall of your cervix, the root of it as thick as two of his fingers.

Your knees have long given out, your voice but a weak trill in your throat. It’s only when he hears you sniffling that he wrenches himself away.

“Give me,” he demands, surging up.

Laves that slick, black, inhuman tongue up your jaw, over your cheek. Doubles back to swipe at half-dried tears that dripped down your neck and onto your hands. He makes an obscene sound when the salt mixes with the dried blood on the pad of your thumb.

“I want to eat you,” he snarls, baring his teeth against the tender veins of your wrist.

“Maybe one day,” you pant, “when I’ve passed on. You can have my corpse.”

His eyes snap open, a manic rage burning so hot it feels cold.

“Never,” he snarls, cruel fingers plunging into your tender cunt.

You cry out and grip onto his shoulders, fresh tears sliding down your hot cheeks. There is no mercy in Nikto, not even for you. He strokes and pets your walls relentlessly, abusing all the sensitive places he’s long mapped out. Brutal as the muscles in his arm bunch and jump with the pace and force of it.

“Never,” he repeats. Teeth in your throat but you can still hear his voice. It’s so loud and rough that glass rattles. “Just like this. You stay just like this for me. Mine, all mine. Always. My little witch.”

He makes you cum on his fingers, then jerks his angry cock using your release to ease the way. Spends himself in burning, sticky ropes directly onto your clit. As you drag in ragged breaths, he draws his sigil inside your cunt with your mixed fluids.

The bond has long been formed, there is no need to renew it. Your soul is no more or less his than before. You still shiver with the memory, an echo of the sublime sensation of your soul taking new shape. Making room for something else to lace through it.

“S-someone is coming,” you whimper, weak in every sense.

“Dmitiri,” Nikto answers. You knew who it was, of course, but you don’t think he would abide you saying any other name right now.

“Leave his order on the counter and make sure he pays,” you sigh, limping away in search of water.

Nikto may be a bastard, but he manages to follow your orders most of the time.

Irina returns the next evening with all that you asked. A bucket of metal scraps and shavings. In a little velvet pouch, a simple gold engagement ring.

“The button too,” you request.

Nikto, raven-shaped this evening, swoops in to snatch it from her fingers. She yelps, moon-eyed as he perches on a tall shelf and swallows the button down his scarred gullet.

“Should… should it eat that?” she asks.

You don’t even glance at him. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t look amused so you laugh softly and assure her, “He’ll be alright. He’s done it before.”

You turn away, scooping up the items for the spell.

“Now then, take this pin. Carve your name into one candle, and Boris’s name into the other,” you instruct.

“Which one is which?” she asks, a green candle in one hand.

“Your choice,” you reply simply.

When she’s done as you ask, you tie a piece of twine between the two, about halfway down. Set them on a metal plate facing each other and light first Irina’s, then Boris’s.

“Pull up that stool. Watch the candles burn down to the wick.”

It takes nearly an hour. You keep half an eye on it. Watch the candle meant to represent Boris start to eat at the twine, a slow encroachment towards the midpoint. Only for Irina’s flame to latch onto its end of the tie and scorch through the knot, the remaining length falling away.

Irina gasps softly, glances up to find you already watching. Studiously turns back to observe the remainder of the melt.

In the meantime, you continue forming the other half of your spell. Irina has been too preoccupied to notice the raven’s disappearance. Nikto is behind you again, guiding your hands to carve the woodblock in neat little peels. His fingers are threaded between yours, dripping raw power that you shape with intent. If Irina were to look, it would just seem that the candlelight casts strange shadows down your forearms.

When the candles have burned down to nothing, and Irina turns to you expectantly, you press a finger to your lips.

“Do not speak again until sunrise. When you get home, throw this into the hearth, as deep as you can get it. No trace of it will remain, rest assured.”

You press the carved wooden key into her palm. Her eyes trace the unfamiliar runes in wonder, but she keeps her silence and takes her leave with one final, grateful nod.

It is only just past midnight, but you yawn. The connection between Irina and Boris was not a strong one, but severing the covetous teeth of the mayor’s greed was tedious.

He has a weakness for fair hair and light eyes - both qualities passed down to Irina in lovely spades. Qualities his own wife doesn’t possess, but he would gladly see in his son’s if he had his way.

“Nikto.”

“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.

You tsk at him, shove his face away when he tries to steal a kiss.

