#I LOVE CLEANING!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE WEATHER

[heartyluv]

would you ever consider writing sleepy, soft, clingy zayne? baby is completely wrapped around you and won’t let go, even if you have to get up and go to the bathroom 🥺🥺🥺

Note: Fluffy Zayne is always the cutest because you just know he only lets himself be that way in front of you. I listened to Comfortable by H.E.R while I wrote this and it’s just soooooo ADORBS. I hope you love this!

No Warnings! :)

Clingy!Zayne/Reader

I’m outside. Please open the door for me, love.

When you read that notification, your heart starts to flutter like crazy in your chest. You can’t stop smiling, even past your shock as you quickly stand up from the couch to throw on some pants. Even if he’s your boyfriend, you don’t tend to answer the door in your panties.

Quickly, you run to your apartment door and pull it open to find your boyfriend standing there with a tired expression on his handsome face. But he smiles softly, looking at you with so much love.

He’s dressed appropriately for the cold weather in all black with his long peacoat, slacks, and button up shirt with his classic Oxfords. He presses his rectangle wire framed glasses up on his nose, opening his arms when he sees you ready to run into them.

His unique scent and expensive cologne fills your nostrils, bringing you comfort. You missed him so much.

“Babe, why didn’t you tell me you were coming back today? I thought I wouldn’t see you for another week,” you mumble against his neck as he braces one solid arm around your waist to hold you close. He deeply inhales your scent as well.

Home, is all that fills his mind.

“I was able to finish everything quicker than anticipated. I wanted to come back to you,” he answers truthfully as he places one gentle kiss below your ear.

Zayne had been sent across the country for a series of serious research meetings that included things he couldn’t exactly discuss right now, but they were doing big things. Good things. He was gone for a whole month and you never thought it was possible to miss another human being as much as you missed him. Seeing as he was able to miraculously get a week’s worth of anticipated work done within two days, the feeling was mutual.

When you two hesitantly pull apart, you don’t pry him with questions or anything. You’ll save that for when he’s well rested. You can hear how tired he is. You know he’d be more than willing to sit up and talk to you, but you could never do that to him.

“Hungry?” you ask him as he rests his suitcase beside your shoe rack before shutting the door.

He shakes his head, pulling off his coat, but hesitating as he answers. “I ate on the plane. Are you? I can head back out and get you something.”

You smile at his thoughtfulness and shake your head, helping him pull it off completely. “I’m okay, bub. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

He accepts your help. “Is it okay if I shower first?”

“Of course,” you nod. “ You know I have some of your clothes here, too. And I can get your laundry started and in the dryer to finish overnight. Just take your time.”

“You’re too good to me,” he says genuinely, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. But that’s not enough, so he presses three more to your soft mouth before actually pulling away this time to get cleaned up.

You do just what you said you’d do, going inside his suitcase and washing the simple garments, making a note to bring his work clothes to the cleaners.

Zayne’s finished and back to you within thirty minutes, just as you start his clothes in the dryer. His face is free of his glasses, but not his exhaustion. He’s shirtless, only wearing a simple pair of gray sweatpants.

“Your apartment is warm,” he answers when you can’t help but stare at his muscular chest. That makes you laugh, pressing a kiss to one of his pecs when you walk up to him.

“Need me to turn it down?”

“No need,” he answers. “Are you ready for bed?”

You tell him yes, shutting off all your lights and climbing into your bed once in your room. Your poor baby is so tired, so you don’t small talk as you let him rest his head on your chest, wrapping his arms around you to finally get some good sleep—something he hasn’t had since he left you.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I’m not as talkative right now. But I will be in the morning. Thank you for everything.”

You run your hand through his partially damp hair, admiring the softness of his dark strands. “It’s okay, I understand completely. I’m just glad you’re here. I’d do anything for you.” He snuggles into you deeper at that, making your heart swell. “Sleep well, okay? We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

When the sun rises, you blink away the sleepiness as you wake up and admire the golden glow of the light streaming in through your windows. You and Zayne are in the same position that you were last night. This time though, his leg has both of yours trapped. He’s wrapped around you entirely and he did it all in his sleep. You look down as he rests on your chest so peacefully, admiring the gentle curve of his nose.

You just take the time to admire him in his entirety. You think of how lucky you are to have such a man like him as yours and in your life. You couldn’t want for anything when your everything is right here.

You look ahead at your clock that’s on your dresser, seeing 9:27 AM. It’s early for you, but this is sleeping in for your hard working man. You want him to get more of that, but you want to have some food ready for him as well as get his laundry folded.

And you have to pee.

You start to slide away, at least you try to. But Zayne’s grip on you is surprisingly stronger than you expected. You chuckle at his bicep, watching the muscle that refuses to release you, flex so effortlessly.

“Stay,” he mumbles sleepily, nuzzling into you more and huffing out a breath through his nose.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you frown. “I gotta get up though, babe.”

“You don’t have work.”

Of course he knows that’s. Even if it’s a Thursday, he knows your schedule just as well as he’s mesmerized his own.

“I want to take care of some things for you, is all.” Your rake fingers down his scalp, smiling at how he shudders. One of his weak spots. Bonus for you that his hair is extra fluffy after air drying over night. You relish in this because he’s not going to let it stay that way when he gets up, but you just love how extra soft it is when it’s like this.

“We’ll go out for breakfast, so you don’t need to cook. Don’t leave me. I’ve been without you long enough,” he speaks, but the tiredness in his voice makes you feel awful. You really didn’t want to bother your sweet baby.

“Can I pee, at least?” you shake with a laugh and you see the corner of his mouth tilt up in amusement. Even if he’s so hesitant, he cares about your health. He wouldn’t be your Dr. Zayne if he didn’t.

“Two minutes,” he commands. And you listen, rushing up and using the bathroom quickly. After taking care of your business and washing your hands, he’s on his back on the left side of your bed.

You climb back in, and he gets on top of you immediately, placing himself in between your legs and putting his face right on your boobs. He hums, wrapping his arms around you tightly as you start to rub his scalp again while he uses the silk of your nightgown and your pillowy breasts like a pillow.

The bed is long enough so that his feet isn’t hanging off of it, and he uses this to his advantage to be sandwiched close to you.

“I missed you so much,” he says with closed eyes, making yours water at how loving his tone is. You’d do anything for this man. He’s your universe.

“I missed you too,” you admit, kissing the top of his head and rubbing down his strong back.

“Is it alright if I stay for a few days? I don’t have work until Monday. Being with you is all I’d like to do.”

“You don’t even have to ask. You can stay as long as you’d like. Forever is an option, as well.”

He kisses your breast, placing his cheek right back on top and getting comfortable.

It’s silent for a moment between you two for a moment—comfortable.

“I love you,” he squeezes you even tighter.

The butterflies in your stomach are holding hands and spinning in circles while singing the cheesiest love songs at his affection. “I love you most.”

You eventually fall back asleep, resting for the whole morning and into the afternoon as Zayne stays glued to you. He’s like that for the rest of the day as well as each one after that during the days you spend together.

Being able to have a safe space like you is all he’s ever wanted and being lucky enough to have it is all he’ll ever need.

[shymoob]

Currently Day Dreaming about Celebrating Halloween with Leon… (YES I KNOW ITS MAY BUT I NEED IT TO BE FALL ALREADY) WARNING! NSFW MENTIONED 18+

Tagging: @writingwisterias (hope your day is better today!)

- Leon is the type of guy who never thought twice about Halloween… until he met you.

- The way your eyes would light up when you talked about all the fall activities, dressing up, carving pumpkins, haunted houses, watching scary movies etc.

- He thought all of it was a little stupid and over rated, until you dragged him along to do all these things.

~ Pumpkin Patch/Apple Orchard ~

- It started off slow in the beginning of October, where you would take him to the pumpkin patch. Hand in hand, you’d stroll through the field of bright colored pumpkins. He’d laugh as he watched you pick out the most outrageously big pumpkin. Little did he know, you just wanted to see his muscles flex a little when he lifted and carried it around for you.

- He’d pick out a smaller pumpkin, one that is lopsided and has a few dents in it. He would say he picked that one because its shape made him laugh. In reality, he just got it because it was one of the first he’d seen.

- Before leaving, he’d pose with you for a few photos for the socials. He never got the whole appeal of social media, but he liked the photos, and would save the photo of you two as his contact photo.

- Like a gentleman, he would buy you an apple cider once you got to the other side of the establishment with the apple orchard. He would smile knowing you now had a way to keep your other hand warm from the chilly weather. Of course he’d sneak sips of the drink as well.

- He’d lift you up on his shoulders as you reached for apples to place in your basket. He knew you’d pick too many to make things with, and he’d end up eating an apple a day that you’d pack for him in his lunch. This didn’t bother him, because the smile of your face made it all worth it.

- He would subtlety reminded you of making an apple pie throughout the day, one of his favorites. The recipe you made was enough to bring him comfort for the rest of the day with just once slice. You’d sometimes serve it hot with vanilla ice cream, and that made his stomach growl from just thinking about it.

~ Horror Movie Night ~

- Horror movie night would also coincide with pumpkin carving night!

- You would catch him after work a few days after the pumpkin patch. He’d walk in the door to news papers scattered all over the floor with carving utensils. He would let out a little chuckle as he set his bag down.

- You would bring out two ice cold beers to enjoy while carving, sometime to entice him to actually do it with you. He would have done it anyway, but the beers couldn’t hurt.

- As you both sat on the floor in front of the tv, you’d put on a classic horror film to set the mood. Something like “Nightmare on Elm Street.” He’d chuckle and made a joke like “aren’t you gonna get to scared to watch this?”

- The movie would play subtly in the background as you both were elbows deep in pumpkin guts. It was evident this was Leon’s first time carving a pumpkin. He was making a mess, the insides of the pumpkin splattered across his face and hair. He was so engaged in the process, he didn’t even really look up at the movie.

- When the pumpkins were both cleaned out, you’d opt for a stencil that came with the kit. A cute little face, nothing spooky about it. Leon on the other hand would claim stencils are for wimps, mocking you in a loving way. He would free hand it, but would butcher the face making it unrecognizable. He was proud of it though.

- When you both were finished, he’d gently help you clean up the guts and papers that spewed across the floor. He’d then help you carry your heavy pumpkin to the front porch, where you’d both light the candles inside, watching them flicker intently. He’d wrap his arm around your waist, and smile gently at how giddy you had become. Maybe this holiday wasn’t so bad…

- When you got back inside, you’d both notice the movie was rolling the credits. Both of you barely paid attention, too focused on the pumpkins. After the great night you had planned for him, he kinda felt bad he missed this part. He’d grab you by the hand, pulling you into a soft embrace and would ask you if you’d like to go see a movie at the theater.

- You’d get excited by this idea. He couldn’t help but smile, grabbing both his and your coats, before walking to the near by cinema.

- He figured you two could catch a late night showing. When you would arrive, he’d be a gentleman and ask you what you’d like to see. You’d surprise him by suggesting a creepy looking horror movie. He’d ask you “are you sure?” Before watching you nod excitedly. He’d smile, and buy both of your tickets.

