#tw self cannibalism

[thetasteofbeautyandlove]

Even more Niku facts!

• They’re still learning how to use phones, mainly just knowing how to text and take pictures (and play a couple games)

• They have an entire folder in their photo album dedicated to pictures they’ve taken of or with Taberu

• Their boss at the butcher shop (Jouta) spoiled the hell out of them when he first found them, since the kid was horribly malnourished

• Due to their CIPA disease, they don’t feel hunger and constantly forget to eat, which is why they pass out so often

• The only two foods they can stomach is human meat (since they grew up eating their own flesh) and candy (it being the first actual food they’d ever had), but they usually make themself throw up meat out of guilt

• Salty with whoever decided to put the candy bowl on a high shelf, since they’re too short to reach it without a stool

• Doesn’t understand why anyone likes them, or why anyone loves them either

• They hate how their body looks, since it doesn’t feel like it belongs to them anymore

• They sew their body up with colorful thread in hopes it makes their skin look more easy to look at

• They occasionally self harm to try and feel in control of their own body again

• Their boss has to help them tie their bows half the time, so he usually tries to add a bow to most of their outfits so he can help them more.

• Will sometimes trace their fingers over the bite marks Taberu left on their body when they miss it, since it feels comforting to them

• They’re still in full denial that they need mobility aids, since they’ve convinced themself they don’t need it if they don’t feel pain

[vroomian]

Btw because we’re in masa pov for bbp, we’re never going to get the full side effect of having Ue as a zanpakuto. Masa is full on starving nearly 100% of the time. If anyone else had Ue, I’d give them like three days max before they try gutting or eating themselves just to be full for a second. (Except Aizen. I’d give him maybe a month or two.)

Masa though is a freak and so used to being hungry that the pain is like background noise to him. He’s vibing.

[slityourthroatandeattiligetsick]

more Taberu backstory

Tw self harm, self cannibalism, slight insanity, implied child abuse, starvation/emaciation, self-dehumanization

Cold.

Alone.

Hungry.

So hungry. Always hungry. No matter how much it ate, it was never enough. It didn't know if that was because it didn't get enough food anymore, or if there was something wrong with it.

It curled up in the back of an alleyway in too-small clothes, ribs protruding through its torn shirt. Cold. Always cold. But it didn't care anymore. Alone. Always alone. It cared. It hated being alone. But there wasn't anything it could do about it.

Hungry.

It could do something about the hunger.

It forced itself to its feet and shook itself off, then raised a shaking, skinny arm to its face and tore a chunk off of its wrist, snapping its jaws around the chunk of meat. Immediately, that familiar, wonderful feeling of warmth and bloodlust spread through its body.

Such comfortable pain.

Controllable pain.

Before it knew it, its entire face and neck were covered in mouths, tearing chunks from its arms in a savage, starving frenzy. It's not like the damage was permanent. It was smart. So smart. It had figured out how to heal its wounds with its ability, opening a mouth over the wound and then shutting it would take the original wound away with the mouth.

Such a smart child. Such a good mutt. Worthy of praise. Surely. Someone would notice it. Someone would love it.

It slumped back against the wall of the alley, its bloodied features written in joy. Ecstasy, even, at the familiar fantasies running through its fractured psyche.

A sound echoed through the alley.

Footsteps.

Cold.

Hungry.

Alone?

It came to its feet, a shaky smile winding its way up the side of its neck. A friend or a meal? Who was this person? This strange man in a green jacket, who showed no fear at the sight of a bloodstained dog, starving in an alley, staying alive off its own flesh?

It tilted its head, curious. The man made no move to approach, merely raised his hands as if in surrender. Then he spoke. The mutt hadn't had anyone speak to it in so long. It had almost forgotten what a voice sounded like.

"Hey, hey, dude, chill. I'm not here to hurt you."

It paused, trying to remember what the words meant. It opened its mouth to reply, but all that came out was a strained growl. It shook itself off like the dog it was and took a shaky step forward. The man took a step backwards, as if nervous.

He should be. Stray mutts are dangerous. They could hurt you. They could kill you. Bad dogs need to be punished. But this one wasn't a bad dog, was it? It was smart, it was only trying to survive, wasn't it? Its gaze turned towards its wrist. It narrowed its eyes, remembering the open wounds that had marred its arms only minutes before.

It turned back to the man and tilted its head the other way, trying to convey the words it was too starved to say through its bright blue eyes alone. Stupid, lying eyes. Its eyes said, 'we belong to a human. A good person.' Lies. But pretty lies, certainly.

The man seemed to believe them. He smiled a little and extended his hand.

"You look hungry."

It nodded. Always hungry. So hungry. Was it that easy to tell? It glanced at its emaciated chest. Certainly, it looked hungry. It stumbled forward once more, grabbing the man's hand. It had been so long since someone had touched it without wanting to hurt it. Even if this man intended to hurt it, at least it could stop being alone.

