#anyway im back to reading the book on butchering *finally*

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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 (𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 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.

[junepingu]

Bob x traumatised reader

Warning:

this fic contains angst, sa, slur, traumatic event

It was a Friday, the last day of the week for your job, and you were ready tò pack your things and finally go home to relax a bit.

You were finishing serving the last two costumers wich asked you a 'take away' so you wrote the menu down and brought It to bob to prepare It, he did a fast and wonderful job because the smell that could be tasted from the kitchen made everyone go crazy, the last customers after receiving the bag thank you with a delighted face and go away. The bells went on 7 pm and It was finally time to leave so you went on the back and change your red apron tò your normal sweater and put your shoes back on, you were turning around when a hand made you Jump.

"Woahh!..what.. oh hi sir didn't hear you there" you Say with a now embarassed face, he then stood back and giggle for your reaction

"oh im sorry darlin' didn't want tò scare ya, i wantd' to ask you a littl' favor, if by chance you could stay until the restaurant closes because I have to leave early" he said with a good smile.

"why"

Your Mood suddenly change from Happy tò Annoyed, you didn't want tò stay here because you were tired too, you didn't noticed but the answer you give sounded really pissed.

He read your face like an open book and bite back with a stronger smile and his hand on your shoulder now was much more firm

"i'm asking a littl' favor, Is there a problem?" He said

And suddenly from his change of tone i regain my mind back, i know that Im tired, i passed all day standing and serving more costumers than everyday and im Always the one to leave After everyone, but yeah After all Is my boss he never asked me anything so I have tò do my job

"y-yeah im Sorry sir you're right, i Will close the restaurant you can leave now, i Will take care of It don't worry!" I said with a smile, looked like i have a swinging Mood by chance. Anyway he then leaves you with a big smile and disappeared so you roll up your sleeves and start cleaning the dirty tables first.

____________________________________

The time passed and you were cleaning the kitchen, all kinds of oil and Meat fat was a little hard to get rid of but it wasn't a problem for you, Until you noticed a strange blood stain near the light switch, the only thing that could come to mind was that Bob hadn't cleaned his hands properly, so you cleaned it without any worries.

After the kitchen you controlled the freezer, the The warehouse and garbage dump, it was completely dark outside, it was almost scary to be there for more than 5 seconds.

Crack

You turned around quickly as you Heard a strange noise...

"who's there!?"

Nobody answered

You run away inside as you feel really strange, as you were turned tò run away you could hear in the distance fast steps that were coming in your direction, so you panicked and run inside as fast as you could locked the door and faint on the floor.

*pant* *pant* *sigh* "....wh-...oh my..."

You sit there for some time as you wanted tò realize if was a joke or really someone...

Crash

you couldn't even think without being imobilized by the fear, you heard a glass shattered from the front hall, you didn't Remember tò close the front Door like an idiot, you try to gran something tò Defend yourself, a butcher knife, the favorite of bob.

Someone was here i could here his steps, you put One hand on the mouth so you wouldn't be noticed by heavy breath...why you didn't refuse tò go stay here and go home at the warm comfort of your bed, why!

Wait you have an idea, obviusly you didn't want tò face the thief but instead you could Just press the botton tò call the Police,yeah make sense...but It was Under the cash register... Need tò be really chill and silent...

I crouch down and slowly walk behind the register, as I try to get closer I also take a look to understand who this thief was, but I don't see anyone, his footsteps have stopped, i turned around quickly because....yeah cliché...but luckly there was no One so I thought that maybe he went away, but before talking tò myself I click the police's Botton and sit there silently, you grabbed so hard the knife that the hand went White.

After a Little i could hear some whispering as i Heard them from the kitchen...wait ...how did he manager tò get tò the kitchen if i was here..? Oh God ...the back Door!...i think he just wanted to scare First and then Attack i think, i have tò get out of here...

Silently still crowl on the floor to manage tò keep silent, i then realized that After the casher register i would be visibile so I Need tò run ...I hold the knife tightly with my whole body and count in my head...

1..

2...

3- "AAAAHHHHH!"

i feel a hand grab my foot as the thief drags me all the way down the hall to the kitchen, slams me to the floor and kicks the knife away from me.

"BITCH YOU CALLED THE COPS ON ME! YOU REALLY ARE A BURDEN!!"

i couldn't believe It as i try tò get away he Just Jump on me and pinned me down the floor "get off me!! Oh- GET OFF YOU PSYCHO!"

"oh im really hurt!...NOW GIVE ME THE MONEY! OR ELSE!" he wanted the money, they were in the registrer why didn't he took It before...why

"t-they are in the casher r-egister" i didn't want tò be killed and neither harmed so I Just told him, i know that the cops would be here in time...i noticed that he Just grabed the knife that he throw away from me so now i was more scared than before...my mouth was dry as my soul in that Moment, as i try again to escape he Just punched me in the stomach and cut the floor next tò my head "!!.." i Jump as he laugh a bit

"ohhh look at your pain, so cute! But you know i think the Money can wait right?" When the knife touches my ear and I start to shake and some tears are forming in my eyes, and I feel him laughing and looking at me in a intense way and disturbing, he didn't want the Money....

"w-hat...h..wait!" My voice was trembling and I didn't realized until he was Ripping my clothes off like an animal, he used the knife to cut my chest to open my shirt and pants "WAIT PLEASE! FUCK WAIT! NO NO NONONO!" i screamed as much as i wanted but nobody could hear me unless him, his face turned in a demonic smile as he wanted tò taste what i was...he then put the knife on my troath

"BITCH! IF YOU DARE EVEN TO MAKE ANOTHER SOUND! SHUT IT AND TAKE IT" my tears started tò fall down my cheeks as i tried to move him away but nothing was usefull he was bigger than me.

I started to feel him positioning himself as i was trying so hard tò move my hands

"STOP MOVE IT, I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE SOO DISAPPOINTING OFF WORK COME ON!" what did he Say?....

Off work...he ...knew me? Or saw me before?...i was even more Terrified that this monster had been stalking me since the beginning.

NO PLEASE OH GOD PLEASE STOP!

i Just wanted tò go home , I JUST WANTED TO GO HOME!! IT'S NOT MY FAULT PLEASE! I DONT WANT THIS! NOOO-

BAM

I feelt cold down my body and my face...in an instante...and I think i Heard....a shot

I opened my eyes tò look and I saw his body on mine, now dead weight on me, Blood was falling down his temple as i move out his grip.

"EHY ARE YOU OKEY? We are here dear we are here now don't worry!" I looked up and saw two Police officer

"are you alright? Did he hurt you? Please Say something"

I couldn't speak but, i moved my head with a "no", a sound of reliefe in the two officer's face "okey... can you stand up?" One of them asked, i tried but I was too weak tò move or even think

"ehy ehy don't rush It's okey it's totally fine now, come on..."

____________________________________

I was trying tò process what was happening as i was sitting on The policeman's seat, one , with mustache, went inside the restaurant to see if there was anyone else or if something else had happened, and the other taller policeman stayed with me and gave me some water

"Is ...everything alright?..do you Need something else?" He asked, as i was staring at nothing i then looked at him and ...started tò cry, my body was trembling as i was feeling so mixed emotions

"ehy ehy ehy now dear...it's...it's alright okey? Now you're safe"

I didn't stop, as he hugged me tight and stood there until i calmed down.

After some minutes the others officer came out and warn that nobody else was in there...then the mustache officer have a sign tò the tall one tò talk in private, so the tall one have me a tight shrug as he move calmly away from me, i calmed down as i started tò feel tired, After some time of them talking in private they then gave me and hand to bring all my things back and drive me home.

____________________________________

"ehy uhm i think we Will stay outside here so If anything happen you know" the mustache one said as i was now inside my house near the front Door

"thank you all so much but I think i don't want tò be anno-"

The taller One stopped me before i could finish my sentence "we insist,please you Need...you know tò rest so don't worry we will stay here until tomorrow...okey .." "goodnight then"

They then left and went inside the car preparing for the night, so you smile warmly at them and closed the door...lock It and went tò your bedroom, After one second of you inside you Just jump inside the shower and try tò forget what you just faced, but the feeling of his hands are still printed in your skin...his face? Did you know him? Did you ever saw him or serve him at the restaurant? Oh my God what do you do now? You couldn't go back like nothing happen!

But can't leave the job too, i don't know what tò do, what bob Will think about me?

I didn't close the front Door it's my fault! It's Just my fault!...

"AAGHH! FUCK YOU!"

You Scream to yourself...

After the bath you put on your pijama and Just fell on the bed, the warm sheets weren't making any effort tò help i was just staring at the ceiling, slowly but very slowly moving my body, not wanting to create a new Memory.

I started tò feel tired more and more as the time passed, at least 30 minutes staring at the ceiling, but those flashback were stronge, the feeling Is so...

I fell asleep..

____________________________________

"WHAT! WHY DIDN'T YOU TOL' ME, YOU- *sighhh* okey alrigh' , now wer' she is? Is she alrigh' ?...okey" the call ended.

Surpassing each car he had in front of him, he tried so hard to be fast enough, he hoped you were okey, at least ...safe now.

He arrived in front of your house, even if there were the cops car he was more smooth than a mouse, knocked hard on the door...

"c'mon c'mon y/n please.."

"mmmhhhgg.." you grunt as you heard the door, you didn't want to move you Just wanted to be left alone, you tried to stay in bed as your eyes were heavy as the darkness that It echoed in your mind.

You stayed in bed.

"oh damn horse bag ol!!'", his accent was getting stronger as his anxiety was rising, even though it was daytime and he knew he shouldn't draw attention to himself he ran to the back and started climbing in your window (like his Habit).

You were falling asleep again as you jump from the random noise outside the window, you were scared again as panick find your face as you started to move away on the bed while trying to escape from the "intruder".

You're facing the door trying tò open It as you didn't remember that last night tò prevent "anything" you lock it, but in this moment you weren't able tò think straight

"please please open! You Need tò open up please!"

Bob entered your room as he saw you panicking in front of the door .

You could only hear his big and heavy footsteps.

"NO PLEASE NO LEAVE ME ALONE PLEASE!! NOOOAAHHH-"

you screamed and crowl on the ground tò protect yourself, bob was shocked by your reaction.

"WO WO! Ehy y/n calm down! Ehy it's me Bob ehy ehy"

He tried to tò touch your shoulder but you started tò punch the air and tried to crowl away.

"STOP IT STOP GO AWAY!" your voice cracked as years started tò fall on your cheeks again, as the room turned black and only flashbacks of the night before started tò stream in your eyes.