- Once inside the theater, he’d buy all your favorite snacks. Popcorn, iceys, even those little chocolates you love so much. Of course he’d carry all of them too, refusing to let you carry anything. He wanted to spoil you tonight.

- Once you find your seats, the movie would begin. It was creepy and scary sure, but between the two of you, Leon was more scared than you were. At the slightest jumpscare, he’d squeeze your hand a little tighter and spent most of the movie watching through peered fingers.

- After the movie, he’d walk home with you, hand in hand, a smile spread across his face. He was a little more mindful of people passing by after the movie, and locked his grip on your hand a little tighter than before.

~ Cold October Nights ~

- The rest of October flew by pretty quick. He’d grown to kind of enjoy the cheesy horror movies you’d throw on after he got home from work. His favorite part was after the movie, when you’d take him to bed, and snuggle in a little closer to him. Maybe it was the colder weather, but he thinks it was because those scary movies made you a little more scared than you’d claim.

- He would trace circles in your soft skin, his touch growing needier than ever. He’d get a hard on from just touching you. His cock would throb as you placed your hand on his bare chest, slowly lowering it under the elastic waistband of his boxers.

- He would let out an involuntary groan, which made you smile. You’d take his cock in your hand, gently using your thumb to create circular motions on his tip. His pre-cum would make it slicker and easier for you to do this.

- With his stray hands, he’d push himself to roll over on top of you. He’d grab a handful of your hair, and with his other hand slowly slide your cute spooky pajamas pants down. He would clash his mouth into yours, making quick work to slide his tongue against yours.

- It wouldn’t be long before he was slipping his fingers inside of you, his hard cock twitching against your bare stomach as he laid on top of you. Pre-cum would slather your belly, and every once in a while he’d grind hard into you.

- He would use his thumb to circle around your clit as he slipped both his pointer and middle fingers inside and out of you, curling them up as he re entered you. You’d moan into his mouth, the grip of his hand in your hair sliding down to where your neck met your collar bone. He would dig his fingertips into your skin, causing you to buck your hips and grind against him.

- Growing impatient, he’d let out a groan and slide his cock into you. The room was cold from the chilly fall air, so he’d take the comforter and wrap it around the two of you as he began to drive his cock deep within you.

- In response, you’d let out a moan, and use one hand to steady yourself against his shoulder, the other to push back his mop of dirty blonde hair so you could stare into his deep blue eyes.

- His gaze would be stern, but not in an angry way. He would be so focused on fucking you, making you feel good. His cock would ram deeper and deeper inside of you. With every moan you let out, he’d grunt under his breath “good girl” or “fuck.”

- After he got you to cum once, he wouldn’t be through. He’d let his hand travel down to your clit once more, rubbing his calloused thumb over your sensitive nerves. You’d let out a yelp, but he wouldn’t stop, increasing his rhythm as he still slide his cock in and out you.

- He would pick up the pace, drawing you closer to orgasm as he tried to resist exploding inside of you. He would huff down a grunt, that almost let out a hum deep within his throat. His grip on your collarbone would tighten, and with one final thrust, couldn’t hold back anymore.

- You would finish a moment after, as you felt his sticky substance fill inside of you. You would let out a few pants as his hair would fall back over his eyes once more. His body would go limp against you, letting his bare chest lay against yours. He would gently slip out of you, leaving behind a trail of his c cum mixed with yours spilling onto the bed sheets.

- His muscular arms would then wrap you around him in a stern hug. He would plant kisses on top of your soft hair, as he tightened the comforter around the two of you once again. Especially after sex, the chilly air was so evident. He would embraced you for your body heat, letting his also warm your soft skin. The moon would pour into through the window, illuminating the two of you as you lay naked tangled in between the sheets. Leon was really starting to enjoy fall now…

~ Halloween Night ~

- Throughout October, you had reminded Leon of how you needed to buy candy for the night of Halloween. Leon took it upon himself a week or so before the big night to buy loads of candy.

- When he brought home the countless bags of the assorted candy, he watched as you smiled ear to ear. He even bought a spooky plastic bowl to dump the candy in.

- You would wrap him in a big hug, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. Flushing slightly, you would casually mentioning the idea of costumes. You weren’t sure how he would react, but to your surprise he had already thought of this.

- Leon would lead you upstairs, to the closest where he tucked away a singular yellow baggy from some cheap Halloween store. He would hand it to you, and inside was a singular costume. A little confused, it was just a classic robber costume. One with the white and black stripes. You also couldn’t help but notice it was a men’s costume…

- You would give him a confused look, but he would just smile and say “I thought we could do a couples costume.” This would confuse you more, as there was only one costume in the bag. He would raise his pointer finger, before going back into the closest to rummage around.

- He would come out with an old beaten clear baggy, which held some type of outfit inside. He would hand it to you, and smile. As you would unzip the bag, and pulled out the outfit, you would gasped. His old police uniform. “You’ll look good in it.” Leon would say. “It might be a little big, but it should fit good enough.”

- He encouraged you to try it on. He was right, it was a little baggy on you, but just enough so it was comfortable. You would admired the RPD logo on the badge and vest. He would smile brightly when you showed him, the first time that uniform has ever made him smile.

- When Halloween night rolled around, you both wore your matching outfits. Leon looked a little silly in his robber get up, but he couldn’t deny you looked perfect in his uniform. He would admire the ‘Kennedy’ stitched into it, making him smile that you were literally wearing his last name.

- A few of your mutual friends would join you this night, sharing a few beers while listening to spooky music and passing out candy. Leon would feel a sense of pride as he watched you so giddily hand out the treats to adoring children.

- When the night was over, and the children slowly started to retreat towards their homes, Leon would stand on the front porch admiring the fall colors, lit Jack-o-lanterns and chilly air. He had never thought much about Halloween or fall… until he met you. After this October, he’d look forward for every Halloween to come, as long as you were there to celebrate with him.

I am not a writer. I just think about Leon waaaaay too much. Please enjoy these little head cannons/small fic I suppose? I DO NOT OWN THE PICS I JUST FOUND THEM ON PINTEREST!

Thank you @lilith0fthevalley for the cute couple costume idea!

[secret-third-thing]

Eris x Acolyte!Reader | Rated: G | Length: 2.1k

For @sjmxreaderweek Day 3

A/N: I don't normally write xReader so this was a fun little detour in my writing schedule. Minimal Beta-ing. Just wanted to do something different <3.

A young acolyte sworn to silence is visited by the heir to the Autumn Court, whose confession threatens to unravel both her vows and her resolve.

Read Under the Cut

The Temple of the Mother is built an hour’s walk from the edge of the Autumn Court woods. The enclave has been around far before you were ever born, having been built generations ago. Tonight, as rain falls heavily outside, the temple is empty. No parishioners have made the trek to tonight’s service, so it is just you and the High Priestess reciting scripture, praising the earth, meditating on peace and love and loyalty. She’s left you now to clean up and prepare for tomorrow’s morning service. With the promise of good weather, you expect more foot traffic as usual. And as the equinox approaches, you suspect the numbers will only increase.

You place a fresh cloth on the altar, polish each candlestick, each gold-plated bowl. Overhead, the braziers flicker, and the temple feels almost haunted. Some of the other acolytes tried to scare you your first night, whispering of the High Lord’s first wife roaming the pews or the spirits of unburied fae screaming down the corridors. But today, you can only hear the patter of rain against stained glass windows, the steady drip from a leak. The air is fragrant with the sweet smell of incense.

Your footsteps echo as you walk up and down each pew, straightening songbooks. You joined the temple months ago, and the memory of it is still fresh in your mind. As the youngest daughter in your family, there was no need to push you into marriage. Given the choice, you had chosen this life. Let your older sisters enjoy the matrimonial life. Here, you felt more like your own person.

There were parts of your old life you did miss. The laughter, the dancing, the singing. Here, you were sworn to a vow of silence for the first year of your service. Penance for whatever unconfessed transgressions you did not remember or did not bother to confess. You return to the front and tuck the remnants of today’s service under your arm when you hear the familiar gait of a male you once knew well.

You turn and see him there, dressed in a well-tailored coat and linen pants. As he approaches, you see his hair is mussed, and dark shadows sit under his eyes. His expression is neutral, if not stern, and his stance betrays nothing. But you knew him for many years, from when you had roamed the Forest House as a youth, playing with your sisters in the halls and in the gardens. Once, at a ball, he had asked you to dance – more pretense than pleasure, but you had enjoyed it all the same. Your one storybook night. When he reaches the aisle where you stand, you bow, deep as you have been taught.

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is harsh against the silence, and you dare look up to meet his gaze. His amber eyes bore into yours, and you feel the familiar flutter of nerves in your stomach. There are few reasons for the High Lord’s family to visit. Penance is not usually one of them. But tonight, in the flickering shadows of the light, you can tell that a confession may be on the horizon. You turn to fetch the High Priestess, to knock at her chamber doors and rouse her from sleep.

“There’s no need,” he says, knowing already what you are off to do - who to fetch. “I will speak with you.”

Fear blooms in your chest. You are not sure he realizes you are still in your first year, the vow of silence barring you from holding a proper conversation, parishioner or not. And still, he stands there waiting for you until you set down what you are holding and walk to him. Without your heels, he’s two heads taller than you, and you’re reminded that he could kill you. All the Vanserras could. You gesture to one of the booths to hold confession, but he shakes his head and sits on one of the pews at the front. After a beat, you sit next to him and both of you look ahead at the front of the temple, where a statue of the Mother stands, her hand, palm up, reaching down to her children in offering. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you wonder if you should have ignored him and fetched the High Priestess anyway. None of this is proper, and being alone with a lord’s son was asking for trouble. But as you debated getting up again, Eris crosses a boot over his knee and leans back – casual even for him – and sighs. You dare not look at his face and instead study the statue, marveling how the sculptor was able to carve the movement of cloth so perfectly, the folds and creases looking real from a distance.

Magic whooshes over you, and you realize Eris has placed a ward around you. The patter of rain is gone, and the drip feels miles away. A bubble of silence. You should feel more afraid, but you realize this is more for his safety than yours. What loss is it really for an acolyte to die?

“Do you remember me?” he asks, and it’s not at all what you thought he’d ask. You nod, still not looking at him even though from the corner of your eye, you can see him fully face you now, expectant. You realize he’s waiting for you to talk. And you wring your hands. Breaking your vow is not worth this, you think.

“You are a decent dancer,” he comments, returning to look at the Mother. And somehow, that compliment warms you like a fire. “Too many of our courtiers have no sense of rhythm,” he comments. And you’d have to agree. Dancing was a time-honored tradition of Autumn, and yet so many courtiers failed to know much more than the most basic of dances. You may not have been the best in your family, but you could at least keep up with Eris, which was a skill in itself. Nothing too flashy or extravagant, but just detailed enough that you did feel like you were dancing and not shuffling around the floor, back and forth and back and forth in the same waltz rhythm. He then rambles about the ball, all those years ago, rattling off gossip about each courtier, and you wonder what is the point of all this. This is not the Eris that you knew. The male you knew was cold and cruel. Once, you had seen him set a male on fire for treason. Running his hand over the prisoner’s chest, over his heart. The screams had haunted you for nights to come.