Cold.

Hungry.

Alone.

@paintedgrilledcheese @myluckymoon @aredeemantagonist @city-of-c0rpses

[5tupidusrnam3]

Painting of Anna doing her favorite activity!!

I feel the magic Inside of me growing!

[nrd-answers]

Lungs do all the fleshy bits mean you have to eat food now?

< Previous | First | Next >

[minicorruptprogram]

"So grab a plate! Have a taste!"

(CW for under the cut, Blood, Detached Limb/Tentacle, Knife, Implied Self-cannibalism.)

So fun fact, did you know octopodes sometimes eat their own limbs? :)

Yes, I listened to Butcher Vanity while drawing this. It fits the topic, okay??

(also, yes, M.I.N.I has blood, it's blue-violet.)

[damnedrainbows]

⛦˙♱⋆☠︎︎⋆♱˙⛧

Wretched little shortcake refused to leave. Of course he wouldn’t. Why wouldn’t Lucifer choose to revel in his suffering? Were it reversed he’d do the damn same. Of course a heart as paranoid and damaged as his own could see the devil staying as nothing else but a desire to mock him.

Alastor’s ears were pinned back like a rabid dog, and his grin pulled into a taut, bloody snarl as the dials turned manically in his eyes. The lights in the room flickered, and the radio switched on.

He scrambled to put some distance between himself and the King, gnashing his fangs viciously. He thought he might succeed. He thought he might win this battle for once, but as the scent of angelic flesh reached his nose, he knew he hadn’t.

Alastor latched onto the King’s arm, gold now mingling with crimson as he tore into Lucifer like a dog with a steak. His shoulders sagged with instant relief at having his hellish cravings met…and yet salt blinded his vision, as he quickly shut his eyes.

@flxshy

[hyp3r4ct1v3-h0rn3tz]

"ouh it's just one person who doesnt like your hyperfixation you dont even know them get over it" NO. IM GOING TO TEAR THE FLESH OFF MY OWN ARM WITH MY TEETH. AND THEN EAT IT

[trashrunes]

Day 24: Cannibalism

[ramonahblog]

I know there are writers out there where this is a usual part of their process. But I am a fluff-and-lighthearted romance writer so this is way out-of-the-norm for me.

Plus this fic started out as a romance with time-loop and I guess I took a wrong turn somewhere. Or right turn depending on your reading preference.

I guess my subconscious wants me to try my hand at angst and horror I guess.

On the bright side, I'm like 200 words from 4k in this fic and not even like a third of a way in. I wanted to increase my word count this month for multiple stories so I'm well on my way here.

[thetasteofbeautyandlove]

Finally posting Niku’s backstory!!!

Tw for cannibalism (both of self and others), detailed descriptions of gore, murder, child abuse, puking and self harm

There is nothing wrong.

In the dark, cold basement, shaking hands dug into torn apart flesh, gripping at anything they can grab while tearing off chunks with reckless abandon, their hands stained with blood, getting under their nails from the intensity.

There is nothing wrong.

Biting into the chunks of flesh made their stomach churn, but they hadn’t eaten anything other than their own flesh in years. They needed this. They hated it, but they needed to. They’re barely able to process what they were doing, the adrenaline and panic inside them making their brain fog. So they eat. And they eat. And eat. Until their brain began to process what was happening. Looking down, all they feel is horror deep in their gut, as well as nausea overwhelming them.

There is nothing wrong.

Their parents’ mutilated corpses lay out in front of them, completely drenched in blood. They looked similar to how Niku would be left by their parents almost daily, body torn apart without care. Chunks of flesh cut or torn from the skin, bloody muscles visible to the eye. They’d always been able to stitch themself back together after their parents had cut them up, having found sewing supplies on one of the shelves after the first chunk they’d torn from their own hand out of hunger, but right now- right now their parents were completely motionless, their eyes completely foggy, their chests not moving.

There is nothing wrong.

They can feel nausea overwhelming them, barely managing to keep themself from vomiting as they push their body up and run up the stairs and out of the basement. They hadn’t been upstairs in years now, they think, having been locked down here since they were only four years old. They can’t even remember the layout of the house at this point, stumbling around in a panic as they tried to find the bathroom. They were trying so hard to keep themself moving despite how their body felt so incredibly weak. They quickly run in and vomit into the toilet, the chunks of flesh and organs mixed with blood disgusting them. They sit over the bowl for a few minutes they believe, which felt much longer, before forcing their shaking body up, searching through the cabinets and drawers until they find bandages. They try their best to unwrap it with their trembling hands, wrapping the gauze around their missing and sewn shut eye. Their clothes should cover all their other wounds, so that wasn’t a concern.

As they shut the cabinet, they accidentally catch a glimpse of their reflection in the mirror. And they hated what they saw.

