robin-the-enby

[robin-the-enby]

some artworks i drew before

[robin-the-enby]

Sporadic Contingency

The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. Death was yet to come for you, perhaps it was because you had a lot to offer the clown; he in turn reciprocated. Perhaps he thought you were amusing, for now.

Your morals must be twisted because one thing was for certain: There was no denying the unshakeable, terrifying tension building between the two of you.

12,400 words

Slow burn

Rough sex (obviously!!)

Art being a fucking dom

The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. In fact, thinking back through foggy thoughts, you couldn't really trace back to where this started.

You supposed fate aligned correctly for you. Logically speaking, you had a lot to offer the clown, and he in turn reciprocated favours.

Living within the vast forest adjacent to miles county, not many people ventured into the thick greenery. You had resided here for some time, at first with your father and then on your own once he passed.

You're grateful for the fact that your father had such a lively business. If not for that, you doubt you'd ever be able to live so well and comfortably all alone on the outskirts of the county.

You lived in an old cottage with ample firewood to stay warm and luscious land that stretched afar. A lot of it you used to keep animals.

You were accustomed to fattening the pigs up through spring while they birthed their young and slaughtering them in the winter for food supply. It was just another day at work for you; not that you had to work. You could live amiably without any need of strenuous hard work like farming, but you enjoyed it.

It was more of a passionate hobby than a job.

You travelled into town for any necessities you may need in your fathers old truck, but largely remained to yourself and a chunk of the townspeople knew that.

Some called you crazy for living in nature while that killer was on the loose, but you moving into town didn't necessarily change your chances of survival.

Thus you stayed put.

It wasn't until one clear night just after Halloween did you hear a disgusting squeal coming from one of your pigs. It was the sound of a slow death, and it startled you enough to grab your late fathers shotgun and storm outside courageously to see just what the hell was stealing your livestock.

You expected an animal. What you found instead shocked you.

A man, tall and lumbering and clad in a monochromatic clown costume kneeled hunched over one of your pigs, it's body twitching and steaming as it's hot innards met the chill of the outside air.

You heard the wet sound of his hands delving into the pigs guts and gripping a handful before bringing the meat to his lips.

This stranger was eating your livestock. Devouring them like an animal, raw and uncooked and grotesquely bloody.

You remained frozen, shotgun pointed, glancing at the black bag that lay beside him full of various menacing tools stained crimson.

If your father taught you one thing, it's that you should treat people with kindness, especially the strange ones.

The weirdos are the most dangerous, and living out here all alone meant that if one ever wandered into your land, it was probably best to treat them as a guest and act amicably, if only for your own safety.

Steeling your nerves, you cocked your head at the man, seeing the gap appear in the pigs abdomen as it's organs were devoured.

"Might want to cook that, stranger." You spoke gently, shotgun lowered to the floor.

The freakish clown paused, fingers laced in guts, head turning slowly and deliberately to the side.

"Tastes better that way, personally. Cooked, I mean." You shifted nervously from foot to foot, the chill of the autumn air getting through your pyjamas.

Maybe coming out here in nothing but some bottoms and a vest wasn't such a good idea.

The mans side profile was lanky even while crouched. His face held extremely prominent features, and you began to wonder if they were prosthetic or not.

You dared to step directly behind the stranger, his blood shot eye staring at you from the corner, pig entrails held frozen. They were cold now.

"Come with me. I can cook that right up for you, throw a few herbs and spices in and make that a great dish."

The clown let the guts slip through his fingers, gloves tainted red, and stood to his feet slowly. Your breath froze in your throat at the way his height seemed to grow and grow as he extended fully, back straight and rigid, and turned around almost menacingly to stare down at you with a dirty grimace.

Apart from the bizarre clown face paint, he appeared incredibly beat up. His one eye was completely red, and you wondered if it was simply shut from injury or if it had been gouged out. It was hard to tell with the amount of blood covering it.

He had a few large gashes littering his body in various places too. His clown costume was ripped terribly.

You both stood silently, your body shivering lightly at the blustery wind and your hair tousling gently. The clown remained unperturbed to the elements.

His good eye was narrowed into a glare, face contorting in an ugly fashion, eyeing your bare feet, your lowered shotgun, up to your bare shoulders and then finally back to your face.

An ominous smirk began to stretch across the strangers visage. It was actually rather unsettling, even without the pigs blood covering him. Merely the smirk alone set your nerves on edge.

You cocked your hip, hand resting on it comfortably as you stared up at him. "So, what do you say? It's a cold night, and you're looking a little worse for wear. Come on in, I'll help you out." Your words were true, and you think the stranger sensed that, but he seemed keenly aware of the way your voice shook.

You don't know how you knew that. Maybe it was the way his lifeless eyes shined dimly at the way it shook. Eventually, the clown nodded slowly, wordless.

You offered him a smile and a nod of finality. "Great. Follow me, if you would." You dared to turn away from this maniac, though you supposed if he wanted to kill you he could easily do that while you were looking at him; He was huge.

Not in the muscular sense, but in height he was at least a head and a half taller than you. Incredibly lanky and thin but from the way he was devouring that pig, he definitely had strength.

Walking a few steps, you paused suddenly and spun around, your silent guest directly behind you. It startled you but you tried not to let it show. "Mind grabbing the rest of the pig? Wouldn't want it going to waste. I'd do it myself, but you know how a lady gets.", you chuckled breathily; it was hard to speak when his void eyes were staring at you, smirk still somehow present and frozen on his face.

"--Don't want to dirty these pyjamas, they're my favourite. And, pardon me for saying but you're already dirty, and you'd no doubt be able to pick it up with ease, so..", you finished lamely, smiling as genuinely as you could.

It felt forced that time. He was starting to unnerve you.

Finally, the clowns expression fell into one of light thought, doing a visual sweep of your stature. It embarrassed you slightly, maybe he was judging your pyjamas. They were simple, but your favourite. Or maybe he silently agreed that yes, he could easily pick the animal up compared to you.

Dead weight was heavy, after all. And he was a big guy, in a sense.

The clown grinned this time, large and sharp, showcasing bloodied teeth, before nodding vigorously. Clapping excitedly, he hunched down to gather up the pig remains and nodded at you, as though to say 'lead the way'.

Smiling in return, you turned and led him to your home.

As soon as your back faced him, your expression morphed into one of doubt and anxiety.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

That was some time ago. It was mid winter now, and Art - the odd clown that had spelled his name to you in blood on your window - was no where to be seen.

You hadn't seen him for two weeks, he often appeared when he wanted and left for days on end too.

You had both settled into an accord of sorts.

The clown was a maniac, yes, and had often tricked and teased and terrified you with knives and hammers, pretending to finally put an end to you only to stop millimeters from your face, laughing silently and slapping his knee dramatically.

You screamed each time, gripping your chest in terror but forcing a breathy laugh to escape you, shaking your head. "Got me again, Art. When will I ever learn?" You tutted, voice shaking and body trembling.

You knew it was only a matter of time before he killed you, surely. So, you did things to keep him happy.

Like offering your old, worn out barn as his work place to fix up his weapons or create new traps. It was dingy and damp, but Art didn't even mind. His mouth opened into a perfect 'o' shape, eyebrows high in surprise, pointing to himself and then to the barn.

"Yes," you had confirmed to him, "the barn is yours. Do what you like with it, I.." you had paused. Art sensed something was left out and cocked his head at you with a menacing smile, hand under his chin as though he was ready to listen to you spill a secret.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Art. Im happy to give you the barn, you do what you want in there and I won't ask questions, but in return I was wondering if now and again, when you're free to of course, if you could help me around the place?", you asked softly, sweetly, your round eyes staring up at him so innocently he often wondered if he should pinch your cheeks until the flesh tears off or flail you.

Maybe not yet. He liked having you around for now. You were sweet and entertaining, and cooked good meals.

Art tilted his head left and right in deep thought, eyes rolling up to the sky as though truly debating with himself, before his large hands suddenly slammed down onto your shoulders heavily, causing you to gasp aloud, eyes wide.

Art began to silently laugh, lifting a finger and thumb to roughly tug at your cheek, before nodding excitedly.

You sighed in relief. Well, you couldn't very well ask him to spare your life as a favour, so you supposed asking him to help you with chores was your only option.

In a way, you think he was amused by how ballsy you were. He was terrifying, after all.

Thinking back to the present day, you hadnt seen him for two weeks, which meant he was either out on a killing spree or recuperating after a nasty fight.

You've since gathered that this man, this thing, isn't really human. He eats because he enjoys it, but you've seen him go weeks without food. This thing you've allowed into your home was demonic, and its sick how fond of him youre growing.

Sighing, you felt fatigue catching up with you as you had spent the last few hours tending to the fields, animals, and other chores such as gathering wood and cutting them into pieces.

Mindlessly lost in thought, you bent down to pick up a log, putting it into place and heaving the axe up ready to cut it. Your arms were shaking; how long ago did you eat? Well, it was around 4pm now, and you've been busy since around 7am, so it's been far too long, and you were ridiculously sweaty even in the mild winters day.

You lifted the axe, elbows suffering and shaking, before huffing loudly and dropping it back down. You really needed a break but you also really needed to start getting this wood ready for the cold winter nights.

Determination taking over your features, you lifted it again, fatigue overwhelming you but to hell with it because you had things to do before nightfall. Inhaling deeply, you lifted it high, stumbling forward as you let the axe split the wood sloppily; it was very off mark, and if your father was here right now he'd make you do it again.

The axe embedded itself into the surface below, and with both hands you gripped the handle to try and wrench it out but to no avail.

Huffing agitatedly, you gritted your teeth and tried again.

The sound of a honk startled you, your entire body jumping and a yelp escaping your throat as you spund around with a hand held to your chest.

"Art!", your tone held accusation but you still laughed. "How long have you been standing there? Please dont tell me you witnessed my horrible attempt at cutting wood.."

Art shrugged, picking up the pathetic attempt at cutting the log in half and scrutinizing it. He shook his head and closed his eyes as though disappointed.

You flushed in embarrassment. "Yeah, that really was a sorry attempt..", you turned back to the axe, gripping it and tugging. It didn't budge.

Suddenly, a pale, gloved hand gripped the handle and ripped it out with ease. You blinked at him in shock, watching at how he slyly looked down at the axe in his hands and then at you, rolling his eyes as though to say 'have I got to do everything around here?'

For a speechless clown, he was sassy. And terrifying.

You smiled tiredly. "Thanks. I'm so hungry and sweaty and gross and ugh--", you shook your head, "ignore me. Are you hungry? I'll go and--"

Fingertips touched your lips to silence you, and then a finger shot into the air, telling you to wait. The clown eagerly knelt down to rummage through his bag of..mysteries.

He excitedly rubbed his hands together as he found what he was looking for, and delved in to grab it tightly.

The clown spun around to face you, item hidden in box, and closed his eyes dramatically, then stared at you pointedly.

"Oh, um..Close my eyes?", the clown nodded happily at you being able to understand.

Your pulse increased, fear gripping you. You wouldn't refuse him. Closing your eyes slowly, you held your hands out. "I-I trust you, Art. No funny games, okay? Please.", you pouted.

Art cocked his head at your pouting lips and shaking hands. He had that unexplainable urge to squeeze you tightly and also cut your lips off with a scissors. You were adorable, he'd admit that. He wondered if a day would ever come where you'd flutter your cute eyelashes at him and he'd grab a knife and burst your dazzling blue orbs.

Maybe one day, but not today.

It was only on rare occasion that you'd catch the sadistic killer of miles county choosing to not act with violence.

You were the only rare occasion.

Pushing those tempting thoughts away, Art held the box excitedly and tip toed over to you dramatically. He was eager for you to see his gift.

Firm hands gripped your own as a box was dropped into it, only a small box.

You smiled uncertainly, eyes closed, and felt the box with your hands. Art poked at your eyelids gently for you to open them.

The box was black. Tattered. You lifted the lid slowly.

A multitude of emotions filled you. You didn't know which ones to show. Art watched eagerly, excitedly, though you could still see the sharpness of his eyes.