Finally, it seems Eris realizes there’s nothing he’s going to say to get you to break your vow of silence, and the warmth he displays is snuffed out like a flame.

“I fear the Night Court will betray me,” he says. He moves closer to you and leans in, his breath tickling your ear.

“They have sworn to lend their forces when I need them.” You know the unspoken here, know to read between the lines. He means his father’s death. “But they have acquired a new weapon,” he says, though the way he says weapon is strained, as though that is not quite the truth. “I have heard rumors too that his court monster is conspiring to make the High Lord a High King.” At this, you start—unheard of. There hadn’t been a High King in thousands of years, centuries of years. It had not ended well. And you presume this would not end well, too.

You cannot imagine your High Lord kneeling to Rhysand. Nor can you imagine his allies acquiescing to such a thing. You wonder if the Spring Court would wage war once more. You know your court would join them regardless of whether Beron or Eris was the High Lord. You fold your hands in your lap. You do not know what to do or say, and perhaps this is why he’s chosen you to tell. The priestesses keep records separate from the ones the court historians keep. Theirs is more honest than the High Lord’s – each failure detailed with the same lack of embellishments as the victories. They may be within the borders of Autumn, but they answered to the Mother and her word. Not the High Lord and his fire.

“There is much work to be done,” Eris continues. “My father conspires with the death god in the continent and the human queens. I suspect he does not fully understand that which he meddles in.” And you agree with this. What is a High Lord to a god? And then you think of the rumors that have been flying around. Not just of the High Lord’s ambitions but of Eris’s disappearance. There was one time the High Lord’s family had come – likely at the Lady’s behest—and had sat in the pew reserved for the family, and Eris had not been there. You knew he was not devout, but he always came. You knew the low timber of his voice as he sang and thought of it many nights before you fell asleep. If you could talk, you’d tell him to sing more.

“While I was there,” he says, and you realize he’s been talking and you weren’t listening, you fool. “I saw many things. A frozen lake, so many swans, a bird of flame.” The other human queen, you surmise. Court politics made its way here as well. There were few secrets that the wind did not carry here.

The magic barrier drops, and Eris shifts in his seat. He holds out his hand, and you study it for a moment. It’s large, of course, but covered in callouses from training, you imagine, and though it’s against your vows, you imagine what it would feel like against your skin. The one time you had danced, he had worn gloves, and that alone had haunted you. But his hand was here now, and you wanted to trace the lines of his palm, to read its futures and revel in secrets. You place your hand in his without thinking. It is warm, and you watch as he turns your hand over to reveal the vow on your wrist. A rune that marked the bargain you had with the Mother: chastity, faith, honesty. He rubs a thumb over the promise, and a shiver runs down your back. The edge of his mouth quirks, and it’s then you feel very much like prey. You should get up, bow, leave, go to your chambers, kneel at your bed, pray for forgiveness. I’m sorry, Mother, for I have let impure thoughts of a male overtake me.

And then, without warning, Eris lifts your wrist to his face and presses a closed-mouth kiss over the mark. His lips are soft, and your brain thinks of nothing else except for his lips kissing you. Somewhere else.

“Eris,” you hiss, and the braziers burn bright. The dancing flames spark and reach for the ceiling, and you realize with dismay that you have broken this vow. Panic seizes you, and you pull your wrist away, rubbing your hand over where he kissed. He gives you a wry smile and stands.

“Be well,” he says, and then walks away, boots clicking against the stone floor.

You do not move until he is gone, and then you spring up. Your feet move of their own accord, and you race for the broom to sweep up ash that has fallen on the floor. You scrub the stone and pray to the Mother for forgiveness for your breach of promise. Your wrist tingles, and you wonder if this is when you’ll be set alight. You feel like it already, body warm from where he kissed you. And when there’s no trace of him there, you let yourself fall to the ground in front of the Mother’s statue. She reaches out her hand to you in forgiveness. And so you indulge just once and press your own lips against the mark.

It’s then when the High Priestess walks in, still dressed in her sleeping gown. She looks at the fires, blazing brighter, and then to you. You watch her watch you and pull your wrist away from your lips. She looks up at the Mother and then back at you. She nods. You’re unsure what she knows or how much she cares, but the fear lingers in your chest.

“Come, child,” she says. “It’s past time for you to sleep. The night watch will wake soon.” You stand, knees screaming from how you had fallen to the ground, and walk to her. She leads you to your room, and after you finish changing for bed and lay on your pillow, you dream of a dance you danced a long time ago and the amber eyes of the heir you will never forget. Maybe one day you will dance again. But for now, you are content to hold him in your dreams and whirl around the sacred space of your mind. This is all you can ask for.

---

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[leonw4nter]

can you make a fluff/angst leon oneshot when he came back from a long mission and saw his gf decorate the house with the "welcome (home) leon" lettering and cook his favorite meal? where he was speechless at first, because he got the dejavu, and when he asked why, they said "because your survival and mission acomplished is worth to celebrate for" 🥹

Every Breath You Take

RE4!Leon x GN!Reader

He should’ve been home 48 hours ago, indulging in the simple joys that his home provided him with, but his mission got in the way of that happiness; he just had to get infected with some insect-like parasite while on the job, along with prolonged exposure to extreme weather conditions, and gut issues from eating raw snakes, eggs, and whatever meat didn’t have mold or rot which landed him in isolation for further observation until USSTRATCOM was sure that he didn’t have any bug in his system. It’s not like he can unwind and relax in his room– there was a lack of decorations and furniture, absent of any warmth; everything was either white or beige that was damn near white and the food wasn’t even that good. For some odd reason, he was forbidden from having outside contact until he completed all 48 hours of total isolation. It’s not like he can even do anything to soothe himself, aware that hidden in the lampshade, lighting fixtures, and sockets lay bugging devices.

Luckily for him, he’s cleared their health checks and is free to go home. After parking his black sedan in the garage, he unlocks the door with a hidden spare and walks; the comforting warmth contrasts the biting chill of the night, a safe haven in this little corner of the universe. The feeling of walking inside your shared home is something he could get used to, the aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting through the air instead of the stench of death and decay. A change in the curtains and pillow cases remind him of how much time has passed, how the trees and shrubs have shed their old leaves and grew new ones in place. Leon wishes he was just like the shrubs you loved to tend to: if only he could let go of the past , move forward, and become a new person. The sight and realization sends a pang of grief and guilt straight to his heart like a poison-tipped arrow, souring what was supposed to be a fuzzy feeling that brewed inside him. He walked further into the house, his mud-caked boots thudding against the clean floors; somewhere inside he heard your humming accompanied by music playing in a low volume and he picked up the pace, unable to wait any longer.

“Leon!”

Your sweet voice peaks into a high-pitched squeal, ending on a slightly shaky note as you stop whatever you were doing and run into his arms. Leon gently says your name back, running to you before colliding into the first hug in 4 months. Neither of you are unable to stop the cascade of tears that flow down, wracking both your frames as you cry into his chest and his tears drizzle down and drop on your shoulder; his hands bring your head closer to him, finger digging into your scalp. The embrace is tight as if your hearts are trying as hard as they can to press into each other and fuse as one but it’s definitely needed after those months of separation and sparse contact with one another. You pull away first, looking up at him with tear-glossed eyes.

“I’m so relieved to see you in one piece, sweetheart.” Wiping at the tears that streamed down your cheeks, you give him a wobbly smile. “I was worried sick.”

Leon felt his heart lurch in guilt at the fact that he’s mainly the reason as to why you’re constantly on the edge and uneasy.

“I’m so sorry for leaving you alone again,” he apologizes. “I’m so sorry for always worrying you and leaving you wondering if I’m still going to come home to you.”

You take his face in your hands, feeling the slightest prickle of an incoming stubble in your palms; pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose, you brush away all the negative feelings that have followed him home from Spain.

“It’s alright Leon. You’re here with me now, safe and sound. You’re saving the world from those horrors, you deserve a moment of peace in your life.”

He looks up from you and gazes longingly around the room, eyes settling on what aspects of his home changed or stayed the same since he left those long months ago. As he takes the sights in to really let it sink in that for once he doesn’t have to worry about enemies and their attacks, he catches sight of a banner reminiscent of a lost city.

“‘Welcome home, Leon!’,” the banner reads. Unlike the one from 1998, this one isn’t made up of yellow letters and blue circles with some star streamers; instead, it’s floral print cardstock cut into letters with neat origami flowers, butterflies, and lions of different colors.

“Do you like it?” You ask meekly, clasping your hands together as you watch Leon walk up to the decoration you put up for him. “Hunnigan sent me an email yesterday saying that you’d be home in a few hours so I decided to spend some time making that. I know it’s not exactly your taste in aesthetics.”

His silence worries you but he’s lovingly touching the little origami animals you put up, tinkering with the lion specifically. You watch on at the scene, letting him have his moment when you hear a barely-concealed sniffle and see his shoulders tremble.

“It was just like this,” he reminisces. “Back at the station, in Raccoon. Well, not exactly like the design, but there was a banner for me. They were elated to have me join the force.”

You walk up to him, hugging him from behind while resting your cheek on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have– I didn’t mean to bring up the past–”

“No,” he interrupts gently. “It’s… it’s fine. It’s incredibly sweet and touching for me.”

Turning around to face you, he takes your hand and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckle.

“Why did you decide to decorate around though?” He asks. “Not that I’m complaining, just curious.”

“Because your survival and accomplishments are worth celebrating,” you simply say with a tender smile. “Everytime you get out there and disappear from me for months on end with no contact and no clue on how each of us are doing, you’re making the world a safer place. You’re on the front lines, behind enemy lines even, and throwing yourself at these threats just so we won’t have to.”

Overflowing to the brim with a variety of emotions, thoughts, and sensations, he cries his weary heart out in your arms. You let him take this time to feel his emotions and properly process it, giving him pats and soothing words.

It eventually dies down and gives way to hunger, his stomach rumbling for some good food. Much to his glee, you thought to cook his favorite food– his first decent meal in months. With each forkful, bursts of flavor and comfort exploded inside his mouth which reminded him that for now, he’s far away from the sight of death and the stink of rot. You’ll be there to hold him as he sleeps in your comfortable bed and to greet him when he wakes up come morning time.

NOTE - thank you to the anon who requested this!! and apologies for taking a long time 😓 i hope this little thing was worth the wait and you had a great time reading it <33 this is a little shorter than average but i hope that this is still okay with guys coz a lot of ppl i know prefer longer fics so yeah huhu :| anyway, that's all and thank you for reading my fics + supporting me!!!!!!! I <33333 UUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!

