my nsfw sideblog :3

kinda insecure about my paws so be nice please 💗

pov: you’re a snail or some kind of bug watching me take photos. Idk this caption isn’t very thought out. grovel, insect

Love biting you <3

You know this, it's fine, you've gotten used to the feeling of her rousing from sleep and slipping out of bed. She's very careful not to jostle you too much in the process, but it's unfortunately inevitable she wakes you up anyway when you're sleeping on a decade-old double mattress. On the rare occasions you murmur something she stops and runs her hand through your hair and soothes you back to sleep. On the rarer occasions you're awake by the time she returns, her hands are always so warm, her breath rich in the smell of toothpaste and mouthwash.

You're not sure what makes you rise the night you decide to do so. Perhaps it was that she left in a particular hurry, such that she had no time to soothe you back to rest. One way or another you do rise, though, and you tip-toe out from the bedroom and down the hall and the stairs thereafter, and you linger just outside of the ring of light produced by the fridge as she rifles through it.

She pulls from the back of the fridge a long heavy thermos, which you had assumed held her coffee, pre-brewed for tomorrow morning. When she opens it, however, it is filled with meat. Raw meat, bloody and red and dripping and rich in the scent of murder. You cannot believe how sharp her teeth seem to be as she rips into it, taking no caution to stop the blood dribbling down her chin. She is soon drenched, gulping it down like a predator in those nature documentaries she's so fond of. You don't know what animal the meat is from. The scraps of skin dangling from it don't seem like animal flesh at all.

You stay there watching her for a very long time. When the thermos is empty and she straightens her back she turns and looks directly at you, where you thought you were hidden in the blackness. Your heart goes cold. She is drenched in a beautiful sheen of crimson down her chin, much of it cascading down onto her bare chest. She runs a finger through it and licks it clean while she stares at you.

"You know," she says quietly. "Sometimes I imagine it's you."

"Ready to go back to bed?"

You know this, it's fine, you've gotten used to the feeling of her rousing from sleep and slipping out of bed. She's very careful not to jostle you too much in the process, but it's unfortunately inevitable she wakes you up anyway when you're sleeping on a decade-old double mattress. On the rare occasions you murmur something she stops and runs her hand through your hair and soothes you back to sleep. On the rarer occasions you're awake by the time she returns, her hands are always so warm, her breath rich in the smell of toothpaste and mouthwash.

You're not sure what makes you rise the night you decide to do so. Perhaps it was that she left in a particular hurry, such that she had no time to soothe you back to rest. One way or another you do rise, though, and you tip-toe out from the bedroom and down the hall and the stairs thereafter, and you linger just outside of the ring of light produced by the fridge as she rifles through it.

She pulls from the back of the fridge a long heavy thermos, which you had assumed held her coffee, pre-brewed for tomorrow morning. When she opens it, however, it is filled with meat. Raw meat, bloody and red and dripping and rich in the scent of murder. You cannot believe how sharp her teeth seem to be as she rips into it, taking no caution to stop the blood dribbling down her chin. She is soon drenched, gulping it down like a predator in those nature documentaries she's so fond of. You don't know what animal the meat is from. The scraps of skin dangling from it don't seem like animal flesh at all.

You stay there watching her for a very long time. When the thermos is empty and she straightens her back she turns and looks directly at you, where you thought you were hidden in the blackness. Your heart goes cold. She is drenched in a beautiful sheen of crimson down her chin, much of it cascading down onto her bare chest. She runs a finger through it and licks it clean while she stares at you.

"You know," she says quietly. "Sometimes I imagine it's you."

"Ready to go back to bed?"

You know this, it's fine, you've gotten used to the feeling of her rousing from sleep and slipping out of bed. She's very careful not to jostle you too much in the process, but it's unfortunately inevitable she wakes you up anyway when you're sleeping on a decade-old double mattress. On the rare occasions you murmur something she stops and runs her hand through your hair and soothes you back to sleep. On the rarer occasions you're awake by the time she returns, her hands are always so warm, her breath rich in the smell of toothpaste and mouthwash.

You're not sure what makes you rise the night you decide to do so. Perhaps it was that she left in a particular hurry, such that she had no time to soothe you back to rest. One way or another you do rise, though, and you tip-toe out from the bedroom and down the hall and the stairs thereafter, and you linger just outside of the ring of light produced by the fridge as she rifles through it.

She pulls from the back of the fridge a long heavy thermos, which you had assumed held her coffee, pre-brewed for tomorrow morning. When she opens it, however, it is filled with meat. Raw meat, bloody and red and dripping and rich in the scent of murder. You cannot believe how sharp her teeth seem to be as she rips into it, taking no caution to stop the blood dribbling down her chin. She is soon drenched, gulping it down like a predator in those nature documentaries she's so fond of. You don't know what animal the meat is from. The scraps of skin dangling from it don't seem like animal flesh at all.

You stay there watching her for a very long time. When the thermos is empty and she straightens her back she turns and looks directly at you, where you thought you were hidden in the blackness. Your heart goes cold. She is drenched in a beautiful sheen of crimson down her chin, much of it cascading down onto her bare chest. She runs a finger through it and licks it clean while she stares at you.

"You know," she says quietly. "Sometimes I imagine it's you."

"Ready to go back to bed?"