slasherfantasy

[slasherfantasy]

please help me- i used to be pretty smart but i’m having so much trouble grasping the concept of diegetic vs non-diegetic bdsm!

gfkjldghfd okay first of all I'm sorry for the confusion, if you're not finding anything on the phrase it's because I made it up and absolutely nobody but me ever uses it, but I haven't found a better way to express what I'm trying to say so I keep using it. but now you've given me an excuse to ramble on about some shit that is only relevant to me and my deeply inefficient way of talking and by god I'm going to take it.

SO. the way diegetic and non-diegetic are normally used is to talk about music and sound design in movies/tv shows. in case you aren't familiar with that concept, here's a rundown:

diegetic sound is sound that happens within the world of the movie/show and can be acknowledged by the characters, like a song playing on the stereo during a driving scene, or sung on stage in Phantom of the Opera. it's also most other sounds that happen in a movie, like the sounds of traffic in a city scene, or a thunderclap, or a marching band passing by. or one of the three stock horse sounds they use in every movie with a horse in it even though horses don't really vocalize much in real life, but that's beside the point, the horse is supposed to be actually making that noise within the movie's world and the characters can hear it whinnying.

non-diegetic sound is any sound that doesn't exist in the world of the movie/show and can't be perceived by the characters. this includes things like laugh tracks and most soundtrack music. when Duel of Fates plays in Star Wars during the lightsaber fight for dramatic effect, that's non-diegetic. it exists to the audience, but the characters don't know their fight is being backed by sick ass music and, sadly, can't hear it.

the lines can get blurry between the two, you've probably seen the film trope where the clearly non-diegetic music in the title sequence fades out to the same music, now diegetic and playing from the character's car stereo. and then there are things like Phantom of the Opera as mentioned above, where the soundtrack is also part of the plot, but Phantom of the Opera does also have segments of non-diegetic music: the Phantom probably does not have an entire orchestra and some guy with an electric guitar hiding down in his sewer just waiting for someone to break into song, but both of those show up in the songs they sing down there.

now, on to how I apply this to bdsm in fiction.

if I'm referring to diegetic bdsm what I mean is that the bdsm is acknowledged for what it is in-world. the characters themselves are roleplaying whatever scenarios their scenes involve and are operating with knowledge of real life rules/safety practices. if there's cnc depicted, it will be apparent at some point, usually right away, that both characters actually are fully consenting and it's all just a planned scene, and you'll often see on-screen negotiation and aftercare, and elements of the story may involve the kink community wherever the characters are. Love and Leashes is a great example of this, 50 Shades and Bonding are terrible examples of this, but they all feature characters that know they're doing bdsm and are intentional about it.

if I'm talking about non-diegetic bdsm, I'm referring to a story that portrays certain kinks without the direct acknowledgement that the characters are doing bdsm. this would be something like Captive Prince, or Phantom of the Opera again, or the vast majority of bodice ripper type stories where an innocent woman is kidnapped by a pirate king or something and totally doesn't want to be ravished but then it turns out he's so cool and sexy and good at ravishing that she decides she's into it and becomes his pirate consort or whatever it is that happens at the end of those books. the characters don't know they're playing out a cnc or D/s fantasy, and in-universe it's often straight up noncon or dubcon rather than cnc at all. the thing about entirely non-diegetic bdsm is that it's almost always Problematic™ in some way if you're not willing to meet the story where it's at, but as long as you're not judging it by the standards of diegetic bdsm, it's just providing the reader the same thing that a partner in a scene would: the illusion of whatever risk or taboo floats your boat, sometimes to extremes that can't be replicated in real life due to safety, practicality, physics, the law, vampires not being real, etc. it's consensual by default because it's already pretend; the characters are vehicles for the story and not actually people who can be hurt, and the reader chose to pick up the book and is aware that nothing in it is real, so it's all good.

this difference is where people tend to get hung up in the discourse, from what I've observed. which is why I started using this phrasing, because I think it's very crucial to be able to differentiate which one you're talking about if you try to have a conversation with someone about the portrayal of bdsm in media. it would also, frankly, be useful for tagging, because sometimes when you're in the mood for non-diegetic bodice ripper shit you'd call the police over in real life, it can get really annoying to read paragraphs of negotiation and check-ins that break the illusion of the scene and so on, and the opposite can be jarring too.

it's very possible to blur these together the same way Phantom of the Opera blurs its diegetic and non-diegetic music as well. this leaves you even more open to being misunderstood by people reading in bad faith, but it can also be really fun to play with. @not-poignant writes fantastic fanfic, novels, and original serials on ao3 that pull this off really well, if you're okay with some dark shit in your fiction I would highly recommend their work. some of it does get really fucking dark in places though, just like. be advised. read the tags and all that.

but yeah, spontaneous writer plug aside, that's what I mean.

[slasherfantasy]

So at the doggy daycare I work at, there's this big german shepherd named King. He has the longest, sharpest claws I've seen on a dog, and he's the largest *well-bred* GSD that I've met. He doesn't interact with the other dogs unless it's to run up and bark at them when he thinks they're playing too rough, or to push them off my lap. He follows me around like a guard dog, only leaves my side if he hears someone walking around outside the fence or he thinks he needs to get involved with the other dogs. If I put my chair against the wall, he will paw at it and whine until I move it out enough that he can step behind me and curl his big body around me and the chair. King is like the epitome of the idea of the protective German shepherd guard dog.

Also, he cries if another dog tries to invite him to play, cries if I pet someone else, and runs away if I try to fix the messed up undercoat on his butt. He's got one floppy ear even though he's a fully middle-aged adult, and his nose is sunburnt even though he's mostly black. If I massage his temples right behind his eyes, he'll drop his ears, close his eyes, and lean into it.

He's so completely König-core that I think it's hilarious that his name is King. I think König acts exactly like this dog to his romantic partner. He's soooo freaking awkward about any display of affection while at the same time being so desperate for it. He just puts himself in his partner's vicinity and does things for them and hopes they'll love him back.

[slasherfantasy]

Fuller , 1955: Chapter 5: Inside the Silence

Summary: At your house, away from judgmental eyes and schoolyard cruelty, a different kind of silence settles between you and Thomas—gentle, honest, and safe. What begins with lemonade and a sketchbook quietly transforms into something deeper. Beneath soft lamplight and shy glances, a fragile trust begins to bloom.

Setting: Readers House – Texas, Late Summer / Early Fall 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader, Reader’s mother (mentioned)

Content Warnings: emotional vulnerability, trauma references, quiet intimacy, longing, implied emotional neglect, a little angst

E's Notes: My heart physically hurts, I am once again asking you to imagine this soft giant sitting on your carpet like a sad puppy. English still not my first language, typos are my love language. Please be nice to him or I will cry.

Chapter 4 : Unspoken Lessons

The walk back home is quiet. Not the strained, unbearable quiet that had hung over both of you for days—but a new kind of quiet. Something soft. Comfortable. The kind that lets you breathe in the spaces between footsteps.

Thomas walks beside you, the grass-stained knees of his overalls brushing together with every slow step. His large hands swing slightly, grazing his sides. You glance at him from time to time, and each time you find his eyes already on you—briefly, curiously, like he’s still trying to understand how you could look at him the way you do.

When you reach your house, your hand lingers on the doorframe. You hesitate, then glance at him.

"You... wanna come in for a bit?" you ask, voice softer than usual.

"Not for long. Just... I’m not ready for this to be over yet."

He doesn’t say anything, just nods once. It’s all you need. You lead him into the living room, flicking on a lamp instead of the overhead light. Everything feels warmer in this dimness. Quieter.

"You can sit wherever," you say, motioning to the couch. He sits on the floor instead, his back against the side of the couch, knees up, arms resting on them like a kid trying to take up as little space as possible. You disappear into the kitchen and come back with two glasses of lemonade.

You hand him one, and his fingers brush yours. "It’s store-bought," you say with a shrug. "Nothing special." He gives the faintest of nods before sipping. You sit across from him on the carpet, legs folded beneath you, watching him take in the room.

He stares at your bookshelves, at the photos on the wall, at the cracked mug you use as a pencil holder. "That’s me," you say, pointing to a framed photo. "Age nine. I lost my front tooth tripping over a jump rope. Cried for two hours."

He gives a breath of a laugh. It’s soundless, but visible in the twitch of his shoulders. You tilt your head a little, watching him.

"Hey, um… can I ask you something?"

He nods slightly, eyes meeting yours.

"Would it be okay if I called you Tommy? I just… I don’t know, it feels right. But only if you’re okay with it."

He pauses. Blinks. Then he looks down at the glass in his hands like it suddenly got heavier. He sets it down slowly, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the folded notepad and pencil stub he carries.

After a long moment, he scribbles something, then turns it to you:

"No one’s ever called me that and meant it nice."

Your throat tightens. He starts writing again.