“Finish the spell and then you will be rewarded,” you huff, waving him off. “Useless thing.”

He moans softly, eyes burning into you. “Useless,” he agrees, sharp teeth grazing your cheek. “Worthless.”

“Out with you. We’ve not all night,” you chastise.

He sinks slowly into the shadows; his eyes are the last to disappear.

Winter preparations are well under way.

A small mountain of firewood is steadily accumulating in the backyard, stacking higher and wider by the day. You’ve already finished harvesting the last of the garden, drying, preserving, and pickling by the jar. Have knitted half a dozen more shawls and socks with thick wool yarn.

Cough medicines, warming tinctures, lotions and ointments. You’re accumulating your winter remedies along the back wall and in crates beneath the counter, well-stocked for the town and smaller surrounding villages that frequent your shop.

Thus far, Nikto has brought you two pelts, and promised two more before the season truly sets in. A new pillow has also been added to your nest bed, a puffy, heavy thing of feathered down and cotton.

You like it so much that you bounce on Nikto’s cock until morning when he brings it to you, spitting into his mouth whenever he opens it in supplication. You drop lavender buds into the casing and breathe it deep as he lays you down after daybreak. It makes an excellent throne for your pelvis when you’re too worn (or over-pleasured) to hold yourself up any longer.

Still, as promising as your preparations are, you need items unavailable even in town. The journey to the nearest city is one day's (or night’s) walk there, and another back. Well worth the trouble.

Nikto has no particular affection for any dwelling, so long as it’s yours. He’s just as eager to travel as you are.

Before nightfall, you drop off any orders expected in your absence, and receive well wishes from your customers. No one asks why you are traveling alone at night. No one warns you that it would be too dangerous.

Nikto accompanies you along the well-trod road, a hooded figure more likely to be mistaken for the grim reaper than your familiar. He’s human enough if you don’t look at him for too long. A tall man thick with muscle, broad-shouldered, built for labor. Likely malformed beneath the scarf hiding his features below those blue eyes - or perhaps just shy.

Just don’t try to peer into the depths of that hood, or ponder that mysterious scarf for too long. The moon acts as a strange prism, waters down the light into eerie refractions. One might start to imagine sharp teeth peeking through ripped lips. Or glimpse poorly sewn hills of flesh, nothing but dark, empty space between the seams.

Luckily, there are no travelers on the road this late into the night. Any errant gaze is that of night creatures, and those know well to avoid the shadow at your side - and you by extension.

The trip into the city is no great adventure, but you weren’t looking for one. Nikto, you sense, is something almost like disappointed. You arrive in the small hours of the morning, just as the earliest risers have begun their day.

The innkeeper seems surprised by such an early (or late) guest, but is happy enough to welcome you in. Bread has yet to be bought from the baker, but there’s stew that’s been simmering overnight. It’s warm and hearty and thick. You eat two bowls with a cup of peach wine, pay for food and board for the next two days, and retire to the second story of rooms.

The bed is not nearly as comfortable as yours. The blankets are thin and woven, though they are layered enough to be warm. The mattress and pillow are both straw - comfortable by most standards, but a poor substitute for your cotton and wool and furs and down.

You make due on Nikto’s rumbling chest (prideful that you miss what he has so diligently provided) and let yourself drift into slumber.

At midday, you wake. City merchants aren’t accustomed to your odd hours, and you don’t want anything to be out of stock - you’re not the only one that’s made the journey for winter.

Luckily, it’s an overcast day and the sun isn’t too obnoxious when you venture out. You get a sweet bun from the bakery to tide your hunger while you shop. Follow Nikto’s whispering for directions, or to pick the best items of any selection. Spoil yourself a bit on honey from abroad and a new grimoire.

Return to the inn at the brightest part of the day for a nap. Rouse again in the late afternoon for more exploring and shopping, as well as a drink at one of the alehouses.

You’ve no friends in the city - or anywhere, really, for that matter. But being surrounded by good spirits and bright noise provides an unusual source of energy. There’s a band to watch and strong drink, some gambling that you amuse yourself meddling in from afar.

There are eyes on you, but there always are in such a busy place. You tend to attract very few gazes, but the ones you do will return time and time again, musing at the lone figure by the wall. None are brave enough to approach - especially not when it grows dark enough for Nikto to reveal himself.