The divider (the lacy flower one) is not mine [ I forgot who made it :'( ] , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

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Hiiii I’ve never requested anything on tumblr before but I love your EJ work so much I just had to! 💙🖤

Could you do a smut fic similar to peace offering and have the reader as a cannibal but is kind of more cocky about it? Like she thinks she’s as good if not better than Jack when it comes to that even though she’s a human. Also if you could make the reader like she came out of Texas chainsaw massacre that would also be epic. But for a storyline I’m open to anything, the more weird and feral the better! Cheers!

hiii!!! baby im so sorry this took so long. long story short, i wrote and rewrote it multiple times, and when i was finally happy with it and started the smut, i realized i didn't give her A CHAINSAW??? it's in the title bro. BUT ANYWAY HERE SHE IS LOL it's a beast, i hope you enjoy it and i hope it wasn't too extra for what you imagined :')

𝓓𝓸𝓵𝓵𝔂 (𝐄���𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥!𝐅!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

BIG CW: where do i even start. VERY explicit mentions of violence, cannibalism, butchering, murder, gore; religious mentions, hallucinations and loss of memory, overall disturbing imagery. very dubcon hate sex (noncon if you read it with a magnifying glass), asphyxiation, violent and painful fr, fucking next to carcasses, little dialogue but degrading when it happens, idk what you'd call this but Jack forces meat into your mouth to shut you up?, also forced oral (f giving), orgasm denial — also reader is an arrogant cocky little shit

summary: you're the star of a southern family of cannibals, but uh-oh! you're too good, so you get kidnapped by a faceless cryptid, get your memory wiped and somehow, your god complex survives.

word count 11.5k

You were born into heat—thick, soupy, clinging heat that made your skin tacky before you could even walk. The kind that turned meat rancid in a day and made the flies come heavy. You knew the stench of rot before you ever knew perfume. It stuck to you like memories, no matter how hard you scrubbed.

That house, your family’s house, sat squat like a wound in the middle of nowhere—peeling clapboard, screen doors that whined like kicked dogs, sun-bleached and crusted with the filth of decades—choked by cornfields high as your shoulders and a forest that sat watching from far off, too dry to breathe, too dead to care. There were no neighbors, only travelers, and travelers didn’t last long.

Your family didn’t have a name for what you did. It wasn’t a cult. Wasn’t a tradition. Wasn’t some ancient ritual passed down through whispered Latin or scribbled symbols in books. It was just dinner. Just the way things were. You never questioned it. They were the food. You were the hunter. That’s the order of things. You knew it before you knew how to spell your name.

You mama called you her darlin’, your daddy called you the bait, and your brothers called you their lucky charm. Their sweet little thing, their pride, their angel. You were the face, the lure, the star. Your family handled the most, always. But you? You were the reason the food kept coming. And they praised you for it. Every time. Told you you were special. Chosen. That God had put you here to feed your bloodline, to keep the family strong. And you believed it. Why wouldn’t you?

You learned the weight of a cleaver before your hands could hold it right. You could slip skin from muscle with a flick of your wrist and a hum on your lips, peeling it back like wet parchment while flies buzzed thick around your braids. Your daddy showed you, patient and proud, guiding your little hand with his own—weathered and sticky with blood—through the fatty thigh of a man who’d screamed until his voice split.

"Gentle, now. Let the knife do the work, baby girl," he'd said, and you hummed while you worked, lips sticky with syrupy red. You’d make shapes in the sinew. Hearts. Stars. Sometimes you gave them names and talked to them while you cleaned them up, like dolls. You always had a tender touch for the dead.

Mama’d dress you up real nice—denim cutoffs, soft plaid tied at the belly, cheeks pinched pink and pretty. You had that Southern sweetness, that drawl that sounded like an invitation regardless of what you said. You’d sit out on the porch swing, cicadas screeching like rusty hinges all around, a pitcher of sweet tea beading with sweat at your elbow. Waiting.

“You’re real good at this, baby,” your mama would coo, running blood-wet fingers through your hair like it was a blessing. “Ain’t nobody bring in the meat like you.” And Lord, could you bring it in.

You got older. Sharper. Meaner. But you never lost that shine, that charm. You had a smile that melted asphalt, lips always painted red like roadkill, a voice like honeysuckle and smoke. The kind that made you feel safe even when the hair on your neck stood up. When they passed by—lost souls, truckers, drifters—you lit up like Sunday morning, looking every bit like salvation, inviting them in for cornbread and meatloaf. Telling them they could rest a spell, cool off from the heat. You watched their eyes soften, watched their guard fall, and you’d think: They don’t even know they’re already dead.

Other times you'd cruise real slow in your rusty, groaning pick-up, eyes trained to clock the thumbs up on the side of the road—sun-dazed hitchhikers that would inevitably trust the genuine sparkle in your eyes. Chatting it up the car while you drove a beeline off the highway and towards your slaughterhouse, saying you just need to pick up something from your place before heading for their destination.

“Won’t take but a minute, sugar. Just gotta grab somethin' from the house. Mama’s makin’ meatloaf. You’re welcome to stay for supper.”

They followed you right up that dusty drive with the smell of rotting meat already thick in their nose, but they never noticed. Not until the door closed behind them. Too wound up in the thought that this was the beginning of every porno they loved, buzzing on the possibility of getting a warm meal, a sweaty quickie and a ride home.

They never made it past supper.

They’d sit in the kitchen, drink sweet tea so strong it made their gums ache, eat meatloaf and cornbread and gravy thick as glue. You'd bat your lashes, laugh too loud, and the sound of it would almost cover the creak of the floorboards as your daddy snuck up behind them with a pipe in his fist. Almost.

And when they woke up, that’s when they met Dolly.

She was hanging there from her hook in the barn, humming with the memory of a hundred deaths, always crusted with the blood of the last dumb bastard who thought he’d get lucky.

You named her when you were thirteen. Called her Dolly because she sang when she worked. Because she was loud and mean and old as sin. Daddy gave her to you like a wedding gift, all proud and reverent, like he was passing down the family Bible.

You cleaned her every night. Talked to her. Told her secrets. Rubbed the oil into her teeth with a lover’s care. Dolly wasn’t a tool. She was kin. She was yours.

And the moment she roared to life—when that engine kicked and the barn filled with that screaming, gasoline gospel—that was your church bell. That was your moment of worship.

They always woke up screaming. Always. Bound up in rope, mouth gagged with rags that smelled like old meat. The barn was dark, walls sweating heat, rafters hung with hooks and chain and the slow drip of old blood. You’d stand over them, Dolly purring in your grip, teeth glinting in the sliver of sun through the boards.

Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they begged. Sometimes they pissed themselves. It didn’t matter. You never flinched. You just smiled, revved her once, and the sound alone was a death sentence.

You’d swing Dolly down and let her kiss bone. Blood fountained up like a prayer, slick and hot, painting your arms, your chest, your grin. Flesh peeled like bark. Bone cracked like dry twigs. You never aimed for pretty or careful. You were just putting down cattle.

You would sit at the table and pass mashed potatoes while their cooked flesh steamed on the platter, hands sticky with marrow and sin as they met your family's, saying grace with a sacred hush in your voice. "Father in Heaven, thank you for this food. Please bless Dolly to the nourishment of my family and guide her body to your service as you will. In Jesus name I pray, Amen."

And when it was done—when the blood soaked through the cracked earth outside the barn, and the dogs out back were licking it up like nectar—that’s when you'd go quiet. That was your favorite part. The hush after. The stillness. Just you and Dolly and the heat pressing down like God’s judgment.

You never saw it as evil. It was just life. Just survival. You were made for this. Built for it. Ain’t your fault the world was full of prey. It made you feel like a god. And maybe you were.

Somehow, somewhere along the routine, something started to change. It didn’t happen all at once. It crept in—like mildew in the walls or maggots in the meat. It started slow, a hiccup in the rhythm honed into your bones since childhood. First came the haze, thick and yellowed, like fat congealing in your skull.

You'd be carving, humming some old tune under your breath—something Mama used to sing when she made stew—and suddenly your hands would freeze, the knife halfway through tendon. Your eyes would go glassy. A pressure would build behind them, a high keening note that split your head open like a ripe melon. You’d stare at the meat on the table and swear it twitched. Like it was still alive. Like it was blaming you.

Then came the sounds. Wet squelching that wasn’t yours. Bones cracking from somewhere behind you when no one else was home. Screaming. Far-off at first—maybe a trapped coyote out in the fields, you told yourself—but then closer. Inside. Inside the house, inside the walls, inside you.

The hallucinations got cruel.

You'd whirl around in the barn and see the hooks swaying just a little too much. See the bodies that should’ve been still start to twitch and pull. Eyeless, jawless things, eviscerated and half eaten, ripping themselves free with sickening pops and tears, blackened fingers clawing at the air, slick with rot and rage. Their mouths opened in impossible angles, throats torn but still wailing—a wet, garbled shriek that filled your ears and slithered down your spine. Crawling, twitching, alive again, just to make you pay for what you did. What you loved doing.

One of the fresher ones lunged at you once—bloated belly splitting open mid-air to spill half-digested meat you fed him before your brother strangled him from behind, all across the floor—and you blacked out cold right there in the sawdust, piss-wet and trembling.

When you came to, your cheek was pressed to the ground, one side caked in dried blood that wasn’t yours. None of it was real, you knew that. Didn't you?

You started to get sloppy after that. Fucking up lures. Wrong cuts. You’d black out for minutes at a time, sometimes hours. Find yourself in places you didn’t remember walking to, hands coated in blood that wasn’t warm enough to be fresh. You started feeling watched, like something less than God was looming just out of sight, like an imposing spectre, waiting, assessing.

You stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Everything tasted like rot. Every creak in the house made your heart jump into your throat. You thought maybe the devil was coming for you, but part of you didn’t mind. Part of you wanted to see if he’d praise you too.

You didn’t tell anyone, of course. Mama and daddy would’ve fixed it the old way—duct tape and a hammer until the thoughts stopped. You kept smiling, kept playing the part. But you were fraying.

It all came to a head one blistering summer day, the kind where the sun hangs like a dead thing in the sky, and the dirt cracks like bone under your feet. You woke up flat on your back in the field behind the barn, dry stalks rattling all around you, skin cooked red and hot. Your head felt like a wasps’ nest—buzzing, swollen, angry. You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t even know your name for a minute. Just knew you were soaked to the skin, sweat or blood or both, and your jaw ached like you’d been screaming for hours.

Voices blurred in your ears. Cold slapped your face. You blinked up at sunburnt faces—your family, furious and frantic, splashing icy well water over your cheeks while your brother barked, “She let ‘em run, goddammit! We had—had 'em, and she lost it!”

The food had bolted. One of the hitchhikers—a skinny little thing with sunburnt arms and quick legs, barely enough to feed the lot of you—had run screaming into the fields. And the worst part? You hadn’t even noticed. You’d been out on your feet, blank as butcher paper, staring while he tore ass through the corn.

That’s when you heard it. Sirens. Real ones.

You’d never seen the law move so fast, not out here in God’s forgotten corner. Sirens rising in the wind like banshees. The sheriff’s car tore up that gravel drive faster than you could've prepared for, K-9s yelping, radios barking, boots pounding. It was like God decided to show up for once, and He brought a badge. Your mama screamed at you to run, but your legs didn’t wanna move.

Not until the first warning shot cracked the sky open. Your family scattered like roaches, and you bolted. Barefoot and ragged, tearing through the barn as a shortcut, past the flayed remains on hooks that didn’t even flinch this time—but not before your hand snapped out like instinct, like blood memory, and grabbed Dolly. Hung right on her peg by the door, rusted teeth still wet from last night’s supper.