The box was filled to the brim with Beatles. They were squirming and hurrying over one another in an ugly display, some spilling out onto your arms before falling on the floor. Luckily, you weren't terrified of insects.

Looking at Art, he began mimicking holding an imaginary box and shaking it hard, then pointed at you.

You shook the box hard, the Beatles scattering everywhere, and gazed into the box.

Your blood ran cold.

A decapitated fox head stared at you, eyeless and bloodied with its tongue cut out and shoved into one of its eye sockets. Beatles crawled throughout its skull.

"A..Fox."

Art nodded aggressively, pointing animatedly at your chickens cooing in their pen, then at the fox, then at himself.

"Oh! You killed the fox that has been hunting my hens?"

Art clapped silently and his eyes dazzled as though screaming 'bingo! Finally!', then pointing and laughing at your pale expression and wide eyes. His gruesome smile was held wide, cutting sharp, as he buckled over in silent laughter.

Your mouth quirked upwards in amusement. Well, he was certainly keeping his end of the bargain. The fox was a pest, after all, even if his method of killing was a little..unorthodox. Not that you'd ever complain.

You couldn't help but giggle at this absurd man. "Thank you, Art. I appreciate that. Now with my hens remaining alive and well, I can make you some more of those pancakes you like once they lay their eggs."

Arts mouth opened in surprise, eyebrows raised high. He tipped his hat in a gentlemanly fashion, nodding at you as though to say it's a job well done. You agreed that it was.

Putting the box down, you gripped the axe once more, ready to return it to the shed. "Well, I'm going to have a quick shower, then how about I make us some supper?"

Art wiggled his eyebrows at you suggestively, and heat lightly warmed your cheeks. Before you could reply, the axe was ripped from your hands and Art had already gotten to work with cutting some more wood. He did it flawlessly.

He shooed you away dramatically, wiggling his eyebrows one more time before chopping through the wood efficiently.

Conflicted in how easily he embarrassed you, you made your way tiredly to the bathroom. You really needed that shower.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You let the hot water wash away the stress of the day, eyes closed as you nourished an apple smelling conditioner through your hair.

You sighed, feeling ten times better already, muscles sore from the strenuous chores you barely managed to finish today.

Standing in the warm confinement of water and steam, you began to wonder if Art was still cutting wood. This led to thoughts about how bizarre it was having a murderer in your residence while you showered vulnerably. He didn't appear to want to kill you yet, and you wanted to keep it that way.

Wrapping a towel around your hair and body, you stared at your tired complexion in the mirror and frowned.

You really shouldn't be so comfortable with his ominous presence, but..

There was something quirky and charming about him, you guessed.

You soon froze at the sound of an alarm blaring.

You ran to the bathroom door, tearing it open. What was--

Was that your fire alarm blaring? But why? You had meat in your slow cooker, yes, but--

Panic surged through you as you darted out of your bathroom and bolted down the stairs. You didn't know how or why but you prayed that your kitchen was in tact.

Barreling through your living room and into the kitchen, you scrutinized the area, seeing no smoke, no fire, nothing.

Eyes wide, you ran to the slow cooker and switched it off. There wasn't even any smoke coming from it, how had your alarm gone off? Bending to check in your oven, you confirmed what you already knew - there was nothing in there.

Standing straight, hands on your hips in annoyance at that blaring alarm, you sighed aloud. Your towel remained upon your head, however loose hair had managed to escape and fall upon your shoulders from your erratic movements.

Glancing around desperately, Art was no where to be found. With his height, he could probably reach the alarm on your ceiling and deactivate it. You spent no time waiting for his possible arrival and grabbed a chair.

Lugging it over to the centre of the room, you gripped the top of it and shakily stood tall upon the chair. Reaching up high, you fiddled with the alarm, attempting to get a good grip to be able to remove it.

You huffed, making a sound of aggravation as your towel somehow remained firm around your figure, even if it was short. The water from the shower was cold on your body now and it only seemed to worsen your mood.

Finally managing to rip the damn thing from the ceiling, you removed the batteries and tossed it to the floor with a scowl. Stupid faulty alarm.

In a less than desirable mood, your hand gripped the chair to steady yourself. Before you could even put a foot on the floor, a honk sounded so close to you it had you yelping; you hadn't even sensed him let alone heard him.

Wide eyed, you stared down at the clown. His shoulder was practically brushing your outer thigh as you stood high. "Oh, Art, I didn't see you--"

A hand being thrust out to you interrupted you. He was offering his large hand to you, and although uncertain, you couldn't deny that he had a peculiar charm. Smiling, you gripped his hand with your own to steady yourself, lifting one leg to put on the floor.

Except you never did. You barely caught the malicious grin the clown gave you, eyes narrowed into slits and teeth bared as he lifted one foot backwards and kicked the chair out from under you.

The leg of the chair shattered from the force, splintering and bending as you began to topple to the floor. You screamed, eyes squeezed shut.

You thought you had whiplash at the way your hand was wrenched painfully towards his body, your figure pressed up against his as your head butted into his chest.

He had an arm around your waist, suspending your weight in the air against his body with no difficulty.

The clown remained frozen, grin still as wide and terrifying. Your feet barely brushed the floor. "Art!", you screeched, body shaking from adrenaline, hair towel fallen to the floor.

The clowns eyes snapped to yours disturbingly. Before you could berate him further, you were tossed upwards until dexterous hands rested at your shoulders and below your knees. He was holding you bridal style and it terrified you.

You cried out in shock, gripping his clown suit between white knuckles, bath towel beginning to slip ever so slightly. You felt a mixture of terror and embarrassment at being in the brutal arms of the county killer.

And the terror only increased tenfold as the clown removed his grip from supporting your shoulders for mere seconds, your body heading straight for the floor, before securing his arms around you again before you could make impact, shoulders moving in silent laughter.

You truly screamed that time, legs kicking out and arms wrapping around his neck instinctively. Your eyes squeezed shut, towel slipping even more; it mortified you.

"Oh my goodness, Art, you terrified me! And I bet it was you that set off my alarm?", you accused in a high pitched, shaky tone, grasping him incredibly tight as you felt his fingers teasingly loosen just to scare you.

Art nodded vigorously, proud and excited that he had been caught, and snapped his head down at you. His grin of sinister glee slowly morphed into a knowing, filthy smirk.

You blinked up at him vulnerably, wide and glassy eyed, rigid in his arms, before realising that oh my God, you were in a towel this entire time, a short towel that surely moved during the commotion--

He must have noticed the sudden panic in your eyes, for his lecherous smirk stretched terrifyingly, eyes narrowed.

Surprisingly pervertedly, Art glanced down at your body swiftly. Once, twice. An indication that you should probably take a look. His eyebrows wiggled, and without needing to look, your cheeks reddened, lips parted in shock.

Head snapping down at yourself, a flush spread from your neck to your cheeks. The towel had dropped so low your breasts were threatening to spill out obscenely. It didn't help that you were of ample size.

And although everything else vital was covered, the way your upper thigh was exposed had you squirming desperately to try and make some distance.

"Ah!", you cried, "my towel! Put me down!" You demanded helplessly, overcome by embarrassment as Art snickered silently at your need to protect your intimates.

Art dropped the arm holding your legs, letting them crash upon the floor painfully. The sudden downward motion had you squealing, gripping him hard. You were grateful that he supported your upper body, you supposed.

The way your body dropped had your towel falling fully for a split second before you ripped it back up to cover your modesty.

You tore yourself away from him - he let you - and stared at him with wide eyes, chest panting in fear and fluttering peculiarly.

Your hands shook as you gripped your towel, knees knocking together, withering under the intense stare of the clown as he foregone his usual dramatic, knee slapping laugh and instead almost seemed to chuckle in amusement, brows as low as they could go, head tilting in fascination at your half naked state.

He expected anger, frustration, undeniable fear at his actions towards you. What intrigued him was the way your round cheeks flared crimson and how your eyes, usually relatively confident when regarding him, fluttered everywhere but him.

Yes, he decided, head tilting left and right slowly, deciphering. You seemed incredibly flustered.

He felt lust, often. For blood, violence, but rarely sexually. Pain was sweeter than pleasure, he thought, but regarding you now, languidly staring at you from head to toe, an idea struck his mind...

An idea you couldn't decipher, but the way his eyes lit up and his eyebrows rose pleasantly sent heat flaring through you.

You didn't allow it to consume you any further as you darted up the stairs and into your room.

On the way past him, you saw his shoulders moving in a silent, mean laughter.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

That had been two days ago. Since then, you continued on as normal..

Or as normal as can be.

Art remained busy in the old barn, the sounds of hammering and God knows what else permeating the quiet air at all hours of the day, and oftentimes there would be silence; He had left.

It had been a full day and a half since you last took sight of him. It was unusual how domesticated you felt, preparing enough food for two with a little extra leftover, keeping only the dark towels in the bathroom from when he no doubt came strolling in covered in blood and took a shower.

You came to notice he was meticulously clean about things he deemed worthy, such as his clown suit and himself. He loved to bathe in his victims blood, yes, but after a fun days work, you often found him spotless. Well, apart from his teeth. Bizarrely, he didn't utterly stink, and you come to the conclusion that he chose his terrifying mouth to look that way on purpose.

That was good. You appreciated that even if he didn't necessarily do it for you.

The only thing you had gently persuaded him on was allowing you to at least dry his clown suit before putting it on. With a roll of his eyes, he allowed it.

There were very few things he allowed genuinely, and you seemed to believe he had grown accustomed to your gentle naggings of 'Art, please don't touch that with blood on your hands', or 'There was no need to trail bloody footprints all over my kitchen'

You never demanded. That probably helped. Of course he had days where he'd grin mischievously and smear blood across your mirrors and door handles, knowing you'd have to touch it and clean it.

You could live with that. Thankfully, after a night of killing, he was reasonably tame, eating whatever food you kept in your cupboards with a calm expression.

That wasn't to say that he wasn't unpredictable. He could snap on times and come at you with a knife, chasing you around the kitchen as you screeched and whined for him to stop, all the while watching him laugh with glee.

And on real scary nights when he seemed bored, well..

Anything could happen then. Even still, Art remained tame as of yet in comparison to the things he is capable of. He clearly saw a need in you, and repaid your generous cooking, cleaning and fixing up his costume for him with keeping you alive and leaving you mostly unharmed.

A cut here or there, yeah, and definitely a bruise but you were alive and well.

The only real affect he had on you was terror, he did enjoy popping up randomly in the dark when you had got up for a glass of water, hand roughly pushed over your mouth as your screams muffled into his hand before realising who had caught you.

Or the times you'd check on him in the old barn, just to see if he was around for dinner, calling his name out. Venturing in, you'd freeze as the door shut behind you, darkness enveloping the entire area, only for the sound of a flame thrower igniting near you making you scream and cover your mouth in terror.

Each time you'd ramble something like 'Art, stop it! I-Im making beef for dinner and I just wanted to check that you wanted some!'

The clown would tug on your cheeks with both hands, patting your head as though to say 'how adorable are you?' before pushing you surprisingly gently towards the door and shooing you away.

You'd run back to the house with your chest beating so loudly you could hear it in your ears.

Presently, you were wearing a cute brown dress, tights covering your legs as you cleaned around the place. Loving the winter, you brought out your cosy candles and fairy lights, loving the gentle glow as the nights grew longer and the sun faded earlier. It wasn't quite time to decorate for Christmas yet, so this will do.

In fact, having a little break from the clown had allowed you to really tidy everything up, get your chores done, see to the animals and bake some brownies in the oven.

All in all you felt refreshed and well, truly in your element. It allowed you to push.. peculiar thoughts of Art from your mind.

Time carried on, and the brownies were cooling on the baking tray as you sat comfortably on your settee, a white blanket decorated in pumpkins covering you. You loved Halloween, too.

Dropping off to sleep, your mind felt at peace until a muffled sound was heard from outside. Lifting your head, you didn't react as you awaited Art to barge in at any moment, only..nothing.

Sitting up, you waited silently, hearing that muffling once again.

You frowned. Art was a master of silence, if he didn't want you to even hear the rustling of his bag, you wouldn't.

So why did you hear leaves crunching loudly, and..