The only thing that bob do was grab you tight and hug you trying tò comfort the only way he could.

"calm down, calm down im here im here with you darlin', it's me Bob, please look at me"

You couldn't understand your mind was in a dark fog...but, hearing a similar voice was...helping, Who It Is? Who It was? Your tears were calming down as your moviments, he never leave you, he was hugging you more and more making silent noise tò make you calm down.

"shhh darlin' it's okey....it's over now, in here, im...im Sorry If i left you there alone i shouldn't ...God , you're okey now"

He wanted to go back in time to Save yourself this mess, so he could have settled the matter with that scoundrel, unfortunately he was dead but if there is still one alice he was sure as hell tò Hunt them down until he devour everyone of them....the never even had tò think about breath the same air as you...

He would shread theyre skin with his teeth.

Boiling they're insides tò make them suffer eternaly withouth even knowing who Is the Carnage....chatting theyre limbs tò make them no way tò run...

Eating theyre life hearing them Scream as the Blood run on the groun-

"...bob...?"

He returned to reality, clean his drool from the mouth and looked at you leaning in his arms,he gen realized that you calm down and started tò smile softly

"yeah darlin'...It's me...you're fine now"

He caressed your cheeks and run his thumb were your tears fell trying tò rassure you that now he's here, he's real, Is not in your mind

"...i'm Sorry...." You whispered

"darlin'...you don't need to...it's...It was all ma' fault, It was only ma' dam' fault! You shouldn' have stayed there, im so sorry"

"...no bob it's not youre fault..you had things to do.. i always go home too soon and you never told me anything...about my actions, It was right like that...but ...i can't ....i was lucky there were the cops that helped me soon enough to not...tò not make him do anything but...." Youre breath was starting tò grow heavy and your heart started tò race faster

Bob could feel your panic and started tò caress your face and arm, as he was still crouch down with you

"shhh don' say anything now just relax, i know It still hurt but now you're safe.."

He calmed you down as your grabbed him with a stronger and firm grip on his shoulder, you wanted him near, warm embrace that can provide protection and That can surround you trying to make you feel as close as possible, you felt much better but there was always a little bit of discomfort in the back of your mind that wouldn't go away.

____________________________________

The sun Shine through your window as you woke up from a really long sleep, It was a really cold day today but you could still feel the sun kissing your skin, bob was preparing you breakfast, you needed to eat something, after he finished he brought you a Little table with on It and Orange juice for vitamines, a glass of water and a (favourite food) youre favourite.

You Heard his heavy footsteps on your room's door so you change your position and look on his way, the First things you can noticed is his big frame, big old warm smile that can make you feel Butterflyes in an instant, his big hands that were carring the little table with all the supplements for your breakfast.

"goodmornin' darlin'...how ar ya? Feel a littl' better? I brought you these...hope you will find the Hunger" he was so sweet for you.

"bob ...you're still here? And the restaurant?" You asked him worried but in your tone there was a Little of discomfort.

"ehy now don' think about that okey? It's totally fine i promise, but I don' care about that, i really don't....you are my priority ... So i Will stay as long as you feel better"

You were feeling bad for him because he was just changing everything Just for you... "I'm so sorr-" he stopped you as he kissed your head, he didn't want tò push your limits.

"darlin'...please let me" he just smiled at you with his warmly smirk as you giggle a Little, he light up a bit as he Heard your laugh, he was really Happy tò see you finally smiling.

He took one piece of the (f/f) and near his hand in your mouth, you took It as you munch, you felt good, the food tasted good as you were starting tò feel better but still tired, he gave you the Orange and you drink from It.

The day was long but, you know that you Will feel better, you Just have bob now, everything Is Just right, as you finished your breakfast he then kissed your hand, that made you blush a Little as he went tò clean the dishes, you layed down as you waited for him....

The days passed and you are living with what happened, but sooner or later you would have had to go back to work.

"no you can't come back i Will get a new employer but you can-"

"bob please i need tò return because i have to work!"

"no way y/n! Alrigh'? You experienced something that Is not normal and I couldn't help, i don' want t-"

"BOB LISTEN!...i am the First tò Say that, THAT was something horrofic but I can't stay home all day and I Need tò help you, you can still get a new employer but I WANT tò help you with the job so no worryes for me...okey?"

"...ugh... you're lucky i love you..." He giggle as you did, you kissed his cheeks as he tried to grab your waist but you move away so he retired his hand and excuse his sudden moviments.

You hugged him tight tò make him understand It was totally alright.

[foxymoxynoona]

HAPPY BTS FIC WRITING ANNIVERSARY!!!! thank u so much sharing your incredible writing FOR FREE. FOR. FREE. I CAN NOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH: YOU WILLINGLY SHARE YOUR WRITING WITH US. FOR. FREE. AND YOUR FICS ARE LIKE LONGER THAN THE LONGEST HARRY POTTER BOOK??? THATS FUCKING CRAZY LIKE I WISH NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME THAT I COULD JUST FORGET SO THAT I COULD GO IN BLIND AND REREAD EVERY SINGLE FIC OF YOURS ALL OVER AGAIN. I WISH I COULD RELIEVE THAT FEELING OF BEING SO FULL OF AWE EACH TIME I READ A SENTENCE. IM SO GLAD YOURE AN ARMY OTHERWISE I WOULD HAVE NEVER FOUND YOU!!!! regarding the drabble request, could you maybe (if you COULD AND WANT TO, PLS DONT FORCE YOURSELF TO WRITE IT IF YOU DONT WANT TO) write a drabble where lily finally calls jk dad for the first time after calling him kookie for so long 🥺 that, or namjoon and sylvie dad-daughter bonding time 🥰 IF THATS NOT TOO MUCH FOR YOU OFC!!!! THANK U SO MUCH FOR THE DRABBLE OFFER ANYWAY!!!!! ILL READ WHATEVER YOU DECIDE TO WRITE EVEN IF NONE OF IT IS FROM MY REQUEST!!!! I LOVE WHATEVER YOU WRITE 🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗

I've had this beautiful long note in my inbox for so long and I'm excited to finally have a drabble for you! I'll no doubt do some more Jungkook Lily too, but here's Namjoon and Sylvie for you. Thank you so so so much for reading my stories and I'm really all gooey inside that you enjoy them so much!

Bonus thank you to the person who wrote in asking about Namjoon doing origami!

Story: Amended Characters: Namjoon & Sylvie (Namjoon x Gina, Sylvie is Gina's daughter) Length: 2353 CW: some cursing about deadbeat dads :)

Namjoon sat on the couch and looked at Sylvie. Sylvie looked right back at him, but standing, with her arms tucked into the back of her Mirabel dress through an impressive feat of contortion. Namjoon knew who Mirabel was; he’d seen the movie twice and made a point of learning the soundtrack. Coco too. And Moana. And Frozen, back before he knew which Disney movies Sylvie and Diego actually liked. They had not yet been impressed by his knowledge of the lyrics but Gina had made him butcher the Spanish lyrics of ‘Dos Oroguitas’ again for her later and swayed with her arms around his neck and kissed him hard so… yeah, no regrets. It was nice languages came to him relatively easy. He hadn’t told her he was learning Spanish in his spare time yet, not wanting to embarrass himself before he reached a minimum threshold of competency, but obviously that was a thing he needed to do. She spoke Spanish with her kids as much as she did English. Her whole family spoke it as their first language. He wanted to be in her life, so he needed to speak it too.

Now he decided to try it out a little during this afternoon alone with Sylvie for the first time.

“Qué quieres hacer?” he asked her to show off.

Her lips bubbled out with her breath and she tilted her head and scrunched her eyebrows together. Fuck, had he said something wrong? Or did he just sound stupid?

“What are we going to do together, Sylvie?” he asked her. 

“I don’t know,” she giggled. Then tilted her head the other way. “No sé.” Then “Podemos comer dulces?”

“Ok ok, you passed my Spanish,” he laughed. “I don’t speak much yet.”

“Do you have candy in your pocket? Can I have it?”

One time he’d had candy in his pocket when they saw each other while he was in uniform. 

“Sorry, I don’t…”

She didn’t say anything but looked disappointed. Strike one. Namjoon pursed his lips and templed his fingers, elbows on his knees, and waited. One of them had to figure out what they were going to do. They had several hours before Gina and Diego would be home for his afternoon of appointments. Gina was stressed as shit about Diego’s school trouble lately –Diego acting out, doing poorly on his schoolwork, not wanting to do his homework or even read anymore. So off they went to the doctor for something Namjoon hadn’t asked the details about and Namjoon had volunteered to keep Sylvie before Gina could ask Isabella.

Because, hey, he and Gina were kind of a thing now –no, not kind of. A thing. They were a thing. And he needed to impress her kids quick. He didn’t have tons of nieces and nephews running around like Jungkook did to give him that leg up. He didn’t know much about kids at all and suspected they both knew Diego and Sylvie. He felt big and clumsy with kids. He’d felt that way when he was a kid.

“So uh… what do you want to play?” Namjoon asked.

Sylvie just shrugged. 

“Um, you’ve got like… Princess stuff or Legos or–”

“Those are Go’s,” she corrected. “I don’t play Legos.”

“Oh. Ok, well… we could uh…”  He racked his brain, trying to think of what Jungkook mentioned he did with Lily, or what he’d seen Sylvie do when he was over any other time, or any movies he’d seen. “Um… tea party?”

“No,” she said in her little soft voice, a gentle rejection.

“Uh… art?”

A pause, then, “Ok.”

“Ok. What art stuff do we have? I’m not a great artist but maybe you can teach me something…” 

“Anyone can be an artist,” she corrected. “All you have to do is take a crayon and make your mark.”

“Wow.” She went over to get a box from against the wall but he just stared after her for a moment. Had she thought of that on her own? That was fucking profound. “Does your mom say that?”

“No. It’s in that crayon book.”

“What crayon book?”

“You know, the crayon book.” He still didn’t know, but she didn’t clarify further, because apparently he ought to just know what book she was talking about even though he was positive he’d never read a book about crayons in his life. Or, well, recently. When she began to drag the box to the coffee table, he picked it up and set it beside the table and lifted the lid off, peering into a chaotic nest of broken crayons, pipe-cleaners, half used sticker sheets, dry glue sticks, uncapped markers, loose sequins, and colored popsicle sticks.

Sylvie plopped right down and pulled out some paper and crayons. Damn, she was cute, little face bright and happy, loose hair wispy around her face from her long ponytail with a sparkly scrunchie. 

“What are you drawing?”