Your fingers closed tight around her handle and you ran like the earth was coming apart beneath you. Out into the endless gold of the corn, the metal clanking of the shed doors echoing behind you like bells of judgment.

You ran until your lungs burned and bled into your mouth. Maybe it was from the effort, or maybe it was the rot inside you, the old meat you could still taste in the back of your throat. The stalks sliced into your skin as you crashed through them, hands out, eyes wild. The sun glared down so angry it felt like it was chewing through your scalp. You could hear the dogs behind you—barking, hungry. You swore you could feel their teeth on your ankles.

The corn gave way to the forest, and even the light seemed to die there. Trees like dry bones, reaching out, grabbing at your hair, your clothes. The ground cracked underfoot, brittle and dry, every step sending shockwaves through your skull. Dolly bounced at your side with every stomp, the weight of her a grim promise.

That’s when you noticed it. The static.

It wasn’t the radios. Wasn’t the dogs. Wasn’t the wind or the cicadas or the burn of your pulse in your ears. It was something else. A sharp, metallic screech like static from a busted TV, except it was inside your skull. Low at first, like a bad connection. But the further you ran, the louder it screamed. It wormed into your brain, burrowed behind your eyes, grinding against your teeth like gravel. Your balance gave out once, then twice. Your vision split down the middle. The trees started to hum as they grew thicker, the forest yawning open around you like a grave. Blood bubbled up in your throat, thick and bitter. You coughed, and it came up in ribbons, painting the dirt.

You stumbled into the shade, heaving and dizzy. Your ears screamed, the panicked pounding of your heart and the roaring static in your head a nauseating orchestra that blinded you. You tasted rust and rot. Felt wetness trickling down your neck from your ears, sticky and warm. You raised a shaking hand, smeared crimson across your fingertips right as your knees slammed into the ground. The last thing you felt was the heat of the sun leaving your skin, replaced by the cool touch of dry, cracked earth, before the world tilted sideways and got swallowed by shadow.

You had no idea what became of your family.

Whether they were dragged off kicking and hollering to rot in some high-security concrete tomb, or gunned down the second the cops laid eyes on the sun-bleached intestines hanging from the porch rafters like party streamers, never to be stuffed of minced meat for homemade sausages—you didn’t know.

You didn’t care. That whole world, that whole life, every blood-slicked summer afternoon spent in the back, feeding leftover fat or skin to the dogs, every bone-pile supper spent watching the faces of the people you were ingesting flash on the news, every praise-filled pat on the head and hissed warning under a bloody butcher’s breath—it was gone. Wiped.

Flushed into the deep, wet-black cracks of your memory, where even your own thoughts didn’t dare poke around too long.

Decades of ritual. Hundreds—hell, maybe thousands—of strangers with empty stomachs and full bladders, trailing dust and naivety through your front door. Their blood was burned into your nose, your throat, your skin. You could still feel the slick slide of raw tendon under your nails, the tremor of the chainsaw eating through bone, if you focused hard enough. But now? Now it was all buried beneath a thick, impenetrable fog. A swamp of forgetting. Of rewriting.

You couldn’t give a fuck even if you wanted to.

Nowadays, your mind was occupied by something much taller. Much quieter. Wrapped in a dark suit and a heavier presence—one that made your teeth feel loose and your spine ache like it remembered something your brain refused to translate. You spent your time in a rotting mansion deep in a stretch of nowhere, proving yourself to a creature that didn’t speak, didn’t blink, didn’t need to. One look—one twist of static in the air around him—and your guts curled like a dog showing its belly.

You didn’t remember the static from that day in the woods. Didn’t remember falling. Didn’t remember the way your body had gone limp or how something tall had watched from the edge of the treeline, invisible to your eyes but not to whatever still twitched beneath your skin.

But the static came back to you now. In waves. In pulses.

Sometimes it crackled in your ears at night, just under the cicadas and crickets. Sometimes it echoed in the corners of the mansion halls, where no footsteps should be. You caught flashes sometimes—split-second glimpses in the mirror, or in your plate, or in the blood painted on the chainsaw's blade right as it left your assignments. Faces. Fields. Screams. Hooks.

You didn’t ask questions.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The others here didn’t pry. Not really. You were the new one, sure. But something about you—about the way you smiled with that same corn-fed charisma as if the disfigured faces all around you didn't even phase you, about the way you cut meat like you were born with a boning knife in your hand—kept them quiet. Kept them curious.

And you were focused. On proving you belonged here. On ignoring the burning gaps in your past. On staying useful to something ancient and unknowable that hummed with electricity when it got too close.

Because deep down, you somehow knew. You weren’t dragged here. You were chosen. Right?

It wasn't long after making yourself known as a maneater that a name kept popping up again and again. Not many people around here talked for long, but when they did, his name always came up, followed by a change in temperature. Like it left frost on their teeth just to say it out loud.

Jack. No eyes, but always watching. Tall, quiet, moving like he’s part of the walls, like the shadows suck him in and spit him back out in different corners of the mansion.

They were warning you. Not in any outright way, but it was there.

They talked about him the same way folks used to whisper about monsters in the walls—like he was the thing people oughta fear in the dead of night, in the belly of the woods, in the hush between heartbeats. That still silence before a scream. THE cannibal around here. That’s how they said it. Like there was a fucking crown to wear. Like your years of blood-marinated living didn’t put you in the same weight class, if you could remember them.

One night, Jeff had told you that "you might wanna keep that shit quiet around here" when he walked in on you stuffing the ancient freezer in the kitchen with bags of meat slabs. You weren't stupid, you knew it was meant as a warning. And yet, all you heard was the treacly ring of a dare.

You didn’t say anything about it, not even when the mention of him started feeling like a ghost story told over and over with the same shaky flashlight under the chin. Chilling, sure. But you didn’t rattle so easy.

You played the part of the amused listener, lips curled and head cocked, never asking questions you didn’t need answered. You didn’t argue. But deep in your gut—down where instinct and pride still chewed on each other like dogs—you couldn’t help but smirk.

He had nothin’ on you.

You were the girl who could charm a man into gutting himself with a smile and a slice of pie. You didn’t need shadows and silence. You had Dolly.

It was cute, really. Like the others had conjured up a campfire monster to keep themselves entertained. Don’t go near the dark hallway, that’s Jack’s territory. Don’t bother him, don’t try anything. Don’t fucking stare. The usual superstition disguised as advice.

But eventually, the novelty wore off. You got tired of the little warnings they laced into conversation like it wasn’t obvious they were all just a little bit scared of their own housemate.

So when word came down that you’d been paired with him for a job, you thought that was just the perfect opportunity to see what the fuck all this fuss was about.

You didn’t bother waiting for the upcoming mission. That’d be too passive. Too obedient.

Late afternoon baked the walls of the mansion in gold and heat, dust floating lazy in the beams through warped windows as you strutted down the hall like you’d owned it since birth, dragging your fingers along the wall like a bored child, the ends of your smirk twitching like it could taste a challenge in the air.

His door sat at the far end of one of the hallways, quiet and colorless, wood grain faded to ash-gray like nothing wanted to stick to it. You rapped your knuckles against it—sharp, intentional. You crossed your arms and leaned your weight into one hip, smug and settled. You waited like you were entitled to be answered. Like he owed it to you just for having the gall to knock.

And when the door opened, all that smoke in your lungs twisted tight. Your smirk twitched.

He was taller than you expected—a lot taller. He had to duck a little just to clear the frame, and even hunched like that, he still looked like he could cast a shadow long enough to cover your entire goddamn body count. Broad like he was carved from raw stone, gray skin stretched over lean muscle, the kind of frame that made you feel human again just by comparison. But what got you—what rooted your boots to the damn floor—no eyes. Should've expected it, naturally, but it somehow slipped your mind.

Just two hollow sockets filled with something you couldn’t quite name—black, uneven, scarred tissue, as if the void itself had tried to fester in his skull and gotten stuck there. And still, they pinned you. Right to the floorboards.

But you didn’t flinch. You just grinned slow, tongue curled behind your teeth.

“Well fuck me sideways,” you drawled, voice syrupy with amusement, “guess the name came from somewhere, huh?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t tilt his head or shift or twitch like people usually do when they’re taken off guard. He just stood there, his entire presence like an open grave—still, silent, and full of something you didn’t want to look too hard at. His voice, when it came, was a low hum of disinterest. Cold. Dry. More formality than curiosity.

“Can I help you?”

God, that was it? No hiss, no looming shadow tricks, no growling threats or blood-curdling stares? The others had practically pissed themselves describing him. You half expected to be picked up by your throat and slammed into the wall. But all you got was calm.

Underwhelming.

You let your eyes drag over him, lazy, appraising. Like you were checking cuts of meat at a butcher’s. His arms looked strong. Veins coiled like roots beneath the surface. If he moved, you imagined it’d be slow and methodical, like some patient predator that never had to chase because the prey always came to him.

“Hm,” you hummed, tipping your chin. “So you’re the big bad shadow with teeth, huh? The one they keep whisperin’ about like a damn ghost story. I figured I’d come see for myself.”

He didn’t reply. Didn’t blink—couldn’t, you guessed—but the silence that followed felt heavier than a noose. You went on anyway.

“I just figured,” you said, casually flicking nonexistent dust from your shoulder, “if we’re gonna be rippin’ apart bodies together, might as well say howdy. You’re Jack, right?”

He gave a slight nod. Nothing more.

“They’ve been real poetic about you downstairs, y’know. Call you all kinds of names.” You let out a small laugh, dry and dismissive, rocking back on your heels as you gave him a look—half teasing, half challenge. “Can’t lie, I was kinda hopin’ for more teeth. Bit more snarl.” You tapped your chin, faux thoughtful. “Not complainin’, but all that talk? Feels like they’ve been talkin’ out their asses.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch of reaction. Not a bite. Not even the courtesy of annoyance. You might as well have been talking to a statue.

So you smiled wider, letting the heat of your own pride seep through. Just a little.

“Maybe it’s time you think about retirement, old man. I’m here now. Meat-eatin’ business is in good hands.”

It was cocky. Downright disrespectful. You knew that. But you said it with a wink in your voice, like it was all in good fun—like you weren’t sizing him up just as much as he was you. Even if you couldn’t see it.

Jack just stood there, unmoving, unreadable, like a mountain that didn’t care what you screamed at its face. Watching you like a noise he was deciding whether or not to acknowledge. The silence stretched, bone-dry and drawn taut between the two of you.

Then finally, he spoke. Low, even, and colder than a blade left out in the dead of winter.

“If you need to announce your worth,” he said, voice flat as a sheet over a corpse, “it’s because no one’s seen it.”

His voice was smooth, not smug and final, like a scalpel against soft tissue. No emotion, no heat—just clinical dismissal. Just standing there like he was cataloging every fragile thread of your ego—and finding it… unremarkable.

The cockiness froze on your face like you were just whipped by something too real to make sense of right away. Bullshit, of course, wasn't it?

And before you could even open your mouth to snark something in return, he spoke again, so bored that you almost wished he beat the snot out of you instead.

"Next time you want to measure your cock against mine, do it somewhere where you can actually impress someone. See you at the mission."