Even he is in unusual form, telling you stories of a bygone time. A time when perhaps he was more finite than he is now. He uses names you’ve heard before, in passing, and chuckles at exploits more mortal than he deigns to participate in now. You like to hear it, like to provide him with the excess buzzing in your veins.

When the crowd begins to thin, you take your leave. He stays at your side (always too close, nearly underfoot) all the way to the inn, and is waiting in your room when you come up with the meal. He manhandles you into his lap and feeds you with his fingers, pours water into your mouth from his.

You stave him off until your food settles, and then he’s taking you into his lap. Has you twice before you doze off. Wakes you three hours later with his tongue lapping at your swollen folds. Has you twice more before you settle in properly until dawn.

The second day passes in much the same fashion as the first. Your indulgence this time is a pretty, slender knife, a length of ribbon, and a simple burgundy frock. The combination has Nikto salivating by the time you return to your room to rest. Not that there’s much to be had with you splayed out over your new garment, his hands and mouth and cock working you over until a puddle of slick and cum forms beneath your writhing bodies.

You send him to wash the stains in annoyance, and it’s returned seemingly pristine - though he gloats that the scent of your coupling remains. At least to him.

Nasty creature.

“If I get tired, you will be carrying me,” you huff on the road home.

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, a silent assurance that you need only say the word.

Halfway there, a band of highwaymen makes the fatal mistake of trying to ambush the two of you. Aware that anyone coming from the city will be laden with coins or goods, they would be correct if you were anyone else.

You click your tongue, steps never faltering.

“Kill anyone that’s taken an innocent,” you call over your shoulder.

“Mistress,” Nikto churrs into the air, breath so cold it sinks in the chilly air.

An unnatural growl reverberates off the trees. You don’t spare a glance behind you, steps easy and light, crunching over dead leaves and dry twigs.

A hand lands on your shoulder - heavy… and then not. Heat splatters and soaks into your sleeve, dripping down towards your wrist. The severed arm falls with a wet, fleshy thump.

Always so messy.

You tilt your head, veer off the road and follow your intuition until you find a stream. Humming, you shed your clothes and saunter into the gentle current. It’s frigid, only just unfrozen. You sigh, minding your step for slippery rocks as you wade deeper. The water rises past your scratched calves, over bitten thighs, soothes your well-used cunt and the bruises on your hips. Tingles over the silvery flesh of your scarred back until it’s nearly to your breasts.

Only then does the water darken around you.

Nikto’s hand closes around your wrist, draws your arm back until he can lick away the smears of a stranger’s blood.

Feast before the season’s famine.

You moan softly at the drag of his serpentine tongue along your skin. The ball of your shoulder, the curve of your tricep and bicep. Tickling the bend of your elbow… up your forearm… and wrist. Twisting between each digit. You lean into the sturdy pillar of his body until his other arm curls around your waist. You stand with him in the water like that, cradled by shadow and bathed in moonlight.

He is never hasty, but tonight he’s unusually slow. Almost lazy.

Wait, no. Not lazy.

Deliberate.

Each flick of his tongue, scrape of teeth, brush of lips is applied with the same care and reverence afforded to an altar.

You tilt your head to rest against his shoulder, bare your throat. Peer through lidded eyes at the thick fingers twining with yours.

It’s as if he plunged his hands into a fireplace and didn’t care to dust away the charcoal and ash afterwards. It fades at the forearm into alabaster. In the crease of his elbow, it looks like he has ink for blood. You know from experience that it tastes of almonds and tannins, heavy on the tongue like thick wine.

You let him lay you down on the bank, dry and clean. He pampers you on his cock with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Grinds deep, pulls out only halfway to massage the head into that sweet spot over and over until you’re shuddering apart with a deep, heavy moan. He finishes on your stomach and thighs, drawing symbols into your skin before rubbing it in.

“Nikto,” you croon, thumb drawing a line down the left side of his face. From forehead, over his eye, down to the corner of his mouth where there’s an unnatural split. He lets you scrape your nail against the big canine, amusing yourself on the sharper bicuspid just beside it. “My Nikto.”

He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

You smile, indulgent.

“I belong to Nobody.”