Oh.

That wasn't Art.

You could hear voices mumbling now, close to your window, though unintelligible. You wondered who it could be. You had no known close relatives, and no friends, really.

Not close enough to appear unannounced on a late Friday evening, anyway.

Living in the middle of no where, you learned to be cautious of such sounds. You had no neighbours, and hardly anyone ever passed your cottage. Those that did tended to knock politely, not skirt around your perimeter sneakily.

Aside from Art; he's different.

Standing swiftly, you opened a drawer, gripping a handgun. You could never be too careful out here all alone, and you doubted it would go down easy if you stood with your shotgun aimed at them.

Handgun it is. Hiding it furtively, you stepped outside with confidence.

The sight of two men dressed head to toe in black greeted you, peeking through your curtains.

"Can I help you?", you began politely, causing them to bolt upright and spin around to face you. You couldn't see their faces.

They weren't amicable strangers, that was for certain.

"That truck yours?", the tallest indicated with a nod of his head.

"It is."

"You, uh..you live alone?"

You smiled.

"I do."

The two men sprung into action. "You do, do you? Be a good girl and chuck me the keys."

"Why would I ever do that?" You remained calm, pulse elevating, adrenaline begining to grow.

"Why?", the other repeated with a scoff, and swiftly pulled a knife out from his pocket, "because I want to see your round ass walk away like a good bitch, so go grab those fucking keys before I cut your face off."

Talk about overboard.

Nodding politely, you backstepped. "I understand. I don't want any trouble, give me one moment, please."

You backstepped further into your house, keeping the door open.

As you did, you heard one of the men hiss 'im not a fucking murderer, let's just get the truck and fucking go!'

You had a few options here.

You could run, hide, call the police.

You shook your head and steeled your nerves. Hell no. This was your damn property.

The two men looked around cautiously, impatient. "Where the fuck is she? We should've gone in with her."

"She's terrified, bitch probably can't find the keys."

They heard the sound of a gun cocking. Loudly.

Turning back to the door, you supposed they never thought to see a shotgun aiming directly at them. You could see their eyes widen behind a black robber mask.

"Woah, hey, keep the fucking keys--", one began, hands in the air, knife dropped to the floor.

You remember holding this very shotgun the night you met Art. You smartly lowered it, knowing true evil and terror when you saw it.

But these two? They had nothing on Art. Just average men, trying hard to terrify a woman. A nasty smirk broke out on your face, one of anger and satisfaction.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen. You're going to get the fuck off my property before I blow a hole in your chest. How's that sound?"

The scared one nodded vigorously, hands jittering as he backstepped, ready to bolt. The other, however..

"You wouldn't do that. You don't have it in you.", the other tried calling your bluff, taking a leap forward. It started you, but you remained strong.

"Wouldn't I? Out here in the middle of no where, who'd ever come looking for you?"

The man shrugged. "You might be right, but whose going to look for you?"

Before you could respond a hand grabbed from behind, reaching out and gripping the barrel of your shotgun and forcing it to the sky.

You instinctively pulled the trigger, sound blasting through the forest loudly causing birds to flutter away.

How the hell did he get in the house?

The assailant was stronger than you, tearing the weapon to the floor before gripping you by the hair roughly.

You grunted in pain, hands frantically searching for the handgun on your person as the man at the bottom of your steps began coming at you too.

You managed to shoot him in the thigh, hearing him cry out and collapse.

The scared one took off in a sprint, never turning back.

The aggressive one currently ripping strands of hair from the root wrestled you to the floor after shooting his friend, boot pressing firmly on the hand that held the gun and kicking it away.

He got on top of you and held you down as you struggled and fought against his hold, head reeling to the side as he back handed you, hard.

Furniture and anything close by moved and was tossed over as you fought back, unwilling to let him pin your hands to the floor, punching a fist into his groin to get him to crumple slightly so you could lug him off with all your might.

You scrambled to your feet and made a dash to the door, barely getting halfway before a strong body wrestled you back to the floor, your hands aching from the wall as he ripped your dress from the back to keep a hold on you.

You continued scrambling ahead, reaching out for anything, hands gripping the large sewing needle you had lost some time ago and turning to stab it into his cheek.

The man hissed, face turned into an ugly snarl as he staggered back in pain, holding the wound.

You up and ran, panting and panicking as you frantically made it outside.

The man didn't let up, he ruthlessly grabbed your hair causing you to cry out and slapped you so hard across the face you saw stars.

Blood dripped from your mouth as you stumbled back, held upright by the man's grip on you.

He grabbed your cheeks hard, squeezing the blood from your mouth, snarling. "Pretty thing, I'm going to put you in your fucking place--"

You cried out a sharp 'no!', kicking him between the legs and pushing him away.

You both fought tooth and nail for a while, you managing to run a short distance before being dragged back and hit even harder in the face.

This time you gasped helplessly for breath, blood spurting out of your nose and down your mouth.

What scared you the most was a hand gripping your thighs and trying to spread them.

"I'm going to fuck you before I kill you, bitch. And it's going to hurt." The man seethed the ugly promise, tearing your dress up high and grabbing your tights to rip a hole in then.

You cried out, kicking him in the jaw but to no avail. Without any weapons you had no chance in winning against his strength.

You saw an opening as he stumbled back at your kick and bolted it as fast as you could towards the trees. You knew this land well, so you knew where to hide.

Frightful and shaking, tears littered your cheeks as you heard the sound of the man getting to his feet to chase after you.

You gasped painfully, unable to breathe, and all but screamed bloody murder as you ran directly into a chest.

An arm wrapped around your struggling body, a hand smothering your scream as you fought and cried out desperately against another assailant. This one was like a brick wall, unmovable to your attempted attacks, even if he himself wasn't attacking you.

Two hands gripped your shoulders and shook you hard, causing you to look up at his face in terror only to pause, wide eyed.

That familiar, monochromatic clown tilted his head down at you in a thoughtful frown, mild confusion pooling in his irises as he studied you from head to toe, moving a gloved finger to wipe at the blood trickling down your chin.

"Art!", you cried, chest heaving up and down, "Theres--These men--attacked me and--and tried to-to--"

You could barely get your words out, watching as Art cocked a surprised eyebrow up and attempted to decipher your rambled sentences.

He didn't really need to. Upon further inspection, he could see the bruising of your face, the very blatant tear of your tights which showed a lot of skin, and how your dress had been ripped.

He knew something was off when he heard the sound of gunshots. He knew you had guns, but for you to use one meant something was amiss. Something compelled him to come and look, dropping the dead body he had been mutilating in the woods, eager and..somewhat impatient, to get to you.

That was a foreign feeling, and now having actually studied your shaking hands that gripped his costume and the amount of blood that covered your face as tears dribbled down fatly, staring up at him in utter relief, he was unused to such an expression, and truly didnt mind it coming from you.

Gazing outwards at the forest, an intense ire began to build in him. You weren't going to die today, he doubted you ever would because you were his, and only his.

Having finally made a decision, Art grinned cruelly, fingers eager and twitching excitedly to meet this so called attacker.

Letting his arms drop from you, he took a step forward to make his way to the house, stopping as you gripped his arm in fear.

"W-wait, please don't leave me--"

Art held up a hand calmly, shushing you, and went through his black bag, retrieving a hammer. He patted your head, as though telling you not to worry, and made his way towards your home. He walked excitedly with a bounce in his step.

You knew what that meant.

You were so happy to see him, as fucked up as that is, but he clearly made the decision to protect you. You felt relief and fondness, sitting against a tree with your knees up to your chest, waiting.

You wanted them dead, truth be told, but may God have mercy on them for what Art is about to do..

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You remembered hearing gut wrenching screams and splatters of vomit as various tools were used to maim the trespassers.

You remember your body moving on auto pilot as you entered your home, Art briefly stopping his flaying of the man who threatened assault on you, to lift a hand and wave at you, fingers dancing playfully.

You waved back slowly, trudging up the steps and into your home where your living room was a mess from the commotion. There were patches of your blood on the floor, a lamp upturned and glass shattered messily.

Body and mind exhausted, you laid down on the settee and fell asleep dreamlessly. You didn't even awaken to the sounds of a chainsaw and guttural screaming.

You don't know how long you slept for. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, waking up to your ribs aching from the attack, or your lips burning from being split, the blood drying on them and irritating them.

You were still a mess, hair dishevelled and face bruised, dried blood flaking off your face and your clothes in almost tatters.

Your face was still puffy from crying, eyes opening slowly and slightly bloodshot. Moaning weakly, you stretched your legs out and hissed as your ripped tights dug into a deep cut in your thigh.

The TV was on. You barely registered the comforting hum of some early Christmas film that was on, volume low and tranquil.

Slowly standing, you made your way to the kitchen. Your chest fluttered at the sight of Art, sitting calmly at the table with a plate of sweet treats you had in the cupboards, including biscuits and cake, and what looked to be a cup of hot chocolate.

He was eating them very civilised, too. You were proud of that. It wasn't like he needed to eat, at least you thought, but he really did enjoy sweet food. Same as you.

Clad in a surprisingly clean clown suit, he waved at you, his hands stained red. He must have cleaned himself up for the most part, and..looking around, you sighted a mop bucket, so he must've really made a mess and cleaned up after him.

That was oddly..sweet. It made you smile.

"I must have been asleep a while." You gathered aloud, taking a seat at the table across from him.

The clown shrugged, held up a hand with 4 fingers. So you slept for about 4 hours then.

You rubbed your eyes, exhausted. The clown tilted his head at you slowly, frowning softly in thought with a finger to his chin.

"Yeah, I'm a mess. I can't believe those guys." You huffed, glaring down at yourself. Your anger spiked at the sight of your attire.

"He ruined my favourite fucking dress!" You exclaimed, arms folding frustratedly. You were a mixture of huffs and mutters as the clown cocked a calm eyebrow - how had you both switched places? - and listened to you curse and swear which he had never heard before.

It made him chuckle silently, head in hand as he watched you. Feeling eyes on you, your frown softened. "Im sorry, I'm not myself. I thought I had it all under control when I saw the two of them."

Your gaze dropped lower to the floor, reminiscing. "I didn't really notice the third. I have no idea how he got in." You almost whispered defeatedly, eyes misted and glassy as you remembered the way that man treated you and touched you.

You suddenly felt incredibly dirty. What if you hadn't managed to outrun him? He was about to violate you. And what if Art had never showed up? He'd--

Your thoughts draw to a pause as Art taps your hand gently, points to himself and does a stabbing motion, then points outside.

It made your lips quirk. "Their dead?"

Art nodded excitedly, grinning wide as his fingers tickle your hand. You begin to giggle, and grip onto his hand. "I'm glad you turned up. I mean, I managed to fight him off barely, but imagine if..."

You froze, eyes staring at your intertwined hands, and shook your head. "Assholes."

Art suddenly lit up like a lightbulb, face making one of surprise as he held a hand up to wait. Comically running out of the room, you awaited his return as he came near you with one of the robbers mask. Something was wrapped inside it.

Art got down on one knee and presented it to you with arms outstretched, wiggling his eyebrows, and you giggled again. Gripping the fabric, you found it soaked with blood. Opening it, a human heart stared back at you. It was relatively fresh.

You blinked slowly, not at all feeling usual feelings of repulsion and fear. Instead you felt..warm. The symbolic meaning of presenting you with the heart of your attacker wasn't lost on you, and as fucked up as it was, you blushed faintly.

"I.."

You smiled incredibly gently, Art thought. It made him happy to see your face finally light up after those filthy, rotten humans dared to touch what was his.

"I'm incredibly grateful for that. Thank you, Art. Who'd have thought you'd make such a great protector?" You winked playfully, laughing when he returned it dramatically with a nod.

"Oh! I almost forgot!", you rose and grabbed a nearby dish. "I made brownies!", you pouted at the fact that they weren't warm and delicious anymore, and Art thought that if you kept acting so cute he'd have to hurt you. In a good way, of course. He was still confused about that.

Art revealed one of his rare smiles, lacking it's usual slyness or sinisterness, and grabbed a brownie delightedly. It made you beam.