“Uh….” She paused and looked at the lines she had made, then giggled and whispered shyly, “I don’t know yet.” He wasn’t sure why that had made her shy, but decided to give her some space. She was shy, much shyer than Lily, who saw everyone as a friend she just hadn’t met yet. Each time he was around Sylvie, he felt like it took time for her to warm up to him again. It was faster if Lily and Jungkook were around, like Sylvie just accepted Namjoon was her Jungkook stand-in for the moment.

But he wanted to be more than that to her. Even if the reality of what it took to be more than that for her felt beyond him right now because he couldn’t even figure out how to spend an afternoon with her. What business did he have dating a woman with children when he knew next to nothing?

But he wanted to. He wanted to figure this out. He felt like Gina and Diego and Sylvie were worth it. He got it, why Jungkook had felt like Isabella, Ezra, and Lily were too.

 So he folded his long legs under the coffee table and dug around in the box and pulled a few pieces of paper out to draw on too. In holding it, though, he realized it was a lighter weight, and had pretty designs on each side.

“Oh, this is perfect for origami.”

“I know origami,” Sylvie announced, eyes lighting up. 

“Oh yeah?”

“We do origami in art special at school.”

“What’s art special?”

“Thursday.”

“Ok…” Didn’t answer his question but she seemed to think it did. “Well what do you make?”

“Um…” She blew her lips out unhappily. “Swords.”

“You… make origami swords?”

“Yeah… and a diamond.”

“And a diamond.” He had no fucking clue what she was talking about.

“Here, I can show you!”

“Ok!” Yeah that seemed good. He watched as she started folding up her current paper without even bothering to make it square. “Wait. I need tape.”

“You shouldn’t need tape…”

“Well I do,” she said and sounded so much like her mother it made him laugh. He went to find some tape, but all he could find was packing tape, so he had to fight with the end of it and tear her off small pieces to use and then fight with the end again when it would inevitably cling to itself again.

“You can say bad words. I know not to say them too,” she assured him, either reading his mind or lips.

“Ah… I won’t… it’s better to stop saying bad words, you know?”

“Mami says bad words don’t count if you say them in Spanish so maybe you should learn Spanish.”

“Yo estudio español.” As soon as he said it, he worried it was wrong,even such a basic phrase. She giggled, which could mean either way. 

“Ok do what I do,” she told him. 

He tried. She kept checking his work and telling him he was doing it wrong, but then she’d tell him “very good” probably like her teacher did.  Then she held out the thing she’d made. “Aquì. A diamond” and motioned to his.

“Ahh, yes, hm.” He looked at the two things in his hands. This was not origami. This was paper folded and taped to resemble a crunchy wad roughly in a shape alluding to a diamond. In a way, hers was better, because his looked like it was trying too hard. “It’s really cool. Thanks for teaching me.”

“Do I have to make a sword?”

“No, of course not. Want me to make something?”

“Yes,” she grinned.

“Ok, let’s see…” He looked around for something he could use to crease the paper and settled on a shitty pair of safety scissors. It had been a while since he’d actually made anything with origami and he worried at first he’d need to look up directions which would make it seem a little less cool. But once he started to crease the paper, he felt the directions come back like a video he could watch just by closing his eyes. His fingers remembered –probably because he’d made dozens of these trying to impress a girl in middle school. It had not worked. Resulted in nothing but papercuts and blisters. 

Sylvie leaned close on the table, watching his hands closely. No one ever paid that much attention to anything he was doing, it was really sweet. He kept glancing at her face until he made the final fold and held it out to her.

“It’s a butterfly!” she gasped and held her hands out for it. When he set it in her palm, she cradled it like it was real. 

“It’s pretty, right?”

“It’s so cute!”

“Ok, let’s see, what else do I know how to make…” Namjoon racked his brain as Sylvie leapt up and made the butterfly fly around the room. She was so pleased with it, it made Namjoon feel really good.

“Teach me how to make it!” Sylvie begged, crashing back down and gently putting the butterfly on the table. “She needs a sister and we can make a bed. No, two sisters!”

She was talking to him so much!

“That’s a lot of sisters,” Namjoon laughed. “All right. It’s kinda tricky though so I may have to help you sometimes…”

He thought that might be frustrating for her to need help. Kids were supposed to get impatient if they couldn’t do it themselves, right? But she didn’t mind at all, just leaned around his hands to see when he’d reach forward to assist with the more complicated bends and folds. Her butterfly came out a little wonky but he praised it and she glowed. She chose the paper for his and then they looked up on his phone how to make a box, which he folded while she tore up paper to be the “blankets.”

“Hmmm, should I try to make a bird? It’s pretty hard!”

“You can do it!” Sylvie insisted. “If it gets hard I can help you.”

Ah, she was adorable. She was really cute. Namjoon watched her smile to herself and arrange the trio of butterfly sisters carefully in their new little bed and couldn’t fathom how a father could just walk away from this little girl. That’s what the fucker had done! Gina had minced no words when, in response to Namjoon asking her on a date, she had said, “I already picked the wrong dad for my babies and now they’ve got a basket of abandonment issues. They already know you. I know no guy wants to hear it, but I can’t date you unless we figure out fast if we’re serious about it, because they don’t need another guy tossing a wave over his fucking shoulder at them.”

And Namjoon had straightened his shoulders and looked her in the eye and said, “I debated it a long time before I asked because of that. You deserve better than that, they deserve better than that. You tell me what the best thing is to do for them, and for you, but… yeah. I’m serious about this. I mean it.”

And so they were a thing, even though they’d only been on a few dates, and Namjoon was doing his best to earn the warmth he felt in his chest every time her kids played with him or asked for help with something or hung off his arms to see if he could still walk or just shouted and waved, “Hi, Joon! Bye, Joon!” Always Joon. 

The crane hadn’t turned out great but Sylvie loved it. She loved the frog too, even though he had to find instructions on his phone. He made it with daisy paper and Sylvie squealed with more glee than he’d ever heard from her. She loved his shitty frog, his lopsided crane, the butterflies. And it was soothing to make, too. Something about the focus on such a small task, the dexterity required, the smoothing and folding and pressing, the doubting it until it finally came together, it was all very calming. 

Maybe that was spending time with Sylvie too though. She was so quiet when her brother wasn’t around; Jungkook said Lily barely stopped to breathe, but it was obvious Sylvie on her own was a gentle soul. She seemed perfectly happy doing this too; he was amazed how long it entertained her. 

“Ok what else can we make…”

“Make a… hm…” Sylvie trailed off staring at the screen as Namjoon scrolled to see what else there were tutorials for. “MAKE A ELEPHANT!” she shouted, pointing at his phone so hard it fell from his hands. Her eyes got wide. “Sorry…” she grimaced.

“Ahh, it looks really hard, but let’s see if we can do it together,” he said. “What paper are we going to use?”

“Pink.”

“Pink it is.” 

Sylvie giggled and snuggled close to his side so their hands could work together and it didn’t matter that the girls in middle school hadn’t been impressed with his origami. It was worth every second to spend this afternoon making Sylvie happy instead. Worth every papercut.

[nbrook29]

robbe 1️⃣8️⃣

Warning: This is smutty, proceed with caution if it’s not your jam ;)

ao3

If anybody asked Robbe, bad weather in the summer should be illegal. Because what the hell? He needs sun rays and blue sky like he needs oxygen, he wants 30+ degrees temperatures and not a single cloud above, and he always welcomes it with all the small inconveniences it brings along, like clammy skin mere minutes after showering or freckles covering his nose and arms. So when it’s August and it’s raining, sorry, pouring buckets, sue him if he turns into a whiny mess for a bit. That’s just who he is.

Or, that’s who he was. Because right now, lying on a soft cloud-like throw blanket in a not-his t-shirt and sweatpants, head a mess of wild damp curls, fuzzy socks on his feet tangled with another pair, he’s feeling pretty good.

Even though the original scenario for his birthday was supposed to be different.

It all started at 12:00 am sharp with a dorky text from Sander because of course it did.

Sander: Hey there you sexy thing

Heard you're legal now 👅 

Robbe: Omg sander 🙈 

Sander: Yes, that's what you'll be screaming today during our own little celebration 😈

 Robbe almost spat out the water he was drinking, face burning hot as he tried to assess whether anybody was paying him any attention.

 Robbe: SHSHDHSHSJSJS STOP 

Sander: I'll do that thing you like 😏👅 

Robbe: IM WITH MY PARENTS DICKHEAD 

Sander: Am I bothering you cutie? 😏 

Robbe: Yessssss 😩 my face is all red they're gonna know what's up 

Sander: I think *I* know what is up 😏🍆 

Robbe: 🤣 GO COOL OFF 

Sander: Hehe

No but for real now

Happy birthday! 🥰🥳😘❤🎂

I love you SO much ❤❤❤💯 

Robbe: Thank youuuu baby 😊😘 

Sander: Can't believe you're an adult *wipes a tear*

You'll always be my baby tho ❤ 

Robbe: Haha yes ❤❤ 

Sander: I'll be waiting for you at 4 pm 

Robbe: But where?? 

Sander: 😌 

Robbe: Sanderrr tell me 

Sander: Nope 

Goodnight 😌

 Sander absolutely loves to tease him and keep him at the edge of the seat which is why he told him the place only half an hour before their meeting, for which Robbe intended to tell him off. That is until he actually got to Park Spoor Noord and saw his boyfriend lounging on grass, blanket underneath him, surrounded by Robbe’s favorite food and wearing the most charming smile as soon as their eyes met.

And he got him a sunflower. A sunflower. How cute is that?

Needless to say, there was no telling off, Robbe didn’t exactly find time for it between kisses and laughs and Sander feeding him croques and fries and cupcakes (which Sander baked and decorated himself, swearing for dear life the small thingies made from frosting on top were not dicks, but Robbe knows him too well to believe him).

And then all hell broke loose and the storm that had been loudly talked about in the media came to Antwerp and made a puddle out of the two of them.

They looked really miserable, but somehow Robbe couldn’t care less as they were running to Sander’s house holding hands, water in their shoes, the sunflower cradled carefully underneath his shirt, huge smiles on their faces as they finally got there, tripping in their haste to get inside.

The hot shower that followed next and Sander taking the lead oh so well will definitely rank in the top 5 moments of Robbe’s life. He’s very grateful Sander’s parents are on holiday in London because he’s not sure he’d ever be able to look them in the eyes otherwise.

Afterwards, Sander made them ice coffee and handed Robbe his real gift which turned out to be a long weekend in Paris a week from now, shutting him up with a kiss when Robbe was about to protest and complain about it being too expensive.

