a break before the next kinktober drop.
includes: michael myers, jason voorhees, the grabber, thomas hewitt, brahms heelshire, hannibal lecter, vincent sinclair, bo sinclair.
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Michael Myers
Michael’s yearning is strange. He doesn’t yearn like most — the way he needs you is like rot under painted wood; invisible, but dangerous. He doesn’t focus on why he lingers outside your window, how he knows the sound of your footsteps, or why he wants to keep you rather than kill you. Michael just knows you’re different to him. It isn’t love, not even close. It’s something worse — older, darker, a pull he can’t unlearn. Its devotion twisted into obsession.
Jason Voorhees
Jason’s yearning is heavy. He’ll follow you through the forest with silent excitement like a hunter after their first doe of the season. He tries to make himself smaller, softer in an attempt to not scare you, though his size and silence do anyway. Jason leaves offerings like bait; flowers, candy, whatever he sees and thinks you might like. He loves you the only way he can — by protecting you. It’s worship.
The Grabber
The Grabber’s yearning is an illness dressed in silk. You feel it in the way his voice softens when he says your name, the way his bare hand rests around your throat — not to hurt, but to remind you that he could. He watches you with that damned mask hiding his truth, pretending control, but you can feel it each time he speaks; the desperation lacing his voice. He doesn’t understand love, not in the gentle sense that someone as soft as you deserve. His is a dark possession that aches, a distressed urge to keep you where the world can’t touch you. Every time you flinch, he whispers, “I don’t want to hurt you.” and part of you believes him. You are the only softness he’s ever craved, and he needs you to stay.
Thomas Hewitt
Thomas’s yearning is slow, patient, and devoted. He can’t say what he feels, so he builds it instead. Little gestures stitched into every day; a gift a thought you’d like and waiting for you to join the table before eating. You’re the one thing that makes him believe there’s something gentle left in him — how could he let that go? He watches you with soft eyes, adoring every feature like it’s the first time. His yearning isn’t loud, but it speaks volumes.
Brahms Heelshire
Brahms’s yearning is frantic. Like he’s drowning and you’re the air he’s desperate for. His affection comes as whispers through the walls, gifts he leaves where you’ll find them, and the way he trembles when you say his name — God, he loves the way his name sounds on your tongue. He wants you to see him, to never, ever leave. His love is unbalanced, fevered, but achingly sincere. You can tell how badly he wants to be good for you, even if he doesn’t fully know how.
Hannibal Lecter
Hannibal’s yearning is an art form. He is precise and utterly consuming. You are his muse, his fascination, the line between devotion and destruction blurred into something so beautiful. He doesn’t starve for your body so much as your soul, the way your mind moves. His love is a sonnet written in blood and expensive wine. When he looks at you, it feels like being studied, painted, and devoured all at once. You’ll never know if he wants to kiss you or consume you, maybe both. He has paintings of you on his wall. To be yearned by him is to be owned.
Vincent Sinclair
Vincent’s yearning is quiet. You see it in the way he sculpts, how every curve of wax mirrors you with precision. He doesn’t speak his love, but trust that he shows it. His hands that glide across your face and skin, memorizing every inch, the polaroids of you that adorn his workspace — the man spends every moment thinking of you, replicating you with wax. He loves like an artist loves their masterpiece.
Bo Sinclair
Bo’s yearning is dangerous. He’ll tease, flirt, and pretend he doesn’t care, but his hands always find you. He’s the kind of man who says “you’re mine” like it’s a threat and a promise all at once. He’d sit and watch it all burn for you because he doesn’t know how to be gentle, but when he’s with you, the edge softens just enough — like wax. You consume him in the worst way.
“You’re quite sensitive to my touch.” Hannibal murmurs, a gentle sound while he watches your stomach flinch away from his wandering hand. Your hips jolt at the smooth and deliberate contact and it sends a shock down your body. You pant, your mind momentarily dazed— your head is still reeling back from the intense orgasm he ripped out of you with just his skilled fingers.
“A-Ah..” You whimpered out, squirming when his thumb rubs over your hip bone, holding you into place. Embarrassment choked up into your throat, the vulnerability burned like a hot knife throughout your chest. You can feel your face flush, and he admires the rare sight of you losing your typical composure— your mind submitting to the pleasure only he could provide. And it boosts his ego immensely.