Just like that. No venom in his voice. No snarl. Just ice cold water splashed in your sunburnt face, followed by the slightest nod that only came out of habit rather than a deliberate gesture of respect or goodbye.

And before your pride could even catch up to what just happened—the door clicked shut. No slam. No dramatic ending. Just a quiet, measured click that somehow echoed down the hallway like a dropped bullet casing.

You stood there, staring at it. Arms still crossed but now limp, jaw clenched so tight it started burning at the hinges.

Your ego stung. Not shattered—never shattered—but bruised like a peach left out in the sun too long. Because he hadn’t humiliated you. Hadn’t even tried to. He just... stripped the meat from your words and tossed the bones.

You turned on your heel with a muttered curse under your breath, that practiced smirk now twitching from the wrong side of your face. Heat flushed your skin. Not from embarrassment. No, not that.

From the slow, simmering burn of being dismissed. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of a good fight. You’d get him back for that. One way or another, that much was gospel.

And yet... You had been seething for days.

Not yelling, not pacing—but it burned in you anyway, deep and slow behind your ribs, the kind that made everything else feel sticky. Like Jack’s words were tar in your ears, repeating themselves in that bored, dispassionate drone.

He saw through you. Or worse—he didn’t see you at all. Just another loudmouth with blood on her hands and a chip on her shoulder.

You hadn’t slept since. Just laid in bed with your eyes open, sweat slick on your neck from the heat that never broke in this godforsaken place, thinking about every word he said. Thinking about how he didn’t even say them mean. He said them like he was reading off a grocery list. Like you weren’t worth the effort of tone.

So when the mission night came—Slender’s voice in your head, static clinging to the words like rot to meat, instructions bleeding through the fog—you were ready to prove Dolly's teeth were sharper than his.

The air outside the mansion was stifling and scratchy, moonlight filtered through a haze of pollen and heat like an old bulb dying out. The trees out here didn't rustle—they creaked, dry to the marrow, their leaves brittle and sickly yellow along the edges. The dirt road leading into the woods kicked up dust with every step, and somewhere far off, an owl called like it was mourning something.

Jack was already at the tree line, waiting. Silent and still, like something carved out of the dark.

You should’ve been behind him, chainsaw handle in your hands, waiting for his signal. That was the plan. He’d go first—quiet, invisible—scout the site, get them just where he needed them. Then you’d come in swinging. Loud. Messy. Ripping through screams and woodsmoke like thunder, while he tore into ribs and throats like a famished wolf breaking into a barn.

You should’ve felt the weight of it by now. The hum. That electric buzz up your arms, that promise of carnage curled up against your palms.

Instead, you were empty-handed.

You realized it halfway down the path. That the one thing—the only fucking thing—you were supposed to bring, the piece that would've proved you weren't just a child in a butcher's skin, was still sitting back in your room like a sleeping dog. Dolly. Your Dolly. The growling, howling son of a bitch you'd named and sharpened and carried like it meant something.

Forgotten.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t turn back. Just kept walking. But the burn in your jaw from clenching too tight—that was real. The twitch in your brow. The way your footsteps hit the dirt too hard, too fast, like punishment.

You'd been too in your head, too hellbent on proving something, on making Jack eat his fucking words, you’d left the one thing that could’ve made your point loud enough.

Now, you were back to the role you’d been given by the Heavens, not the one your pride thirsted for. Play bait. Smile sweet. Talk slow. Let them think you’re lost and harmless and pretty enough to keep around. Long enough for Jack to sink his filthy, unworthy claws in.

It seemed easy enough—familiar enough. Like it had somehow been wired into your marrow, instinctual, natural. But it felt less than you. It tasted like surrender, and it tasted bitter.

The campsite glowed soft through the gaps in the trees, the air heavy with campfire smoke and burnt marshmallow sugar. Three of them. Two boys, one girl. Probably college-aged. Young enough to feel invincible, old enough to think they were clever for camping somewhere so isolated.

You stepped into the clearing like you'd always belonged there, face softening into something guiltless and trustworthy. No crunch of twigs, no heavy footfalls—just a sway of hips and a soft smile drawn across your face like honey on a blade.

“Evenin’, y’all,” you said, voice dipped in honey, that Southern lilt curling around the words like smoke. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Got a little turned around out here, you wouldn’t believe how easy it is to get lost in the dark.”

They turned, startled—but not defensive. Not yet.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” the girl asked. “Where’s your tent?”

You giggled. Giggled. Tilted your head and let your hair fall to one side like a trickle of molasses. “Oh sugar, I don’t have one. I was just passin’ through. Got dropped off a bit down the way, then my phone died and—well, y’know how it goes.”

They relaxed. Just like that.

You let them see you—dust on your legs, sheen of sweat on your collarbones, that subtle glint in your eyes that said not harmless, but not dangerous either. Just lost. Just a girl.

The fire crackled. Conversation swelled around you. They asked questions—where you were from, if you needed to use a phone, if you were hungry. You answered just vaguely enough to keep them wondering, but not so vague they got suspicious. You had them. Wrapped around your little pinkie.

And here you were. Drenched in moonlight. A rotten feeling bubbling in the back of your throat. No claws, no teeth. Just charm.

Your heart didn’t race—but your eyes did scan the tree line. Not looking for him, not looking for salvation. But a solution. A diversion. Anything to buy you time, anything to help you reach the finish line unaided.

You were still smiling, but your jaw had tightened.

It was subtle—just a flicker of tension at the hinge, a twitch of your lip that didn’t quite match the sugar in your voice. You crossed your legs, leaning forward like you were settling in for a chat, but your eyes kept straying to the dark behind the firelight. A little too often. A little too sharp.

“What’re you looking at?”

The question broke the air like a stick snapped underfoot. Not hostile. Not even wary yet. Just curious.

You blinked once, slow. Smoothed your palms against your thighs.

“Oh, it’s nothin’,” you said with that breathy, innocent lilt. “Thought I saw somethin’ movin’ out there, but… probably just a raccoon. Or a deer.”

You punctuated it with a soft laugh, a half-shrug, like it was no big deal. But you saw it—just a flicker of something in the girl’s face. That animal twitch of the gut. The what if.

You shouldn’t have looked again. But you did.

And this time, the silence that followed it was thicker.

The fire snapped.

The mood soured. Like milk turning in real time. You could feel it curdle, souring in their expressions, stiffening their postures. Something crawled down the back of your neck—hot, slow, primal.

One of the boys, the one who’d been crouched beside the logs, brushing embers back into place with a stick, didn’t even get to scream.

The sound he made wasn’t human. It wasn’t even a sound, really—just a choked, wet grunt, a stutter of breath that was swallowed up by the crack of bone splintering like dry kindling. You felt it more than heard it. A snap deep and wrong, like a wishbone being pulled apart uneven.

Then came the sound of the fire roaring a little louder.

You turned your head and saw the body—or what was left of it—drop half-way splayed across the burning logs.

There was no ceremony to it—just a heap of limbs and ruined flesh, the kind of thing that didn’t make sense at first glance. It took a second for the brain to register the shape. That the torso was missing something. That the head was at the wrong angle. That something had ripped into it.

It took a moment for the smell of burnt flesh and hair to waft in the air like a shroud. It took a moment for you to snap out of it and realize it was go time.

The girl screamed, a raw, high-pitched, guttural wail that split through the trees like a signal flare, before running straight into your arms. Poor thing probably thought you were a victim too.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your hands went for her throat like they were starved. She could only gasp like a fish on a dock, wide-eyed and stunned as your fingers dug in and your thumbs crushed her windpipe against her cervical spine, pinching the sound into a canid whine. You held her there, straining, gritting your teeth as she kicked, scrambled, fingers clawing at your arms, your face, your hair, but it was panic—sloppy and directionless.

You felt the pulse under your fingers hammering like a hummingbird’s wings. The wet gargle of her trying to suck in air around your grip. Her nails bit into your forearms, but you held steady, grounding yourself in the heat of it. The struggle, the intimacy. The kind of power and control you missed. The kind that started to slip through your fingers like sand.

Behind you, the clearing was chaos.

Jack moved like smoke. Like something ancient that had never forgotten how to kill. You didn’t see his face—you didn’t need to. You saw the aftermath. One of the boys—still trying to stand, trying to crawl away, his legs shredded like wet paper, a smear of red dragging behind him. He reached for a branch. Jack stepped on his arm with a muffled crunch.

Then came the claws—long, black, lethal keratine—sinking into the side of his ribs, dragging upward like peeling back the skin of a fruit. You heard the ribs crack and split, flesh folding open in ribbons.

The boy keened once before Jack’s second hand came down. Right into the soft spot of the stomach, reaching in and tearing. Steam curled in the air, viscera spilling onto the ground with a wet slop, like the forest was vomiting up something rotten.

You didn’t stop choking the girl, even as she went limp, face puffed up in sickly blues and reds. You watched him work, eyes narrowed, chest heaving with a feeling that poked and scratched uncomfortably through the high of power.

She sagged against you finally—twitching like a puppet with the strings cut—and you let her fall into the dirt like discarded meat.

Jack stood in the middle of it all. Calm. Composed. Painted in gore from collarbone to boot, untouched and unflinching. As if this truly was just another Thursday for him, another task to cross off a list, another mission he completed without breaking a sweat. While you were panting from the nauseating mixture of exertion, and envy, and an ugly, bubbling sense of failure.

He turned his head slightly, like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear. Then those eyeless sockets tilted toward you. And something deep in your chest buzzed—low and bitter and uncomfortable.

You’d come here to show him up, and you were beginning to realize you might not be in his league.

The forest was still again.

That strange, unnatural hush that came after carnage settled over the clearing like a second skin—thick, heavy, cloying. The kind of silence that soaks into your ears, makes your pulse feel louder than it should. You stood there in the red hush of it, heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.

One of the bodies was folded inside out against a log, limbs bent wrong, half his face missing. The other had his guts draped out like some sick garland, trailing behind him in a sticky line as he lay twitching, godless. And the girl, who should've been minced to unrecognizable pieces by Dolly's teeth, lay mostly complete at your feet like a physical manifestation of everything between ego and failure. Like it was mocking you.

Your hands were shaking.

The adrenaline was still flooding you, washing over the seams of your bones like hot tar. It burned, made your teeth grind and your fingers twitch. It had kept the anger at bay for a minute—just long enough for you to kill her, just long enough to revel in it. But now it was loud again, fast and unforgiving, rising like bile in your throat.

Because he’d stepped in before you could do it your way.

You weren’t stupid. You knew the fault was yours, your improvisation shallow, delivery shaky, the atmosphere turning too fast to play your hand. But you could’ve fixed it. You would’ve fixed it. Somehow. Right?

But Jack had ended it before you had the chance. Cutting you off again, like this was merely an inconvenience for him. Like you were just a minor setback. And now the anger was coiling tight in your stomach, bleeding into your limbs.

You turned to him.

He stood there, still slick with blood. Some of it glistened on the curve of his throat, some of it dried to a matte across his arms. The empty voids of his eyes were unreadable, as they always were, fixed somewhere through you.

“You couldn’t wait five fuckin’ seconds?” you snapped, voice too loud in the quiet. “Jesus, I had it. I was handling it—”

“You weren’t.”