There you both sat, his hands bloodied and your face bruised with a heart sitting between you both as you shared the brownies.

There was an undeniable connection, and as you cuddled up in your blankets after a fresh shower, staring up at the ceiling, you thought about that.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The dynamic had shifted. Art could still be sly and mean in his ways of scaring you, but he certainly toned it down. He seemed to want to hear your laughter more, launching tickle attacks on you until you were a squealing mess on the settee, wriggling and fighting against his grip as tears of laughter wet your cheeks.

"Please!", you squealed, "no more! You win!", you'd shriek, body contorting until his fingers finally stopped and he stared down at you smugly.

For a moment, you both stared in silence, you catching your breath and him observant as ever.

With a burst of excited energy, you fled his slack grip and bolted to the other side of the living room, jumping in your spot. "Just kidding! I got away so I won!" You giggled ecstatically, watching as the clown slowly stood to his tall height.

Your laughter died down, nervous excitement replacing it. He held a glint in his eye that could only mean trouble. Art tilted his head dramatically, finger to his lips as though saying 'Oh, you've won, have you?'

You shook your head in panic, hands held up in surrender. "i-i didn't mean that! Honestly!"

Art mimiced your panicked face, holding his hands up in surrender as he jumped towards you. You jolted, stumbling back as an uncertain laughter bubbled up.

"Believe me, I know I could never outrun you..", you glanced towards the kitchen door, plotting.

Art lifted a hand to his chin, silently humming in thought, before holding up a hand with fingers spread wide.

He dropped a finger, holding up 4.

Then 3.

2.

"Wait--wait why are you counting?!"

1.

Art froze, grin held wide as he remained unmoving. You shifted nervously, about to say something before Art suddenly came to life again and darted towards you.

You screamed and bolted away, running instead to the stairs that were closer and hoping to make it to your room.

You did, and as you ran through it and turned to slam the door shut, Art was already in the doorway and wrapping his arms around you as you shrieked and cried out apologies for challenging him.

Art showed you no mercy, throwing you to the bed and holding you down with ease as he assaulted your ribs again with his fingers.

He laughed silently at your torture, gleeful and delighted at your non stop screaming and laughing.

"Art! Wait! I can't take it anymore!--" you wheezed, grabbing his wrists and pushing as hard as you could.

He didn't even budge. He was like a stone wall. Art paused, cocking his head down at your futile efforts and back up to your terrified face.

You froze, realising that you just challenged him again.

With a flash of black and white, Art jumped atop you, straddling your hips as he held your wrists down with one of his hands, watching you squirm and whine.

He chuckled evilly, silently, eyebrows low and grin spreading wide.

But there was that same look from the other day again. Peering down at you, he watched you analyse the position you were in, eyes fluttering up to his face in shock as a flush tainted your pretty skin.

Art knew that look. He was very meticulous when it came to the human body and the emotions it can feel.

You were panting, chest fluttering and warmth radiating off of you as Art smirked down at you knowingly. He raised his eyebrows, hand to mouth in shock as though to say 'Are those dirty thoughts in your head?'

Although silent, it was as though you knew that he knew what you were thinking. You felt dazed, so red and undeniably enjoying the vision of him above you, holding you down.

There was no denying the guilty thoughts you had had of him in the privacy of your bedroom at night, faceless men turning into monochromatic, super natural clowns each time you reached your peak.

You felt vile at first. But after his protection against those men the other day, your feelings definitely shifted, and since then you couldn't stop your thoughts from trailing to him..

The sexual ones, too. The private ones where you thought about pale, strong hands holding your head down against the bed as you were taken from behind.

The ones where your head was wrenched back by an iron fist in your hair, too euphoric to the point that you could only babble words.

You knew he could take you there. And his incessant flirting in real life, where he'd wiggle his eyebrows at you if you passed in a towel or if you bent over, or where he'd stand teasingly in your way of a doorway, forcing you to squeeze past him as he smirks and winks. Those things made the thoughts all the stronger, and at times you wondered if he knew what you were going to do once you got back to your room.

Sometimes, the way he smirked and waved at you with a wiggle of his fingertips just after you finished getting yourself off made you wonder. He must've known, this freakish demonic man.

The memories brought heat spreading down to your neck, your tongue tied as you struggled to break the tension. You struggled to get a word out, eyes fluttering in nervous anticipation. It was hard not to romanticise this charming clown.

"I--"

The clown leaned down close, void eyes staring into yours that were so full of emotion, raw and naked. His strong hand that was capable of such violence began tracing your jawline delicately, as though you were porcelain.

You inhaled shakily, feeling the digits drop to your neck, pressing against your fluttering, rapid pulse.

From anyone else, that would feel uncomfortable. But Art doing that felt so suffocatingly intimate you didn't know how to react, eyebrows drawn together in mild confusion at your feelings.

The way Art smirked made you realise he knew exactly what he was doing. Lifting his hand to his mouth, he gripped the glove with his teeth and tugged it off, freeing his pale, veiny hand and bringing it to your cheek, thumb tenderly rubbing the area.

You felt like your head was going to burst from how red you were. You think its because the utter shock at having Art act in a way that wholly juxtaposes him and touch you delicately made you feel so exquisitely special that you didn't know how to register it.

How can a mere innocent touch melt you so much?

His fingers traced the lines and curves of your face in fascination. There was no doubt a morbidity to his thoughts, but there was also mild, genuine adoration in his lifeless eyes.

Your pulse quickened, butterflies dancing in your belly at the thumb that now traced your plush lips. Body reacting faster than your thoughts, your tongue wet the tip of his thumb.

A glint began to shine in his eyes, ferocious and wanting. He tilted his head down at you, unsmiling but not in a scary way; he appeared quite tranquil, and something else.

His thumb dipped into your mouth slightly, experimentally, and he was pleased at the way you wholly accepted him in, swirling your tongue intimately around his digit.

Your eyelids drooped, overcome by this display of raw connection, your lips glistening as he slowly retrieved his thumb, giving your lips one final stroke before gliding his hand down your neck again, tickling the skin with gentle fingertips before moving down to your collarbone.

You held your breath, biting your lip as the usually menacing clown above you glided further down, and down, until his hand brushed the outline of your breast, barely skimming across your nipple.

You inhaled sharply, how were you this sensitive? You could feel heat pooling between your thighs already.

Art tilted his head, examining the large, soft globes that hid beneath your clothes. Eyes flickering up at you, Art smirked before gripping the front of your shirt and tearing it open with ease.

You gasped aloud, eyes wide and mouth agape as your breasts bounced free, nipples hard and begging for attention.

You flushed so deeply red that your face began resonating heat. You were so embarrassed at being half naked in front of him, and you didn't know why. Maybe it was because of the teasing way he winked appreciatively, removing the other glove from his hand swiftly before grazing your breasts barely, hands gripping handfuls of them boldly soon after.

His thumbs skimmed over your pebbled nipples, watching your head loll back against the pillow as you inhaled and exhaled shakily. Bolts of arousal were shooting to the junction of your thighs every time his calloused thumbs teased your perk nipples.

Art was entranced by your visible display of arousal, so sensitive and so wanting; he had never felt this way about a person. Even he knew he was being unnaturally kind, inducing you with pleasure that was sure to have you tingling.

Art never did things unless he wanted to. He didn't want to hurt you. No, his dominance and roughness that he could just tell you craved would come later. For now, he wanted you wet and yearning.

He was proficient in knowing how to hurt the human body, which means he's acutely aware of how to pleasure it; that simply came hand in hand.

And, glancing down at you, having been brought from his thoughts by your breathy exhale, he could tell that what he was doing was incredibly pleasurable. You squirmed, legs widening and relaxing unconsciously below him, your pretty green skirt riding up your thighs.

"Art-", you whined in a whisper, nerve endings alight and tingling, begging to be touched.

Art flashed a smile, head tilting once more as though wondering what to do with you. He could leave you here, undeniably wet and sticky and yearning, begging sweetly, or he could indulge, nudge your pretty thighs apart and fuck you like you've wanted him to for a while now.

You didn't hide it well, especially after touching yourself mere minutes before seeing him, pupils blown wide, hair tousled and sweaty, legs lightly shaking. You should probably stop leaving your wet, soft underwear on your bedroom floor too. That's a big give away, if you didn't already know.

The sarcastic thought had him grinning, and after moving his head back and forth in thought, weighing out his options, he flicked his thumbs over your nipples a few more times, watching you react immediately and arch your back towards his hands.

"Ah-", you gasped, shuddering, gnawing at your lip with hooded eyes.

Art rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, then shrugged lightly to himself. He wasn't necessarily a sexual creature, but he was still in the body of a man. Tweaking your nipples teasingly, Art nodded.

He wanted to fuck you, hard.

But he wanted to tease you first.

Arts eyes dropped to the way your legs had spread for him, dark underwear on display from the way your skirt had ridden up your thighs.

Trailing a hand down your waist and to your hips, Art studied you as his hand moved lower, teasing your inner thighs, pinching the fatty flesh there before pressing two fingers against your apex.

You reacted immediately, shuddering a breath in and out as your legs spread fully, bent at the knee.

Pale fingers traced your soft, wet lips through your underwear, tickling from where your hole would be and up towards your pulsating clit, circling the bud with light pressure.

You moaned quietly, legs squirming slightly as you yearned for a direct touch, his teasing becoming relentless. Your hands balled into fists as white hot tingling sensations barreled through your stomach and your clit, demanding to be touched but to no avail.

Art knew this, and pressed two fingers firmly against your clit, circling.

"Oh--yes--", you whined, looking fucked out with your head lolled back when Art had barely done anything. He wondered how you'd react to the plans he had for you later if this is how you were after a few strokes.

His teasing continued, trailing down to your hole and dipping in slightly, soaking your underwear, before running his finger to the edge of the useless garment and hooking two fingers in, tearing it apart.

This time, Art used both hands to grip your thighs, spreading them far. He studied your pink, exposed slit with incredible interest. The mess of wetness was excessive, coating the length of your sex, your inner thighs and gliding down to your tight rim.

You squirmed in his hands at his staring, to which he tightened his grip, making you shudder.

"Art..", you whined

His eyes snapped up to yours expectantly.

"Please, I--", you gasped at his fingers tracing maddeningly around your labia, refusing to touch you directly. "Please touch me. Please, I--..I need it so bad.", tears filled your eyes with frustration, "so fucking bad, you have no idea.."

But Art did know. He's always known, and just to prove his point he searched for something in his pockets, retreaving it and dangling it in front of your face.

You froze. It was your used underwear from yesterday, when you masturbated before a shower, throwing the garment to the floor. You thought you had imagined throwing it to the floor, because upon coming back to the bedroom, it was gone.

You looked mortified, hands covering your face. "You've known all along?" You whined, unable to face his grin. You felt humiliation creep up your chest at being caught red handed, biting your lip hard to ground yourself. Pathetic tears threatened to fall in frustration.

You gasped as two hands gripped your own and pinned them above your head, using one to keep them there while the other hand wagged it's finger back and fore, Art shaking his head and tutting silently.

You were forced to face his smug, teasing stare, your own face pouting. Art lifted two fingers, wiggled them, before bringing them to your lips.

You accepted, swirling your tongue around them, before they were retrieved swiftly. Wiggling them again, Art made a show of demonstrating just what he was about to do to you to bring that smile back.

Winking in a way that had you melting in a puddle of embarrassment, Art pressed two fingers to your wet entrance, grinning before gliding them into your wanton hole.

Your reaction was instantaneous, a keening 'oh!' torn from your throat, back arching as you squirmed beneath the hand that pinned you down.

Art began to thrust his fingers deeply, pulling out to the tip before delving back in, watching you writhe and gasp. You were desperate for more, hips lifting higher.

Art pulled his fingers out of you, showing the wet lubrication that coated them, scissoring them apart to watch the way it attached his fingers with stringy gooeyness.

You released a frustrated whine this time, fighting beneath his one hand. "No, no don't pull them out, please--" you pouted pathetically, desperately.

Art wanted to torment you more, but his desire to see you screaming in pleasure outweighed that at the moment. He wanted to break you.

