please do not plagiarize my works or pretend to be me. This is my only tumblr account, aside from @onpetal and @gummiwons which are my side blogs. dead dove do not eat.
—pjs x fem reader dumbification improper use of doll improper use of inanimate object dubcon (??) bondage 768 wrds
jongseong’s calloused hands brush past the doll’s porcelain cheeks, lifeless and cold. the round eyes staring back into him as if the little thing could even try to grasp his heavy heart. jongseong sighs, a deep sigh, before allowing his darkened heart to swell up and spill out of his own, betraying lips, “i really do love you, you know— you’re reserved and soft, you’re fragile and sweet, you’re mine, perfectly mine”. his eyes water as the empty figurine stares back at him, his chewed-on lips spilling a grammar, almost as if his insides were hollow. hollow like a doll.
your breathing stills as the large, caring man places you back in your small house. the insides cozy and cotton, soft incase of bruising, and insulated so you never feel the coldness ache in your joints, even though you’re unable to recognize temperatures. your wrists ache from being stilled in one position all day— or, what feels like all day. the fragile plastic and clay in your limbs scratch at you, itching for a hint of release, rest, lubrication even. the silica gel, which he gently uses to free your balls of joints, too far out of reach for your short and tired plasticity. your body can move, ever so often, but only when you’re alone, surrounded by darkness, isolated.
jongseong should be sleep by now, your cavity of a brain believes, so you sit your limbs down and rest, painted eyes closing for a brief— yet solemn moment. you rest your eyes and disappear into what you’ve heard is ‘sleep’, even though it is more of a human thing rather than for dolls. yet, you feel the slumber, you feel the fatigue, so why can’t dolls feel human too, feel attainable to life, why can’t you have a purpose and love and care? you ponder and ponder and let the bubbled thoughts leave your dry-rose hair, as your frail body begins to relax.
thwap. you hear the large, human door open, jongseong leaning through it. his hair disheveled, and lips muttering utter nonsense, repeating phrases like a prayer on his swollen tongue, “i love you, i love you, i truly love you, i love you…”, the same phrase over and over again. you freeze out of fear he may realize you’re able to move. but before you can close the fake eyes which gleam under light, his large hand is wrapped around your porcelain body. your linen garments crumpled and digging into the plastic mold of your skin.
his breathing is jagged, hands shaky and nervous, pupils dilated and foreign moisture drips down his forehead. your inanimate heart beats out of the silicon mold of your chest. his fingers grip you with an almost frightening tightness, a grip you haven’t felt before. jay sets you down carefully, as if you were a broken petal, cracked and bleeding out. his tenderness desecrating your rosemary skin. you hear a click, a ting, a flip and a piece of thick leather hit the ground. your imaginary brain tries to find a reason for all this, until he mutter once more— this time desperately, “i love you”.
love?
an excruciating push and a grunt knocks you from any forming thoughts, something.. something is .. inside of you?? this feels odd, yet intriguing, jongseongs face twists and turns, facial expressions you’ve never seen before. this is love? yet you don’t feel anything, at-least not physically. your body is small, but large enough for him to coincide in. his body, his limbs, his soul— apart of you. love. you try to speak, try to move, but your nerves stay still, your joints stiff.
jongseong pistons in and out of you, he pushes into a hole you never knew you had. not that you’ve ever needed to use it, you’re not physically capable to. “fucking sat there like a mute, dumb dolly”, he whispers. “fucking stupid figurine, fuck”, he groans and groans. your wrists tied by the ribbon which was once a bow on the back of your nightgown. jongseong leaves what seems to be kisses along your glass skin, soft and intricate, thoughtful. his hot breath full of.. love. but, can a human really be in love with an object like you.
but, you’re human too, in a way, you feel emotions, you recognize patterns, you’re alive. your eyes stay glancing into his, a look of love, you ponder. “i love you”, he repeats once again, his prayers never ending. you feel jongseong tense, before a rush of warm liquid discovers your empty insides, hollow and dry insides. “i love you”, again, and again..
small drabble.. im not fully back but this was in my drafts for a while, so i decided to retouch and post it. maybe part 2? if people want more of this or the backstory of this? possibly?
ㅤ18+ 1406 ꕤ extreme gore, bodily injury, graphic head trauma, obsessive themes, blood & violence against women, psychological horror, body horror.