"Kids at school said it like it was a joke. Or mean. They’d say it real loud—Ugly Tommy , Freak Tommy, Pig Tommy , Tommy Can’t Talk. Like it wasn’t even my name."

You don’t speak right away. You just scoot forward until your knees nearly touch.

"Well," you say quietly, "when I say it, it’s because I like the way it sounds. Tommy. Gentle. Kind. Like you."

He stares at you—still, unmoving—for a long moment. Then his shoulders relax just enough to notice. He nods, just once. And it’s the kind of nod that feels like the loosening of a knot. You lean back on your hands and smile.

"Wanna sketch ? I mean… we don’t have to talk if you don’t want." He nods again, more certain this time. He grabs his sketchbook and a pencil. He rests it on his knees and begins to move the pencil without hesitation.

You watch the lines come to life:

the outline of your lamp.

Your half-empty glass.

A few minutes later a second drawing formsIt's a child. Small body. Oversized clothes. But the face is scribbled out in frantic loops. Dark, violent strokes. You go quiet. He doesn’t look up. He finishes, then slowly rotates the sketchbook to face you. You study it.

"Is that…?" He nods. Your eyes flick between the erased face and his own. Then, gently, you say, "You didn’t deserve that." He lowers the sketchbook. You inch forward. "I get it. Maybe not all of it, but… I know what it’s like to hate how people see you. Or to feel invisible. Or too visible. Like you can’t win."

His shoulders sag a little. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded note. Opens it.

"Do you ever want to disappear?"

You read it. The lump in your throat rises before you can stop it. "All the time," you whisper. A beat. Then you hold out your hand. For a moment, he stares at it like it’s a foreign object. But eventually, with hesitant fingers, he places his palm in yours. You both sit there, side by side, hand in hand, surrounded by soft light and quiet things.

No more pretending.

No more fear.

Just the pulse of understanding between your fingers. After a long while, you speak. "You don’t have to say everything," you murmur. "I’ll listen anyway." He looks at you. His hand squeezes yours once, firm but gentle. Then he lets go, scribbles something else on the edge of the paper.

"Don’t leave."

Your breath hitches.

"I won’t."

And without thinking, you traced your own fingers over it, lightly. Until your fingertips met his on the page.

He gets up slowly. Hands you the sketchbook page—the one with your lamp, your glass, your face, gentle and glowing under soft pencil lines. One word is written under it.

“Safe.”

You hold the drawing carefully, your fingers curling around the edges like it might vanish if you don’t.Then, when you look up, he’s already taken a step toward the door. "Tommy," you say, gently, testing the name again.

It feels like an offering.

A promise.

He pauses.

His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. "I meant it," you say quietly. "I’m here. You don’t have to do anything special. Just… be you." He’s still for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turns halfway, just enough for you to see the soft shift in his expression. There’s something quieter in his eyes now. Not exactly trust, not fully—not yet.

But the start of it. The raw edge of hope..He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t need to. He gives you a single nod, eyes meeting yours. Then he opens the door. The cool night air filters in, brushing your skin, but it doesn’t chill you.

You watch him step out into the darkness, the bandana still tied snug around his neck, the sketchbook under one arm. Just before he disappears down the path, he glances back at you one last time. And even though he doesn’t say it—thank you hums in the space between you.

Quiet and true.

When the door clicks shut behind him, you stay frozen in place for a moment. The drawing still rests in your hands, and the room feels full.Not of noise. Not of movement.

But of presence.

Like something changed tonight.

Like something important was said without words.

You breathe in, slow and full.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence doesn’t scare you.It feels like company.

TBC : Chapter 6

Taglist : @richietoziers-worl @reka13 @dogrrrrr @thewolffairytaler @night-shadowblood-writes2 @iloved1lfs

[slasherfantasy]

Fuller, 1955: Chapter 4: Unspoken Lessons

Summary : Back at school, the pressures of normalcy and conformity clash with the unspoken bond forming between Reader and Thomas. But not everyone is blind to the changes—and not everyone is kind.

Setting: Fuller High School, Texas – Late Summer /Early Fall 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader (classmate), peers, teacher, Reader’s Mother

Content Warnings: bullying, classism, emotional distress, parental pressure, ableist slurs, family conflict, Conflict, a little Angst

E's Notes: I am not liable for what you are about to read, very sorry please forgive me , wanna give him a hug , ignore typos , English is not my first language

Chapter 3 : "The Storm an the Quiet after it"

By the time school resumed, the air in Fuller had shifted. Not colder, not yet—but heavy, as if the summer heat had fermented into something sour and stubborn.You sat by the window in your second-period history class, notebook open, pencil untouched.

The bell had rung five minutes ago, but your mind wasn’t in the room. It was still at the library, in the quiet between notes and pencil scratches. With him. When Thomas walked in late—head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving like he hoped the floor would swallow him—your heart jumped before you could stop it.

He never met anyone’s eyes. Never fought the murmurs."Should’ve kept that freak in the slaughterhouse," someone behind you whispered with a dry chuckle. The teacher cleared his throat, tried to reassert control, but the undercurrent of cruelty in the room never really faded. Thomas slid into the desk in the back.

Alone. As always.

One arm wrapped across his stomach like he was trying to hold himself in. You found yourself glancing back, just once. Later, in the hallway, it got worse. You’d stepped out of class for a drink and spotted him cornered near the lockers. Two boys—football types, rough around the edges—stood in front of him.

One of them shoved Thomas hard enough to make his back slam the metal. "What’s under that bandana, huh? Bet it’s worse than a pig’s ass. "Thomas didn’t flinch. Not visibly. But you saw his hand tighten into a fist, his entire body held together by some invisible thread.

"He’s not gonna say anything," the other sneered. "Probably too dumb to even growl." His head stayed down. He made a low, guttural sound—not quite a whimper, not quite a growl. Just enough to be heard. You stepped in without thinking.

"Leave him alone."

The words dropped like a hammer. The boys turned.

"Aw, look. His little girlfriend come to rescue him. You sweet on him, sweetheart? You like freaks?

"Your mouth was dry. But you didn’t back down." Better than cowards who gang up two on one. "They sneered, muttered something about you being just as weird, and walked off. But not before spitting at the floor near Thomas’s boots.

You stood there a moment longer, trying to catch your breath. Thomas slowly looked up at you, his hair casting a shadow over the burned, hidden half of his face. His eyes—dark and cautious—met yours for just a second.

You thought he might try to say something. Maybe scribble out a note. Instead, he turned and walked away. The rest of the day felt off-kilter. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still. Every creak of the floor, every harsh laugh in the hallway made your stomach tighten. You wondered where he went.If he was okay.

Art class came just before the final bell. You dragged yourself to the easel near the back, where your assigned seat faced the windows. The scent of oil paint and turpentine helped ground you. You reached for your charcoal.

You weren’t surprised to see Thomas walk in late again, silent as always. But when the teacher gestured toward the empty seat next to you, you stiffened.

He approached, avoiding your eyes.

Sat.

For a while, the only sound was the scratch of graphite and the occasional clink of brushes in water jars. The teacher roamed the room, praising some, gently critiquing others. He didn’t stop at Thomas.You finally spoke in a hush.

“You okay?”

Thomas’s hand paused.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed his drawing forward a little so you could see. It was a heavy black smear, chaotic and crowded. But if you looked closer, there were shapes inside it.

People.

Hands.

Faces distorted with cruel smiles.You felt a tightness in your chest. “That’s… really good,” you whispered. “Sad. But good.”

His shoulders dropped slightly. A breath let out. You tried again. “Do you want to walk together after school?” He didn’t write, didn’t nod. But when the bell rang, he waited at the door for you. You walked in silence for most of the way, past the train tracks, the corner diner, the rusting hardware store.

The heat was thick, but the air between you felt charged—like something unsaid pressing between every step. Finally, you stopped at the edge of a narrow field and turned toward him. You wanted to say something kind. Gentle. What came out wasn’t.

“Has anyone ever seen your face without that bandana , like exept your family?”

The silence that followed wasn’t like before. It was sharp. Cutting. Thomas went still. The way someone does when they’re trying not to break something—maybe themselves. He blinked slowly, then turned his back to you.

“I didn’t mean—” you started, reaching for his arm, but he flinched back, shaking his head hard. He reached into his satchel, pulled out his sketchpad, and scribbled something quickly.

"Not your business".

You stared at the words. Your throat tightened. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I want to understand.” He didn’t respond. Just tore the page out, crumpled it, and let it fall before walking away.

You didn’t follow. You couldn’t.

The rest of the walk home was longer than usual. Your legs felt heavy, dragging over every cracked piece of sidewalk. The humidity clung to your skin, and your bookbag pulled on your shoulders like guilt. Your house came into view—small, worn, the white paint on the porch railing chipping away.