Shrugging innocently as though to say 'well, you asked for it', Arts two fingers sunk into you to the knuckle, pumping in and out firmly and roughly, curling rhythmically against that spongy area he knew would have you seeing stars.

"Oh--Oh!", you cried, hips tilted up into his assault, the lewd sound of your wet hole permeating the air as his fingers went in and out, in and out, restlessly and roughly, giving you exactly what you wanted.

Art smirked darkly, increasing the pace rapidly, so fast he had to hold your kicking legs down as he brought you too much pleasure, too much torment in the sweetest way he could give.

You cried out loudly now, unable to hold your voice back, body convulsing lightly as your peak approached.

"A-Art, Oh, Ohh--" you moaned, panting and thrashing back and fore as his fingers forced an orgasm out of you, intense and sudden, squirting down his wrist and soaking your bed.

You gasped for air, legs falling slack as your mind felt like it was floating.

You didn't have any time to think as Art gripped your hips tightly, flipping you over effortlessly and pulling your ass into the air. He smoothed the skin gently, before giving it a slap, watching you jolt.

You were soaked, legs quivering as you braced yourself. Your knees knocked together, staring back at him desperately.

You had dreamed of this for some time, you thought, gnawing at your lip anxiously. Judging by the sudden, bare feel of his hard cock against your folds, you knew you were in for a ride; he felt huge.

He was definitely thick, but even more than that is that he was incredible in length. He wasn't an ordinary man, so you shouldn't be surprised, but a tingle of fear and excitement gnaws through you all the same.

"W-will that fit?", you whispered in awe, salivating, and Art merely shrugged, wiggling his eyebrows as though to say 'ill make it fit', before putting a hand on your head and pushing your face into the bed.

You felt arousal course through you at his actions, being pinned down and bared for him to use. You pushed your round ass into him as much as you could, desperate and whorish, feeling his body judder with silent laughter.

He teased you at first, pushing the tip in, then retrieving, only to push just a little bit more in, and then retrieving again.

You huffed, unable to hide your frustration, but choked on it as Art slowly pulled out, then slid all the way in to the hilt.

You cried out loudly, hands balled into fists in your blanket, head pushed into the bed hard as Art gave you no time to adjust and began fucking you.

Your insides were on fire, pain and pleasure at his large intrusion mixing together, pulling moan after moan out of you. You could barely breathe, struggling to say his name as Art now gripped both of your hips and bred you.

A hand was lifted from you before coming down hard on your jiggling flesh, one stroke after another, getting harder and harder until you were writhing and whining.

He didn't stop, testing just how far he could go, switching to the other cheek when he felt your screams were getting particularly painful.

The stinging was unbearable, but it made you so wet, so pliant for him to absolutely manhandle you into the bed, gripping a fistful of your hair before he ravaged you just the way you wanted.

You were already a babbling mess, cock drunk when Art had hardly done anything. He rolled his eyes at you, though he was definitely amused at the unintelligible song you sang for him, something about his large cock and something else about breeding you.

You filthy girl.

Arts hand tangled rougher into your locks, before he gripped it hard and wrenched your head back, spine arching.

Your whines increased, becoming incredibly high pitch and feminine for him as he forced your head back.

Your neck was burning, but you loved this feeling, having a firm hand tug your hair back and an incredible, curved dick hit your insides just right.

The way he fucked you hard made you want to pretend to be bratty in the future, just so he could put you in your place. In fact, maybe one day when you're feeling particularly moody or low, you could get him to fuck it out of you, sweeten you up. The thought of being forced to take him deep as he fucked the brattiness out of you had you sopping, thighs drenched and shaking and barely standing.

"Ahh--Art, it feels so-", you moaned brokenly, thighs collapsing as the demon above you took to forcing your face back into the bed, other hand forcing your wrists above your head.

Having your thighs together now made his cock feel utterly massive, forcing the air out of you as he glided in between your plush cheeks, invading your sodden hole.

It made you feral.

"Oh my God oh my God--", you cried weakly, sobbing. Tears rolled down your cheeks in over stimulation, and Art leaned his body over yours, pushing you into the bed as he used one hand to smother your mouth, hooking his fingers into it.

You babbled, sucking his fingers desperately as you drooled down his wrist and your chin.

His fingers stuffed your mouth, thick length now ramming into you harder. You could barely hold your head up anymore, resting weakly against his wrist as you cried and whimpered, mascara blackening your eyes and cheeks messily.

Suddenly your hips were gripped and your body was forced onto it's back. You whined at the loss of him inside you, legs wrapping obscenely around his trim waist, needing more.

"Fuck me, please fuck me-", you breathed, head lolling back as fat tears burned your eyes, soaking your cheeks. Your lips were formed into a frustrated pout, fists clenched as though you were about to have a tantrum unless his dick resumed fucking you.

Art grinned truly maniacally down at you, gleeful and amused at your cries. It was a stunning sight, seeing your usual reserved self acting like such a slut.

He pouted right back at you, holding two fists up to his eyes and rotating them back and forth to impersonate dramatic crying. He was mocking you cruelly, laughing at your fucked out expression.

Forcing his fingers into your mouth again, Art pushed them down your throat, watching your eyes widen as you gagged and choked. Saliva pooled in your mouth excessively, and he scooped it out with both fingers to smear it messily over your cheeks and down your chin, laughing silently and pointing.

"No, please stop mocking me..", you whimpered quietly, lips wobbling as you pleaded at him with your big eyes. Your hips bucked desperately, thighs sticky and warm.

Art dropped his grin and rolled his eyes at your antics. You really wanted him to fuck you? Sure.

A malicious glint lit up his eyes, tenderly wiping the black tears staining your cheeks from your makeup.

Before you could blink, a strong hand was wrapped around your throat roughly, and a moment later his hot cock was pummeling into you mercilessly.

You couldn't even scream, sounds trapped in your throat and escaping in high pitched exhales, your head falling back against the bed as he strangled you.

It terrified you, but as your breathing became less and your head became clouded, a sudden, indescribable pleasure ripped through you so powerfully your eyes rolled back into your head, drool openly gliding down your cheek.

Your body felt weak and unresponsive, unable to even grip at his wrists for some reprieve, but the pleasure..

The fucking pleasure was mind numbing.

Your eyes drooped, face turning almost purple as he fucked you so deep you felt sick.

You couldn't gasp anymore, weak breaths barely getting past the brutal grip on your throat.

You were delirious now, feeling in a dream like state, ecstasy exploding behind your eyes and lighting your nerves on such a burning fire. You felt like your soul was ripped out of your mortal shell, experiencing the biggest high of your entire life.

Art cackled madly, silently, a sick adoration twisting in his eyes at the way your consciousness began to slip. He held your neck dangerously tight, tighter than he planned but judging by the way your hot, wet pussy gripped at him, he knew you loved it.

The sounds of your joining bodies was obscene and lewd, squelching and loud as his cock forced your lubrication out of your body.

Art gritted his teeth at the morbidly stunning view of you drooling excessive saliva, tears soaking his hands and mascara clumping your eyelashes, your eyes now bloodshot and heavy.

They rolled back, and soon you become quiet.

Bringing you to the very edge, Art removed your hand and allowed air to enter your lungs.

You gasped painfully, choking and sobbing as you were given no time to inhale greedily, instead getting ravaged inhumanly fast.

You couldn't lift your head, eyes blinking dazedly up at Art, who lifted a hand to wave at you mockingly.

You tried to speak but couldn't, mouth held open in permanent ecstasy. Your hips snapped upright as fingers roughly rubbed at your engorged clitoris, abusing the greedy nub.

A cry tore from your raw throat, head thrashing side to side and legs shaking violently as your orgasm rendered you incoherent.

You screamed out, squirting almost violently down your quivering thighs and over Arts rigid, brutal cock.

You sobbed, face screwing up pathetically as genuine, uncontrollable cries wracked your form. You could barely intake breath, body and nerves unable to handle the level of soul wrenching pleasure and borderline pain that was inflicted upon you.

Art gripped your shaking thighs and lifted them above his shoulders, face devoid of his usual smirk and instead scowling down at you with smouldering eyes. He fucked you harder, faster, animalistic before his hips stuttered once, twice, and a hot, thick load of cum filled your gaping pussy.

The amount was unnatural, not human, but your body lapped it up all the same as your insides convulsed and quivered. You moaned weakly, keening in a higher pitch as your lips wobbled and your eyes remained misted and delirious.

You didn't even feel Art pull out, stuck in a dream like state as aftershocks lit your body up. Your legs were dropped from his shoulders, falling unceremoniously to the bed, wide open.

You babbled incoherently, arm covering your face. Art stared down at you serenely, gazing from your dick dumb espression to the mess of cum coating your thighs, globs of it dripping down to your asshole. Your hole gaped and twitched, greedily gulping up all that it could take, thoroughly fucked and bred.

You felt two fingers scooping up the mess and pushing it filthily back into your pussy.

You whined, dropping the arm from your eyes to finally look at the demonic clown that had surely taken grip of your soul and tore it out.

Art smirked down at you, winking playfully. He revelled in the mess he made of you.

"Art that was--I--Mmm--", you moaned, responding to the gentle caress of your clit with his fingers. You were so wet and full of cum, biting your lip.

You didn't move as you felt his form pull away from you. You were so out of it you felt drunk.

You didn't feel him tucking you into bed, only remembered being beneath the blankets as he tilted his head down at you contemplatively.

He felt something foreign, that was for certain. He felt a possessive adoration over you, wanting to break you into a crying, sobbing mess, strangle you until you stood on the precipice of death like earlier, but also..

Watching you now, eyes drooping as you gripped his hand softly, tiredly, he made the final decision that he wanted more tender moments like this.

You were the rare occasion, the only occasion.

He was going to consume you whole.

[robin-the-enby]

Reading this was like suckling on delicious, properly and expertly made chocolate. I just never wanted it to end. Teehee

Do you only write Hannibal lecter or do you also write for NBC Hannibal?

Yandere! Hannibal x Reader: The Grand Meal

Gather around for a short story in the spirit of Thanksgiving. You have been invited by Hannibal Lecter to a celebratory dinner, although unexpectedly barren of other guests. He will be entertaining you this evening, carefully describing each dish as he battles his own inner turmoil. (For extra immersion, I suggest listening to Bach's 'Sheep May Safely Graze')

Warning: Cannibalism and detailed gore. I'd advise against reading if you're squeamish. 

[Horror Masterlist]

He politely aids you in removing your coat, folds it over his forearm, and steps aside, expectantly. You glance at him, somewhat confused.

"Your bag, if I may."

"Oh, I...I was planning to bring it with me. I have my phone in it and all the essentials." you stutter, unsure.

Uh huh. Your etiquette seems to be lacking in certain areas. Nothing that cannot be chiseled. 

"You won't be needing it, I assure you." he extends his hand out, waiting. 

You hesitantly place the dark leather Pochette into his fingers. Hannibal has always been rather particular when it comes to decorum. You wouldn't want to upset him, especially given his generous invite to his Thanksgiving celebration. He'd heard your complaint of being alone during the holidays and he encouraged you to join him instead.

As you hurry behind him down the spacious hallway, you quietly marvel at the expensive, tasteful paintings sporadically adorning the walls. 

"I suspected they might be to your liking." He briefly peeks back at you with a faint smile on his lips. 

The heavy wooden doors creak open and your nostrils are quickly overwhelmed by the tempting smell of intricate dishes. You narrow your eyes, taking in the flavors. Once you finally look ahead, you notice that the table, although neatly decorated, consists only of two seats that have been prepared for dining. Two opposing seats, causing the whole setup to seem of ridiculous length. 

"Pardon my intrusion, but is anyone else attending?" You cannot contain your curiosity.

"Oh, no.  Not really." Hannibal pulls your chair outwards before departing to his own designated place. "It's you and me. Does that bother you?"

"I suppose it's cozier this way." You brush it aside with a chuckle. Better than being alone, you tell yourself.

He nods in agreement before settling down. He takes a moment to examine the table, confirming that everything is indeed in its proper place. A final, satisfied incline of his head.