Their body and clothes were covered in blood, hands coated entirely as well as their mouth smeared with crimson. Their one showing eye looked so dull and exhausted, but so full of fear at the same time. Their skin discolored in spots, likely from lack of oxygen to their veins and blood vessels. They guess that’s what happens when you sew a limb back on. They couldn’t even recognize themself in their reflection anymore.

There is nothing wrong.

They looked like a monster.

There is nothing wrong.

They were a monster.

There is nothing wrong.

After nine whole years of living in that hellish basement, of their parents cutting apart their own child’s body and using their flesh as food, they’d finally managed to fight back. Day after day of sewing their body back together was finally over. At least, sewing up wounds from their parents was over. As long as they were without food, they’d likely have to continue eating their own body like they’d had to do for nine years now. They’d gotten used to the taste of their own body by now, but their parents had left a horrid knot in their stomach. Maybe just knowing who the flesh belonged to was the problem. It’s not like they’d had anything inside them for years, all they knew was the taste of flesh and blood, so they doubted it was taste. Would they even be able to eat something else at this point? Or would they continue to be forced to eat their own body.

There is nothing wrong.

There is nothing wrong.

There is nothing wrong.

The feeling of blood pouring down their hand was the next thing they noticed, shards of broken glass sticking out of their stitched up skin. They look down at it with an empty expression, pulling the glass out piece by and dropping it into the sink, however they do keep one shard in their hand, bringing down to their thigh before making line after line into their flesh, as if hoping maybe it’d make their body feel like their own again. Scars cause by their own hands once more rather than their parents. A way to reclaim their own autonomy. To reclaim their body as their own.

There is nothing wrong.

They drop the shard eventually, feeling the wet blood soaking into their shorts as their hand shakes and trembles. Something about that was still disturbing to them even without the pain. Taking a few breaths to try and calm down, they turn on their heel and head out of the bathroom, eventually managing to to find the front door, fumbling with the lock before shoving it open, nearly tripping over themself as they stepped outside. They knew the mere sight of them would be enough to worry anyone passing by. The sight of a fourteen year old completely drenched in blood, their entire body trembling in panic and disgust towards themself, and hand bleeding heavily would be enough to worry anyone.

There is nothing wrong.

They continue running down the street, their bare feet hitting the ground in quick steps, continuing to run until their legs gave out from under them, sending them crashing to the ground. Luckily they didn’t feel the pain from it, but they could feel the knee of their sock starting to get damp from blood, them having scraped their knee pretty badly on collision. Another wound added to their mangled body.

There is nothing-

“Hey, you alright kid?”

They jump, hesitating for a moment before looking up towards the voice, it coming from a tall man, his hair tied into a low ponytail. He had tons for piercings from what Niku could tell, as well as tattoos on his arms and neck which definitely caught their attention. He seemed worried too, which confused them a lot. They’d never seen someone look at them like that before. It made their chest feel strange.

“Shoot, sorry for scaring you, kiddo,” the man says, kneeling down to get more onto their level, seeming to be trying not to scare them more. No one had ever worried about that before.

“You have anywhere to go kid? Can bring you back to my place if you’d be comfortable with it,” the man says, taking his coat off to wrap around their trembling shoulders. Something about him felt.. so weirdly safe to them.

It wouldn’t hurt to go with him…

[herdreamywasteland]

I want to eat my fucking

Hands

[slityourthroatandeattiligetsick]

a taste of revenge for @aredeemantagonist

Taberu's backstory! tw for abuse (specifically of the child variety,) insanity, self harm, and self cannibalism

Cold.

Dark.

Alone.

Hungry.

Those four words described Taberu's life, now. It had all gone downhill when it had developed an ability. It could remember the sky, barely. The sun, the grass. The memories were comforting in the cold dark of the basement, its skinny wrist chained to the floor.

It was... sixteen, now? It did its best to keep track of the years, having scratched a calendar into the floor. It had been ten when its parents had decided it wasn't human anymore. It remembered the day well.

Light.

Laughter.

Grass under the little child's feet as it ran after its friend in the sacred ritual of tag. It couldn't remember their name. It tripped and fell forward, reaching for their ankle. Some instinct in the back of its head reared its ugly head and a mouth appeared on the palm of its hand, digging into their friends ankle.

Screams.

Anger.

Confusion.

Taberu stood up, staring at its bloodied hand. Its friend lay in the grass, staring at it in fear, clutching their ankle. Terrified, it ran to its parents, begging for an explanation as to what had happened to it.

And an explanation they gave.

Taberu was a freak, an inhuman dog with a demonic ability.

That was the first day it spent in the basement.

Cold.

Fear.

Hunger.

The ten-year-old cowered in terror with tear-filled eyes in the corner of the basement, gnawing instinctively on anything it could find. Its parents came to check on it days later. Having found the furniture they'd stored in the basement torn to shreds with bites taken out of them, Taberu's parents decided to buy a chain. A chain for a child.

Sometimes Taberu thought it heard or saw them coming back to let it out, but it was never real.