The sun was setting by the time you reached the edge of the narrow field again. You weren’t sure why you came back. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was hope. The place looked different now—stretched in gold light, the tall grass swaying like it remembered something you didn’t.

The same spot where everything had turned sour only hours before now shimmered with a kind of quiet melancholy.You sat down slowly near the place he’d dropped the paper. The crumpled page was gone—blown away or taken, you weren’t sure—but you remembered what it said.

"Not your business."

It wasn’t cruel. Just… final. Like he was drawing a line around something sacred. You leaned back on your hands, the grass prickling your palms. For a moment, you closed your eyes, listening to the soft rustle of the wind. You thought about Thomas—not just the moment he walked away, but all the moments before that.

The way he hovered at the edges of rooms like he didn’t believe he deserved to be in them. The quiet way he watched the world. Like he was waiting for someone to give him permission to exist. You didn’t mean to push him.

You just wanted to know more, to reach through whatever wall he’d built around himself. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe it wasn’t yours to tear down. The memory of his drawing floated back to you—those distorted faces, those twisted smiles.

It hadn’t just been art.

It was a map of something inside him, something he didn’t have the words for. And maybe never would. You stayed there until the sun dipped low, painting everything in orange and shadow. Fireflies began blinking in the edges of the field, and for the first time all day, the air didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Then, soft footsteps.

You looked up—and there he was. Thomas stood at the edge of the field, half-shadowed, half-silhouetted, like he belonged to the dark and the fading light both. He hadn’t noticed you yet. He was holding his sketchbook close to his chest, fingers curled tightly around the spine.

He looked smaller here, like the world didn’t quite fit him. You didn’t speak. Not right away. Instead, you stood slowly, careful not to startle him. When he finally saw you, he stopped dead in his tracks.

For a second, you thought he’d leave again. But he didn’t. You took a few steps forward. “I wasn’t following you. I just… came to think.” His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t move.“I shouldn’t have asked you that,” you continued.

“About the bandana. I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I just wanted… to understand something I’ll probably never earn the right to understand.” You weren’t sure what kind of answer you expected. You would’ve accepted silence.Instead, Thomas looked down, then slowly walked forward.

He came closer than he had all day. Close enough that you could see the sheen of sweat on his neck, the way his hands twitched slightly as he uncurled his sketchbook. He flipped to a page—hesitant, slow. Then turned it toward you.

It was a drawing.

Charcoal again, but this one was softer than the last.

Less rage, more ache.

It was a figure —alone—surrounded by shadows shaped like people. Their faces blurred. But one shadow was different. Lighter. Closer to the figure in the middle. Almost touching.

It looked like…You.

You blinked, throat tightening. “You drew this today?” He nodded once.

“Is that… me?” A pause. Then again, a nod. It hit you then—he hadn’t just walked away to hide.

He’d gone to process.

To draw.

To speak the only way he knew how.

You stepped a little closer, careful, as if the space between you was made of glass.“I don’t care what’s under the bandana,” you said, voice shaking. “I care about how you see the world. And I think… I think I’d like to see more of it. Through you.”

He didn’t write anything this time. Just stared at you, his dark eyes unreadable but no longer distant. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper, he scribbled something onto it. He handed it to you without a word.

You opened it carefully.

“You make it quieter.”

You read it twice. Three times. Your chest felt too full, like it couldn’t hold everything swelling inside it.You smiled, even though your eyes burned.

“You make it… safer."

Thomas let out a breath. A real one. Not a sigh, not a growl. Just a breath, like letting go of something heavy. He didn’t touch you. But he stood next to you, shoulder just barely brushing yours, as the last of the sun dipped beneath the trees.

You both stayed like that for a long while.

Two shadows in the fading light.

Not quite alone.

Not quite broken.

Just… beginning.

Chapter Five - Inside the Silence

E's Notes : At first I wamted to do the hurting feelings and the apology in seperate parts but then decided against that idea

Taglist: @reka13 @dogrrrrr @thewolffairytaler @iloved1lfs0 @night-shadowblood-writes2 @richietoziers-world

[slasherfantasy]

Fuller, 1955 : Chapter 3 : "The Storm an the Quiet after it"

Summary: As the bond between Reader and Thomas deepens, trouble brews at home. Caught between two worlds, Reader must confront her mother’s disapproval and her own sense of isolation.

Setting: Fuller, Texas – Summer 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader (classmate

⚠️Content Warnings: parental conflict, emotional neglect, implied abandonment, classism, bullying, anxiety

E's Notes : this has developed into a full Fic or rather I want it to , I am always touched reading your sweet comments , still wanna give him a hug , ignore typos , English is not my first language

Chapter 2 - The Library

The sun had dipped low by the time you stepped out of the library. It was that fragile hour when everything looked washed in honeyed gold, the cicadas singing like they might split the air open.

Your shoes scuffed against the dry dirt shoulder of the road as you walked, one arm clutching your borrowed book to your chest like a shield. The streets of Fuller always felt emptier after 6 p.m. as if the whole town folded in on itself when the shops closed and curtains were drawn.

Every porch seemed to have a watcher, even if you couldn’t see their eyes. You passed Mrs. Grady’s rusted gate and the overgrown Baptist church garden, where mint grew wild beneath a broken cross.

You didn’t look at the Hewitts’ property, though you felt the weight of it —the house crouched low behind trees, haunted by town whispers and your mother’s sharp words.

By the time your own front step came into view, the warmth from the library had already started to cool inside you. The screen door creaked as you pulled it open, the hinges loud enough to announce your arrival.

Inside, the smell of overcooked meat and cheap perfume clung to the walls. Your mother was already at the stove, shoulders stiff, apron smeared, glass in hand.

Your mother wasn’t one for silence. She filled the house with the clatter of dishes, the sharp cadence of heels on linoleum, the shrill hum of a cigarette-lit sigh.

After your father left, she made noise just to prove she could. Just to drown out the hollow. So it wasn’t surprising when the silence at the dinner table a little later—your silence—made her twitch.

"You’ve been sneakin’ out to that library again," she muttered, stabbing at the pot roast with a butter knife. "Ain’t gonna do you no good hiding in books and ghost towns."

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t look up.

"You’re spending a lot of time alone lately. Or not alone, exactly."

She tilted her head, voice thick with suspicion. "Heard you were seen with that Hewitt boy." Your fork paused. She watched you like a hawk. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyes red-rimmed from too much gin or too little sleep. Probably both.

"What in the hell are you thinking, baby? You don’t know what kind of trouble folks’ll stir just cause they see you near him. That family—those people—aren’t like us."

That stung more than it should’ve.

"There’s nothing wrong with him."

"He’s not right in the head, you know it. Been like that since he was born. Never says a word. Hides behind rags like a stray mutt. You think he’s sweet, maybe. But you don’t know what silence hides."

You stood up, chest burning.

"Maybe he’s kind. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he’s the only person around here who doesn’t pretend to care just to gossip later." She stood too. Chair legs screeched back.

"He’s not your charity case!"

You flinched. The words hit like a slap. She softened only a little. Sat back down. Lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

"You think your daddy’s coming back if you start collecting strays?"

That cut deeper than any slap could have. You left your plate untouched. Left the house without another word.

The walk to the library was longer at night, even in summer. The town was asleep, mostly. Lights low in the windows. The occasional flicker of a porch light or moth wings tapping glass. You kept your hands in your pockets and your mind on anything but home.

When you got there, you didn’t expect the door to be open. Miss Grace had long gone, but the back door creaked when you pushed it. You stepped inside. The cool air hit your skin, and for a second, it felt like you could breathe again.

Then you saw the flicker of a pencil.

Thomas was there, sitting in the shadows. Drawing by lamp light. He looked up, startled. You froze in the doorway.

"Sorry," you whispered.

"I just... couldn’t stay home tonight." He tilted his head, not unkindly. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded scrap of paper. He wrote in quick, careful lines and handed it over.

Bad night ?

You smiled, bitter.

Nodded.

You sat across from him again. The table felt more like home than your own kitchen ever had. A few minutes passed before he pushed another note across.

"You okay?" You hesitated.

Then spoke up,

"No. But this helps"

He didn’t need to say, or more like write , anything else. His pencil kept moving, back to sketching. But the corner of his mouth twitched just enough that it could’ve been a smile.

A small one.

You didn’t speak again. But when he passed you another sheet—this one with a sketch of two people sitting at a table, lines soft and careful—you knew it meant something. Maybe more than anything else ever had.

You stayed like that for a while��just the two of you and the soft scratch of pencil on paper, like it could hold the silence together.

The library had that particular nighttime stillness, the kind that made you feel like you'd stepped outside of time. Dust hung like smoke in the lamplight. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked as the building settled.

You didn’t dare move, afraid the spell might break. You let your gaze trail the sketch he gave you—the two small figures across the table, outlined so delicately it looked like they might float off the page.