"Allow me to introduce today's dishes. I don't want to keep you waiting for too long." He says as he remembers your earlier little gesture of delight. "It's a little bit of a scattered theme, if I am to be honest with you. I've drawn my inspiration from varied cuisines."

"I can see. How exciting!" You swiftly scan over the diverse plates, enthusiastic and hungry.

"The main course is over there. Balsamic-glazed oven baked ribs. I recommend a drizzle of cranberry sauce to go with it."

As he points to the dish, he can almost hear the dry crack of the bone. Abruptly, he's been taken back to the previous night, to his humble slaughter room - the meat needs to be fresh after all. Shears cut through the ribs with little resistance. The blades go around the thoracic cavity, contouring the ribcage. Once a proper opening has been made, he firmly grasps each side of the ribcage and nonchalantly lifts the bone flap, resting it over the face. 

Wait. He quickly digs through the skin and fat that had been shoved aside with the carcass, searching for the face of the victim. It's you. How delectable and surprising that you've wandered into such a recollection. Well, not quite a surprise that you've invaded his memories; from the very moment he met you he's been plagued by this indecent idea: How would you look on the dissecting table?

His musings are interrupted by the sizzle of the sparkling wine he's currently pouring in your glass. He finds himself back at the dining table, together with his favorite guest. You graciously thank him, and as he gazes over your features, he can't help but continue this game of imagination he's just spontaneously devised. Whoever had been carefully served for this occasion will be temporarily replaced during the theatrical retelling by you. And what a fine actor you'll be, even though you're not aware of it.

Alright, one must start from the beginning. He traces the edge of the autopsy table and inspects the drain just below your feet. He wouldn't want an incident. Would you be mortified if you'd learn your secretions and discharges leaked and clotted against the sieve? Don't worry, you'll be spared of such scenarios. He'd never willingly embarrass you like that. He softly presses the scalpel against your bare skin, going under each breast and stopping at the pubic bone. Now to trim the thick layers of fat sticking to the dermis. You're not making much of a mess, but then again it's a dream within his idle mind. A mischievous grin takes over his expression once he witnesses his clean work. The segments of skin detach smoothly, revealing your glistening, bloated organs. 

He already went over the ribs. That part has been covered. What comes next? His eyes rest on the most obvious: your intestines. Which reminds him...

"This one is a Middle Eastern dish. Stuffed intestines. You gently cut the membrane, like this." He demonstrates on a separate plate. "Don't worry about seeing some additional blood. Naturally there are many capillaries irrigating the walls, so you might open them up in the process. It quickly seeps into the mixture and adds a bit of a stagnant flavor to it, but it's merely noticeable."

You swallow dryly.

Back to the original matters. He searches for his scissors and cuts along the attachment tissue smoothly. Once the bowels have been freed, he fondles them into his hands, cupping them into place, and hurries to the nearby counter. The entrails collapse and spread onto the marble surface, like mischievous tentacles. He languidly eyes them. Do organs resemble their owner? Absurd question, really. Do they reflect one's health - that much is indubitable. Yet he can't help feeling that if presented with an endless row of viscera, he could, without hesitation, point and state which ones are yours. It's a mysterious confidence whose source he cannot pinpoint. You've always captivated him. Just when he thinks he's had you like an open book, you slip and slither between his fingers. Fitting.

What is it about you that preoccupies his mind to such degree? He turns back to the table and scans the remaining options. Your intelligence? The tool drawer opens and his fingers linger over the saw and skull chisel. Perhaps. But there's more to it, really. His analytical, rational self craves for more than what it can grasp. And what it lacks, well...

He pinches the visceral fascia and lifts the translucent membrane, with the same delicacy of unveiling a young bride, and reveals your heart, cold and still. There it is, the answer to everything. A transect to the vena cava near the diaphragm and the organ has been separated from the rest of the body. An angel with clipped wings. Holding it like this, he can almost discern the faintest throb, the fibrous muscle pressing into his skin. 

"And this?"

He purses his lips, taken aback by his own rudeness. Has he been zoning out in plain sight?

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"The dish, I mean."

He follows the direction of your stretched out index. Ah.

"Heart stuffed with mushroom duxelle. Old English classic with a twist." 

"You sound like a professional chef", you respond as you laugh. "Is there anything you can't do?"

Is there? He considers it. Right before his revelation was discontinued by your inquiry - absolutely not your fault, the ill manners were his - he was wondering if he possesses the capacity to love you. He definitely prefers you over all of the people he's encountered in his life, and your behavior and way of thinking never ceases to make him curious. Yet love is a conclusion he cannot asses with certainty. 

He had hoped a vivisectionist approach would offer him concrete data, palpable reasoning, but his journey only reinforced that some concepts must be tested outside of pure introspection. Or, as one would describe it colloquially, he has to take the bull by its horns. 

"By the way, what meat is this?" You have arranged yourself a platter with a little bit of everything, and just finished chewing a hearty bite. "Ox or something? It's very tender."

If Hannibal is to embark on his expedition of human feelings, he needs to reflect on his choices carefully. Or does he? Hmm. His methodical tactics are what caused this impasse in the first place. 

One can afford to give in, every now and then. How will you react to his self indulgence? He rests his head on the back of his intertwined hands and stares at you with a determined look. 

"Human."

[robin-the-enby]

I need to tear that man apart with my teeth(positive)

[robin-the-enby]

[robin-the-enby]

Hi, I have a request for Erik Destler since you’re insanely good at writing POTO :) how about a fic about Erik taking pins out of the reader’s hair and brushing it because it calms him down, and the reader tells him how grateful she is for him while caressing his hands? I loved that detail in your hand appreciation fic because it felt very apt.

In your hands.

this was so cute and fun to write

erik destler (phantom of the opera) x reader

warnings/tags: emotional intimacy, comfort fic, gentle touch, hurt/comfort, love confessions, Erik needs a hug, Erik Destler lives, mask stays on, reader is patient, reader is loving, second person POV, no smut, canon-compliant feelings

It begins in silence, as most things do with Erik.

You’re seated on a low velvet stool, your back warm from the nearby hearth, the scent of beeswax and old parchment heavy in the air. Erik is behind you—so quiet you wouldn't know he was there if not for the gentle heat of his breath against the crown of your head. The cave is lit softly, diffused by the amber glow of oil lamps and the flickering fire. Somewhere behind the curtain of your lashes, you feel the day's weight settling into your bones.

Neither of you has spoken in some time.

Then, with the quiet reverence of ritual, Erik lifts his hand.

One pin. He plucks it gently from your hair, setting it in a dish with a faint clink.

Another. And another.

Your scalp tingles as he works, removing each hairpin with practiced care. He’s done this before—many times now—but he always approaches it with the solemnity of a man in prayer.

You glance down at your hands folded in your lap, letting your lids drift shut. The tension of the day—its obligations, noise, light, people—is slowly dissolving into the hush Erik makes around himself. Around you.

“You never say no when I ask,” he murmurs, so softly you might have imagined it.

You smile, small and sleepy. “Because I like when you do it.”

“I thought it was simply my... oddities you were indulging.”

“I’m indulging myself, too,” you say, tilting your head just slightly into his touch. “I like the way it feels. I like being still.”

He doesn't respond to that, but you hear the way his breath hitches faintly, how his fingers pause before returning to their careful work. There’s a restraint in Erik, even in the smallest gestures—like his hands are always bracing for rejection that never comes.

You wish he’d believe you when you say you love this. Love him.

Your hair is loose now, the last pin carefully laid to rest. Erik lifts a silver-handled brush from the table beside him. You’d found it months ago in a shop above, convinced it suited him more than it did you—elegant, intricate, old. Of course, he’d polished and restored it until it looked brand new, though it never left his lair again.

He begins brushing.

Slow, even strokes from crown to ends, like a pianist rehearsing a sonata he knows by heart. His hand steadies on your shoulder while the other draws the brush through your hair, untangling the day with every pass.

This is when Erik is most at peace—his voice quieted, his mind no longer storming. When he’s touching you like this, gently, reverently, you think perhaps he forgets the face behind the mask. Perhaps he just feels.

“Does it really calm you?” you ask after a while.

The brushing stills. “Yes.”

You turn your head slightly—not enough to disrupt him, but enough for him to see your profile.

“Why?” you ask.

He hesitates. Then: “Because it reminds me I’m not alone.”

The answer lands quietly between you.

Erik resumes brushing.

You feel something in your throat, small and sharp and aching. You’ve always known that Erik feels isolation like most feel cold or heat—an ambient condition of his life, something endured more than observed. He doesn’t know how to ask for company. He only knows how to retreat, to bury himself in sound and stone and secrecy.

So when he brushes your hair like this—when he touches you so softly, as though he fears you’ll vanish—it means the walls are coming down.

It means he trusts you enough to rest.

When he sets the brush down, your hair falls in smooth sheets down your back, warm from his touch. Erik doesn’t step away. You turn to look at him over your shoulder.

He’s seated now, knees to yours, mask illuminated by the glow of the fire. His eyes—always the first thing you see when you look at him—are quiet and dark, but not sorrowful. Just present.

You reach forward, slowly, and take his hands in yours.

His fingers twitch once, reflexively, before going still. You bring them to your lap.

The silence between you shifts. It becomes something held.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say softly. “I hope you know that.”

He watches your hands over his like he can’t believe you’re touching him again. You caress the back of his hand with your thumb, tracing faint lines, calluses, scars. Erik’s hands are so expressive—so human, when he thinks the rest of him is not.

“I don’t say it enough,” you continue. “But you’ve made this—us—feel like home to me.”

Erik’s breath comes a little sharper now. You can feel it, hear it, the way his chest rises like he’s bracing for the pain he’s sure must follow any soft thing. His fingers twitch beneath yours.

“You give me peace,” you whisper. “Even on the worst days. Even when you don’t say a word.”

Erik bows his head slightly, as though ashamed to receive such kindness. But you hold firm, bringing one of his hands up to your cheek.

“I’m not afraid of your hands,” you murmur against his palm.

His breath stutters.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

His eyes lift slowly to yours, and the mask can’t hide the way they soften. Not with that look. Not with that raw, aching question that always seems to hide in his expression:

Why me?

Why would you love me?

You press a kiss to the base of his fingers before speaking again.

“I know what it means that you touch me this way. That you let me touch you this way. I don’t take it for granted.”

His thumb moves, trembling, to brush against your cheek.

“You make me feel…” he tries, voice catching. “You make me feel real.”

“You are real, Erik,” you whisper. “You always were. Even when no one else saw it.”

His hand slides down to cup your cheek, and you rest your palm atop it.

“I’m grateful for your music. For your mind. For how fiercely you love, even when you try to hide it behind thorns.”

He closes his eyes like he’s in pain, but it’s not pain you fear.

“I see all of it,” you murmur. “And I want all of it.”

You lean forward, gently brushing your lips to the knuckles of his other hand, cradled still in your lap. He watches you like you’re doing something holy, and perhaps you are.

This is the worship he deserves.

“I am…” Erik begins, voice rough. “So afraid.”

You nod. “I know.”

His mask tilts as he lowers his head, shoulders curling in like he wants to disappear. You guide both his hands back into yours.

“I’ll be here anyway,” you say.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but breath. The fire crackles. The lake far beyond the stone walls sighs. Somewhere, an old piano waits for him to return.

“I used to think my hands could only hurt,” he says finally, voice hushed. “That anything I touched would break.”

“They don’t,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

He lifts your joined hands to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to the back of yours.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs.

“You do. You always have.”

You see the shiver ripple through him then, so small it might go unnoticed to anyone else. But not to you. You know the tremors that live in his soul. The old ghosts. The memories that scratch at the walls when it’s quiet.

So you lean forward, brushing your forehead against his.

“I love you,” you say.

His hands tighten around yours. Just slightly. Just enough.

When you sit together like this, with your hair loose and his mask soft in the firelight, there is no Opera Ghost. No Phantom. No monster.

Just Erik.

Just the man who brushes your hair because it calms the hurricane inside him. The man who lets you hold his hands like they matter. Like he matters.

And he does.

He always will.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

incredible dividers by @saradika-graphics

[robin-the-enby]

Silco wouldn’t call himself inexperienced. 