It wasn’t even a rebuttal. Just a plain fact, said like he was pointing out the color of the sky.

Your spine went rigid. “Excuse me?”

Jack finally looked at you. Really looked—head slightly tilted, mouth in its usual flat, unimpressed line.

“You were unraveling. They noticed. I stepped in before you wasted more time.”

Your hands clenched. “I wasted time? You actin’ like I wasn’t doing what I was told to do—”

“This was supposed to be an ambush,” he said, cutting you off again. “You got sloppy. Kept looking for me when no one asked you to. Gave yourself away.”

“I was checking if you were—”

“You weren’t supposed to check anything,” he replied, and now there was just a hint of steel in his voice. “You were supposed to do your part. Wait and jump at my signal. But you couldn’t even do that.”

You stepped toward him. He didn’t flinch.

“You’re a real piece of work,” you hissed. “Walk around like you’re too good to breathe the same air as the rest of us, like you’re some apex fuckin’ boogeyman—”

“You forgot a weapon,” Jack said, louder this time. Still calm, still infuriatingly collected. “No... Chainsaw, was it? No blade. Not even a shard of glass. You came out here to prove something and brought nothing.”

You froze.

His words hit like dull nails hammering into your ribs—slow and deep and exact. Your chest heaved. Your hands curled and shook, but now it wasn’t just adrenaline—it was fury. Pure, pulsing. You could feel your lip curl, a snarl almost forming, and for a split second you thought about punching him. Just to break that lack of expression on his stone cold face. Just to prove that something about you could land.

You stepped up to him. Got close. Closer than you should’ve. Chest to chest—or, chest to his abdomen—chin tilted up so you could glare into that abyss of a face, your rage clawing against the inside of your ribs like a caged dog. You stared into that featureless calm and you wanted to set it on fire. Wanted to see anything there.

But Jack didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. He just looked down at you and said, so casually it nearly made your jaw unhinge, “Start carving."

Your breath caught.

“What?”

“She’s yours, isn’t she?” he asked, gesturing with one blood-darkened hand toward the body you’d dropped. “You choked her out. She’s yours to clean. Start carving. We don’t have all night.”

And then... silence.

Because you hadn’t brought anything.

You looked down at her body, pale and cooling, throat bruised but not broken open. Flesh still intact. Unopened. Useless without teeth or steel.

You didn’t move. Not at first.

His words hung between you like smoke, clinging, choking, bitter. Do your share. Like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. Just a faulty cog in the machine, a mouth that ran too hot and hands that brought no tools. That calm detachment of his stoked the fire already roaring in your chest—made it blister, made it seethe.

And the worst part? He still hadn’t stepped away.

Your chest—your whole front—was still pressed up against his abdomen, close enough to feel the slow, infuriating rhythm of his breathing. He was warm through the blood and grime and fabric. Solid like a wall, like something that had never been moved against its will. You tilted your head back just enough to see his face, that inhuman, blank slate with its tar-black sockets aimed somewhere over you, through you.

God, he was tall. And broad. And so composed it felt like mockery.

You hated him. You hated him and his restraint and his accuracy and the way he made you feel small without even trying.

So you did something stupid.

“Why don’t you do it then?” you snarled, your voice low, sharp with something almost trembling at the edges. “Since you’re so big and bad and feral. With your claws and your calm and your fuckin’—void eyes. Go 'head, Jack. Do it all. I’m sure you’ll jerk yourself off to how efficient you are later.”

And you shoved him. Not hard. Not really. Just a bristling, angry push to the chest. All bark.

And you should not have done that. Because he moved before you could even have the chance to realize what you'd done.

Your back slammed into the dirt with a thud, shoulder-blades skidding across leaves and wet moss and bits of stray flesh. His weight followed, crushing, one hand flat across your throat, just shy of cutting air flow. The other planted beside your head in the soil.

Your breath hitched.

The pressure was exact. Controlled. Terrifying in its restraint.

And his face was suddenly right there, above yours, looming in your vision like the sky collapsing, and this close, you could smell the meat on him. Metallic. Old. Wet. It clung to the curve of his jaw, smeared across his temple, soaked into the seams of his shirt.

You were caught between fury and something that shot white-hot through your gut and up your spine.

“You couldn't even bring your personality the one time it was needed,” he growled, voice low and even but taut now—barely containing something sharp, serrated. His breath ghosted across your cheek, steady and unshaken. “You sabotaged the mission to stroke your ego. You were sloppy. You were loud. You made it worse. And you have the nerve to bark orders when you brought nothing.”

You grit your teeth, rage bubbling up so hot behind your eyes it burned. But you couldn’t let him finish. You wouldn’t let him.

So you did another stupid thing.

You socked him in the jaw.

It was clumsy—sloppy—but it hit, sent his face turning just slightly on impact. You felt the shock travel up your arm, the dull ache already blooming in your knuckles. Satisfaction flared white-hot in your chest for half a second.

That half-second was all you got.

The shift in him wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was a drop. Like something slipping off a ledge inside him, something patient shattering into something else entirely.

His hand on your throat, already hot and heavy, tightened. Slowly. Like he wanted you to feel every millimeter of breath leave your windpipe. Your eyes snapped wide as the pressure crept up and up, turning the inside of your head into a hot, ringing cavern.

You gasped. Tried to, but no air came.

Panic lanced through your spine, white and spiky and mean. Your hands scrabbled at his wrist, digging, clawing, nails useless against the iron band of his fingers. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just leaned closer, until his chest was pinning yours to the ground and the blood on him smeared slick down your sternum.

Your vision started to blur at the edges, a dark vignette blooming with each thudding pulse of your heart. Your ears roared. Your legs kicked weakly against the dirt.

And then—then—he growled. Not a man’s sound. Not even an animal’s. It tore from his throat like it came from deeper, from somewhere hollow and starving, a sound that trembled through your ribcage and made your bones ache with a fear instilled in your marrow since Hell tore from the Heavens.

You tried to scream. Couldn’t.

The tips of his claws punctured your neck.

Pain exploded across your skin—white-hot, real, a searing twin stab on either side of your windpipe. You felt the exact points where they entered, where blood welled up in hot little trickles to meet his palm, and you couldn’t stop the choked, mangled sound that crawled out of your throat.

You were thrashing now. Legs kicking, hips twisting, teeth bared in an ugly, helpless snarl.

And still—he didn’t move. Not to ease up. Not to finish it. You felt your strength ebbing like bathwater draining slow—vision ghosting out, brain screaming in a static haze—and somewhere in that blood-slick panic, a thought skidded through your head like gravel.

Maybe the others were right.

About him.

About the way he moved. The way his silence held something much more disturbing. The way he killed. They weren’t exaggerating. If anything, they’d undersold it.

You were going to die.

You were going to die, and it was going to hurt.

But then—God—something twisted in your gut. A deep, low burn you didn’t understand. You were shaking, body failing, barely conscious, but the pressure between your legs was real, sharp, unmistakable. The dull throb of arousal that shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t exist, not now, not with him holding your life in his hand like a meaningless speck of dust.

You didn’t even notice the heat between your thighs, not until he did. His head tilted just slightly. Those eyeless sockets bore into you with a sudden, vicious awareness.

And his voice sounded like a death knell when it came slicing through the dark.

“Really?”

One word. Flat. Disgusted.

You couldn’t answer. You were barely breathing. But he didn’t need you to. He smelled it.

His grip didn’t ease, not even a little. His claws stayed embedded, his thumb pressed up under your jaw.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he said, voice low and cutting, no inflection beyond disdain. “Is this what you wanted? Hm? To get put down like a bitch in heat so you could get off on it?”

Your heart stuttered. Your breath rasped.

“I should tear your throat out and leave you twitching.”

He dipped lower—close enough for your blurred vision to catch the glint of blood drying on his chin.

“But you’re not even worth the cleanup.”

You were thrashing beneath him now, wild and raw and animal, but it didn’t do a damn thing. His body didn’t budge.

Your nails scraped at his arm, trying to claw him off, trying to find purchase on that cold, iron grip cutting off your air. Black spots flickered in the corners of your vision, pulsing in and out like a camera shutter—your pulse thudding so loud you couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t—

You tried to spit the words out—fuck off, maybe, or get off me, something half-mangled and slipping through your crushed throat. But it was too late. The second your mouth opened, the second your back arched in that desperate, useless kick under him, he slammed his knee between your thighs. Punishment.

“Fuck off?” he repeated, voice low, detached.

It cracked up between your legs like a sledgehammer. Blunt, cruel, bruising. Pain screamed through your pelvis, throbbed through bone and flesh, made your limbs seize before they could go slack. You gasped—tried to—and your mouth fell open around a ragged, voiceless wheeze. The weight of him held your body taut around the pressure, your cunt grinding instinctively into the bone of his knee, something primal overriding the ache. Your hips rolled before you even realized it, before the mortification could catch up to your nerves.

Your muscles screamed to get him off you—and your hips ground into his knee all the same, frantic, obscene, desperate like they belonged to someone else entirely.

He fucking felt it. His claws dug in just a little deeper, blood rolling warm down your neck as he looked down at you like something scraped off his boot.

“You needy little hole. If I split you open right now, you’d die with your pussy clenched.”

You gasped again when he finally—barely—let you breathe, the grip on your throat loosening just enough for air to wheeze back into your lungs. It felt like fire, like dragging breath through razors, but you sucked it in anyway, coughing, heaving.

And then—like a fucking curse—you tried your luck again.

You didn’t know what possessed you to throw another hit when your lungs were still clawing for breath. Maybe it was the firestorm behind your ribs, or the bitter heat of humiliation pooling low in your stomach. Maybe it was that twitch of his lip—barely there, not even a smirk, just the absence of one—that made your blood howl.

Your fist didn’t make it far. He caught your hair like he’d been expecting it, a fistful of it gripped tight at the crown of your head, claws pricking your scalp so sharp your vision spat sparks. There was no warning. No preamble. No care.

The ground spun as he hauled you over like you didn’t weigh a thing, and slammed you face-first into the dirt so rough and fast your cheek split on a rock. Your breath left you in a choked grunt, lungs burning and the wounds on your neck stinging with the sweat that clung to them, limbs scrambling, half from shock and half from instinct.

You tried to cough but choked instead, nose crushed half into soil, throat still raw and burning. You should’ve stayed still. Should’ve let your humiliation rot into the mulch and swallowed it down with the blood. Still, the ever proud and defiant, you snapped your teeth like a chained thing.

"Big, bad fuckin' demon... need all that strength just to take a girl half your size."

He didn’t give you another second to think. You wasted your chances. One hand slammed down between your shoulder blades, flat-palmed and unforgiving, driving your chest into the ground until your ribs ached and your cheek split deeper against the grit. The other flew down between your legs, claws catching on the middle seam and ripping down.

The sound was awful, the feeling was even worse. Denim gave way with a shriek that made your teeth feel like cotton, flesh just behind it splitting from the sheer force, and your ass hit the air fully exposed, raw and scraped and red. A breeze passed and made it worse. You twitched, but he shoved your face down harder.