One of them had your hair, your posture. The other had Thomas’s quiet hunch, the heavy way his shoulders curved inward like he was always apologizing for taking up space. Another note slid your way.

"You can stay. If you want."

You swallowed hard. Your throat ached from holding back everything you couldn’t say. For all the noise your mother made, it was here—in this quiet—that you finally felt heard. You whispered.

"I want to."

He gave the tiniest nod, then pushed his sketchbook closer so you could see what he was working on next. It was a rough pencil outline of the library itself—those high arched windows, the soft curve of the old ceiling fan. He glanced at you like he was offering a secret.

So you reached into your bag, pulled out the book you’d borrowed, and started to read aloud—not loudly, just enough for your voice to fill the air like a whisper. He didn’t look up from the page, but you saw his hand slow. Like he was listening. Maybe even calming.

You read until your voice grew tired and your eyes heavy, and Thomas kept drawing beside you—silent but steady, like he’d stay there all night if it meant keeping the quiet between you safe.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d let him.

TBC: Chapter Four – Unspoken Lessons

Taglist : @thewolffairytaler @dogrrrrr @iloved1lfs0 @night-shadowblood-writes2 @reka13 @richietoziers-world

[slasherfantasy]

Fuller, 1955 : Chapter 2:

"The Libary"

Summary : In the dim stillness of Fuller’s library, the reader and Thomas Hewitt begin to bridge the silence between them. Through quiet gestures, shared space, and wordless sketches, an unspoken bond starts to form.

Setting: Fuller, Texas – Summer 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader (classmate)

⚠️ Content Warnings: Emotional bullying, verbal harassment, ableism, mockery related to appearance and muteness, mild anxiety, social discomfort, slow-burn emotional vulnerability

E's Notes : my first time writing for Thomas as I just rewatched the movies and just wanted to give him a hug , ignore typos , English is not my first language

Chapter 1 - Behind the Stairs

The library had always been the coolest place in Fuller—not just in temperature, but in stillness. The heavy drapes shut out the heat and the world, muffling sound and light alike.

The whole place smelled of old pages and lemon polish, and Miss Grace, the librarian, moved so softly behind the desk you’d think she was a ghost herself. A ghost that kept her hair in a tight bun and always wore pearls.

It was the only place Thomas Hewitt ever went inside willingly.

The first time you saw him there, it startled you. He was hunched at the table in the very back, shoulders curled in like a question mark, the sketchbook nearly hidden beneath his arms.

A shaft of dust-speckled light from the tall window fell across the top of his head, and even from across the room, you could see his hair was damp with sweat.

You didn’t say anything.

Just found a seat.

Opened a book.

Pretended to read.

But you watched him from behind the pages.

You’d started coming more often after that day behind the stairwell. Not to read. Not really. Just to sit. Just in case. At first, he didn’t even look at the shelves. He'd go straight to that same table, the farthest from the door, and pull out one of those battered sketchbooks from his coat.

Always in pencil. Always with his head down, the bandana tugged low over his nose and mouth.

He never acknowledged you. You sat a few tables away the first time. Then one table closer. Then the next one. It took days. Sometimes he looked at you out of the corner of his eye.

Other times, he didn’t.

But he never moved away.

You began bringing your own sketchpad, though you weren’t any good. You doodled flowers, comic faces, shapes, suns with sleepy eyes. You tried to draw people, sometimes. You noticed him glance when you added a superhero cape to a squirrel or gave a cactus a cowboy hat.

One day, you left a pencil on his side of the table. You didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. But the next day, the pencil was still there ...sharpened.

You started timing your library visits to when you knew he’d be there. Miss Grace didn’t say much, just gave you a quiet nod and passed you a cold sweet tea she kept in the staff fridge.

The room always felt like it belonged to ghosts more than people. Like a museum of silence. Maybe that’s why Thomas liked it. No mirrors. No voices. No one telling him what he was. No one asking questions.

His world was made of quiet shadows, and in the library, they left him alone. One afternoon, you watched his hand move across the page—slow, deliberate, like every line held something sacred. You leaned a little closer, curious. He noticed. You saw his spine go rigid. His fingers froze.

"Sorry," you whispered. "Just curious." He stared at you, unmoving. Then, slow as melting wax, he turned the sketchbook your way. It was a heron. Perched on a log, wings tucked in mid-fold. The detail was precise. Feathers layered like whispers. Beak sharp and quiet. Your breath caught in your throat.

"You’re... amazing," you murmured. He blinked at you, uncertain. Then he turned the page. A dog this time, lying in tall grass, eyes closed in peace. A blade of grass bent over one paw.You looked up.

"These are beautiful." He didn’t smile. But the grip in his hands eased. A flicker of trust, small and uncertain. You were about to speak again when familiar voices slithered in from the hallway.

"Ain’t that freak in there again?" Your stomach dropped. Thomas’s shoulders tensed immediately. His hands flew to his bandana, tugging it tighter. He slammed the sketchbook shut like he’d done something wrong. Like he’d been caught stealing air. You stood quickly.

"Ignore them," you said, but your voice shook.

The door creaked open.

Two boys from school swaggered in, their presence loud and smirking. You knew them—football boys, sharp with cruelty and fake smiles.

"Well, well," one sneered. "Look at Beauty and the Beast."

Your fists clenched.

"Get out."

They snickered.

"Careful, girl," the other drawled.

"He might bite. Might be contagious." You turned to them, trembling with fury, but before you could speak again, a shadow moved behind them.

Miss Grace.

She stood like a specter behind the desk, voice low but commanding.

"Out. Now."

The boys hesitated.

"I won’t say it again," she warned. They left with sullen grins, muttering under their breath. You turned back. Thomas hadn’t moved. He was still curled in on himself, like he expected more cruelty to come pouring through the door.

"They’re not worth the dirt on your shoes," you said. Slowly, his eyes met yours. That flicker again. That question. You stepped around the table and reached gently for the edge of the sketchbook.

He let you see.

Page after page.

Flowers. Birds. Dogs. Tools.

A hand—yours.

Half-done, bracelets captured in soft graphite lines.

A page filled with nothing but light patterns—like the shimmer of sun through trees. He’d never said a word, but it didn’t matter. In that quiet, sacred space, he was speaking in lines and shadows. And you were listening.

You traced your fingers lightly over the edge of his sketchbook, careful not to disturb it, as if it were something fragile and sacred. Thomas’s breath hitched slightly—the softest sound breaking the heavy silence of the library.

You felt your heart beat loud in your chest, louder than the whispered conversations and turning pages around you. You wanted to say so much—how beautiful his drawings were, how you wished you could draw like that, how you understood the quiet loneliness inside him.

But the words got caught in your throat. Instead, you just nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Thomas’s eyes flicked up to meet yours again, and this time, there was no fear.

Only something raw and honest—an invitation. You cleared your throat and whispered,

“Would you... want to draw together sometime? I mean, only and really only if you don’t mind.”

He hesitated, the bandana twitching as he pulled it just a little lower, then he nodded. Just one single nod. It felt like the biggest word he’d spoken all summer.

The next day, you arrived early, the library still filled with the faint scent of lemon polish and paper. You spotted Thomas already seated at the usual table, sketchbook open, pencil poised.

You set your own pad down beside his, careful not to crowd him. For a while, you both drew in silence, the only noise the scratch of pencil tips on paper and the distant ticking of an old clock somewhere in the library.

At one point, your elbow bumped his arm. You glanced over, expecting irritation, but instead found him watching you with curious eyes. He made a soft, almost shy noise—a breath caught between a sigh and a hum.

Then, without looking away, he flipped to a page in his sketchbook and held it out to you. It was a simple drawing—a little sun with sunglasses , like the ones you would always sketch. You smiled. You understood. Days passed, and the library became your refuge from the scorching Texas heat and the sharpness of the world outside.

The boys at school continued their taunts, but inside these walls, you were safe. And so was Thomas. One afternoon, as you both packed up to leave, you noticed a small folded piece of paper tucked between the pages of his sketchbook.

“Hey, what’s this?” you asked softly, picking it up. Thomas looked away, fingers twitching nervously. You unfolded the note carefully. In neat, shaky handwriting, it read: Thank you. For seeing me.

Your throat tightened. You looked up, but Thomas had already slipped his coat on and was heading toward the door, the bandana pulled tight over his face once again.You called softly after him, “See you tomorrow?”

He paused in the doorway, then gave the faintest nod before disappearing out into the late afternoon sun.---You stood there, clutching the note in your hand, feeling like you’d been given a secret key.

The slow bloom of something warm and fragile had begun between you. It wasn’t love yet—not like the stories you’d read in books—but it was a start. A fragile, quiet promise. And for Thomas Hewitt, that promise might have been more than anything he’d ever known.