𓆩 ✩ 𓆪 part of my kill!kill!kill! series.
RIKI wonders if it’s possible to love someone this much.
not the kind where you show up with flowers every saturday (although riki does it—every single week without fail, to the point where the florist already has a bouquet of pink peonies ready for him to pick up). not the kind where you leave sticky notes with hearts and reminders, or to text good morning at exactly 7 in the morning because that’s when your alarm goes off (but he still does that too religiously).
what riki is thinking of is something more… different.
like right now, you know?
“i’m starting to think that you really like peonies, ki,” you say, tilting your head as you tuck one stem lower so the bouquet looks fuller. your eyes flick up to meet his across your bedroom. your boyfriend raises his brows in curiousity at your statement.
“if i tell you i like lilies instead… would you change the arrangements? or am i stuck with pink peonies forever?” you joke, giggling lightly as you gently puff the petals.
your boyfriend leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, mouth curving into that easy, handsome, fond smile he always has on his face. “of course i would,” he answers softly without hesitation. warm. lovely. “anything you want, baby. lilies, roses, those weird spiky ones—i’d figure it out,”
“i love you.”
the words come out true in the way that only riki knows it matters on the outside.
but inside his head, it’s already fracturing.
were you ever grateful?
the thought comes uninvited and cold and harsh, like ice cracking under foot when too much pressure is being put on. were you ever grateful? for the flowers every saturday. for the late–night convenient runs riki does because you’re too lazy to cook. for carrying your bags even when his hands were full. for listening to every rambling story about your day even when his own head was screaming.
did any of it ever actually mean something to you?
riki watches your hands move again—delicate, soft, unaware—adjusting a leaf here, fluffing a bloom there. you hum softly under your breath, content. happy because of the flowers he bought. flowers he keeps buying because genuinely, seeing you happy lights him up every single time you open the door makes something in his chest bloom too.
but why the fuck would you say that you like lilies now? after months of pink peonies every saturday, now you want lilies?
it shouldn’t be that big of a deal; people change their minds every day, mundane or not, but riki can feel it starting—that slow heat crawling up his spine… the way his molars ache from his jaw tightening. then, his heart does this ugly thud, too fast and too hard.
so what if you like lilies now?
it shouldn’t be a big deal, but…
he pushes himself off the doorway.
three steps, that’s all it takes.
the floor creaks under his weight but you don’t look up yet, still arranging, still so goddamn oblivious to what goes on in one’s head.
riki’s hand closes around the handle of a glass pitcher—wet from water, heavier than it looks with all those stems crammed in. the last week’s peonies tremble as he lifts it, petals quivering like…
like they’re afraid too, for you.
then—
the base of the pitcher connects just above your right ear—right where your pretty hair parts when you tilt your head like you do when you’re concentrating. it’s not elegant or beautiful like in films.
instead, the bedroom’s met with a meaty, wet thud, the sound of something dense hitting something softer. the glass doesn’t break on the first hit; it just dents your skull instead. a dull compression, bone flexing inward like cardboard before it gives.
your blood doesn’t fountain right away either—it just beads brightly at the line along the split skin—then wells up thick and dark as the scalp peels back in ragged strips from the impact of riki’s hit. only then does the pitcher finally shatter on the second hit, shards driving upward into the soft meat under your hairline.
the peonies in the pitcher exploded with the force of the swing. the petals tear free first, soft pinks scattering in arc. some stick to the fresh wound, adhering to the raw, open skin. others are driven by the broken glass—punching into your exposed tissue, forcing their ways inside.
if you want to be ungrateful so bad, here you go—one long sharp piece lodges deep like a broken tooth, severing your artery; riki assumes—because now your blood does come in earnest and generous. hot ropes of it spray across your desk filled with fresh peonies in a mason jar, wilted ones you didn’t have the heart to throw away, dried peonies he gave months ago that break at the slightest touch, splattering all over.
pretty soft pink petals now turn crimson at the edges.
you gasp, followed with a choked, wet gurgle as air is forced out through your throat that’s suddenly too full of copper. your body jerks hard and your knees buckle sideways and you slump against the table, one hand slapping uselessly at the edge to support yourself.
the fresh peonies inside tumble out, rolling through the mess, and down on the floor.
your fingers drag red streaks down the white cloth, and your cheek presses to the cool surface of the floor, sneaking more, and your bloody mouth opens and closes like a fish left on the dock. the soft hum you were making earlier is gone, replaced by small, wet clicks every time you try to breathe. tiny red bubbles form at the corner of your lips, popping with a faint pink froth. your fingers twitch near your side—fingers curling weakly against nothing.