When it comes to sex, he’s had his fair share of experiences. Gorgeous eyed women batting their lashes at him, men with egos larger than what they actually had to offer making sultry advances at the bar when a few drinks have been had— distant memories of the past, of himself when he was younger. Even though it feels like it was a different person doing all of those things, the actions are committed to his memory in a manner that allows him to reuse that same knowledge with present lovers. 

But in the middle of all the lying and deceit he’s come to shape his life around, he couldn’t bear the idea of taking anyone to bed again. He had too many things to deal with, and even if it weren’t for the fragile nation he had to run day and night, he wasn’t sure when innocent touches would stop feeling like they’re just excuses to reach for his neck. 

The mistrust and cynicism didn’t immediately diffuse when you stepped into the picture. 

He still kept a safe distance, double checked the locks to his bedroom, kept a dagger on him at all times, you could even say he slept with it under his pillow (which he did, something sevika told you over your weekly drink.) And even though you’d shown unshakeable loyalty while working for him, he always kept his expectations low, knowing that that's the only way to avoid being disappointed. 

It took one passionate, and slightly tipsy, declaration of your feelings for his defenses to start falling apart at their rusty abused hinges. Persistence and starry eyes in the middle of the dark— present at every turn, he cannot outrun this one— send the rest of his walls crumbling before he’s aware of what’s happening. 

And even though he’s had sex before, he’s never had it like this. 

He’s never had it the way he does with you. 

When you make love, it’s something he’s become familiar with. The curves of your body perfectly fitting into his palms, your wet tongue in his mouth, the sounds that escape when he digs his sharp teeth into your neck, all things he’s come to memorize during the months you’ve been together. And even though he had been reluctant at first, he found a lost, broken part of himself in the bed you marked as yours. 

For the first time in years, the bedroom felt like an actual part of his home again. 

But what he still hasn’t gotten used to is the look in your eyes after the act is done. 

You’re usually quiet, deep breaths and glistening skin, head turnt as you recover from your devastating high. There’s a silent understanding between the two of you about things lovers usually realize after the experience— like the fact that you could easily ruin him any day you wished to, your fingers warm bullets over his skin, or that he’s slowly but surely ruining everyone else for you. The knowledge that you’ll live the rest of your life comparing other lovers to him if this ever ended. 

It’s silent chaos under the soft moonlight peeking through the blinds of your now shared bedroom. And part of him, the one that’s not powered by hormones anymore, is almost fearful that you’ll turn to him and declare that he’s as unloveable as he sometimes fears he is. 

But you never do. 

Instead, you turn to him with a coy smile and watch him tentatively clean up the mess he made. On the nights where you’re thoroughly exhausted, you postpone your bath to the next morning and he retires to your side like he needs to hold you close to breathe again. If you notice his desperation, you don’t say anything. 

You lay in his arms and stare at him some more, you stare at him until he asks you to close your eyes and go to sleep because you both have important things to tend to in the morning. You laugh and he can’t hold back his smile. You whisper compliments and plant short sweet kisses across his jaw and down his neck. You call him gorgeous, stunning, sexy, irresistible, and his chest that has grown accustomed to the tarry smoke of the mines is overwhelmed by the gush of fresh air. 

You always fall asleep first, and he stays up far too late admiring the look on your face when you’re knocked out in his arms, wondering if he’s ever going to get used to being adored like this.  

[robin-the-enby]

Ok I felt this one in my soul. Coming from a slavic household, mold on various products was always scraped off or cut away, food that has fallen on the floor was blowed on to get rid of dust and other debris and then still eaten. And coming from a pretty low income family, leftovers were always scrutinized before deciding they were inedible. And unless they weren't inedible, they were to be eaten.

When I got into uni, my roommate gave me so much shit for eating what he would have just thrown away. But it's almost an instinct now. Smell test the food first if it's older, check it out thoroughly for mold and if all is clear it's safe to eat (in my family's opinion that has been drilled into me at least)

Ghost who gets so much shit from his team bc he got caught eating some moldy bread once.

It wasnt like he ate the actual mold or anything, just ate around it. But according to price "thats the same shit, simon."

He knows its odd, so he puts up with all the comments. Deals with this just being another fact turned rumor about him around the base. There's not much else to do.

Its not like he could tell them the truth.

Because how would simon even do that? How would he explain the twist of anxiety whenever someone tosses scraps in the trash? Some ugly half-starved beast lives behind his ribcage, and thumps wildly against the bars whenever food is tossed out or plates aren't licked clean.

Its the same beast that grew inside him and Tommy. In a house with hardly any food, helping his mom count out the food budget in a handful of coins, scouring every newspaper and corner for extra coupons or pennies people tossed. Simon remembers watching his mom prepare meals, learned to help too when he was old enough to know not to touch the stove.

Milk was never just milk, it was always diluted with some water. You could stretch a gallon to three if you did it right. Scrambled Eggs took up more space when whisked with water. Simple ingredients were cherished. Nothing was ever thrown out, even scraps had their place in stew.

That beast inside simons chest watched it all, drank it in. The hunger pains at night, the food snuck from his plate onto Tommy's when his brother wasnt looking. It watched, and it grew.

Now, even years later, Ghost cant tame that beast. He shoulders the teasing, hides the shamed flush of his face behind his mask. Slowly, he recedes into his skin. Hiding during lunches and dinners, taking all his meals in his room. At least there no one comments when he licks his plate clean.

He wonders if gaz or soap miss him at lunch. If price asks where he is at dinner. But no one says anything when they see ghost throughout the day, so he doesnt think about it.

[robin-the-enby]

When they are so big and you are just too cute

[robin-the-enby]

S/O flirting with Sinclair brothers

Thank you and love you💜💜💜

Sinclair brothers reaction to being flirted with.

Warning: These reactions are from my viewpoint on the characters and their backstory in the movie. So I tried making their reactions as real and accurate as possible.

Credit to @cafekitsune for the banner(s)

Beaugard (Bo) Sinclair : 8.3/10

Caught off guard

“Now hold on a damn minute. I’m supposed to be the smooth talker!”

He isn’t opposed to the idea of someone flirting back at him, especially if you’re a tourist since that just tells him you’ve taken the bait of him just being a charmer. But now if you’re both together? He pouts, trying his best to hide his warm face. It’s not that he doesn’t like you flirting with him, it’s just he doesn’t like the idea of someone getting a reaction out of him. Especially when it comes to flirting. He much prefers when he can make you a hot mess and turn into a puddle.

Lester Sinclair : 8/10

Flattered

“Aw, yer makin’ me blush!”

He loves the attention. Both his parents never gave him the attention like Bo and Vincent got so to get it from someone now? He’s lovestruck. If you’re a tourist and quickly start flirting with him, he’ll get on his knees begging Bo to let him keep you. All the tourists he’s encountered were nothing but rude and disrespectful towards him. But you flirting with him and showing interest? Sign him up. Now, that being said. If you two are already together and you start flirting with him. He acts like a school girl. It’s flirty banter back and forth between the two of you as both of y’all’s faces get warmer with each word.

Vincent Sinclair : 9/10

Extremely flattered

Vincent was always reassured by his mother that he was a handsome boy. Hell, he knew good and well she favored him over all 3 of them. When you first met, finding him in the wax museum while your group was off getting killed doing who knows what, you started praising his work and also his looks. Complimenting his hair, his clothes, and his mask. By the time you ran out of things to compliment him on, he was a flustered mess under his mask. Quickly he decided that you would live since he so longed craved for that praise that his mother used to give him. Now, just like with the other two, if y’all were both already together and you started flirting with him, he’d crave more. He wouldn’t want you to stop flirting. He enjoys the attention. He’s been raised with having all the attention on him due to his mother babying him til her death so to get attention from you? He’s struck gold.

[robin-the-enby]

Rewatched House of wax recently

[robin-the-enby]

Verified fundraiser, if anyone wants to donate and share, or just share :) I hope we can spread this family's message.

🫂Please stop and listen to my story. Don't ignore me.💔

Save family 🙏💔

I am Enas, and I have eight children. I don't know how to describe to you the feelings of war, the pain, the suffering, and the destruction we are experiencing here.

Just imagine: I lost my home, my job, and I've lived through the devastation.

We've been at war for a year or more.

I live in a small tent in the cold and winter

We can no longer bear this life here.

My daughter needs healthcare, but I am alone, and under these conditions, I cannot give her the most basic rights.

She needs healthy food, but even that has become difficult to obtain due to exploitation and the lack of the most basic resources

We are now in a state of severe famine and cannot find any kind of food

Here in the tent, we have been drowning in the heavy rains

Escaping death is so difficult that they have closed the crossing to us, and now we cannot travel, and we are still here in Gaza, in the devastation

But I launched this campaign so that my family and I can leave here when the crossing opens.

But even leaving is not easy.

Because we need coordination from Egypt, and we have to pay $5,000 per person.

I need to save my life and the lives of my family from death, and you are the only way to achieve this

Your cooperation and presence will save our lives from death.

I know you are capable of it, and I trust you. I will be grateful to anyone who helps me

Please donate to me as much as you can. 🙏🥺😭💔

Your donation, even if it's small, could save us. It could bring a smile to the face of a child who has only known the cruelty of war🥺🙏🍉.

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #611 )✅️

Verified by : @ana-bananya

[robin-the-enby]

It’s gotten bad

[robin-the-enby]

He’s a red flag but red means good fortune and love in my culture 😘

[robin-the-enby]

Hunted

Secret Garden

Yandere John Wick X Reader

Category: One-Shot

Word Count: 3K+

Warning: Unhinged John, blood, violence, predator/prey dynamics, implied kidnapping, gaslighting, long train of thoughts, manipulation, hints of power imbalance and general toxicity to be expected from yandere situation

GIF is not mine, credit to its original owner

Listening to Think by Kaleida

Unedited

It’s nothing.

It’s easy.

You tell yourself as you smile and take another swig of your drink. It burns through your throat.

“Take it easy, love.”

His voice echoes in your mind. If he were here, then his hand would be resting over your waist, his other hand ready with a tissue paper to wipe off any traces of the drink over your lips and on your chin.

But he is not here. And you are with your friends. After so long, you are finally with your friends, finally enjoying a night out with your friends. It has been a while. It has been fucking months.

When you met your boyfriend, he naturally took most of your time, but you didn't mind; you were naive to think you could strike a balance between your social life and your love life.

It was passionate, satisfying, and a whirlwind romance at first, until you moved into his house. Two months into your relationship and John already had you sharing his space and food. One would think that this is when your social life rejuvenates. No, far from it. Six months into your relationship and you could feel the suffocation sinking in. The fence once guarding you came too close, the barbs were poking at your skin. 

So, that burning love affair with the older man lasted only eight months; the last two had only been a drag. Like the coward that you are, you waited for one of his many surprise and unplanned business trips to come up. And you broke up right after he confirmed that he had reached his destination---wherever it was, he never specified.

Yes, you are adding this to one of the many embarrassing stories to tell during drunk bonfire nights. How did you pack your stuff the moment he left and wait till he called you next? You did it all in record time. In reality, you had everything sorted out, everything yours was deliberately kept withing your sight. So when the moment came, all you had to do was to put them in your bag and leave.

By the books, John Wick was a catch. Really, he had been ever so sweet to you. But it was like with each kiss, he wrapped a chain around you. Loose at first, you had been dismissive of the signs. Like a fool, you have been lured, blinded by the soft wool around your eyes. Until the chains began to dig in. They poked and pressed, the barbs grew, and you knew you had to get out.

One glance at those soulful brown eyes and you know you still will be weak even now. He used them so many times before. 

Maybe you do have a thing for strays. John was all suited up, shiny shoes and sleek cars gentleman. But he held a certain melancholy and loneliness in his eyes.

His eyes–the shade of brown when sunlight meets leather. The glimpse of warm honey was rare, but at the right angle, those darl, soulful yet intense eyes would turn into a dream and—

Shit!

You’re doing this again, thinking about him, thinking if he would like what you’re doing. Why? This is your life, and you are reclaiming your independence. 