Continued : Chapter 3 The Storm and the quiet after

Taglist : @night-shadowblood-writes2 @iloved1lfs0 @dogrrrrr @thewolffairytaler

[slasherfantasy]

Fuller, 1955 : Chapter 1 : "Behind the Stairs"

Summary : In the sweltering summer of 1955, a quiet, disfigured boy endures cruelty in a town that won’t look him in the eye—until one classmate begins to see him differently.

Setting: Fuller, Texas – Summer 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader (classmate)

⚠️ Content Warnings: Bullying, emotional abuse, ableism, mentions of disfigurement/insecurity, emotional neglect, social ostracization, implied parental abuse (reader's background), and psychological distress.

E's Notes : my first time writing for Thomas as I just rewatched the movies and just wanted to give him a hug , ignore typos , English is not my first language

The summer heat pressed down like a punishment. Fuller, Texas, sweltered in stillness—nothing moved but the bugs and the dust, and even the breeze felt like it was sighing.

Cicadas screamed from every tree like they were warning you to turn back.

The cracked pavement steamed, the wood of the porches warped, and the sun seemed determined to bake the whole world flat.It was the kind of place where things got stuck—dreams, people, regrets.

Where even time itself seemed too tired to move forward. You were sixteen that summer, and Fuller was already wearing you thin. The days bled together with a sticky sameness, and most folks just did what they’d always done—smoked, prayed, and gossiped.

And they talked. Always about him.

Thomas Hewitt lived on the edge of town, past the slaughterhouse where the air always smelled like rust and regret. People said his mama was strange. Said his family was cursed. Said the boy had been dropped straight from Hell and landed face-first.

Freak. Monster. Mute.

You’d heard it all before, the same cruel names, passed around like cigarettes at a bonfire. You remembered the first time you saw him in school. Seventh grade, gym class. The way the boys circled him like vultures, laughing, nudging each other.

"Bet he don’t bleed like the rest of us."

"Hey, Leatherface! What’s under that hair? Rot?"

He didn’t respond. He never did. But you remembered the way he flinched. It wasn’t like he didn’t hear them—he did.

He just took it. Like a rock to the back of the head. Over and over.

Sometimes they cornered him behind the school.

Sometimes they threw gum in his hair.

Once, someone spat in his lunch.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even run. He just stayed quiet. Eyes low. Shoulders curved in like he was trying to fold himself out of existence. That summer, you started noticing more. You’d see him walking alone past the fields when the light dipped low, carrying rusted metal and wood scraps.

You wondered where he went, what he made with it. Once, you saw him digging something behind the fence behind the slaughterhouse.

Always alone. Always quiet.

There were stories, of course. There always are in towns like Fuller. Stories that he was born wrong. That he didn’t have a tongue. That he’d killed a dog with his bare hands. You didn’t believe that last one. Not after what you saw behind the school one day in late June.

You’d stayed late to pick up a library book. The halls were empty, sun painting long shadows across the tiled floor. As you passed by the back stairwell, you heard it—muffled grunting.

Then a thud.

You peeked around the corner.

Three boys.

Laughing.

Thomas, on his knees.

Blood on his lip.

"C’mon, make a sound, freak. Bark or something. Ain’t you supposed to be part animal?"

Another kick. Your stomach turned. You froze. But then something happened. One of them ripped the bandana he wore around his head—Thomas’s way of keeping his hair low, his face hidden—and exposed the left side of his face.

You caught a glimpse of the scarred skin, the twisted jaw, the deep lines that pulled like rope burns. He scrambled to hide it, hand flying to his cheek, body curling in. They laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. You didn’t know what made you do it—maybe the look in his eyes. But you stepped into the hall.

"Coach is coming!"

They scattered like roaches. Thomas didn’t move. You knelt beside him. "You okay?" No answer. He wouldn’t look at you. His eyes stayed on the floor. You reached out slowly. He tensed when your fingers brushed his wrist. "They’re assholes. All of them." He flinched at the word, but not like he was scared. More like he didn’t believe it. He pulled his bandana back over his face, stood up without a word, and walked away. But something changed in your chest that day. Some slow, warm coil of empathy twisted into place.

Because for the first time, you didn’t just know about Thomas Hewitt.

You saw him.

You saw the bruises. The silence. The shame.

And that summer, the hottest on record, felt suddenly different. Like it might be the beginning of something.

Continued : Chapter 2 - The Library

[slasherfantasy]

More animal ghoap doodles from twitter 🐻‍❄️🦝

Booping your boyfriends snoot 🦦🐺

[slasherfantasy]

cw: hinted stalking

it all started with a shirt. the one that you always prefer to wear when things are getting too hectic for your liking. it’s fraying, with holes close to the seam and the hems now loose and torn. it’s an ugly thing but it’s comfortable. more than anything, it’s a piece of home.

and now that shirt is fucking gone.

you tore your flat apart trying to find the old tee—digging in your hamper, plucking shirts from your drawers, even peeking underneath your bed—but it seems to have just vanished. like you just hallucinated all the memories you have of it. if it had been any shirt you would be fine with never seeing it anymore but this is not just any shirt.

it’s simon’s.

the one that you stupidly kept during the breakup, all forlornly sniffing at the fading smell of his shampoo. you kept it underneath your pillow while you were dealing with the heartbreak, before using it as it is—just a shirt with no ties.

only, in its absence, you realize that you never really did separate it from him.

you used it as simon’s stand-in; it was the final piece of him that you managed to drag with you as the days bloomed into years. it meant memories with and of simon, everything that is good and the bad, and now it’s gone.

jesus. how could you be so worked up over a shirt? it’s too ridiculous, really.

with a grunt, you jump onto your bed to bury your face on your pillow. you sniff, pouting, and you try not to put a name on what is churning in your heart as you slip your arms underneath the sheets, hoping to curl up in comfort.

they hit something.

your bed has been a haven, of sorts. a pocket of peace when things are just too much. you’ve filled it with many things that bring you comfort—fleece blankets, silk pillows, three stuffed toys that are lined up on your windowsill. in short, you’ve memorized everything that should be in your bed, and this thing that your hands hit is new.

you feel around for it, registering how it is coarse to the touch the way crisp cloths usually are. when your mind and your hands cannot conjure an image of what it is you’re touching, you scramble to tug it up, only for your brows to furrow even more at the sight of a very unfamiliar shirt.

it is black, almost plain if not for the little embroidery of some logo on the chest area. you turn it around, wondering how you could have missed this apparel, only to pause at the sight of a sticky note tacked on the shirt.

in a penmanship that you refuse to believe that you are seeing right now, the note reads, “here’s a new one that still smells like me as payment for taking my old shirt back. -S”

what the fuck.

(you bring it close to your face anyway, breathing it in softly, and something in you stutters at the familiar scent.

god. it’s been years and yet, a quick sniff bubbles up many things that you’ve tried to stuff away and bury. still, it seems like your heart never really stopped missing him, huh?)

[slasherfantasy]

The Collector's House Floorplans

Hey everyone, sorry the floor plans took so long, I was finishing up my semester at graduate school for electrical/computer engineering and then got sick for most of last week. If you like my work, check out some of my writing! I'm currently focused on writing for The War of the Rohirrim.

Anyways, here they are! They were originally 36x28 inches so I really had to crunch them down to fit on here. If you want the full images just DM so I can send them to you.

The images were from @hong--zhi--zhu's post here and I got the idea from @darklylucid!

Feel free to repost/reshare, whatever you want, you don't have to ask! Also let me know if I should make any changes!

[slasherfantasy]

Okay but Shark!Mer!Price trying to court Betta!Mer!Reader who continuously refuses his advances and it just makes him even more infatuated with her and her stubbornness and makes him work to prove that he’d be a good mate cause he wants to be the father of her pups so bad (this has been on my mind for a month please tell me you can see the vision)

He loves that you reject him, because that means you’re selective— you won’t take anything but the best, and he’s determined to be the best. He wants the mate and mother of his pups to have nigh impossibly high standards. Her rejection means he just hasn’t proven himself, hasn’t given her an adequate display— bettas like displays, right? He may not dance as such, but his hunting is certainly its own performance.

And again, I like giving mermaids a bit of lore. I think mers from warmer waters are often a bit more delicate because they have such fair conditions and have developed more tools because they have less physical strength/mass. Mers like bettas have also developed more jewelry and other adornments because they are already accustomed to using their colors and flowing fins to attract mates. Many tropical mers also travel less as they don’t leave seasonally due to changing water temperature, so they have some agricultural practices.

So John, as a shark, sees you two as a perfect match. He has the strength, speed, and aggression— body hardened from colder waters and times of sparse prey. You’re dexterous, evasive, and clever. He can chase competitors from the territory, while you can make it into a self sustaining home. He can fill the den with food, and you can make sure not a single bone goes to waste.