Since the concert they were supposed to go to was canceled due to poor weather conditions, they resorted to eating cake in Sander’s bed and watching the show Robbe had been talking about for weeks now. Sander, being the thoughtful and amazing boyfriend that he is, graciously agreed to Robbe’s birthday wish and sat him down between his legs, kissed the side of his face, brought his laptop closer and pressed play, as Robbe made himself comfy in his arms, the smile that originated at midnight not slipping off even for a second.

***

Another thunder strikes the night sky and Robbe jumps involuntarily, only a little, more from shock than actual fear, but it doesn’t stop Sander from tightening his arms around him, lips grazing delicately the lobe of his ear.

“Don’t worry, Robin, I will protect you,” he whispers with a teasing note in his voice, grunting when a well-aimed elbow meets his side.

“Shut up, I’m not scared.”

Sander’s only reply is a low chuckle and a kiss on that sweet spot under Robbe’s ear that never fails to send a shiver down his spine. Without barely having to move at all considering how close they are, he tilts his head and noses along Sander’s defined jaw, leaving a peck or two on his cheek.

“Now shush, I can’t focus.” He unceremoniously turns away from Sander’s searching lips, a sly grin on his face when he hears an affronted huff.

“Oh I see how it is, you-”

“Shhhh, Wille is talking.”

Robbe loves to be a little shit sometimes, especially if he wants to get a certain reaction from his huffy other half.

“Look how cute he is.” He has to press his lips hard to keep the giggle in when Sander whines in protest.

“Stoooop, why are you being mean to me.” He now has a full-blown pout on his face. “Jerk.”

The laughter finally comes out and Robbe pauses the show, cooing at Sander’s little frowny face and brushing the runaway strands away from his forehead, leaning up to press a kiss there too.

“It’s okay, I still think you’re the cutest prince in the entire kingdom.” He runs a thumb over his jutting lower lip, kissing it once, twice, three times, until the corners of Sander’s mouth pull up.

“Whatever. Simon is cuter than the other one anyway.”

Robbe grins cheekily. “You just think that because he has curly hair like me.” Sander’s jaw drops at that.

“Wow,” he exclaims, voice faux-scandalous as he shakes his head at Robbe. “Someone’s cocky today.” 

“It’s my birthday so it’s allowed.” Winking at him obnoxiously, he turns back to the screen, hands reaching for Sander’s arms to wrap them around himself again as he settles in his embrace with a content sigh before pressing play.

Sander’s quiet behind him for a second, and then his lips touch his ear again, tongue slightly peeking out to play and lick the shell of his ear with just the tip, hot air hitting Robbe’s skin turning his insides into mush, butchering his focus again just as Sander purrs, “I think it’s hot when you’re like that.”

There’s something important happening on screen, but Robbe can’t make any sense of the subtitles because Sander’s lips continue their path down the column of his throat, stopping for a second to suck a kiss in the middle, killing any rational thought Robbe might have had. His hand rushes to Sander’s head to keep him there without his permission, eyes closing as he sighs when the kiss turns into licks and nips to the thin skin.

“Do you think he could kiss you and touch you like that?”

The question breaks the fog in Robbe’s brain for a second, and he barks a laugh at the slight possessiveness in Sander’s voice that’s poorly hidden under a joking tone. 

“Like what?” He presses, excitement bubbling in his stomach when one of Sander’s hands sneaks underneath his t-shirt, fingers grazing the skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake as they finally reach the place Robbe needs them most. 

“Like that.” He flicks his nipple with those black-polish covered nails of his that make him look so hot Robbe’s head spins. “For starters.” He keeps it up, tugging and pinching unhurriedly, with a dirty smirk growing on his face that Robbe can just feel on his collarbone, and he pulls on his hair as he arches his back a little, seeking more of those skillful fingers.

With his hooded eyes, he can see Sander closing the laptop and putting it away quickly before his other hand joins in the fun, a featherlight touch to the growing bulge in his sweatpants, nothing more than teasing for now.

When Sander’s teeth tug at his earring, Robbe lets out a frustrated whine because it’s too much and not enough at the same time, and his boyfriend reads him like a book because he pulls the t-shirt off him to gain full access, mouth latching on his neglected nipple just as his hand dives inside his pants. It doesn’t grant him any relief though, bypassing his dick completely and traveling lower, caressing the soft skin, one finger running back and forth without reaching any further, and Robbe grabs Sander’s thigh in desperation.

“Sander...”

“You didn’t answer me,” Sander whispers in a sweet sweet voice.

“Whaa?” It takes a second for Robbe to understand what he’s asking and he would laugh if his body wasn’t on fire, Sander playing him like a violin.

Also, this playful possessiveness is getting to him, whether he likes it or not.

He does though. Like it.

Oh fuck, he likes it so much.

“Tell me, baby,” Sander breathes into his mouth as he reaches for something Robbe doesn’t see, and he can hear in his voice how it affects him too, can feel him against his lower back, rubbing himself off with minuscule moves, clearly struggling to hold back. 

“You, just you-, fuuuuck,” Robbe’s cut off when two lubed fingers press inside him at the confession, back arching slightly, the feeling so intense he keens and searches blindly for Sander’s lips. Thankfully, Sander doesn’t waste any time and plunges his tongue inside his mouth, swallowing the little whines that escape them with each twist of his fingers.

The rocking behind him gets faster and this is not how Robbe wants this to end so he breaks the kiss, ignoring Sander’s protests as he pulls away from him, only to pull his pants off completely, green eyes following his every move like he’s ready to pounce, and the need inside Robbe’s stomach only grows. He tugs impatiently at Sander’s sweatpants, biting his lip when his hard cock slaps his abdomen, the smirk dancing on Sander’s lips at his reaction liquefying his insides and he crawls closer to him, needing his touch to ground him. 

“You’re still good to go?” He loves how even when it’s hot and heavy Sander still remembers to check in with him.

“Uh-huh,” is the only thing he can come up with now, especially when Sander’s hand settles on his hip bringing them so close there’s no space left between them, guiding his movements just like Robbe likes. He kisses his glistening neck, licking the sweat of his body as Robbe reaches behind to position his slick cock at his entrance, forehead resting against Sander’s as he sinks down fast.

He gasps at the feeling of fullness because it’s always a lot, but Sander’s hands are always there, brushing his sides in a comforting motion, even when his own body is probably screaming at him to move.

“Happy birthday to me,” Robbe lets out a shaky chuckle that ends up in a gasp when Sander laughs too and involuntarily moves inside him. He’s quick to lick into his lips and distract him from the momentary discomfort, and once he’s done with him, the overwhelming need is back double force. 

Sander notices right away, guiding Robbe’s hips to keep grinding for a while before planting his feet on the bed and holding them in place giving several hard jabs that make Robbe hide his face in his neck, cries leaving his mouth with each thrust.

“Like that?”

Robbe just nods helplessly, mouth leaving a wet trail on his skin, but Sander doesn’t seem to mind because he continues his pace, completely taking over once Robbe’s thighs give out and turning him into a mess.

“You’re so hot like this, fuck.” The strain in Sander’s voice tells him he’s getting close so he goes back to bouncing, meeting him in the middle, and it only takes a minute for things to become too much, Sander’s uncoordinated jerks when he’s coming triggering Robbe’s orgasm too.

They stay like that, cooling off while kissing lazily, tongues sliding against each other, but without a rush for now.

Sander pulls back first, their lips smacking when they disconnect. "I'm sorry today didn't work out." Scrunching up his face, he reaches to comb through Robbe's hair consolingly. He leans into the touch before cuddling even closer, seeking warmth when the cold air makes goosebumps appear on his heated skin.

"But I loved today, really. We can go to a concert another time." He kisses the underside of his jaw, sighing dreamily. "And I can't wait for Paris with you."

[irene-sadler]

Sir Reynard and the Red Knight

(aka 'The Tournament')

special notes:

the vibe i chose for this imaginary fair/holiday is a mashup of pieces from medieval christmas and new year's eve celebrations. ofc as I mentioned before most of those were Christianity-based, but some of them had a distintly pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon pagan flavor. now my source material here is from 1827, but the author makes sure to let us know which traditions (he thinks) are older than Christianity. the book (books actually, there's 3 of them total) itself is also kind of a fun read, it's sort of a combo of an almanac/calendar/reference guide/gossip column.

a n y w a y, so, specifically i want to mention (b/c i stole them for this story and i don't want to do that without letting ppl know these are or were real traditions that real people observed) serving a boars' head on christmas day (Essex, England, observed "from time immemorial"), the wassail bowl/toast (a new year custom very definitely from before Christianity and apparently present in various parts of Europe altho I don't have the specific expertise to explain why), and an interesting/weird/gruesome Christmas parade (Kent) which the book describes: "A party of young people procure the head of a dead horse, which is affixed to a pole about four feet in length, a string is tied to the lower jaw, a horse cloth is then attached to the whole, under which one of the party gets, and by frequently pulling the string keeps up a loud snapping noise." This is called a Hodening and whether or not ppl still do it I don't know but, uh, i hope so b/c awesome.

also theres only 1 chapter left if u stuck with it this whole time or, idk, it's 2024 and u read the whole thing at once thanks for bothering love u

----

9.

     “Yes, hello,” Gascon said, pretending not to notice Meve’s displeasure. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he added, as the Baroness and Giselle turned to look curiously down at where he stood in the shadows. The Baroness frowned and pursed her lips judiciously; Giselle considered him and glanced uncertainly at the older women.

    “Anyway,” he continued, an edge of urgency buried in his easy tone, “Do you have a minute to spare?”

    “No,” the Queen said stiffly, turning back toward the empty lists. “I’m busy; whatever it is will have to wait until later.”

    “Oh,” he replied, growing very faintly annoyed, “Because it’s about that thing you wanted last night; just thought you’d be interested t’ know I’ve done it.”

    She hesitated, ignoring the Baroness’s raised eyebrow and Giselle’s uncomfortable confusion, struggled momentarily between curiosity and base pettiness, and finally said, “Yes, fine; I have a few minutes, I suppose.”

    “Fifteen minutes,” the Baroness said, pointedly.

    “No time to waste, then,” said Gascon; he winked at Giselle, who took her cue from the Baroness and frowned disapprovingly back at him, and they hurried off.

    “So, what is it, then?” Meve asked bluntly, as they turned into the town’s streets at a rapid stroll. “I assume you’ve caught the saboteur, else you wouldn’t have bothered me.”