He wanted a wife, he deserved someone to come home to. Someone who was sure of marriage, or love…Someone who could give him what he was looking for. 

You, on the other hand. You are just you—individualistic, trying to figure out life, philosophising yet scoffing at all those deep meaning quotes and trying to get what art truly wishes to convey. You know love, yet you do not trust it. You are not a bad person or a mess. In fact, you know yourself. 

You are just afraid to hurt people with your sense of detachment. Detachment does not equal ‘unloving’, but most people associate the two like that. You know that you are simply not cut out for this, and you know that you can never gulp down and digest those lovie-doevie sweetness, ‘two bodies, one soul’ and ‘you are the center of my universe’ concepts. Sure, you can be philosophical, you can be romantic, but you love your space, and solitude, you need it. You need to have a world of your own, which only you have the key to.

John Wick, on the other hand, seemed straight from the romance novels that girls seem to adore so much–the perfect blend of sweetness, enigma and darkness that you could only get a sense of–like something swimming just under the frozen surface of a lake. From above, you can never tell what exactly it is, or how dangerous it is, but you can see it there. You can sense it.

You wanted a balance, and with him, it simply did not seem possible. You still think that things you had seen as ‘red flags’ might not be so. You still doubt what he really wanted to spend more time with you.

But you know yourself enough, either way, your relationship was set up for a heartbreak. Either him, or you, or both. It was a preparation for heartwrenching sobs and deep-running resentment.

John Wick showed you how it felt to be the most important person to someone. You were his sun, and his world revolved around you. Surely, he was never clear about the true nature of his job, and it set the first alarm bell ringing, but it was so easy to overlook with how perfect all of this was. 

Yeah, perfect. 

It was picture perfect, and that kept nagging at the back of your mind. That became the string you pulled, unfurling every other aspect hidden in plain sight. Like the fact that John already saw you as his wife, and he knew that you do not even like to think of marriage. He knew, but he wished to change your mind someday. He was putting you on a pedestal; he was slithering into every aspect of your life. He was wrapping his fingers around the key to your world. That you could not bear. 

In your own way, you know you love John, or at least a part of you still does. Maybe that is why you chose to pull the trigger rather than watch the relationship rot away. You did not wish to grow to resent him. 

You value your individuality, you value your independence too much to let another person take over your life like John wanted to.

Maybe it was his way of showing his love. Maybe this was how John loved. But this kind of love would eventually suffocate you. You do not know a lot of things, but you know this. 

“(Y/N), you want to head for the pool upstairs, we are headed.”

Your friend leans in, yelling into your ear. You hiss in annoyance but with the loud music and the bass that thrumming in your head as a dull ache now, there seems to be no other way to communicate.

“You booked that pool?”

“A friend’s friend did a favour, got us entry for a night. Let’s go.”

“Yeah.” 

You look around, suddenly mistaking a man’s face with that of John’s. This makes you pause with a gasp. With narrowed eyes, you look closely—it’s just strobing lights and people dancing.

“What’s wrong. All good?”

“Yeah.” You lick your lips and nod, “Yeah, I’m good.” With that, you finish your drink with a swig and head out for the second floor for a dip.

—--

The cool water ripples around your shins. It is soothing, almost. Just you and your friends here with some staff and a handful of other patrons minding their own business.  While they enjoy the pool in their swimsuits, you are comfortable with some beer and a bathrobe reaching your knees while you dip your legs into the pool.

Under the blue and red lights and chill music, anyone can feel at ease. You fall into a daze, too. Feeling the sweet alcohol buzz, letting yourself relax as you eye your friends giggling and drinking. You can only manage a faint, wry smile at the sight.

Perhaps you should sit with a therapist and discuss this… whirlwind of a romance that has left you dangling from guilt to suspicion to assumptions and questions you never thought of before. Looking at your friends, you can confirm that your love life and social life had indeed tipped off its delicate balance in your months spent in his enchanting arms.

John was taking up all of your time; your night outs consisted of him accompanying you. You were never alone, except for his extended periods of ‘business trips’. Even then, you had to always let him know of your whereabouts. He wanted to know everything about you. Now, that should be counted as something an adoring and attentive partner would do. But it was only you being stripped bare—one layer after another until you were all exposed and vulnerable, on your knees, at the verge of depending on his warmth, relishing the way his hands petted you. 

But why was he still clothed? While you were naked, on your knees, he had barely peeled off a layer. The disparity became glaringly obvious; it wrapped around your stomach, squeezing it until there was a pit formed. Subtle at first, but when repeated attempts to peel his layers off were met with cryptic responses and at times, rigid walls of denial. The cold began to prick your skin, the pit turned prominent, yawning with each passing day until it was all too much. Until all the differences lay before your naked eyes and you were left with more questions than answers.

Or maybe it was all your way to validate yourself, to convince yourself that you did the ‘right thing’. Maybe you are too good at self-sabotaging. Maybe you always knew that you can never love the way John deserved to be loved. Maybe you are a little too self-aware but no less a hypocrite. What did you bring to the table in the relationship? You never felt like you belonged anywhere, you were too individualistic and too cynical and distrustful of love to even give it a chance. You had set in your mind that your heart was to break and you were to end up breaking John’s heart with your sense of emotional independence nd detachment. You were going to end up hurting him anyway, you did. But at least it was not something that was rotting and empty after. You are too stubborn, too rigid, you would rather paint him as the sweet talking villain than face your incompatibility with companionship itself.

You will never figure it out by yourself. Your friends are your friends, and you are pretty sure John does not even want to see your face after what you’ve done. Blocked him like a true coward.

So you have finally decided that—

“What the hell!”

Water splashes over your form as someone jumps into the pool, breaking your train of thoughts. Annoyed, you turn to the person, only to watch him enjoying some time underwater. He will be up any mom—

You blink and realise that the person is floating motionless, face down, while a dark ink swirls and swells from underneath him, blooming and mixing with the pool water. 

A staff member screams first—that shakes you out of your frozen state. This time, the glass behind the staff member shatters, and the area plunges into chaos. 

The whimper stuck in your throat finally releases, but it is a bird against a storm, overpowered by the screaming, splashing and rush. You rush to your friends. Helping them quickly climb out of the pool before one of them pulls you up. 

“Hurry!”

You say, turning to look back instinctively.

Under the perfect blend of blue and red lighting, the shelves containing towels play the perfect camouflage, but you can see him.

You know those eyes. But you are looking at a stranger—the eyes you knew were soft and deep. These are the eyes of a bloodthirsty creature. An extraordinary predator let loose for the night to hunt and bite, tear limb from limb, go for the throat, sink its teeth and drag its claws. Then lick its mouth and paws after it is full and content.

John’s gaze meets yours, and in that moment, you are frozen, like a deer meeting the eyes of a panther. Under the blue, red and purple, they gleam, and you whimper once more. 

But that lasts only a moment long.

He ponts his gun and glass walls, tables shatter, more bodies fall into the pool, on the shards of glass, blood on the floor, blood in the water, blood on your hands, on your soaked robe, blood on your friend’s shoulder as soon as you realise that he has been shot.

It's like you are not even there---you are in a nightmare impossible to escape.

You finally scream when your friend falls against you, screaming in agony. The terror merges into horror as you quicken your pace, letting them out first, letting them carry him away. And when the glass by your side shatters too, you scream and duck down, quickly crawling behind a couch, not registering the shards cutting your knees and palms. 

You put your hand over your mouth and press yourself to the back of the couch. You are soaked, bloody and shocked, and it all has happened within the span of minutes. Minutes.

No, you do not dare to move from your position, although you should have. You know you should have. But you are like a frozen prey, heart beating like it would echo in the room soon, throat aching with the faint pulse, eyes wide and body stiff with coiled tension.

You do not need to go to a therapist to confirm anything about John. You will need one if you make it out of here alive tonight, though. Which seems less likely as you watch the last person scramble out of the place. The music below has not ceased, less likely anyone has noticed, or notified the crowd.

Breathe.

Breathe

You will be fine.

Fine.

You will—

You open your eyes, not remembering when you screwed them shut, and strain your ears.

Not a single bullet has touched you, but his gaze has burned into you like you are the marked target. You feel hunted by him. Something you never thought of before, but now it does not shock you as much as the bloodshed has. So this is what he was hiding?

Did you ever know him, even?

Were his hands always stained with another’s blood?

Did the red roses hide the crimson so well?

Or were you always blinded by his charm and his eyes?

His eyes.

Sweet brown now dark as an obsidian night, sharp, merciless, unrelenting. Dangerous.

Doomed. You are doomed.

You are going to die.

Perhaps you do not fear death itself as much as the agony that comes before it. Or perhaps you are not as indifferent to life as you thought yourself to be. You want to live. You will live.

The silence is deafening, the room itself seems to be holding its breath like you. But you have to do something. At least try?

Exhaling slowly, you peek out from behind your cover, only to find the room empty. Food and bodies float on the pool, and other than the flickering of some broken lights and the quiet ripples of the pool water, you hear nothing. No footsteps, no movements, nothing. You inhale deeply, eyes moving between the door and frantically trying to spot John in the empty room. 

He might be somewhere in the shadows, but you have to take the chance. You lower yourself more, ready to spring out and make a mad, risky and desperate dash towards the exit only a few steps away.

That’s when you feel it.

Fingers wrap like heated iron against your cold ankle before you are yanked back, the glass cuts through your palms and knees but all you can do is to manage a yelp.

The scream is there, right there, but it is stuck in your throat. You try hard to force it out, try not to feel the chills that trace your spine or try to stop your tears from flowing. But you simply cannot, not when you are flipped on your back and forced to meet the very pair of eyes that once looked at you like you were something precious. 

“There you are.”

It’s not a sneer like you expected. No, but his voice has an unnerving tone of hunger so prominent that you are afraid that he will sink his teeth into you any moment. Your lips tremble as you struggle to make any sound. In your panicked state, your vision floats, but you can still focus on him. He is all you can see and feel.

“I tried to do every right. But you flew away like a clever, quick, naughty bird.”

His hand cups the side of your face as he leans in, and you smell the blood before you feel it. This time, you manage a whimper, your shaky hands try to stabilise themselves against his chest.

Push.

Push him off!

Kick him!

All the self defence videos make it seem so, so much easier than it really is. What do you do when you are lying under something so powerful, oozing with primal energy? Looking ready to sink its teeth into your neck?

The ‘thing’ is in the shape of a man you deeply care for.

He looks truly wild, with the blood all over and the hair falling over his eyes, capturing his stormy gaze.

“John—”

It has not been more than a whisper but your words dry out anyway when his hand slides to your neck, it covers your neck perfectly, as if measuring. Perhaps he is, your heart thunders against your ribs painfully when you feel his thumb tracing the quickened pulse.

“Let this be a warning about what happens when you try to pull a stunt like this again. Next time, it will be your friends’ bodies lying bloody and lifeless.”

You choke out a sob, feeling cold dread enveloping your form. He leans in and swallows your whimper with his lips over yours. You smell blood, leather, and some sweat mingled with the cologne that triggers sweet, beautiful memories, but it all feels rotten now. His lips are soft against yours, a sharp contrast to the violence he has proved himself capable of. The teeth do not sink for now, it is his tongue that licks, like a tentative taste of the trembling prey.

You do feel like one, pinned underneath him, surrounded by the dreaded stillness after a bloody storm. It’s a delicate violence, a warning and an unhinged display of affection all wrapped in one kiss.

Your eyes close on their own accord, your mind plunges into chaos, still shrouded with a primal kind of fear, yet your treacherous womanhood throbs like it recognises John’s touch and calls for him, like it has been yearning for him, only him.

Like a true predator, he strikes the moment your guards falter. You barely register his thumb pressing on the side of your neck before being plunged into darkness. 

****

Phew! Wanted to write a predator/prey dynamics for a while now. Should I make a darker version?

I think another fic played as a subconscious inspiration. I am unable to find it, but I found it on @treedaddypuff's dash. If you find it, please send the link so I can mention the author.

[robin-the-enby]

[robin-the-enby]

your lips, my lips. apocalypse.

Cooper Howard & the Vaultie in my reader fic by @novivi