Also. I think it would be really funny if he was like “let’s have pups” and you were like “I’m a betta so arguably they’re gonna be fry, actually” and he’s like man. That is not as good of a word for offspring…. I don’t wanna call them that…

[slasherfantasy]

18+ gender neutral reader

Teasing Soap because it’s fun.

Pretending to cuddle, absently running your fingers up and down his soft cotton shirt, feeling his abs tighten on their own every time your hand drifts lower.

Ignoring his half chub to make little comments about what’s on TV, how much you dislike how that person pronounces that word. Playing with the bottom hem of his shirt, letting the backs of your knuckles skim slowly back and forth across his happy trail.

You’re too good of an actor because he genuinely doesn’t know you’re doing it on purpose. He’s too much of a gentleman to ask you to touch him, but it feels too good to ask you to stop, so he just takes it. Stays hard and neglected and riveted on every movement of your hand, every smile and innocent flash of your eyes in his direction.

Burrowing your fingers in those soft hairs covering his belly, mindlessly petting and stroking him like you would a cat. Casual enough that he can convince himself he’s making it up in his own head. Slow enough that it gets his cock twitching and his body restlessly fidgeting.

Finally he realizes he’s let it go on too long. If he says anything about it now, he’ll just look like some gross pervert who’s been taking unwarranted pleasure from this for the last half hour. He has to hold out. There’s nothing he can do but helplessly stay in place under your hand, and hope a random thought about having sex will spontaneously pop into your head if he thinks about it desperately enough.

He practically chokes when you turn to him with soft eyes and ask, “Johnny, do you want to… get us a snack?”

The disappointment. The incredulous, rapid blinks of those feverish eyes. He thought you were going to ask something entirely different, and it’s all you can do to keep your vaguely hopeful smile on your face when your chest wants to erupt with giggles.

“Yeah… sure.”

He clambers stiffly out of bed, and you have to plaster your eyes square onto the TV to have even a hope of missing his obvious erection.

He comes back with some very good snacks, and you simply can’t keep up the charade any longer. As soon as he’s settled in beside you with his poor, half-flagged hard on, you set the snacks aside and silently tug his sweatpants down, put your mouth where he needs it.

The noise your poor baby makes goes straight between your legs, and you shiver with your own arousal as you work to make up for all that suffering. 💙

[slasherfantasy]

taking a break from the sticky icky verse to talk about hybrid shifters and the 141. let’s do price first

bear!price who’s quiet and looming, and big, you can see that he’s big of course he is he’s a bear hybrid, but you don’t realize that that’s him not even standing at full height, not even standing with his tired shoulders straight and broad, and when he does, when he unfolds into his true height and breadth, he’s so fucking big

bear!price who by far prefers nature to the city, solitude to crowds, and takes every opportunity he can on leave to go camping somewhere, his favorite places are far flung and often cold, and he finally decides to pull the trigger, buys a patch of land in the middle of nowhere, builds himself a self sustaining cabin (all the necessary luxuries like hot water, old man like him needs it, and it’ll serve as a good safe house if he or the team ever need it so it’s a good investment)

bear!price who prefers to hunt his own food when he can do so, rather than just go to the supermarket or a restaurant like other hybrids nowadays, he likes the hunt, likes to be responsible for his own meals, and one day at that Alaskan cabin he’s out by the river for salmon, and when he reaches in for a fish what he hauls out is an otter, which quickly shifts in his heavy hand into a woman, soaked and shivering in the chill air, her little round ears flat to her head and thick, furry tail wrapped around her long legs

bear!price who brings her into his house, sets her in front of the roaring fire with a plateful of salmon and gently pulls her story out of her: she’s not wild, not feral, she just got lost on a hike a few days ago and as an otter hybrid she’s warmer and safer in freshwater than out in the wild…even if it means she’s floated down the river while she slept and now she doesn’t know WHERE the hell she is

bear!price who feeds her and puts her in his clothes (she lost hers in the first shift poor thing) who has to carry her around the cabin because she’s so clumsy on land, and wraps her in his blankets and can’t stop looking at her. can’t stop rubbing her soft little ears between his thumb and forefinger, making her blush and shudder, can’t stop petting her tail tucked beside her on the one chair in his cabin that he insisted she take

bear!price who, when she says that she’s still cold that night, takes great pleasure in wrapping her in his arms and pressing her down into the bed, who swallows each of the adorable little squeaks she makes as he nuzzles her throat, forces her thighs wide to fit his hips, and forces his cock inside

bear!price who’s too big for a pretty little otter like her but makes her take it anyway, crooning that she can take it she’s doing so good just hold out a little longer he just needs to fuck his scent into her so she smells right and he can sleep, licks her tears off her cheeks when she cums as his cockhead rams up against her womb, little claws raking ineffectively at his skin never able to break through

bear!price who decides mid fuck that she’s the softest, sweetest thing he’s ever felt and a pussy that tight can’t walk away from him. he deserves something soft to come home to, something to take his cock and cry about how big it is and just be so fucking sweet and soft for him. decides he’ll keep the little stray after all, now aren’t you grateful sweetheart? he’s gonna be so good to you, why don’t you thank him by taking his load?

[slasherfantasy]

so since @gothghostiie got me SO GOOD with coyote!graves/bunny!reader (pls go read oh my god oh my god) i decided to get her back. lets talk about mountain lion!graves

mountain lion!graves doesn't make a habit of explicitly telling people what he is, mostly because he likes the mystery. he likes the curious stares, the whispers behind his back arguing about what he is with the golden ears that match his hair, the thick fangs and retractable claws, the eyes with slitted pupils that reflect in the night. they're never right in their guesses. he doesn't care. he's a solitary sort of man, even within his own company. he gives his shadows what they need but that's because they need it. his dogs are good boys, they follow orders and they look after each other, and graves doesn't have to join in on the cuddle piles when he knows they've got one another handled

mountain lion!graves is a territorial sonofabitch, which is why he keeps the shadows. they're marked with his teeth in scars on their throats, so they live on his land and follow his orders and hunt what he tells them to, whether for money or country or food or safety. but graves likes to do his own hunting, at least for himself. he likes to be responsible for bringing down the big prey, for reminding everyone why he's in charge when his fangs flash and his roars can be heard echoing for miles, like a death knell

mountain lion!graves who gets lost one day while running down a lead for the shadows, and he has to methodically search a neighborhood of bland, boring Midwestern suburban houses for somewhere safe to contact SC. and he catches this...scent. sweet like dandelion greens and tender, ripe fruit. his mouth waters, and he follows it. follows it right to the back of one little house, identical to all the others except for that mouthwatering scent pulling him in like a siren song, right through the unlocked back gate

mountain lion!graves who finds on the other side of the gate the garden of eden. the place is overflowing with wild and ripe fruits and vegetables, with pretty flowers spilling cheerfully over one another. and in the middle is a woman, the source of that mouthwatering scent of dandelion greens and tender ripe fruit. a bunny hybrid, with her tall brown ears and the adorable little puffball tail thats poking through the designated spot in her thin little sundress. and she's looking at him, wide eyed, inquisitive, and then she gasps just as his muscles are coiling, ready to spring (hunt hunt hunt a predatory evolutionary mantra screaming in his head), a purring growl beginning in his chest. but she doesn't scream, her brows pinch together in worry and she pouts, reaching for him "you poor thing, you look exhausted! are you hurt?" and that mantra of hunt hunt hunt flips to something sweeter, something deeper, to breed breed breed

mountain lion!graves who plays into it, weaving his trap, eyes sharp and never leaving her as he tells her how he's so hungry, he's so exhausted, he just needs to rest in the shade a bit, he's so sorry for intruding but he couldn't help it. she chitters and fusses, assuring him that she doesn't mind, how awful that he's clearly been through so much, what can she do to make it better? she baked some blondies just that morning would he like that? and he purrs and rubs his face against her palms, smirking as she doesn't notice his claws sinking into her skirt, hiking it up. he knows exactly what she can do to make him feel better, but it might hurt a little but he’s hurting so bad right now. can she be good and just let him do what he needs? be a sweet little bunny for him and take it?

mountain lion!graves who can fucking taste how innocent she is just by the surprise when he kisses her for the first time fast and rough, can taste her virginity in the confusion in her voice when he parts her thighs, and he’s still purring to soothe her obvious nerves as those soft ears twitch, and she stammers that of course she wants to help him, she doesn’t want him to hurt, how can she help? and he tells her all she has to do is keep her legs open and lay back like a good little bunny. he warms her up by playing with her tits, tracing claws around her ears, around her little cotton ball tail until she’s squirming, panting against his mouth that she feels funny, and his cock leaks. he growls that he’ll fix it, he’ll make it feel better, bunny, swear, swear sugar just keep still. she cums on his cock before he’s even halfway inside, and he’s pussy drunk inside of a minute. he’s snarling against her marked up throat like she’s his personal chew toy, his own fucking fleshlight, hips battering against hers bullying her cervix as she babbles he’s so big it’s too much, but he reminds her she promised to make him feel better, he hurts all over and the only cure is to cum deep inside her womb. and who knows, pussy this sweet, the way she cums so easy (third time) without even having to really be touched - fuck honey he’s gonna have to keep you ain’t he? can’t let nobody touch what’s his - and you belong to him now