Nothing was real except the cold dark of the floor and the ever-burning hunger.

They never fed it, seemingly hoping they could starve its ability off of it. Fearful and alone in the dark with its breaking psyche and the hunger, it had taken to taking bites out of itself to survive. Blood was its only drink, its own flesh its only food.

And there, alone in the dark, tears streaking its malnourished face, Taberu found that it loved the taste.

It became a frantic habit, tearing chunks out and regenerating them by opening and closing mouths on the wounds. A game, of sorts, the only entertainment for a breaking mind.

Sometimes it laughed at the pain.

Cold.

Dark.

Alone.

Hungry.

Tunk!

Taberu, sixteen years old, skinny, scared, angry, and ever so hungry, snapped back to reality at the sound. It had taken to absentmindedly gnawing on its wrist chain with an ability-summoned mouth, and apparently, it had finally eaten through.

It stared in awe at its chafed wrist, and for the first time in six years, came all the way to its feet. It took a shaky step, leaning on the wall for support. It managed to climb the stairs, on all fours. Like an animal, it thought.

The house was dark. It was nighttime. It stumbled out of the house and into the night, snapping its sharp teeth at nothing. It clambered its way into an alleyway and collapsed, smiling to itself.

It was free.

And it was hungry.

[royalarchivist]

[Context: They were talking about what kind of rats they would be]

Tubbo: I'll be the rat that eats baby rats.

Pac: If you want, you can eat my body if I– after I die, you know?

Tubbo: Nah, only baby rats.

Pac: Oh, ok.

Pac being very quick to suggest other people cannibalize him with absolutely no prompting whatsoever. 🤨😒

[nekrosdolly]

this is based on nothing in particular but i think vergil would eat you out more eagerly while you're on your period.

cw; afab sub reader, dom vergil, pussydrunk vergil, blood drinking, very brief pussy sniffing, cunnilingus, reader is written to have pretty gnarly periods, somewhat soft vergil to start.

blood has never tasted so good, flowing steadily from your sweet cunt in ichor streams and into his mouth. while he's never been fond of getting blood on his clothing from demons, or perhaps having it stain his coat (god forbid it taint yamato), this is different. you needed him and he wanted you all the same.

your periods aren't usually so bad, but it seemed to be getting worse. especially this month- it had to have been the worst yet. vergil had gone out of his way to make sure you were beyond comfortable, hardly allowing you to leave his bed- yes, his bed, not your own. he didn't want you to be suffering without him there to support you. the blue twin was uncharacteristically doting for the entire week. while he wasn't a fan of physical affection, he kept snuggling up to you in hopes that the inhumane temperature his body keeps would be enough to dissuade your horrific cramps.

he fed you when asked, made you plenty of tea that was supposed to help, and kept a good distance when you got cranky. the last thing he needed was you, pissed off at him for trying to help. though he wouldn't blame you by any means- he was suffocating you. within good reason, of course.

vergil had brought your immense pain up to trish and lady as inconspicuously as he could as a means of asking for help. what could he do to lessen your suffering?

"give her head," trish's voice is blunt. lady nods in agreement from her spot beside the tall, blonde woman.

"orgasms make periods shorter and less painful. we would know."

you're in bed, lying on your side with a heating pad tucked to your lower abdomen. your cramps were lessened thanks to vergil's efforts (the heating pad, some tea, and food,) but not quite gone. you're wearing one of his shirts and some very loose shorts made for sleeping when vergil walks in, and he all but pounces on you. it's embarrassing, how quickly he gets a semi just from looking at you in his clothing, in his bed, smiling at him.

sharing blood is intimate, right?

you're so sweet, looking over your shoulder at him with a little smile and meager wave.

"hi, verg," you hum politely as he shrugs off his coat and sets on the coatrack hanging on the back of his door. he settles on the edge of his bed to unbuckle each strap on his ridiculous boots.

"how are you feeling?" you turn onto your back to watch him undress, gloved fingers undoing the complicated buttons on his shirt, then unzipping it. underneath lies a black tank top and like a victorian man, you swoon at the sight of his collarbones.

"um, still a little crampy, but fine," he nods once, peeking over his shoulder at you. his fists clench, then relax.

"would you like my assistance?" he stands, peeling off his grossly hot, sticky leather pants that you love because they "hug his ass." you shake your head softly, closing your eyes as another cramp storms your uterus.

"you've done enough, verg, i'm alright-" a sudden weight over you cuts you off, feeling the bed shift beside your head and hips. when you open your eyes, your dear half-devil is on top of you and damn-near purring. his hair is starting to break free from its slicked-back state, a few strands falling over his face. he looks hungry, his powder blue eyes dark and murky.