There is a possibility of a second part. Maybe. If that's something people want.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #reader fic #nikto fic #nikto cod #nikto x reader #witch reader #afab reader #mind the warnings #heavy kink

1K notes · View notes

apocalypse-shuffle · 3 months ago

Text

LEATHERFACE | BUBBA SAWYER (TTCM & TTCM P2 | TCM: Next Generation a little)

—

Being in a relationship w/ Leatherface (and coexisting w/ the Sawyer Family) (Bubba Sawyer | Leatherface x Fem!Reader)

Headcanons

NSFW-ish, mature themes, canon typical violence & gore, murder, normalized violence, (TW: Cannibalism, human-skin leather), sawyer family appearances, brief mentions of sex, slasher shit -soft!girly!reader & kind of callous!reader

Pic source: beg./middle•The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) & end•The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Part 2

Happy 3 days till Halloween!!! 🎃

The only reason you had been spared was because of how earnestly you’d taken to them. You’d been hitchhiking too when Nubbins asked to ride with the crew you were with. But keeping to yourself in the farthest corner of the van you’d looked so alert that Nubbins had kept his taunting for the others and stayed clear of bothering with you entirely in case the aura you were immitting — despite your pretty dust riddled clothes — wasn’t just his imagination.

Still though when Nubbins starts to show off his polaroids to bring the group's guards down you pay the most attention, even complimenting some of his more atmospheric shots before tucking back into yourself.

Nubbins is so shocked he just asks to be let out afterwards, not even having cut himself or properly antagonized anyone the way he’d perfected over the last couple of months.

Really it’s the others’ insistence on poking around after Nubbins had told them a “ghost story” about cannibals in the dust storms that gets them murdered. Nubbins hadn’t wanted to deal with you (at least not without Bubba), and had lowkey been flattered by your compliments, so he’d let you guys go.

When you make it a point to just be on your way after the Sawyer’s latest grocery delivery starts trespassing all over their private land, and run into Drayton and Bubba coming back from a trip out of town, the conversation the older man starts up with you isn’t even laden with ulterior motive.

Bubba is immediately smitten by the flash of a smile you give him when you catch sight of him unmasked before he has a chance to duck from where he’s sitting in the truck bed. And how you don’t recoil and hardly bat a lash at him after he hastily ties on his mask has him ready to argue with his older brother about inviting you to dinner and not letting you go before Drayton’s even halfway through talking with you.

He doesn’t need to do much convincing however because Drayton’s already got his hat off like the southern gentlemen he isn’t, and you’ve got your head tilted as you listen to him, guarded gaze growing softer the longer you keep catching Bubba stealing glances at you.

You’re honest though, and the pseudo patriarch likes that. Coupled with the fact he keeps applying “manners” to what’s really just your soft spoken bluntness, and he’s convinced you’re exactly the womanly presence the family needs before the day’s done.

You’re aimless and/or disowned anyway so you take Drayton up on his invite back to the house and the rest is pretty cut and dry (this is pre the first movie). You don’t participate in the deaths of your past companions, but you're introduced up close and personal to the reality of the Sawyers pretty quickly.

When “Leatherface” comes out and that chainsaw revs up you’ve got front row seats to the blunt chains tearing through flesh and cracking open bone and are covered in enough blood by the time the group of idiots you’d been traveling with are all killed with extreme prejudice to feel damn near baptized in it.

Enough blood to drive Bubba crazy and have him being mercilessly teased by Nubbins over the chub he’s sporting in his trousers.

For your part, you just go with everything (at first) so you won’t end up next. And you’re lonely enough that it doesn’t take long before you're not faking it, whether you want to believe it or not.

News Flash: You’re not very motherly at all, but by the time you’ve kindly handed Drayton his ass over whatever “woman’s work” he’d tried to give you for the last time it’s too late for him to take back his endorsements.

Bubba would kill his ass for one, and being so busy bothering you was actually slowing down all those episodes Chop Top always pretended not to have because of the war. So you stay, but Drayton thinks you’re one helluva con artist and you just tell him that it takes one to know one even though you never once sold him a lie.

You simply refuse to be “mammyfied” and that’s that.

Bubba is in love with your wardrobe almost as much as he is with you.

The first time he comes requesting you do one of your makeup looks — something more 70’s glamor for his tastes, even if it’s not a style you’d usually do — on a carefully carved out face mask, though, you pause.

It’s nearly a make or break aspect in your relationship, but if you accept this part of him (really accept it, enough to participate) then there’s no going back. No lying to yourself about just being a hostage or only acting out of duress every time you didn’t try running away or scream out to any of the Sawyer family’s victims before they were slaughtered.