He didn’t prep. Didn’t spit. Didn’t warn. You didn't even hear when he unzipped his fly. Didn't give a single fuck about whether or not you had a change of heart at the threatening sensation of his head, thick and angry, sealing your fate as it pressed between your folds.

The shove of his cock was sudden, one long, solid thrust splitting you open from behind like a fucking sword. Too thick, too deep, too fast. The air ripped out of your lungs like you’d been kicked. Your stomach turned so hard you almost barfed, eyes bugging wide, mouth hanging open in a soundless scream against the earth.

Your hips jerked. He didn’t move. Just sank in until your cunt was forced to take every brutal inch of him. No stretch, no slick, just the bladed ache of it all, and the sick realization that he was rock hard.

The motherfucker was just as gone as you were.

But he wasn’t panting. Wasn’t twitching or thrusting fast, like someone caught up in the moment. He was still. All control. Letting your body struggle to make room around him, letting your walls twitch and flutter in panic. The wet squelch between your thighs was all you could hear over your own labored wheezing.

"What, can't take it?"

He started fucking into you. No rhythm. No mercy. Just the relentless punch of his hips slamming into the backs of your scratched up thighs, over and over, like he wanted to drive you through the ground. One hand fisted in your hair again, yanking your head back with zero care as the other kept your jaw pinned to the filth. The position twisted your back, bent you like the lifeless carcasses littered around you like godless spectators.

Each thrust forced you forward an inch, face dragging through blood and dirt, your knees scraping raw. The stench of blood and fresh meat curled up your sinuses as your lungs scraped for air against dust, the smell once sweet and promising a full stomach, now sharp and nauseating.

You tried to squirm away. Like you hadn't brought this upon yourself.

Your body was betraying you. Fingernails carved grooves into the dirt like a dying animal, grit and rot wedging under your nails, clawing at the earth like it could offer salvation, your hips pulling forward, trying to escape the merciless pounding of his cock against hour cervix. But your back arched for him, like your cunt was torn between fleeing and begging.

And God help you, your throat was pushing out these tiny, desperate moans, like it wanted to humiliate you.

Every thrust slammed you forward like you weighed nothing—hips bucking, back arching in a spasm as Jack drove you closer and closer to the heap of what was left of one of the campers, opened to the sky like a slaughtered pig.

Without a word, without giving your cunt a single moment to heal, Jack leaned forward. His chest skimmed your back, hulking weight pinning you harder into the rot and every inch of cock forced to the hilt in your stretched cunt until your breath left you in a wheeze. One hand stayed on your hip, claws biting into your skin through the denim like hooks, but the other reached forward past your head.

You didn't look. But a wet rip—a sound like thick silk tearing underwater—made your eyes snap wide open.

You tried to twist, but he was already looming over your arched body like judgement day, one palm flattening against the side of your head to turn it and force it still into the dirt. The other—dripping, gore-caked—pressed something still warm and yielding against your lips.

"Open up," he grunts through bruising thrusts, motion knocking you back and forth against the wet flesh in his hand.

"Eat— My shit," you spit back through gritted teeth, lips barely parting in an attempt to keep him from forcing it inside your mouth.

But that moment of bravery was quick to screw you over, like they all had been so far. You refuse to learn. You refuse to give in.

The fingers splayed on the side of your head started curling, so slowly, so calmly, tips of his claws pushing into your scalp like shards of glass until your mouth fell open on a failed yelp. He shoved the torn chunk past your lips and teeth, stuffing your cheeks with it like a Thanksgiving turkey, before slapping the same blood soaked palm over your lips with a stinging, wet smack.

You couldn't even tell what the fuck he even tore from the body—too spongy for heart, too fatty for liver, maybe lung—but it didn't matter. You wanted to barf. Not because of the taste, or the texture, or even the gesture—but because you fucking liked it. Your moans spilled through his fingers like the taste of sweet, tangy iron was the cherry on top to the relentless pounding of his cock into you.

Jack's thrusts came to a screeching halt behind you, balls deep into your pussy, twitching in angry throbs against your g-spot like even his cock couldn't stand the loss of friction. And you whimpered—fucked out and strained and desperate—like you were confessing all your sins. You were left raw and pulsing in the hollow absence of him, muscles spasming, skin clinging to the ground with sweat and spit and blood and whatever sense of dignity you had left wrong out of you. It all ached.

"...You have to be fucking joking." His voice was nothing like the steely, monotone mockery of calm that grated your ears until now. No. He was in complete and utter disbelief, that even with your cunt brutalized and your mouth stuffed to silence, you were still moaning, taking it, enjoying it.

"Get the fuck up."

But he didn't wait for you to obey—he knew you wouldn't. Couldn't. Not when your knees buckled under you the moment he pulled out with an obscene, slick sound, not when your pussy sobbed and clenched helplessly around nothing.

His hand knotted into a fistful at your roots, dragging you backward until your spine folded, your knees buckling and your ass hitting the ground in front of his hips.

You opened your mouth to snarl, spit, whine—and his cock was already pushing past your lips.

"Shut the fuck up. Shut— the fuck up."

No teasing. No slow slide. Just a hand on your jaw and a hard, bruising shove of his hips, stuffing your mouth full like it was owed to him. He held you there—hand wrapped tight around the back of your skull, fingers in your scalp, pelvis pressed to your lips so all you could do is take it.

Your nose mashed against the base of him, breath catching in your chest, throat convulsing. You were choking on your own slick, retching around him from the sheer pressure in the back of your throat, and he was dead silent, like this was just another means to shut you up.

He fucked your mouth the same way he fucked your cunt—rough, unforgiving, like he was trying to scrape something out of you.

And somewhere in that hot, wet fog of spit and gagging, with tears leaking down your cheeks and your body limp from the brutal rhythm, something shifted.

You looked up at him through your clumped lashes, through burst capillaries and glassy veil of tears, and you swore you were staring into hell. The black smears that pass for eyes, the sickly sheen of sweat on a face carved from stone, the teeth that flashed when he bared them like an animal losing patience with its prey. Breathing hard through his nose, jaw tense, every inch of him trembling like a thundercloud waiting to split.

You saw the Devil. And for one fractured second—just one—you saw your past. When days started blurring together into visions and rot and dread—and you thought the Devil was watching you. And you wanted him to be proud.

He wasn't.

He was punishing you with every violent slam of his cock that left your throat raw, with every yank of your hair when you choked and tried to pull away on instinct. And God, you couldn't stand the gaping hole he left between your legs, throbbing and needy because of him. Because of the taste of you on his cock, the feeling of your lips stretched taut around his shaft, the burn in your jaw.

So, without thinking, out of sheer instinct—your fingers found your swollen clit, slick and aching, rubbing frantic circles in a desperate bid for some fucking relief. Something to hang onto. But you didn’t even get to swipe twice.

His hand shot down fast—no warning, no hesitation—and caught your wrist in a bruising grip, tearing it away from between your thighs like you’d tried to steal from him. The movement jolted through you, and in the same breath—

Smack.

The sharp crack of his palm against your drenched pussy echoed louder than it should’ve in the blood-soaked clearing. Pain bloomed instantly, raw and stinging, your thighs jolting inward like your body didn’t know whether to flinch or clench.

He didn’t snarl. Didn’t raise his voice. His tone was low, calm, but ragged at the edges—like he was barely keeping it in check while balls-deep in your throat.

“You don’t get to come.”

That was all he said. Like it was a fact. A verdict.

You whimpered around his cock, drool sliding past your lips as your jaw twitched from the weight of him. He didn’t let go of your wrist. Just slammed it down into the dirt, grinding your palm into the filth like it didn’t belong on your body.

“You didn’t earn that, whore."

Then, just when your lungs started to ache from holding your breath, when the buzzing behind your eyes started to creep in—he shoved forward. Deeper. Until your nose crashed into his skin again, until your throat clenched around him like a vice and your body bucked involuntarily.

And he just held you there.

Fingers fisted tight in your hair, body pressed flush against your face, cock twitching at the back of your throat while you gagged and choked and couldn’t do anything but take it. Your nails dug uselessly into the dirt, knees raw, breath gone. Tears streaked your cheeks in slow rivers as your body trembled, cunt still throbbing and aching and stinging from where he slapped you—so close to breaking, needing, empty.

Finally, he pulled back with a slick drag of spit and heat, his cock sliding from your raw throat with a wet pop that left your lips open and twitching, jaw slack. You gasped, collapsing forward on your hands, spit and leftover blood stringing from your mouth onto your dirt caked shirt.

His hand slid down over your chest, steadying you with a firm press before he fisted your shirt at the collar and yanked it down the front of your body—until the fabric stretched taut over your belly, until it was all exposed and helpless and shaking beneath him.

Jack grunted—quiet, tight, barely audible—and heat splattered across your skin in thick, hot ropes, coating your chest, your stomach, your shredded shirt in streaks. His cum hit your skin like a final insult, mixing with blood and sweat like it belonged there.

You didn’t dare move. Not when he was still looming above you, not when your cunt throbbed in open defiance, empty and twitching with frustrated, raw need.

Your skin stung. Your chest heaved. And when the last drop dripped from the flushed tip of his cock, he tucked it away, zipped up, and turned.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at you.

The crunch of boots in dead leaves was the only thing that told you he was walking off—away from you, away from the three corpses cooling nearby, away from the bloodbath he left you to clean up alone.

No blade. No bag. No help.

Just you. Your aching cunt. Your slick, sore throat. And three disfigured bodies you were expected to carry like penance.

You didn’t even have enough voice left to laugh, or to pray that you'd have the strength to get up and figure out a plan.

[kaiokentimesten]

Top three jobs I want

meteorologist

professional rug cleaner

professional car detailer

[lifeline-zone]

summer on the summer island

[frillypinkcoffee]

the best season! 🍂🎀🥧🩷

[darkmothsy]

I did my makeuuuupp

[rinsko]

spring cleaned so hard i found my missing airpod < 3

[jils-things]

ive been watching a LOT of mlp recently (talked abt it a lot on my alt), a lot of its world building flew past my head because i was just too young to bother understanding the intricacies of this cute series but wow looking at it now, it makes me want to make a pony oc 🥹 no yume attempt, i just wanna make a cute pony 🥹

[weepingfoxfury]

Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday ...

Sitting in the sunshine waiting for car to get the 'yay' or 'nay' as to roadworthiness. Just had her all spruced and cleaned and hoping the old gal gets a thumbs up for another year. Surely I should get positive points for her being shiny? ;-D

In other news ... I've just seen a Brennans bread van ... they're everywhere!!

Oh the irony of feeling as though I'm surrounded by them yellow bread bearing beasts and I cannae even eat the stuff! ;-D

[elenadoeslife]

It took many repeats of wiping down the dresser with vinegar & lemon mixed with water to give her a decent clean (it used to be in a room where people smoked), but after about 3 hours I got rid of most of the smell and brown tarnish 🍋

Dusk lighting doesn't do her justice, so I'll take some pictures tomorrow :) she's a beauty!

[astraioskosmos]

Everytime Ms Kille comes around I always make a point to offer her Raveline Wine and I'm not sure if that's cruel of me or not

[indiegame]

for the first time in months: PORCH TIME!!!

[mars-ipan]

hyper…..