"let me help," he rasps, one leg shifting in between yours dangerously close to your cunt, "allow me."

never a patient man, he fights himself to be calm as you ponder your answer. period sex has always struck you as gross. besides, nobody wants to fuck someone while they're literally excreting blood and chunks of flesh- or so you think. the minute you nod, he's pulling your shorts off, your underwear (and subsequently, your pad,) slipping down with them.

at first, you expect him to pull his boxers down, but your eyes widen at the sight of him slithering between your legs so he's face-to-face with your bleeding cunt. he's perverted in his own special way, closing his eyes briefly as he sniffs your blood-slickened folds, making you squirm. you open your mouth in hopes of telling him to quit being weird, but he beats you to the punch when he licks a stripe up your seam, thus drawing a moan from you instead.

blood has never been so sweet. mixed with the taste of you, he's in heaven. your legs hook over his shoulders upon his guidance, his tongue delving into your leaking entrance to taste more and more gore. plush thighs hug the sides of his head, making him hiss quietly as he forces them to part. red coats his chin, nose, and lips as he eagerly fucks you with his tongue, nails digging into your skin. drowned out beneath your noises of pleasure, soft noises of his own bubble in his throat.

you should've put a towel down, an afterthought that strikes you as he withdraws his tongue from your fluttering walls to lap at your clit with hunger only a vampire might have after tasting blood. your back arches, a cry leaving you when he sucks at your pulsing clit. he'd never say it aloud, but he loves getting you off. seeing you in such a pretty state, spread out or pressed against him, moaning until your throat was raw and tears spilled from your eyes all because of him- his tongue, his fingers, his dick, whatever it may be.

to vergil's disappointment, blood continues to seep out of you and onto the bedsheets instead of in his mouth, so he suckles on your clit until he's sure you're close before rubbing it with his thumb eagerly, forcing his tongue inside your cavern yet again. he growls into your cunt at the taste again, his mind hazy with the need to keep drinking you in. he can taste your arousal mixing with crimson, fueling him to keep going. the now sharp-ish tip of his tongue prods at your spongy g-spot, a pleased purr emitting from his chest at the way you're crying out for him to continue.

the hands on your hips gain a rough quality, his once-dull nails pricking into the soft skin of your thighs and dear god, his tongue- ribbed down the sides and pointed at the very end- fucks you masterfully.

"vergil," you reach down to take his hand, your climax fast approaching, only to find a scaly mass where his human hand once was. a quick glance downwards tells you all you need to know: he's triggering, albeit only halfway. sharp, glowing blue eyes meet yours and it's like he knows you're going to cum, your tight walls squeezing his tongue like they would his cock.

"i-i love you," you whine, a sound that falls short in comparison to the volume of the slurping and squelching filling the air. your hands grasping for something to hold onto as your climax fast approaches. your lover takes your hand in his clawed one with a soft grip. your head falls back against the pillow, squirming against his mouth. he purrs, nose nuzzling into your puffy clit. the vibrations send you tumbling over the edge.

with a cry, you cum hard on his tongue. he laps up your release and blood combined, a soft moan leaving him as he tastes you so sweetly. fire lights your veins, white-hot and all-consuming as he tongue-fucks you through your heady high, thighs shaking under his rough hands. he doesn't stop, burying himself in you until you're whining, pleading for him to stop with crystalline tears that he wants to lick away. with a soft tug to his hair, you pull him off and he allows you. but not before pressing a kiss on your overworked clit.

standing from between your legs, ichor coats his face from the nose-down. it's dripping from his chin down his neck, soaking into the collar of his tank top. it's enough to make you squirm under his gaze and pull your shirt down to cover yourself. red-stained (human) tongue pokes from between his lips to lap at the blood left on them, pale blue eyes boring into your own.

"...i'm going to get a tampon in," you mutter, getting out of bed on shaky legs and meandering to his en-suite bathroom. luckily, he's kept a small stash of period products for you ever since you started dating.

in the wake of your absence, his eyes travel to the tempting bloodstain on his bed. he has half a mind to lean down and nuzzle his face into it, perhaps try to suck the crimson from the stain in order to taste you again. he doesn't. instead, he waits by the bathroom door for you to finish so he can wash himself of your fluids, albeit reluctantly.

-

in the end, when he's holding your unconscious body against his in a tight manner, soft snores falling from your lips, he presses a ghost of a kiss on the shell of your ear.

"i love you," the sound of his voice is lost with the wind blowing through the cracked window, just how he would like it to be.

[radio-writes]

I'll go with:

"You win"

"Why should I stay?"

"And what will you do? Run from me?"

It Seems the Devil and I Walked Hand in Hand

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Forced cannibalism, gore, murder, stockholm syndrome

Tags: Alastor x reader, GN reader, yandare, reader goes insane, dead dove do not eat

MDNI

A humid breeze blew through your hair, the putrid stench of Hell carried with it. Somewhere in the distance, something—whatever it may be this time—exploded, prompting usual screams of terror.

But your heart fluttered, eyes fixated on your friend next to you. You sat side by side with them, on a random hilltop the two of you stumbled upon. It was quiet, but barely out of the chaos of the main pentagram. 