“ngh…” you choke out, blood pulsing from the gash at your temple with each movement. your chest rises and falls in shallow hitches—each one slower and weaker than the last. somewhere in your death, you try to form his name, or maybe just any sound that you can prove to yourself that you’re still alive—but all that comes is a thin, crimson thread that stretches and snaps as your head lolls slightly to the side for the last time.
riki drops what’s left of the broken handle then, letting it clatter among the petals and glass. thankfully, he’s wearing the home slippers, so he’s not so hurt by the shards. he stands there, breathing hard through his nose.
the room smells like iron, wet earth, and the cloying sweetness of flowers.
slowly, riki kneels in the spreading puddle—warm, sticky against his sweats. he turns your pretty face toward him with gentle hands, thumbs sliding through the mess on your cheeks. your eyes are still open, pupils blown wide, unfocused but searching.
still looking for him, even if he’s the one who’s got you in this state now.
a single petal is stuck to your lower lash. riki brushes it away with his thumb.
your boyfriend leans in close, pressing his lips against your bloody forehead. tasting the iron when he kisses you. “you said lilies,” he whispers into the cracked temple. “i heard you.”
your last breath rattles into the air, carrying the faint sweetness of the lip balm you always wear.
“ki?”
you laugh a little, tilting your head so your cheek brushes his chest. you don’t notice how close he’s gotten behind you. your boyfriend swallows, shaking his head lightly before forcing his voice normal again.
“yeah?”
you turn around and reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck. “thank you, baby. for everything,” you murmur, tiptoeing so you can plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. then, you move to peck the corner of his lips before pulling away.
“by the way… i’m just kidding with the lilies thing,” you giggle, eyes crinkling at the corners. “i love peonies more than anything. especially if they’re from you.”
riki’s grip on your hips tightens—just enough that your breath hitches for half a second. then, he loosens it. your boyfriend leans down to kiss the side of your throat, right over the living pulse that still jumps under his mouth.
“anthing for you,” he murmurs.
in the back of his skull, your blood is still spreading across the tiles. the peonies are soaking red, and your eyes are still open, staring up at him like he’s the last thing you’ll ever see.
instead, he closes his own eyes, breathing you in.
18+ 1266 ꕤ nosebleeds during sex, obsessive possessive thoughts, psychological horror, cannibalistic theme, blood as intimacy element (not during penetration).
is love unethical—?
sunghoon wouldn’t know.
he knows he loves you a lot like an addict and their drug. that pathological addiction where partners are addicted to the intense highs and lows and even causing lack of stability when one isn’t around.
sunghoon loves you the way storms love the sea. so relentless and chaotic, pulling and crushing everything under at the littlest of inconvenience, yet terrified of what would happen if he ever truly lets go.
the thought of possession claws at him like demons on his back constantly—not the gentle kind poets romanticise. not the darcy kind of wanting to hold elizabeth’s hand. but the raw and greedy kind that wants to own every little hitch and breath, every shiver and goosebumps, and every secret glance you give to your world outside of him.
sunghoon loves you in a way where he wants to be the only gravity you orbit, because you’re the only sky he looks up to.
is love unethical? might be, to some—one might consider love to be selfish and using the other party for their own pleasure and entertainment. after all, love and possession can’t co-exist without one devouring the other.
selfish? undeniably. sunghoon feeds on your affection like a sunflower absorbing the sunlight to go on another day. without it, he’d wither. with it, he blooms in ways that terrify him because they want him want more.
but possession? that’s a little out of reach—even for a man like him. no, sunghoon won’t lock you away and won’t demand you to stop chasing your dreams. he won’t turn love into ownership because he knows—deep in the marrow where the storm lives—that love only becomes unethical when possession comes into frame.
so sunghoon supposes he loves you unethically in his mind, but not literally. he loves you possessively in his own way, but ethically in his actions of holding your hand at any given time of the day, and checking if you’re still alive by that little pulse thumping beneath your skin.
if loving you this hard, this selfishly and this restrainedly, is still unethical.
he wouldn’t know.
he just knows it’s ethical to love you.
but…
is this unethical?