    “Well, I caught Gaheris; he may be the saboteur, or may not,” Gascon said, disregarding her tone. “Gaspar thinks he is, though, and he’s th’ only one who saw th’ intruder close up last night, so odds are good he’s your man.”

    “Really?” She abandoned her moodiness in favor of mild surprise, and then asked, “When did this happen?”

    “Oh, only about an hour ago. Less, even. Seemed like there was no real need for a public scene, so I just had him snatched off the street and, you know - stashed somewhere convenient,” Gascon explained, leading the way down an alley and into a butcher. The owner nodded and smiled to him as he passed through the door and headed toward the back, spotted the Queen, and instantly looked away at nothing in particular. Pug and Gaspar waited in the yard behind the shop, standing guard over a man with a bag on his head and a bandage around his left ankle. Gascon nodded at Pug and she yanked the bag away; Gaheris squinted in the light and surveyed his surroundings - two large, brightly interested pigs in a pen, his sinister pair of captors, and, finally, Meve and Gascon. He sighed.

    “Got ‘im in one piece, as you wanted,” Pug announced in her gruff voice; a dubious claim, as Gaheris had a black eye and a split lip, but Gascon nodded approvingly and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the shop.

    “Wait inside for a bit,” he said; Pug and Gaspar departed, leaving their captive to his deserved fate.

    “Now, sir,” Meve said briskly to Gaheris; if she had any doubts about his culpability, she kept them firmly to herself. “Let’s not waste time with falsehoods or denials.”        

    “No,” he said, resignedly, “Doesn’t seem to be much point in trying.”

    “Quite. So, explain what it is you’ve been up to, then.”

    “Start with last night,” Gascon added, as the squire took a few too many seconds to think it over. “Hurry up.”

    “Ah, well. I was trying to get hold of a piece of equipment I knew was among Sir Odo’s things in the barn,” he said. “The girth from a saddle.”

    “Continue,” the Queen said, as he paused, clearly thinking the question answered.

    “Well, obviously I didn’t get it, since that - that thug sliced my ankle t’ the bone when I tried. Seems the girth held up, though, regardless, through today; probably because Sir Odo don’t take many hits, luckily for him.”

    “No, it’s because I found it last night and changed it out for a new one,” Gascon said, angrily. “You’re the one who cut it, are you?”

    Gaheris nodded.

    “I knew it,” the Duke muttered; Meve waved his self-congratulatory comment away, scowling.

    “When did you do it?”

    “Oh, a month ago, or more,” he said. “Just before the duel against Sir Holt.”

    “Why?”

    He blinked at the question and said, as if it was obvious, “Because Sir Holt told me to, in hopes he’d win.”

    “You did a bad job, then,” Gascon snapped; Gaheris looked mildly offended.

    “No,” he said. “No, I didn’t. The girth held, did it not? Sir Odo won - or, well he could have, if he’d wanted to.”

    He looked at his interrogators’ baffled stares, and then explained, patiently, “Look - I cut through the leather, left just enough to hold a strain for a good while, glued it so it’d look like nothing, and told Holt I’d done what he wanted. Simple. I just didn’t have the chance to get it back, after the fight; too many people hanging around who might’ve seen me. If I had done, nobody would have been the wiser.”

    Meve stared at him, torn between confusion and anger, opened her mouth, and closed it again as an echo of distant horns bounced off the buildings.

    “Damn,” she said. “I have to go. Gascon, find Sir Holt.”

    “What should I do with him?” he asked, as she turned to leave; she hesitated, considered her options, and came to a hasty decision.

    “Just keep tabs on him, don’t let him leave town, and - and we’ll sort this mess out, later.”

    “You’ll find him in the tavern, no doubt,” Gaheris said wearily to Gascon, as she quickly departed.

      She nearly ran back through the streets, but she was still late; she returned to the lists to find the Baroness had started the final round without her. However, she she was in time to see Nolda avoid an immediate defeat by the same method she had used on Sir Eres, but Reynard survived her trick, when his fellow knight hadn’t. She nodded in satisfaction at the display.

    “Your man is a quick study, as he’s always been,” said the Baroness, as if Meve had never been away. The next pass involved no deceptions from either side, nor any displays of brilliance; Nolda blocked an ordinary sort of attack on her shield, and never touched Sir Odo.

    “He’s testing the waters,” Meve said, slightly bored with her favorite’s typically cautious tactics. “How long have they been at it?”

    “You only missed one pass; the foreigner’s better at this than I expected.”

    “She’s tricky,” Giselle noted, appreciatively. “What’s the Count doing, there?”

    There was a short pause; Meve glanced downfield and answered, “Oh, he wants a different lance, I imagine.”

    The delay took a full half minute, due to some confusion on Ethan’s part; the Baroness mumbled a displeased remark about the squire’s ineptitude, and then the combat began again.

    “He wants to make up for Nolda’s left-handedness,” the Baroness explained, louder, “That’s what the long spear is for. Most people don’t learn to fight the way she does -”

    She broke off; Reynard’s change of weapon had answered, and he had dealt a strike that had nearly unseated his opponent; she managed to stay in the saddle by luck or skill and they lined up again.

    “He has her figured out; this’ll be th’ end of it,” said Meve. The Baroness nodded agreement. Giselle looked unconvinced, but, in the end, Reynard landed a direct attack to his opponent’s helm and Nolda crashed to earth at long last.

    “A devilishly difficult play,” the Baroness said, in the silence that followed. “Dangerous, too.”

    Reynard had turned to look behind himself, before his horse had even reached the end of the barricade; Nolda lay still on the ground for a few moments, and then, as her husband vaulted the fence and came running toward her, stirred and sat up. She waved an irritated hand at Bohault and Reynard, who had trotted back and dropped from his horse as soon as he was rid of his lance, but neither paid attention to her gestures or her repeated insistence that she was perfectly fine. The crowd’s general din returned, drowning out their conversation; Meve breathed a relieved sigh and reluctantly turned her thoughts back to Gaheris and Sir Holt, and then - she frowned slightly - Gascon’s mysterious absence during the day.

    “Pity you can’t make her a knight,” Giselle said, of Nolda, interrupting her consideration; Meve’s frown grew thoughtful.

    “A knight,” she repeated to herself, under her breath, watching the muddle on the field break up - Reynard back to his horse, Bohault and Nolda to hers - a vague connection, or suspicion, growing in the back of her mind. She turned abruptly to the Baroness, interrupted an ongoing reminisce on the handful of times she’d seen another knight employ a tactic similar to Reynard’s winning strike, and said, “Listen, Hilde - the black knight; do you know who he is?”

    The Baroness hesitated, slightly confused, and replied, choosing her words carefully, “I believe so, but - wasn’t that what you and the Duke spoke about?”

    “No,” the Queen said, disgruntled. “No, it wasn’t.”      

    “Ah,” she said, looking away toward the approaching victors, “Well, perhaps you should. Count Odo, congratulations on another victory; well fought, Nolda. My lord, you’ve won quite a fine horse, I believe, and you, madam, a sword. They’ll be bringing them along shortly.”

      Any personal urgency she felt to finally sort out her ongoing affairs was wasted; the prizes took very little time to hand out, but a number of unrelated problems were brought to her individual attention as soon as the victors rode away. She sent Giselle back to her tavern with genuine gratitude for her service, dealt out various solutions, and then at last she and the Baroness set off toward the castle. The streets of the city were packed, twilight was setting in, and there was no way to hurry their progress no matter how their guard tried. A wagon that had lost a wheel blocked the way, first, and then a succession of other disruptions: a traveling comedic play about a sorcerer and some maidens, some cows wandering loose in the street, a troupe of drunken minstrels playing festive tunes, a strange procession led by a solemn youth holding a freshly cut horse’s head mounted on a pole as a banner, a group of offended clerics in its wake, handcarts selling buns and ale, and, finally, on the bridge over the castle moat, an armored knight still on his charger, who would not be shifted by man or beast until Meve stepped out of the torchlit crowd and threatened to remove him herself.

    Then there was yet another feast, this time held in the hall and attended by more of the usual crowd - but, of course, with the horde of knights and sundry that had participated in the jousts, somewhat more of them than normal. There were the typical, expected customs - a boar’s head served, bowls of spiced ale passed around, a number of favors and pardons bestowed, gifts received (and given; Count Odo, for one, courteously gave the warhorse he’d won earlier in the day to Nolda, who accepted it in a fiercely embarrassed but otherwise gracious fashion) - and various other ancient rituals observed.

    “I would’ve asked if you thought giving her the horse was a good idea,” Reynard said privately to the Queen, during the Mayor’s inevitable remarks, “But I didn’t catch you in time. If I’m honest it’s less a gift and more a bribe, of a sort; Ethan’s left-handed, same as her, and I thought it might make it easier to convince her to teach him.”

    “There were some delays getting back,” she replied, also in an undertone, her eyes resolutely fixed on the speaker as he recited a hopeful list of future developments for the upcoming year. “This whole afternoon’s been nothing but delays, in fact.”

    “I’ll tell you about it later,” she added, quickly, as the speech ended, aimed a quick but pointed glance at the distant Gascon, who immediately slipped out a side door, and then dismissed the court in the exact words she’d recited for ten years, and, before her, her late husband, and his father, and their distant grandfathers, for all of remembered history.

      Finally getting rid of her guests took much longer than the traditional close to the winter solstice did. As a result, it was past midnight before she made the solitary climb up the stairs to her office, looking forward to finally having a quiet minute to think. However, Reynard and Gascon - and Gaheris - were within, despite the late hour; the squire stopped in the middle of a sentence and all three men automatically turned her way when she stepped through the door. She waved an impatient hand at him to continue and leaned against her own desk, hiding her weariness behind a cold stare. Gaheris returned to repeating his confession; Reynard listened in silence, his expression drifting subtly between offense and genuine confusion. At the end, he frowned and asked, “You - pretended to sabotage my equipment? Why? Why not do it properly, I mean?”

    The squire shrugged.

    “It’s - listen; before I go on, you should know Holt’s an ass, and a stubborn one at that. Yes, I see you’ve all noticed. Well, I couldn’t dissuade him when th’ idea came into his fool head, but I’d no wish t’ see him win a fight by such a trick, against such an obviously superior opponent. It’s not right, and, also, would be easily seen through. What I did seemed the simplest solution.”

    “You could have refused,” Reynard pointed out; Gaheris smiled pityingly at him and shook his head. His response drew an exasperated comment from Meve.

    “You could have done nothing at all, and told him otherwise.”

    He frowned, again mildly offended.