"What? What is it?" They laughed as they finally called you out on your staring.

You almost swooned as their warm brown eyes met yours. "You just have the prettiest set of eyes in all of Hell, that's all."

You had been so proud of that. So happy about how smooth you were at the delivery. Giddy about the blush that crept onto your friend's face.

The same warm brown eyes—Hell's prettiest, as Alastor so kindly reminded you—stared back at you now. 

Unseeing.

Without its owner's head anywhere near.

On a plate placed before you.

Your blood felt like ice as you hung your head low. Unable to think. Unable to feel. Unable to breathe, maybe, you weren't really sure anymore.

"Afraid I might have gotten carried away, dear. I was absolutely starving since you stood me up on our lunch meeting." Alastor's tone was as bright and cheerful as it always was—you could almost argue that it was even happier now. "Of course, I did save you their eyes. I knew how much you just loved them."

He continued on, sighing and swooning about this and that. How it had been a while since he had such a satisfying meal. How it was all thanks to you for leading him to it. How he can't wait to meet more of your friends—if you ever managed to make any after the show he put on for you.

But you sat still, mind unable to comprehend what actually sat in front of you. Alastor might as well have been talking from three rooms away for all you heard from him. His voice almost sounding like it came from underwater, barely able to pierce through the fog in your head.

It was only when the demon who sat across from you stabbed a fork through an eyeball on your plate, did your senses come back. Like a flipped switch, you could hear well again, in time to hear the disgusting squish of the organ, blood and fluids spilling as it was stabbed.

"Don't let it go cold now, my dear. I went through so much trouble to get them intact and still warm for you." Alastor smiled as he sat across you.

One of his elbows rested on the table, hand cradling his cheek as you met his gaze. The gleeful, cold red eyes sickened you much more than the gore he held up. He raised the fork to you. Your friend's eye at the end of it. "Say Aaah~"

You pressed your lips together. Whether to resist the cruel torture, or to keep the bile from coming out, you were unsure. 

Like a stubborn child, you shook your head, arms pushing against the table to get up from your seat. Alastor was behind you in seconds, dissolving and rematerializing through shadows faster than you could blink.

"Nuh uh, dearest. We don't waste good food in this Hotel. What would the papers say if they find out we throw away such scarce resource?" He pressed his body against the back of your chair, securing you back at the table with an easy push.

He leaned over your shoulder, long arms reached around you. You stared as his clawed hands planted themselves on the table in front of you, caging you in, framing that horrid plate.

You felt his breath by your ear, that horribly familiar static prickled your skin, before you heard him speak. "You know, I'm starting to think you like how your friends taste."

You swallowed against your dry throat, eyes wide. Every breath you took was shallow as you tried to shake your head only to be met with a mocking laugh.

"No? Come now, why lie, my dear? It's only us here." Alastor leaned closer over you. The heat of his body inescapable. "This is the third friend this month. Even a child would have learned by now." 

"I'm all you need, darling. Everyone else is just cattle." His voice distorted as he spoke, a threat, a promise, you knew from experience that he'd deliver on.

Faintly you could feel the weight of metal around your neck. It wasn't physically there, no. After all, it's been a while since you've given him a reason to summon that chain. But it never really ever felt absent, specially at times like this.

You sighed in resignation, and braced yourself for that familiar horrible taste. Your hands clenched into fists on your lap—a sight that delighted the demon behind you.

"You win." You said softly. Numbly, you parted your lips, mind wandering away as you let Alastor slide the fork into your slack mouth. You ignored what it was you were chewing, letting your body function through the motions as you fought to keep your thoughts else were. 

You felt a large hand pat your head, bringing you back to the present in time to hear Alastor's praise. "What a good pet you make, my dear."

The plate before you was empty now, Alastor's looming figure having retreated away from your shaking one, back in his seat in front of you.

The horrible rotten taste still lingered in your mouth, but you didn't bother to ask for something to wash it away. You simply stood up, ready to run to your room and force yourself to throw up—again.

"Hm? Running from me now, are we?" Alastor's brows raised as he watched you. "Not that you can, I own you, after all." 

You suspected his words were less of a reminder for you, and more on just him loving to say them.

"And why should I stay?" Your words seemed argumentative, but your tone and the hunch of your shoulders were anything but. "I've already finished my punishment."

"I would say it was more of a treat, really. You have no idea how much I wanted to eat those." He laughed, not really minding that you just stared back blankly at him.

"Besides, you've yet to pay me back for leaving me waiting at Rosie's. So come, sit." An invitation to most, an order to you.

So sat you did. You ignored the smudges of blood on the plate still in front of you. You ignored the bitter taste the that lingered in your mouth. You ignored the growing numbness spreading from your chest to the rest of your limbs.

You ignored yourself.

Mindlessly, you nodded along to whatever gossip Alastor had, almost immediately, began sharing with you.