“oh my—oh gosh, babe,” you gasp, the words tumbling out half–breath, half–pleasure as your nails dig crescents into the taut skin of his nape. your thighs tremble around his hips, body arching up in hopes to meet him halfway in every slow, deliberate rolls of his.
seeking more, always more.
your sweet, tight pussy grips him like a vice. his huge, thick cock drags along your velvety walls each time he pulls back, only to sink in deeper on the next thrust—thick enough to stretch you to that perfect, aching edge where pleasure almost blurs into something almost too much.
that wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting mixed with explicit moanings fill the room in soft and filthy measure.
“f—fuck, sweets, so fuckin’ tight,” his breath is ragged against your throat where he leaves lovely ownership–bite marks along where your jugular veins hid. he’s trying—god, he’s trying—so hard to keep it measured, to keep the rhythm steady and not brutal that you’ll have to tap out.
but your body isn’t allowing him. every clench of that cunt, every flutter, every little whimper you let slip out pulls at the leash sunghoon’s wrapped around himself…
self control—self control is what makes love ethical.
but the leash is fraying and sunghoon’s merely a man in his shell.
sunghoon drags his mouth up the column of your throat, his tongue flicking over the marks he’s left. the sweat salt of your skin, the faint copper tang where one mark broke the thin surface just enough to let out the tiniest bead.
he groans low, lips hovering your pulse like it’s calling his name in morse code.
but then he kisses you—devouring, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to drink every sound you’ve made straight from your larynx. his canines catch your bottom lip and tug just enough to sting and create an ulcer for tomorrow.
“hngh, hoonie—!” you moan into his mouth and he swallows it whole, hips stuttering forward once, twice, hard, burying himself so deep you feel him in your brain.
the heat behind his eyes flares, viscous, and the room tilts like the floor has been yanked out from under him. you’re so perfect this way—flushed and undone and raw beneath him, from the cause of him.
lips swollen from his kisses, eyes glassy from being thrusted so deep in pleasure. your hair fans across the pillow in messy strands, clinging to your damp forehead and neck where his teeth left pretty claims.
and that thighs quivering around his waist, fingers knotted tight in his hair, cunt fluttering around his cock like you’re trying to keep him to stay forever.
so beautiful it hurts.
like molten honey poured straight into his skull—the first drop falls heavy and warm from his left nostril—landing perfectly on your flushed bottom lip where it sits for a split second before you instinctively close around it.
strong copper blooms across your tastebuds, sharp and intimate mixing with the taste of his spit and sweat still clinging to your lips from earlier.
instead, he crashes his mouth onto yours again—messier this time. his tongue pushes past your lips, chasing that same copper bloom taste, licking into you deep and filthy so you taste him twice over.
the next trails of blood follows right after—sliding down the bridge of his nose, then veering sideways to streak across your cheek when he tilts his head to kiss you harder. it smears between your faces as he moves; one thin line along your jaw.
“taste s’good like this,” he rasps—and keeps fucking into you with the same, if not harder, rhythm, pulling painful whimpers from your throat. his hands move to cradle your face, thumbs pressing into the smears of blood on your cheeks.
pressing and marking his thumbprints on your flesh.
another lazy drip falls on the corner of your mouth, and sunghoon licks it away before it can slide further and stain the sheet. “mine, all mine,” he groans, nipping your lips. “aren’t you?”
your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave red lines of their own in response. you arch up into him, thighs shaking despite the blood that keeps coming in sluggish pulses that neither you or sunghoon bothers to wipe clean. it streaks his chin, drips onto your neck where it pools on your collarbone and the hollow of your throat.
sunghoon doesn’t look so clean either—his usually pristine features are wrecked in the most beautiful way. crimson trails from both nostrils, bisecting his cupid’s bow before it disappears into the seam of his mouth.
his dark hair damps at temples, strands falling into his eyes. even his throat is marked not just with your teeth and bites, but also by tiny red rivulets that followed gravity down the column of his neck, matching yours.
“this is what i am when i’m with you,” sunghoon whispers, hips grinding slow circles now, drawing out every last shiver. you reach up, fingers sliding through the blood under his nose where you smear it with your thumb.
sunghoon supposes now his love is unethical.
because he’s turning restraint of possession into indulgence.
because he’s finally admitting—to himself, at least—that the most loving and ethical thing he can do is stop pretending that true, genuine love has morals.
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