    “I’m no liar,” he said. “If I can find any other solution, I mean. They say a half-truth’s better than a lie, don’t they?”

     Reynard blinked, considered, and then shook his head. Gascon shrugged his shoulders, grudgingly.

    “You’re clearly a capable man,” Meve said. “Why do you serve someone you know isn’t?”

    Gaheris shook his head again, helplessly.

    “Holt’s always been like this,” he explained, “Ever since he was a boy. He’s a decent fighter, but he’s too competitive for his own good, and he’s still not learned t’ pick his battles. However, he is my little brother - well, half-brother; my mother married Sir Ulrich after my father died. He was a stonemason,” he explained, seeing the Queen raise a questioning eyebrow, a gleam of challenge in his dark eyes. “His name was Gors.”

    When she failed to react to his admission, he continued:

    “Anyway, she wanted me t’ look after Holt, best I can. He isn’t a bad person, really, he just -”

    He shrugged.

    “He can’t help how he is, when he’s in a mood, and when he isn’t he’s not the worst of men, or the worst of nobles, for that matter. He’s never struck a knight who’s yielded, for one, and he’s not one to steal or run villainous among th’ yeomen. And, he’s all the family I got left,” he finally finished. Meve nodded and said nothing for a long moment; she noticed that he couldn’t have been any older than herself, but he briefly appeared gray and worn down. She was, to her mild irritation, somewhat sympathetic to his troubles. Gascon glanced from her icy frown to Gaheris’s tired stare, curiously. Reynard watched her carefully.

    “Keep him under guard,” she said to Gascon. “I’m not sure what to do with him or his brother, just yet. Wait - leave him on the landing; the guards there will look after him for the moment. I’ve another matter to discuss, before you go.”

      “He’s the black knight,” she said to Reynard, as Gascon stepped back in without his captive. “Did you know?”

    “No, of course not,” the Count said, frowning slightly. “Although, in truth, th’ idea has crossed my mind, but I found it - unlikely.”

    Gascon hesitated, then shrugged, grinned broadly, and said, “You caught me at last, m’lady; how’d you figure it?”

    “The Baroness it was that discovered you, not me,” Meve said, crossing her arms stubbornly; she attempted to appear angry, but in the end managed only mild, slightly amused, annoyance. “Also, she appears to have found me out, as well, incidentally. In fact, there seems to be very little she doesn’t know.”

    “She’s uncommonly sharp, no doubt about it,” Gascon agreed, readily.

    “So,” she continued, “Is there anything at all to be gained by asking you what you were doing, today?”

    “Won’t tell you unless you first promise not t’ bite my head off,” he said promptly.

    “Yes, very well, as it’s the solstice, but don’t expect any more favors from me before the summer, at earliest. I mean it, Gascon.”

    Reynard sat down, shaking his head at them; Gascon nodded and said, “Fair’s fair. Well, then, it’s a short tale: I won that fight against Sir Holt, then I saw Gaheris come limping ‘round to scrape him up off the turf, and it all came together clear as mud, so I decided it was time t’ stop playing at knights for the day and do some real work.”

    “You could have appeared in the joust as yourself,” Reynard remarked, almost idly, “And not as -”

    “As me,” Meve interrupted, a hint of her previous ire returning.

    “Yes, well - the black knight’s more interesting than I am,” he explained, with a broad shrug. “People have heard of his prowess, or what have you; the dangerous reputation’s an advantage, of sorts.”

    “Yes, we’ve heard, in fact,” Meve said, coldly. “Slew a werewolf, did you?”

    “Sure did,” Gascon replied. “Or, I helped, anyhow. There was a witcher involved. Like Gaheris said: half a truth’s better than a lie, so I let the former take precedence.”

    “That’s not the saying, as you know perfectly well. It’s worse,” Reynard said, rolling his eyes. “Half a truth is worse than a lie.”

    Gascon shrugged at him, grinning slightly. Meve interrupted their tangent, impatiently.

    “And you killed a dragon, they say?”

    “Not I,” the Duke said, quickly, eyeing the Queen’s scowl. “Th’ only dragonslayer here is yourself - although, I did kill a pretty big snake in a roadside inn. The landlady was most impressed. So was some minstrel who happened t’ be around, it appears; he has, uh, embellished th’ incident, somewhat.”

    “Yes, that much is obvious,” Reynard noted, “But how’d he know it was the black knight who did the deed and not merely one Gascon Brossard?”

    At last, Gascon turned uncomfortably self-conscious and clammed up; Meve watched him squirm for a long moment and decided, after a glance at the amused gleam in Reynard’s eye, to not to press the issue further.

    “And you gave poor Sir Orlac a dunking,” she remarked, finally; Gascon looked relieved and seized on the change in subject.

    “Yes, that story’s true,” he admitted. “He’s not a bad fighter, at all, thought he don’t seem to enjoy it much. It took some convincing t’ even get him to go against me, actually, but it was worth the time, in th’ end, to get th’ extra practice.”

    “You have improved, somewhat,” Reynard observed, casually. He shot a quick look at Meve; she spotted it and broke off her intended response, frowning. Gascon either missed or ignored their exchange and said, brightly, “Why thank you, sir.”

    “Although,” the knight continued, “It remains to be seen if you can beat me just yet; Meve, of course, has already unhorsed you once, so no there’s burning question to be answered on that account.”

    “By a trick,” Gascon said, and then, as Reynard shrugged unconcernedly, added, “Look, I only really wanted t’ fight Sir Holt and beat him, again, to prove I could, like. I had no notion of much else.”

    “Yes, very likely,” Meve muttered, rolling her eyes; Reynard continued, despite her:

    “Not afraid to lose, are you?”

    “Of course not; it happens all the time,” Gascon said, mildly indignant.

    “Well, then, tomorrow, if you’ve no other plans, let’s see how good you’ve really become, shall we? Without your intimidating disguise, I mean.”

    “Well, all right,” the Duke said, doubtfully, clearly wary about what exactly he was agreeing to. “I suppose I’m not busy, but - “

    “Good. I’ll see you first thing in the morning, then,” Reynard said, a suggestion of finality in his voice; Gascon still looked uncertain, but nodded and then made a tactical retreat to “see to those other matters.”

    “What the devil are you at, Reynard?” Meve asked, the instant he was gone. He stood up, strode across the room with a self-satisfied smile, and wrapped his arms around her.

    “You’ve had a long day,” he said, “Let me worry about it.”

    “Ugh. Fine, then; do what you want,” she said, ingraciously, leaned her forehead against his chest, and continued with a muffled sigh, “What do you think I should do with Holt? I can’t very well banish him for trying to cheat in a duel, much as I’d like to - he is the sole legal heir to Sir Ulrich, who has been a relatively loyal supporter of the crown - nor can I demote him, since he isn’t one of my own knights.”

    “Just ban him from your tournaments, and the rest of the realm will follow,” he said, as if it was obvious, “It’s the worst thing that could happen to a young knight.”

    “You’d know better than I,” she remarked, unfolded her arms, slid them around his waist, and added, “What about Gaheris?”

    “I don’t know,” Reynard said, “He’s not so easy to deal with.”

    “The trouble is,” Meve said, darkly, “- the trouble is that, in his circumstances, he’s done nothing worse than you or I have in the past, which makes me feel something of a hypocrite if I consider having him arrested for treason - as I certainly could, given your indispensable position and high rank.”

    “Yes, a - a similar thought crossed my own mind, to be honest.”

    “Well, it’s true,” she said, raising her head and frowning up at him. “Isn’t it? Reginald -”

    “He wasn’t quite so bad as Holt.”

    “Because he was older, and the King, and no other reason. Well, and he had you around to clean up after his worst decisions. And, his sons - my sons - are the same, or worse, than Sir Holt. Or were, I mean. Anseis certainly is, in any case.”

    “Perhaps,” Reynard said, thoughtfully, “There’s no need to do anything to Gaheris, at all.”

    “As you’re th’ one he wronged, in th’ end I think what happens to him should really be your decision,” Meve said, shrugging.

    “Well, then, speaking from experience, the man’s trials in keeping control of his brother are worse than anything you might think up.”

    “Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve no wish to see him hang or rot in prison, but banishment would be no curse to him, and we’d have to contend with Holt still, regardless, but without a convenient manager. What a waste; were he noble-born, I’d have some use for a man of his talents, and I could more easily secure his future loyalty. A shame, to have Holt be th’ one who inherits old Ulrich’s lands and titles, and Gaheris remain a squire still.”

    “I agree,” Reynard said. “However, that problem only you can solve.”

    She looked into his eyes, thoughtfully, and nodded.

[yvvaine]

I was wondering if any [past or present] Jonerys, Pro-Daenerys fans like myself feel this way.....?

Firstly Id say please be nice i just enjoy analyzing the shit out of fandoms I like, (im a history/polysci major ((with an emphasis on Peace Justice and & Conflict Studies)) all i do is analyze and try to be diplomatic lmao) but considering all they petty drama between both ships as well as pro/anti Daenerys stans ON BOTH SIDES I’m going to be “That Person” and at least ask for people to be respectful/civil, I want to hear from everyone and their metas/what they think which is why i tagged like, all the tags, no matter if you love her/the ship or cant stand it, as long as everyone can keep civil So firstly I’ve loved Dany both books and show from the beginning. She’s gorgeous, wants to be the best person she can be, and her hair/fashion style game is always ON POINT.  That being said, somewhere around season 5 i think i’ve found my opinion on her cooling a little bit, ep after ep, till now. Like I still like her bc she was my first character love on the show but I’ve def soured in my opinion on her. Maybe it’s because I love learning about the subject that im more baised (im hoping thats the case) but she just seemed to have no interest in actual governance, just the reputation (esp of being the ‘rebel queen’)/the awe/the power/the thrill of the adoration that went along with it to the point where I feel like though she still wants to be a ‘good queen’ or at least wants to be seen that way, she doesnt want to do much work for the title. Like yeah she freed all the slaves and that was a def progressive and awesome move on her part (major props! slavery is sin and im glad someone recognized that who had the power to do something about it) but she didnt handle that aftermath or ensuing problems well at all nor really mulled heavily on the subject to find the best solution. She just got fustrated with pretty basic/common (albeit complex in themselves) issues of standard governance and kind of went agh! fuck this! (obv not actual quotes but that was the vibe I got). And then ESPECIALLY after season 7 her character has kind of nagged at me in the back of brain which i hate but its inherent like its just a feeling i cant help it?? I just dont know why to be honest that Im feeling so negative towards this character i used to love.  The whole ‘ bEnD thE knEe ‘ thing w/ Jon and yet pinning it on Jon’s pride not equally on his and her own was more than a little hypocritical, when hon they can discuss it later like at that point they have two common enemies the WW and Cersei they both want to do away with, and then again with the Bend the Knee or Die bit w/ the Lannister soldiers. In fact the whole sequence before that point felt kind of villinous I dearsay, I mean  deliberately burning the harvest that most of westeros needs for the winter or even strategically not willing to try, and well, nOOt intentionally burn the food considering its winter, the harvest is over (so likely not much is gonna grow in the time being) when she has a G I A N T ass army of her own to think of feeding???? Like i get it is war shit happens soldiers die but the F O O D ? Was that an impuslive in the moment mistake or did she just not give a fuck? And back to the aftermath scene/Bend the Knee 2.0, her speech was again quite hypocritical...and burning dickon?????? not willing to keep prisoners???? either bend or die??? I actually am glad she did away with Papa Tarly bc he was an awful human, but dickon????? a young idealistic man about to loose his father??? the heir to a major ally/house???? And honestly that bend or die strategy is soooooo dumb bc now she cant trust any of them like theyre only bending the knee out of self preservation homie, no one wants to die. they bend  the knee to survive and now they all of the sudden think youre their queen? Nah fam, prisoners were better, all you got are spies in your camps or people willing to backstab you at the smallest promise of coin. And i dont want that for my girl