Alastor's hold on you had tightened in the past few months. Not only had he pulled you away from the people at the hotel—you were apparently terribly ill, contagious, but fine under his care—but he had also confiscated your phone and TV.

The window in your room was also simply magicked away. He didn't want you getting any funny ideas of leaving him again, after all.

At first you were fine with it. You had a few books in your room, anyway. But after the first two weeks, you've already finished most of them.

Still, they kept you entertained for a little longer after that; you didn't really mind rereading them—for the fourth time, you think.

But then you had that fight with Alastor. You had asked for your phone back, desperate to know what was going on outside your room. Desperate to listen to your music. Desperate to hear another voice aside from your own.

Alastor merely waved off your concern. He let you keep his radio after all. You could simply listen to him. He talked about current events, and played music, and broadcasted all sorts of screams voices. You didn't need anything else.

He didn't quite take it nicely when you had spat that it wasn't enough.

In the fray that followed, your books were lost. Torn to shreds in seconds.

But no matter, you had thought. You still had some paper, a pencil, some paint. While you weren't the best artist around, you doodled the hours away, anyway. Coloring, sketching, filling out every plain, empty gap on the papers you had.

You were quickly running out of material, though. You'd repeatedly ask Alastor to get you more paper, another pencil, even an eraser, every time he came by. But all he kept saying was that he forgot to fetch some, and that he will surely do so next time.

You were always disappointed, but knew better than to start another fight. You didn't want to risk destroying what little paint you had left, after all.

You had began to doodle on your walls. Counting the little details on the wallpaper, even each and crack along your way. You had drawn everything you ever knew existed; from characters you used to liked when you were alive to a freaking sock on the floor. 

The friends he made you eat.

Hastily covered with a drawing of a deer.

By his next visit, Alastor was appalled by the state of your room. He didn't quite appreciate your vandalism. He promptly snapped his fingers and the walls were replaced. Your drawings gone, the wallpaper gone, even the cracks were gone. It was now just a smooth red surface. 

He had taken away the paint, not that there was much left at that point. You thought it was fair anyway, considering you did draw on the walls like an irresponsible child.

You tried cleaning too, just to keep your mind going, your body moving. But no, no, no. Alastor couldn't have his dear friend, and a valued hotel guest, doing such menial labor. 

He easily cleaned the room for you, not a speck of dust left. Barely any furniture left too—he had found them tacky, apparently.

At that point all you had to look forward to were Alastor's visits. Constant, they were. He insisted he brought you your food personally, of course.

You had been suspicious about what he was feeding you, even once outright questioning what you were eating.

He had laughed. "Unless you made any new friends from this room, I can assure you, you aren't eating any sinners, my dear."

You weren't sure how much his assurance was worth, but food was one of the only two things you actually had here. You didn't feel like giving that up, too.

You hated him. Hated him for keeping you here. Hated him for ignoring all your pleas to be let out.

You hated him, but still found yourself jumping from your bed as soon as you heard the door handle rattle. 

You hated him, but him coming to visit meant you had something to do.

The radio by your bed, and Alastor's frequent visits were all you had left.

The isolation was driving you insane, broken only whenever Alastor wanted to.

Alastor was driving you insane, but without him you were completely isolated.

Your sanity felt like a candle burning at both ends, melting far too fast for you to keep it together. You didn't know anymore which torture you preferred. Alastor's presence or absence?

At least, that was a few weeks back.

Because it wasn't like you needed to choose now.

Your food had been appearing on your side table every meal time, instead of coming in carried by the familiar demon.

The radio beside you had been silent for a long while now. Not one terrified scream, not one jazzy tune, not even empty static. 

And of course, Alastor himself hadn't come in to see you in weeks.

You think it's been weeks, at least. He took the clock with him last time he cleaned.

No, there was no need to pick your poison anymore. Alastor had chosen for you.

At first, you had been bitter. How dare he ignore you—or did he forget about you? God, no, he wouldn't. Right? —how dare he not even check in to see if you were even still alive.

How dare he not visit.

And then, you were worried. It was one thing for him not to pop in on you, another thing entirely to miss his shows. He'd never miss an opportunity to broadcast fear over Pride Ring, but your radio had been quiet this whole time. What was keeping him, then? Was he hurt? Was he okay?

Then, and you think it was the worst of them all, you started to miss him. From the moment you woke from restless slumber, your eyes fixated on the door handle, begging it to turn. Your chest ached, praying to hear his silly staticy voice again, even if it was just senseless gossip.

You felt like screaming, begging, pounding on the door for him to visit you. But you knew he wouldn't like that. No, if the others in the hotel found out, Alastor would likely never visit you ever again. 

So you kept to your bed. Your days spent glaring down at the door in desperation, switching only to the radio to do the same, for hours on end. Every little shift you made, the sheets moving under you, felt so deafeningly loud in the empty room.

It was almost maddening.

"My dear, I have a task for you." Alastor's cheery voice spoke up by your ear.