When you do help out with the makeup for his mask Bubba sticks to you like glue the entire time. Part of it is just him liking to watch you work — and him wanting to study your process to (somewhat clumsily at first) recreate on his own later. The rest of the reason is that he’s so used to having his things messed with that he’s keeping an eye on you just in case, no matter how unlikely it is you’d steal from him or destroy his mask just to fuck with him.

It’s just— there was the drought, then the layoffs, then starvation, and his only family either died or got meaner. Bubba is destined to get defensive with you too sometimes, it’s not personal.

With trespassers it’s kind of personal though — refer back to the first couple bullet points.

If anyone on the goddamn planet is going to piss you off to no end it’s going to be Chop Top. Where Nubbins will accidentally mistake one of your scarves or washcloths for an oil rag, his twin will fuck your shit up or steal it completely on purpose.

Alternatively, every time Nubbins breaks or dirties something of yours without realizing he’s dismissive as hell about telling you it happened because he hates admitting he made a mistake, but he will try to give you a replacement taken off a victim or that he’s made in his version of an apology.

With Chop Top, though, you’ll see him wearing your shit one day and be too disgusted by whatever he’s done with it to want it back. And if it’d lead to anything good you’d strangle him again for his bullshit, but the last time you’d gone at one another’s throats you’d triggered him to the point of screaming nonsense while he held a knife to your throat and Bubba ended up breaking a table after throwing him into it while you recuperated on the ground.

So yeah, you don’t put your hands on each other anymore, but you definitely still cuss one another out on a regular basis.

The welts the edge of the blade left against the brown skin of your throat sent Bubba into so much distress that you vowed to stop trying to fight Chop Top just to never see that reaction from your partner again.

Bubba is the main cook in the house (the only other person who regularly touches the kitchen being the oldest of his brothers), and he is by no means bad at it outside of his tendency to get heavy-handed with his seasonings whenever he’s got some. However, you will not eat anything with meat in it from him (so long as you do eat meat) unless you watched an animal being put in there.

He finds this stipulation incredibly insulting at first, but you refuse to not draw the line there.

You paint flowers onto his kitchen apron to make up for his hurt and he forgives you pretty easily after though.

You have to make a hard distinction between what of your makeup he can use on his masks and what makeup he can or cannot share between you both that’s strictly for your own bare faces. The first time he’d asked to use some of your blush and you’d found him powdering a dead woman’s face you’d just about passed away yourself, and thus the rules swiftly followed.

Bubba always praises you whenever you get dolled up – in whatever way he sees fit: kissing your cheeks or the back of your hands, picking you flowers, twirling you around, clapping for you – but let any of his brothers make one comment on how pretty you look and he’s arguing with them.

At first Drayton cannot stand the scent of the flowers you or Bubba start bringing into the house and/or the perfume that you wear, but that’s only until he realizes how much better the scents were at making people stop at the shop. Add to that the lavender you planted keeping way more flies away and Drayton was convinced you were some kind of good luck charm. He’ll allow you this one win specifically despite how much he bitched about the smell beforehand (and the fact that he still thinks you’re one of the best liars he’s ever met).

The first time you help any of the Sawyers prep a dead animal they’re all surprised, but really you can only roll your eyes. Regardless of if you came with knowledge on how to properly kill and prep an animal to be eaten, or you diligently asked Bubba or Drayton to teach you, your appearance didn’t have shit to do with your actual ability to learn or have certain skills.

Drayton shockingly muttering that he thought you were just a delicate flower after you turn to him with a handful of guts in your hand is funny though.

Well, funny until Chop Top grabs the fist full of guts in your hand and motorboats them. You suck your teeth so hard as you watch him act a fool, eyes rolling, that Bubba stops cleaving to cast you a concerned look.

You’re either going to become a hardcore vegan or vegetarian or you're not, alright? I don’t make the rules of the universe. Outside of literal cannibalism most of the only other meat available is going to be the rare hunted animal or fresh-enough roadkill. Times are tough, but Drayton does want to start a garden now.

The only functioning fan in the whole house is in the room you share with Bubba (this doesn’t have anything to do with liking girly shit, you just refuse to be so hot all the time).

Instead of struggling with it for half an hour every time he’s in a more feminine headspace Bubba comes to you to tie on the silver bell bracelet he wears; you kiss his wrist whenever you’re finished.