IDK the whole “im gonna BREAK THE WHEEL,,,,,,,,yet im stating my claim mainly on my housename (aka the predominant force of said wheel for a literal dynasty) and the fact that i can scare people who otherwise are unconvinced bc lets be real westeros has had a bad run of rulers a lot of which were Targs in the past couple decades, into submission bc ill burn you otherwise???” doesnt sit well with me nor does it feel like the character ive been rooting for the past five-ish seasons. She just doesnt seem to put into effort on understanding Westeros, why things go wrong, being self-critical or sharing the blame,thinking on what a “good” ruler would do.... anyone else feeling this way and if so do you think this is just shitty writing? D&D butchering her character? or a new arc for her? perhaps the way shes always been? She just seems like a tantruming child bratty and entitled idk (a beautiful child but still)  As for jonerys...... im not gonna go into it much but how are other shippers happy????????? I honestly dont understand. I was SO looking forward to this season/this ship. like so much! But it felt so forced? And i know a lot of people claim its cause its rushed but tbh we’ve had a lot of romances in a similar time frame that felt like A C T U A L romances.....even Talisa/Robb who the Northerners will prob compare any of this too were so much better. THIS WAS MY EPIC SHIP DUDE. I feel the dany side of things (took a while but theres def heart eyes) and yet Jon???? He felt hollow. Still does even after sex. Im so disapointed but more than that I cant see the romance or the chemistry. He looks constipated. Hes never smiled like with his teeth around her the way hes done w others he cares deepily about (ygritte, toramund, sansa, even fkin gendry in the first scene they had together). He never reveals anything about himself. And between the “my queen” ep (and remember he was look warm when discussing her to toramund throughout it) and the previous the only thing that changed was that he saw the actual difference dragons made against WW. You could argue she saved them all too but that doesnt make you fall in love w someone out of the blue and also people have saved his ass before and??? Sansa w the vale anyone??? (Not an argument for jonsa js its happened) (though ill admit ive transitioned to loathing jonerys and loving jonsa more as a potential couple in the space of seven eps where if you asked me I wouldve been like PSH u cray. I never thought it would happen in a mill years but D&D ruined my ship and here i am! Shipping aside tho since its best too look at these things as neutral as possible).  Anyways the sigh of his after she left and when he pretended to be asleep.... idk. The only scene that felt genuine and where Jon smiled and it didnt look like a full on grimace and they actually kinda joked around was really nice and at the pit at the finale and if they do a LOT more of basic romance stuff like that I could ship it again but. It was followed by boatsex and boy.  I was hoping boatsex might rekindle my like for the two together. I could see the chemistry the passion. I was hoping the passion would overwhelm me and make up for the rest. But instead......like there was no foreplay, it lasted 2 seconds, and it was overplayed by brans voice and a reminder of future conflict or at the very least major angst b/w the two. i didnt see the parallel between regear and lyanna playing alongside their scene as anything romantic or that it should be taken as such. and the look they shared.... I was hoping jon would bring it bc Dany’s look in her eyes is like soooo smitten and adorable and say what you will I still have a space in my heart for her and still dont want her to suffer, but again Jon looks like oh shit/constipated. And not in a good oh shit way either.  There is a bunch more too but Imma stop there bc Im just tired at this point.  So many things were just....off this season. And it cant all be blamed on the “rushed” time frame. I’ve read the undercover lover theory and hon it makes the most sense (not perfect sense but still, more than what we’ve been poorly spoon fed) but im not willing to believe it just yet. Still, maybe D&D are just butchering a lot of things like making the romance believable and stuff for the sake of time that could be true i guess. But they like to go AHA GOT U so  Idk I dont find a lot of meta in the jonerys tag bc honestly (((((i think its bc the tag and ship are more popular and theirs more people both good and bad)))) it doesnt seem like snowballing theories is something all fans take really well in the tag at all. But whatever. I really want to know, is there any meta or theories im missing to either validate the icky feeling Im haveing about D or her “romance” or on the flipside anything that might make me change my mind about it? Theories, meta people! I just want to reiderate im not trying to hate on anyone or any point of view and I will flag any comment anti one ship or person or another if its plain hateful or rude. I just want to understand it and see what Im missing, esp because of how much I was looking forward to her arc and jonerys’ dynamic and how much the words “falling short” dont seem to cover it. And to see if im not the only one to either have critique on the ship or her character [or even actually change ships] Also i apologize for how much ive said “IDK” i just..... I DONT KNOW 

[clown-bait]