Your eyes snapped open, greeted by the sight of the demon leaning over your head.

"Nothing too difficult, just a little grocery shopping." He continued on as if he hadn't left you to rot.

You didn't care, nor did you register what his words meant. No, the first thing your body jumped to, your mind went to, was that Alastor was here.

"Al!" The glee in your voice unrestricted as you pushed your sheets away and threw your arms around him. The relief, the absolute refreshment, of feeling another warm body against you again was almost heavenly.

A soft hand patted at your shoulder as he awkwardly stayed there. "Well, good morning to you too, sweetheart." He laughed.

You sat up, eyes wide as you leaned away and took him in. Unmistakably, a very welcomed sight.

He told you about the chore he needed done, truly very simple. Just a literal grocery list. But you held onto every word, every charming staticy syllable falling from his lips as if he was preaching your religion. 

You were determined to memorize it all, not just to complete the task but to simply engrave his voice in your head.

You were so thankful to finally hear something other than your creaky bed. To finally be having a conversation again. To feel human.

It hadn't even click for you that you will finally be heading out.

You were quick in getting the task done, determined to get back to Alastor as fast as you could.

You hadn't notice how your skin thawed in the outside heat compared to the icy room you've been locked in. You hadn't paid mind to everyone's greetings around you. You didn't care for all the flashing lights, and tasty smells, and loud music and laughter and screams around you as finished you little assignment.

You wanted to get things done so you could be by the familiar demon again. His presence almost felt like a drug you've been deprived off for so long, that it physically irked you to be away.

And that's how it was from then on.

You were given a new room at the hotel. Alastor had replaced all the books he destroyed because he just felt so guilty. He had also finally remembered to buy you all those papers and art supplies you asked him to get you. And he had even returned your phone and television to you.

Not that you cared for any of those. You've spent most of your time in Alastor's room anyway, unable to stand a second without hearing his voice. 

You'd cling onto every word he'd say, attentive, obsessed.

Your eye would twitch every time he'd mention someone, anyone. Part of you irritated that he had spent time with someone else other than you. Even more so that he cared enough to remember their name. To say their name.

Soon you not only clung onto his words, but onto him as well. Unable to stand that others spent time with him when you could not. You'd miss meals, miss sleep, drop whatever you were doing to follow him wherever he went. To stay by Alastor's side. 

When he forbade you from doing so, you would follow in secret, or have your own little ways to spy on him. To know what he was doing.

The few times you were away from your owner's side, you could be found standing over a dead sinner. Maybe someone who touched him, maybe someone he mentioned, maybe someone who simply glanced at him for far too long for your liking. Regardless, they were all equally deserving of death in your eyes. How dare they.

Alastor knew of these, of course. And while he was quickly growing suffocated by your constant overbearing presence, he hadn't really bothered to say much.

He still preferred this—this grotesque reflection of his own affections for you—over your defiant little attitude before.

His last straw, however, was now. When you stood over yet another sinner. The light gone from their eyes as you still, repeatedly, shot at their corpse.

The green chain appeared in his clenched fist for the first time in a long while. The collar snapped shut around your neck, but you hadn't even noticed until he gave it a harsh yank.

You were pulled to the side, stumbling over the body by your feet. You looked up, confused, to see Alastor snarling down at you.

"I needed him alive, dear." He said, his annoyance barely kept under control.

"He touched you." You merely replied, as if it was the worst offense, worst sin, in Hell.

"Because we were making a deal, you stupid pest!" Alastor hissed through his teeth, but you merely blinked at him as if you didn't see his point still.

You stood up straighter, keeping your eyes on him. Always on him.

He was so beautiful, so perfect. Everything you needed.

Why had you ever wanted to find anyone more?

"But he still held your hand."

"I'll touch who I want to touch. Do not forget who holds the leash here." His eyes narrowed, chain pulling taught between you.

You smiled at him, loving the way his voice sounded when he was getting angry. It rarely happened now considering how good you were for him, but oh, did it sound like music to you.

Your hands lifted to softly run your hands through the chain by your neck. "You do, of course. I don't question that."

"I need you, Al." You added, soft, almost loving expression on your face as your adored his furious red eyes. "And while I can't force you to stay with me, alone. I can simply just get rid of everyone else. I can be your only one, if I'm the only one left."

"So you've finally flew off the handle, dearest?" His question seemed genuine, not at all in jest.

But you laughed anyway, as if it was the funniest thing ever. "And what if I have?" You grinned at him. "What will you do? Run from me?"

Your fingers gripped the chain suddenly, yanking yourself forward, closer to him. You feel his pull against the chain as well, not to bring you close but simply to keep hold of it. To keep hold of his control over you.

Your eyes lowered, admiring him from up close now. The flicker of uncertainty in his eyes was new, and you couldn't wait to see more new things from him now that you're so devastatingly devoted to him.

"You own me, remember? I'm here forever."