[slasherfantasy]

sweet @pricegotmedickmatized and I cannot be trusted in dms so you get coyote hybrid!graves x bunny hybrid!reader

cw: dubcon, kidnapping, implied corruption kink, size difference, oral (reader receiving), manhandling, brief description of graves imagining to eat his prey, reader is referred to as 'it', virgin/innocent!reader, afab!gn!reader

its a hot summer night when when he's crossing the countryside. the air is dry and hes hungry, his coat dusty, his ears pointed as he listens for the sound of any nearby prey. its been a few days since hes eaten and the hunger was starting to weaken him, to make him more aggressive, less careful of what hes doing, more desperate to get food. so much so that he finds his way into a human neighbourhood. he doesn't go here, he doesn't like going here. he doesn't like the humans and they don't like him, he's had a gun pointed at him more times that he can count, had a bullet graze him more than a handful of times. hateful, that's what they are. nothing good comes from them, except the few scraps of food they might throw in the trash if he's lucky. and he might be - his nose picks up a faint, sweet smell.

He knows that smell. it's a rabbit, not too old, not too far. a fucking delicacy, they're fast and witty, squeezing into their burrow before he can catch them, always just a hop away - but when he gets them they're delicious, tender. but this one has something mixed in with it, it's not just rabbit. it has a faint human note in its scent. maybe it's just the human neighbourhood mixing in, the prominent smell tricking him, he can't say for sure. but what he can say is that his stomach is growling. it's worth a try.

he follows the scent quietly, dull claws scratching along the pavement, audibly sniffing the air as he gets closer, the smell gets stronger. keeps a low profile on his way, sneaking between trashcans and cars until the scent is so close it almost drives him insane. he's at a typical little, blue suburban house; a white picket fence surrounding its backyard. it has an apple tree and kids toys scattered around, it's lived in in and homey, it's the American dream.

and it has what he wants. what he yearns for. what he craves. what he needs.

he sniffs at the fence, the chemical smell of the paint almost nauseating as he tries to find a way in, not as nauseating as the hunger that curses through him. he needs to have it, if its the last thing he does. he bares his teeth and growls lowly, eyes lighting up when he paws at the fence door and it slowly swings open. jackpot.

he stalks inside, sniffing around in the grass - kids, chlorine from the pool, ice cream that has been dropped - and bunny. still with that damn human smell. he looks around the dark yard and spots the enclosure - a somewhat small caged in patch of grass with a small, wooden hut, just big enough to fit a big dog. weird. it doesn't smell like dog, but it's too big for a little rabbit - maybe multiple live here? no, it's only one. he can smell it. a big one from what it looks like. the more the better. he's already imagining himself sinking his teeth into the raw meat as he opens the cage's gate, imagininig biting into the fat protecting the sweet thing, his paws holding it down as it struggles, licking it's sweet blood - until it pokes it's little head out of the hut.

big, floppy ears, soft looking hair, big eyes and a cute, slightly tilted up nose with little whiskers sticking out. it looks curious, nose twitching as its head tilts at him, he freezes. he ruined his chance, the things is gonna bolt if he doesn't pounce now, it'll slip from his paws, he'll go hungry another night, he's gonna starve -

"who are you?"

the voice rips him from his thoughts. it's a soft and sweet voice its sounds like taking a sip of sweet tea tastes, its timid and curious, but most importantly: its not scared. hes standing in front of its open cage, getting into it's personal space with his ears folded back and teeth bared, muscles tense as he prepares to lunge - and its not scared. in fact, you're smiling. you're fucking smiling at him.

"what?" his voice is low and almost angry, is he not scary enough? is he not dangerous enough? has his age caught up to him so much? he growls and steps closer, paws heavy on the dirt underneath them, you don't budge. you actually scoot closer, sniffing at him.

"are you a dog?" you ask innocently, getting within his range. you're so close. too close. "are you new here? I've never seen you around." your ears twitch as you eye him over. suddenly, a small hand reaches out to his neck, feeling around a bit - or more like petting him. "where's your collar?" he snorts. this is so unreal, so bizzare. there's no way you're this innocent, this naive, this trusting - but you are. you truly are. you're sat on your knees, petting and scratching him like a beloved pet, not like he's a dangerous predator who's gonna rip you apart the first chance he'll get.

his eyes roam over you, your features, he takes it all in. the soft fur that looks almost like the cotton candy he gets whenever the fair's in town, the floppy ears that are long enough to slightly drape over your shoulders, your twitching nose, your fluffy little tail that's wagging excitedly, barely covering the top of your buttcrack - jesus, your chubby little butt, your supple thighs, your fucking tits -

he grins.

"yea." he says, his tone playful. despite what his mother taught him, he's gonna play with his food now. "I'm new in the neighbourhood. I dont have a collar yet." you light up, like you just found a new friend. you sweet, innocent thing. "want me to show you where I live?" you beam at the suggesting. your ears flop around slightly as you nod eagerly, you love making new friends. he grins even more. "good.."

you don't pick up on the dark look on his face, the edge in his voice, the disgusting things his playful grin is hiding. not even when he leans in and sinks his teeth into your neck - not enough to break skin, just enough to have a grip on you - and drags you out of the cage. your face scrunches up a bit as he pulls you over the grass, the pain cursing through you constantly as you whimper, but you don't push him off, smack at his muzzle, try to pull away, you dont even tell him to get off or let go.

"t-that hurts.." you say softly, a hint of distress in your voice. not even protest, no fear, just a bit of pain. he ignores you the first time, dragging you out of the yard, then out of the suburbs and into the nearby forrest. you pipe up again when you leave the trusted neighbourhood. "what are you d-doing? it hurts-" he rolls his eyes and lets go of your neck but not without putting his paw on your back to keep you from running, if you tried.

"I'm carrying you to where I live. it's a long way for a sweet little bunny like you, I don't want you exhausted." he says with faux concern, immediately feeling your squirmy little body relax. "you're gonna be good and let me carry you, yea?"

"but.. it hurts.." you say quietly, shyly. he hums softly, his mouth next to your ear, breath hot on your skin.

"I know, I know. you poor thing. just hold out a little longer, we're almost there. I'll make it feel all better once we're there. okay?" he promises, you hesitate briefly but nod. he sinks his teeth in once again, dragging you off further and deeper into the dark, eerie woods, twigs snapping around you, small animals running past as you let him drag you to your fate - which is his den. its a cave with a small entrance that's hidden behind vines and leafs - he has to crouch a little to get in - but the inside is roomy, the structure of it giving it what feels like a more private backroom; which he drags you into. the first room is big and has things hes collected laying around: branches and leafs, bones and feathers, even some things he's collected from humans, like old clothes and a small bucket. the back is smaller but weirdly cozy, it's laid out with furs that look like a makeshift nest and a small fire pit that's long burned out. he drags you into the back, dropping you on some of the furs in a corner. he steps away for a moment, grabbing dry leaves and branches from the first room and throwing it into the pit, then lighting it with a lighter (something he once stole from a human walking through the forrest), making a small fire. lastly, he puts up another fur, almost like a curtain, seperating the 'rooms' and cutting off your only quick escape.

he turns to you again, you properly see him for the first time; his blond fur is dirty, his cheeks are slightly sunken in with a scar pulling along his left one. he also looks at you properly now and groans - youre laid there on the skins of prey that didnt get as lucky as you did, eyes so big and trusting. it takes his whole self control to not eat you on the spot, to not get it over with. inestead he trots over, towering over your form before climbing on top and dipping his head to start licking at the indents his teeth had left on your neck, soothing the hurt. you gasp a bit, tail flicking for a moment before you relax, putting your head down.

"there, there.. its gonna be so much better in a moment.." he grumbles quietly, grinning a bit as he licks. the taste of your skin makes his cock twitch and his stomach growl, he's about to finally do what he wanted, to stick his hunger - but you speak up.

"thank you for taking care of me.." you say softly, and he freezes.

"what?" he's fully dumbfounded.

"thank you for taking care of me." you repeat. the words feel foreign, as does your tone. it's trusting, innocent, like nothing bad has ever happened to you - and it makes his heart skip a beat. he stares down at you, eyes wide, adrenaline rushing through his veins as this feast lays in front of him, ready to be devoured - and he will do it. but not like he thought he would. not like he wanted to when he first smelled you. you're too innocent to be eaten, if he told you he was gonna eat you you'd feel sorry that he was so hungry and offer yourself up. you're truly innocent.

and he knows you don't waste innocence like that. something this innocent has to be.. appreciated would be the wrong word. it needs to be.. broken. slowly, not like this. it would be a god damn waste. he feels his hunger flare up again, but differently this time. he has to have a taste of you. his hands are on your shoulders to pin you down, legs on each side of you next to your hips - his semi hard cock bobbing against your stomach lightly. you look at his face, then down, your head tilting. "what's that?" you ask, you've never seen it before. it makes him groan.