29 Neibolt ST (Monster Roommate AU)

Alright I’m just going to start posting this anyway since I have so much of it already written. This is my first venture into writing so go easy on me. Im normally an artist not a writer. I’ll intro my OC too she’s a grungey stoner girl going through some big changes. Those changes being that she’s slowly turning into a nosferatu style vampire. She “Dropped out” of bartending school, dumped her abusive ex and moved to Maine where she found out that every monster in the world had the same idea. Eventually she moves in with everyones favorite clown and feelings start to happen. This chapter is just intros really smut and romance is coming. Mostly a parody humor fic with horror and romance thrown in. There is lots of gore, NSFW, drug use, alcohol, death, swearing, and violence. So you’ve been warned. Chapter 1 The Contract She had been there for a month now. Somehow she was still alive, and living amongst monsters. “You know…It’s not that bad mom, the house is a bit old but it’s charming you get used to it after awhile.” as she says this a chunk of the Old Well House’s ceiling falls onto the ancient dining room table. She flinches a natural reaction left over from humanity’s days as a prey animal but she recovers quickly mostly unfazed. “Visit? Oooooh no, no, thats not a great idea. Roommates are a bit quirky you wouldn't like them.” she said into the phone. Quirky was a massive understatement. She opened the fridge and let out a groan of frustration at the severed head and arm sitting on top of her tupperware. “that son of a bitch” she whispered “Hey mom call you back, kitchen trouble. Love ya.” she hung up the phone and shouted “ALRIGHT WHO’S IS THIS?!” her voice echoed through out the old decaying house. She was met by heavy breathing and guttural grunting the kind you would hear in a horror movie sound clip. She turned to the doorway towards the owner of the sound, a hulking behemoth donning a butchers apron. He’s covered in old blood soaked handprints and his signature mask made of the leather from a human face. “What the hell Leatherface you have your own fucking fridge for this shit” she stated unafraid. Now one would be wondering at this point why is this girl so relaxed? Why has she not died of a heart attack or been murdered by these horrible housemates. This clearly wasn't your average college drop out living situation, not by a long shot. No my friend, this is the story of a human who literally lived with her monsters and in the process became one herself. But the only thing you need to know right now dear reader, is that Lucy Smith never turned down a good deal.  It all started when she wanted to get out of the city. Adam and our dear Lucy had just broken up after being her high school sweetheart and boyfriend for 5 long years. It happened at the end her second to last year of college, he had become an absolute monster and she was done with his shit. Lucy wanted to get away. Away from everything that reminded her of him and the life they had shared together. “I’ll go to the other side of the country,” she thought “as far as possible I’ll go to fucking Maine.”   When she found the house it looked abandoned. “Fucking hell this must be a fake ad or something. No way this place is inhabitable.” she groaned but there was a small sign in the window of the house on Neibolt Street that read “Room for Rent” in badly drawn red ink. “Wellp I got nothing to lose anyway, either I die via whatever serial killer is squatting here or the drinking will get me later.” She had next to nothing other than a car, her belongings and enough money for three months worth of rent. This really was her only option. As she walked by the sun flowers haphazardly planted in the front yard in some sad attempt to make the house look pleasant, the front door creaked open on its own. “Yeah I’m definitely going to get murdered.” she mumbled. Lucy stepped cautiously in the doorway “Um hello? I’m here about the room?” something scuttled on the floor above her, it sounded like the pitter patter of children’s feet. Lucy’s heart began to pound her blue eyes wide now and her senses heightened. “Anyone?” she called out into the decrepit house. Lucy made her way to the window and picked up the for rent sign clutching it tightly to her chest. She was an avid horror fan, and she was no idiot. This house screamed ghost murderer she began to step further into the house when suddenly the door slammed shut. “FUCK” she shouted trying to pry it back open but it wouldn't budge “ALRIGHT ASSHOLE” she yelled “I’m fucking done with this game! You going to discuss the room with me or not?!” a door in a different room had creaked open and Lucy could have sworn she heard the faint sound of bells. “This isn't funny bitch” she yelled nervously searching for an exit “be brave be brave be brave” she whispered to herself. Down the hall she heard footsteps from something large they seemed to be dragging across the floor. Fucking hide you idiot her brain told her she quickly and silently bolted to the kitchen, almost on the verge of tears now cursing herself for even getting into this situation. She frantically searched the room for something to hide in and a half open cabinet caught her eye. She made a dash for it when she hear the jingle again this time louder and coming form the basement of the Well-house. She reached for the rotting door and screamed when something grey and furry leapt out at her. It smelled almost dead and its eyes were lifeless and faded. The creature was a very pissed off dirty grey cat. “Holy shit little guy” she managed to say. The cat darted off into the house and Lucy let her guard down slightly breathing a sigh of relief, only to turn around to meet a twisted smile with long fangs and glowing yellow eyes. Suddenly the demon clown shot a gloved claw out around her throat. Lucy passed out from sheer terror, dropping the for rent sign on the ground next to her.  ___________ Lucy awoke to voices, they were twisted and clearly agitated. Their tones were enough to make someones skin crawl. Her thoughts were foggy and her head ached from hitting it on her way down. She moved to rub it but she found she was tied to a chair, she thrashed a bit in a sad attempt to escape. the girl knew knew it wouldn't work. She was frail and malnourished looking, a text book punk kid in flannel and a stupid t-shirt that had a skeleton hand holding up the cliche devil horns. She wasn't getting out of this. The voices began to sound clearer now she had yet to open her eyes but she could hear what the owners were saying. “We can’t just kill her we need the money.” “She’s fucking human Tiff, just let the clown and the big guy fight over her meat!” “We’re about to lose the house babe! This is the best place we've had in years!”   “You know the rules no regular humans allowed in our society.” “Leatherface is human!” “PFF barely,” “Will you two PLEASE stop bickering for 5 seconds!” “Oh you wanna finally join us Jingles? Because you've been sitting there drooling for the past five minutes while we've been trying to figure out what to do about YOUR house.” “DO NOT CALL ME JINGLES, DOLL!!!” Lucy opened her eyes, light stung them at first and her vision adjusted. She gurgled out a moan of pain and the room suddenly went silent. Across from her were two dolls one a pretty blonde girl doll with dark makeup the other a boy haphazardly stitched together in a terrifying way. “What the fuck” she mumbled turning to look behind her, she heard heavy breathing that coming out so deep they almost sounded like moans. The monster towered over her and most horrifying of all he wore the skinned face of a dead woman. Lucy quickly turned away to finally find the other inhabitant pouting in the corner, the evil clown from earlier. He was tall, lanky and had a giant forehead with fluffy orange hair twisting around like cotton candy. The clown was staring right at her with a terrifying hunger in his eyes, like he could smell her fear from across the room. She tried to soak it all in. This isn't happening this isn't real. Oh god I'm going to die here she thought. Then, something deep within Lucy’s mind snapped. She began to laugh. Her laughter was a mix of hysteria and horror it was insane and manic. “Wellp I’ve finally lost it.” she thought to herself as her cackling died down. The monstrous flatmates stared at her slightly confused by her reaction.  “Well that the first time I’ve made that kind of impression. Thought makin' them laugh was your thing jingles.” the boy doll mused The clown let off an inhuman warning growl and the doll grinned wickedly. “Y-youre all r-real.” Lucy stuttered starting to slip into insanity. “Careful who you say isn't real around here toots, Jingles over there tends to get real triggered about that subject” the male doll quipped “Are you done insulting me yet? You disgusting excuse for a child’s toy.” the clown hissed “Not on your life chucklefuck.” “Chucky! Can we please focus on the girl!” the dolls female counterpart snapped “Sorry pumpkin, they've been having a bit of a dispute ever since the clown left a huge pile of drool outside the fridge yesterday morning” she turned to Lucy who now was a mix of terrified and utterly confused. “I was very hungry and couldn't decide what to eat!” the clown pouted “YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE PANTRY FULL OF DEAD CHILDREN IN THE SEWER DO YOU EVEN NEED TO EAT ANYTHING ELSE?” Chucky shouted back at him. “Wow that hurt. I don't just eat children you know” the clown mocked being struck in the heart followed by a sharp glare. The silent behemoth behind Lucy had decided enough was enough and banged on the counter next to him. All in the room went quiet. The female doll sighed “Well if you two are going to be children about this I’ll make the decision for us. Alright look hun. We’re in a bit of a pickle and we need an extra roommate or Penny here is going to lose the house. Then well all be shit outta luck, especially you sweetheart. So I’m givin ya two options” she looked at the grumpy killer clown who huffed and finally nodded giving the female doll permission “One, you take the room. You will live here as the fake owner so the town doesn't try to reclaim the house and tear it down. Or two…. you die.”  “And if I don’t want either?” Lucy questioned giving in completely to this new terrifying situation she was in. All the inhabitants in the room smiled wickedly. The clown stepped forward and grabbed Lucy’s chin forcing her to look into his golden predatory eyes, they were slightly out of alignment as if he was barely managing to keep control of himself  “You can try to run kitten, but in a house full of monsters” he grinned his smile sadistic with a sprinkling of insanity “I promise you wont get far.” he inhaled sharply as if sniffing a freshly cooked meal before taking a bite. Lucy swallowed her fear and insanity pushing it down deep within her. “I’m a fucking survivor and I’m not going to die in some rotting haunted house.” She thought to herself. The clown growled and shoved her face back roughly as if offended by her sudden burst of bravery. “How much is rent?” she stated cool and suddenly collected.She wasn't really but the girl was no stranger to putting on a brave face. The group turned to the clown who was suddenly put on the spot “….$450” “Fuck that. Does this crackhouse even have running water?” she spat. “Watch your filthy little mouth!” the clown growled. She had obviously hit a very sore spot. A weakness she smirked. “$300” she haggled.  “Just for that remark, five” the clown sneered in her face again, he was so close she could feel his breath on her nose. “You cant go up you fucker” “How much is your life worth to you little human” “About 300 bucks a month, clown.” “Four.. not including utilities” he smiled like the devil himself. She broke. “Look if you don’t kill me then my ex probably will. Im dead either way. Probably safer with a bunch of monsters than with that psycho, so $350 with utilities and I wont call the cops and make sure people stay away from your place. You all obviously want to remain here in secret so I keep my mouth shut about what you are and you give me a cheap place to live and start over. I honestly don't give a shit if I'm living with demon dolls and cannibals. I just want freedom from my old shitty life and my old shitty ex.” she stared back into the clowns eyes in pure defiance. Blue and gold bore into each other in some unseen battle. Few have ever done this to him before and were allowed to live. Finally the clown broke the stare he was a bit thrown off. “I’m not a cannibal I'm not even human you disgusting Leech.” he mumbled. Clearly the demon clown had a pride issue. “Wait call the cops? Ah shit Chucky you forgot to take her phone???” the Tiffany yelled at the male doll. “You didn't fucking tell me too! I thought we were going to kill her like we do with all the humans that wander in here!! Didn't see the fucking need but apparently were all going soft because Buck Tooth McForehead over here is worried about foreclosure!” “You idiot! You never listen to me!!!!” she screamed and lunged at him.  The clown rolled his eyes at them, apparently this happened a lot. “Can you guys please take this to the bedroom, since I know where this is going and I really don't want walk in to find you making up on my sofa again.” Leatherface who had been mostly silent had moaned and covered his eyes clearly grossed out at the thought. “FINE were leaving! Tell us when you two kids make a damn deal instead of eye fucking each other for hours” Chucky shouted from the floor his wife’s hands around his neck. “Ew what the hell man we weren’t…” Lucy began but was cut off by an eruption of anger from the clown. “GET OUT.” the clown roared.They stood up and Chucky took his wife’s hand in his and Tiffany gave Lucy a wink as she left. “what the hell was that-“ Lucy started. “Ignore them” the clown interrupted once again. “Ok but like what did he mean by-“ “Ignore them” She turned her attention again to the tall murderous, inhuman apparently, clown. Who was clearly extremely annoyed with the whole situation. “So we have a deal clown?” “Pennywise” the clown said. “PennyWhat?” “I have a name and its Pennywise… The dancing clown.” “You dance?” “Not the point.” “Can I see?” “No.” “I thought clowns liked to preform.” “Are you finished?” “Maybe.” Lucy fired back at him.  The clown was not used to this amount of sass from such a small frail looking thing. She could certainly run her mouth. It reminded him of a very specific boy that had smacked him in the head with a baseball bat all those years ago. He knew he was going to hate this human, but he had little to no choice in this. The Well-house was apart of him and desperate times call for desperate measures. He decided to wait to kill her when she tries to move out. It'll happen eventually anyway, after all this human will be living amongst monsters, horrible abominations true living nightmares! No normal sane human would be able to last long in this situation. And then he will enjoy feasting on this small thing’s flesh. Biting into her pale skin hearing her cry out in fear when he turns on her. Oh yes her sweet, delicious, beautiful fear. He'd inhale her scent and burry his nose into her bleeding flesh licking the wound in her neck. Those big blue eyes wide in terror as the filthy leech rose up finally floating. Her short platinum hair swirling around her frozen face. Beautiful, intoxicating, delicious, alluring, all mine, mine, mine, MINE- he woke himself from his trance his eyes had drifted apart and he was drooling immensely. She was staring at him waiting for him to say something. He mentally cursed himself for those strange thoughts that had just drifted through his head. “You uh…. you ok there? It looks like you left earth there for a bit”   The clown sighed and growled more turning to his giant flatmate. “Untie her and bring me some ink Leatherface, lets just get this over with” Pennywise said exhausted. The giant equally concerned and confused grabbed a knife off the kitchen wall and cut her free. Lucy’s first instinct was to run but she glued herself into the reality of her situation. The behemoth walked over to her still holding the knife and she suddenly felt the fear come back. What if the clown had lied? The giant grabbed her hand roughly. Shit she began to panic as he pressed the blade into her hand and cut. Pennywise was now sporting a devilish grin seeing his flatmate to be squirm and whimper under the blade. He suddenly had an old looking contract and a quill in his hand which he laid out on the table in front of her “Read it and sign it Leech” he sneered “Really? Im signing it in blood? Really?” “You’re being difficult and childish just sign the damn paper.” “Why do you keep calling me Leech anyway?” “Because you're sucking me dry with this $350 a month deal, sign the paper.” “Do I get to at least remodel my room?” “SIGN THE PAPER” “Bite me clown. I want to know the fine details.” “Careful what you wish for little Leech it just might come true.” he muttered. “That a threat Penny?” she fired backThe clown glared at the nickname. “You know, you’re cute when you're mad” she chuckled reading the document. “Interesting requirements you got here. Don’t know what the hell this whole community council thing is and all these weird secrets but eh its cheap living can’t complain.” she dabbed the pen on her open wound and scribbled her name on the line.  “Congratulations were flatmates.” the clown growled snatching the paper and walked off towards the basement. Lucy turned to Leatherface and chuckled. “I like him, he’s fun. So you guys gonna take me on the grand tour?” the giant still very confused with the whole situation nodded silently and Lucy followed him out. She didn't quite know what she just agreed to and this definitely wasn't the change she had in mind. All she knew was that she had wished for a new start and she sure as hell was getting one.