Whenever you paint your nails you make sure to paint his too. You kiss each one of his fingers when you’re done, and he does the same to you while hard as a fucking rock and seconds away from begging to fuck you.

There isn’t a chance you’re ever going to try Drayton’s chili, no matter how fucking butt hurt he gets.

Whenever you cry, Bubba cries too.

Bubba definitely appreciates you helping him out. Whether being his assistant while he’s butchering or bringing him something to eat or just keeping him company so he doesn’t feel left out. Since it’s the kind of attention he for sure never gets from his brothers he cherishes it from you.

He will do nothing but stare at you if you sit down to do your makeup or otherwise get dolled up in any way, he can’t help himself. If you ask him to hand you something he’ll do it like he’s in a trance, he just likes seeing you come together like that and will be in awe. Blow him a kiss, he’ll blush.

Introduce him to ascots, I think he’d like them.

Whenever you wear your only pair of heels and your daisy dukes Bubba can’t keep his eyes off you, eyes glued to your black ass like it’s the second coming. You can’t help but tease him with the sway of your hips, it’s just too easy to coax those cute blushing looks out of him.

It’s only fair. The sight of him in his swim shorts always makes you go a little boy crazy too.

The “grandma” mask throws you off more than his others, especially considering he doesn’t wear it when he’s around you very often. He wears it when he’s cooking or doing more mundane house work (usually to contend himself with having to slip into the more “traditionally feminine” role his brothers refuse to), and if he’s not in his kitchen apron he wears an antique house dress that really makes him look like a little old lady from afar. You just watch him do it and keep him company. Whenever you try to help it kind of depends on his mood if he’ll let you. You’ll need to ask him where he wants you, don’t just guess.

Bubba teaches you how to whittle bones. He also most definitely gifts you some of the jewelry he makes out of his victim’s bones/teeth or gifts you stolen jewelry (and other things he thinks you might like) from the people he kills.

Bubba is chief decorator of the house mostly of his own accord. He wittles, strings things up, and builds all kinds of furniture out of bones and feathers and other miscellaneous things he finds that he thinks are pretty and is so calm while doing it you just sit down and watch him work with a little smile on your face.

He will 100% braid your hair (and is a quick study when you want it done a specific way) with yarn — which is easier to get than braiding hair where you are, or delicately twist decorative feathers and charms into your cornrows.

He massages oil into your scalp too and you always fall asleep with your head in his lap.

He does a lot of yard work also, so if you’re dedicated to spending a lot of time with him you will be outside often. He’s perfectly content with just having your company and your assistance here and there, but if you want to do more he won’t stop you outside of the really big jobs he has to do.

Sometimes you just dress up cutely in your overalls and boots and sit around looking pretty and soaking sun into your already sun-kissed skin for the whole day and he loves that about as much as you being his assistant. (You have sunscreen, it’s fine.)

Oftentimes you knit or sew (if you know how), but most often you’re reading a book or entertaining Bubba with anecdotes from one of the week's newspapers.

Bubba’s ass is strong. He can and will pick you up, and watching him swing a hammer borders on…overwhelming.

His clothes are the only ones you mend or help wash at all. You’re not a maid, but he respects your time and doesn’t demand it so you help him out because he’s your partner and you choose to. Also, blood stains are a bitch to get out (even when you leave them in the sun to “bleach” after washing) and Bubba gets covered in blood the most for the family so you’re not just going to leave him hanging.

“Leatherface” is lowkey a moniker that was created to taunt Bubba. The twins gave him the nickname after he started wearing his masks and it kind of stuck with everyone. You don’t use it just based off how Chop Top and Them tend to throw it in Bubba’s face whenever they’re irritated with him, but you will use the ambiguity of the moniker when talking about your chainsaw wielding partner to any trespassers and/or victims just to get them extra apprehensive.

When you got to the point where seeing him covered in blood started turning you on you spiraled a bit for sure. You kind of just embrace how aroused it makes you now though, and Bubba gets endlessly flattered.

You still wouldn’t have him any other way, really. Or the rest of his fucked up, irritating family. Even Grandpa (though you do still avoid him like the plague even when you're helping Bubba care for and feed him).

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!🧡

Honestly, after Chromeskull, Bubba is probably my favorite slasher. Anyway, this was fun! I’ll also definitely write more of these at some point too!

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

123 notes · View notes