You look the most like prey when you’re like this. On your back, exposed to him— trapped within his clutches, no one and nowhere else to turn to but him. He liked it this way. The way you looked at him with heavy lidded eyes that tried to fight against him— but couldn’t find the strength to tear away. It stirred a great temptation to ruin you beyond belief, till pretty tears streamed down your face and till his name fell out like a desperate prayer from your sweet lips that trembled so easily.
The idea dangled itself in front of him like a wounded rabbit trying to burrow in the snow from a starved wolf, and he was hungry. But Hannibal was a patient man, he did not rush things— he only adjusted them accordingly, so that they could fall into the right place at the right time.
“D-Don’t. Please.” You whisper under your breath, your wrists tied above your head with his own tie. You spoke as if you knew exactly what he was thinking of.
“Don’t do what?” He prompts gently, his eyes savoring the sight of you beneath him.
“You’re looking at me like you’re gonna eat me alive.” You answer. Your voice is shaky but someone would have to be a fool to not notice the way you sounded like you needed him to breathe.
He smiles, and it’s a rare, genuine smile. The kind that reaches his eyes— it’s warm and fond. It’s scary. “Oh my dear,” He leans close to your lips, pressing a small and soft kiss, it’s startling. “I think you’ll let me.” He doesn’t pose it as something to be questioned. It’s a simple fact. His fingers run up your sides, sinking back down to grip the flesh of your thighs, making sure they stay apart. “And that scares you more than me.”
Tws: blood and injury, psychological horror, controlling partner dynamics, romanticized violence undertones and ritualized predation.
It was a mere short cut across your skin: the knife slid against your thumb as you were chopping onions; a sharp line of red drops glinting like rubies.
You flinched a little at first, holding your injured digit with your other hand while inspecting the wound.
‘Are you alright, sweetheart?’ He turned around to get a better look at you; His idea of a concern expression was a long stare, eyes spilling the feeling while his jaws and lips rested perfectly still; it made Hannibal all the more handsome in your eyes.
‘I’m fine’ you looked at him ‘It’s just a little cut, I’ll wash it-’
‘I’ll clean your wound’ He reached already for the first aid kit he kept tucked in the top drawer, fingers moving with that effortless, practiced grace that made you trust him more than you should.
You didn't protest, it was good getting attention.
He squeezed your wound gently in the sterilized piece of cotton ‘I told you I am perfectly capable of cooking on my own.’
‘I still want to help.’ You simply replied.
He caressed your injured hand; sipping in the smooth flesh covered in skin, the wound just a crack into the red within— you'd taste exquisite, he's sure.
“Being alive for me is enough” He shoots you a sweet smile “You shouldn't bleed for just helping me.”
You mirror his expression, basking in the attention and care of your husband; one of the small joys you wanted.
The cotton sank in water, immediately drinking the liquid as faint red bloomed across the glass: blood.
The bathroom lamp sliced stern white light; you went to bed hours ago and he's finally left alone: he is never bored of you, he just wanted a little time to indulge in something else he loved about you.
As the cotton emptied its last elixir, he pulled it out and in one graceful move, he threw it in the trash can before drinking the glass of blood and water— slow sips, full taste and his hands shook in joy.
He resisted the urge to lick your wound earlier because he's fully aware of how his appetite rattled in its cage when you were the meal, he might have bitten off your thumb or chomped your palm. It's easier this way but never satisfying enough, your blood was the most he could have for now -even if they're just a few drops-.
Leisurely, the glass emptied and so his soul after each of these small occasions.
You were still asleep inside, having no idea nor aware of what your husband is doing. On his and your rings there is written:
“Volo bibere aquam puram quae es tu.”
Back then, you called it romantic and sweet, stroking your ego and need to be worshiped, and he can't help but wonder in these moments: Has it ever crossed your mind that it could be literal?
Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, she might cut her finger off. Yet he doesn't want you hurt; torn between the urge to protect you and gore you apart as if a worshiper beholding his abusive idol.
Maybe if you die first he'll allow himself a feast.