"fuck.." he growls, claws digging into your shoulders a little. his stomach growls, his cock twitches, he has to do something, anything. he crawls back to try and somehow calm down, remind himself you're food, not a toy, eyes roaming over your body. he watches your little tail wag a bit over your chubby butt and your spread legs. fuck. it's right there, on display, on a silver platter.

"just a taste.." he mutters to himself. his hands grab your hips and pull them up a little, just enough so he can lie down and snake his arms under your hips, clasping back together right above your tails. you open your mouth to ask him what he's doing, but the moment you open your mouth he dives in. his face is nuzzled against your plump lips his tongue gingerly licks at your clit, you yelp like he'd just pushed himself inside your tight heat. "shh.." he soothes, the vibrations of his voice cursing through your sensitive pussy. he doesn't waste any time, his hunger making him press his face into you, lapping at your tight hole, your lips, your clit, covering his snout in your slick quickly.

you're squirming, and whining, you've never felt anything like this, no one has ever touched you like this, no one has ever touched you where he's touching you. it feels so many things at once, foreign, weird, a little uncomfortable, too much - but it's good. almost too good. it makes you squirm in his grip, trying to crawl away whilst trying to push back against him, unintelligible words leaving your lips between cries and whines, eyes rolling back as your thighs tremble.

he keeps his arms around you tightly, keeping you locked in your rightful place, one hand splayed on your lower back while the other grips your tail and lifts it, exposing your little pucker to the thick air. his face stays buried in your cunt, licking your slick like its honey, suckling on your clit and your inner lips like he's trying to suck the marrow out of a bone. it doesn't take long before your virgin cunt flutters around his tongue, muscles tensing as your nosies get distressed - you try to hold back the foreign sensation but it crashes through your body like thunder, making you cry big crocodile tears, smearing yourself on his face as you babble quiet nonsense.

maybe he can go hungry for another night.

[slasherfantasy]

buzz

unofficial pt 2 to this but you don't need to read the first one. fluff! kisses, too.

Your grin was wolfish when your new little helper trudged into your office.

Soap's head still had a stocking cap's worth of gauze wrapped around it, the purple bruising around his eye faded only slightly. He grunted a hello and stomped to the armchair next to your desk.

"Well hi there, mister," you teased, flicking through your notebook innocently. "Heard you got a bit banged up out there. I like the hair, by the way."

Soap groaned, lower lip pushing out. "Aw, bile yer heid, ah cannae believe they made me shave it off," he whined, grieving his perfect mohawk. You snickered at the reverence in his eye as he patted the bandages gingerly. You wondered what lay beneath it, how his head would look without its trademark style.

"Desk duty?"

"Aye," he sighed. "It's th'worst. No offense."

"None taken. Not for everybody." You could feel the tremors his bouncing knee sent into the floor as he sank into the cushions. A part of you did feel bad for teasing, but it was overtaken by the immense relief blooming in your chest.

Desk duty meant inside. Away from out there. When one of the privates had stuttered out that Sarge's been shot, miss, I can't- you hadn't even let the poor boy finish before sprinting to the bay. It had been a bloody mess. Literally.

Cold terror seeped under your skin, remembering the limp feel of his hand. You shivered.

"Y'alright, lass?"

His voice made you jump. "Hm? Yes. Yeah, I'm...I'm good."

"You look like yeh've seen a ghost." His twinkling eyes made you smile warmly. He had such a pretty face, even bruised up. A little unfair, honestly.

He settled again, chin on his hand as you continued combing through the thick file in front of you. Warm grew on your cheeks as you felt his unwavering stare. You liked having him with you, but recently it had become a distraction. His gaze was a little too open. Too vulnerable in a way that made your lungs struggle for air.

"Johnny," you said suddenly. "Where's Price put you? For desk stuff."

He shrugged, playing with the seam on his pants. "Dinnae, somewhere down the hall."

You cocked your head. "You got a shift today?"

"...Aye."

"You gonna...show up?"

He pouted at you, blue irises shining like the deepest sapphires. Damn those eyes. His fingers stilled on his jeans, all energy focused towards beaming the biggest pleading puppy look he could manage. Your tongue dried and you resisted the urge to pinch his cheek.

"You can't skip," you laughed waveringly, voice light and frail. Great cover-up.

"But...I wanted teh sit wit' you," he pleaded.

Where was this coming from? God, rip out your heart why doesn't he?

"Soap," you said gently. "Go on. We'll talk at lunch."

Grumbling, he dragged his feet all the way to your door, sending you a sour look as he headed off to his own little office. Poor baby, you thought, gaze drifting to the now-empty armchair. Soap wasn't built for desk work; he needed the flashing lights and high octane and loud booms. It'd be a tough couple of weeks.

Sighing, you hoped he wouldn't be too angry with you, reaching for the newest project. It proved to be even denser than the last one, and your head dropped to your desk. Ugh.

Despite banishing him (gently) to his work, you heard him scamper by your doorway more often than was necessary. On day three you'd started timing the intervals. Five minutes. Ten. Six and a half. Ten and fifteen seconds.

The telltale creak of the floor beneath his heavy boots echoed again. Rolling your eyes, you swiveled around to catch him in the act.

Your jaw hit the floor when you saw him. His bandages were gone, and...

"John," you breathed. His government name shocked the smile right off him, and he flinched.

"Aye, whassat for?" He stuck his tongue out, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Your...hair," you said again, hand over your mouth.

It was gone. Gone, gone. Brown fuzz barely covered his scalp, pink scar tissue in knotted lines behind his ears. Your shock was maybe a bit too evident, because hurt flashed across his eyes. Immediately you regretted it, going to stand.

"Hang on, I didn't-"

He sniffed and turned to the door.

"No, Soap, wait!"

You leapt up to kick the door shut before he could leave. Plastering yourself against the door, you fought to keep his gaze. Johnny's ears were a deep purple, and you gently touched his arm.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly. "It's not...it's not bad. It just surprised me. That's all. Come on, please don't...I'm sorry."

He rocked on his heels a moment, gaze still shy. Hair meant a lot to him. Everyone had something in this place. You had so few things to make you, you. Any little feature was clutched onto for dear life. Scented soap, a shade of lipstick, piercings. Soap had hair. He liked taking care of it, combing his hands through it or styling it on lax days.

"Looks chopped, ah ken," he muttered, scruffing a hand over his bare neck. You smiled softly, reaching up to run your hand over the peach fuzz. It tickled.

"It suits you," you said, and you meant it. As much as you missed his waves, his eyes shone a bit brighter now. "Come on, sit. I've got nothing to do."

"Um," he began, and you paused. "Ah...had a question fer ye, actually." He pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, trying to smooth it into legibility. "I...what's this mean?"

You peered at the chicken scratch. Tran/map.

"Oh, they just want a translation of the map. Was this on a picture of something?"

He stalled, trying to remember. "Uhm."

"Here, bring it to me."

Moments later, you had a map sprawled on the floor, annotations and notes in a foreign pen scrawled over it. You were poring over a few dictionaries, trying to find matches.

"So, the best way to do this is to start with any context clues. The..."

Your words fell on deaf ears. Johnny was gazing at you, cheeks pink and lips in a loose smile. Hair drifted from behind your ear, and his hands twitched. He wanted to fix it. He wanted...touch. He'd missed sitting in with you, hearing you hum and the delicate smell of your office. Pretty bird. Smart bird, too, using all the big words he-

"Johnny?"

He blinked, caught. His hand was halfway to your hip, reaching for your keys.

"You...you okay?"

You were blinking at him, a little confused. He nodded, grabbing the key ring gently. He tugged, liking the jingle. You watched him fidget for a bit, then shakily continued.

His sharp ears caught the waver in your voice. The pink on your neck. A slow grin spread across his cheeks. He edged closer, thigh nudging yours. The keys were a nice fidget, but his fingertips burned to squeeze the soft of your hip. Your mumbling didn't pause as he cautiously leaned his forehead on your shoulder, nose brushing the soft cotton of your sweater.

You'd stopped trying to explain the process, now just doing his work for him. Murmuring the new words to yourself, pen scratching soothingly on the papers. Soap's eyelids were heavy with the heady knowledge that you knew. You knew what he was doing, let him cuddle closer, buzzed hair tickling your jaw.

The pen stopped. He felt your chin twitch, your eyes meeting his.

"Soap," you said gently. "Are you asking for something?"

He didn't move, hands frozen on your hip. Baby blues blinked innocently up at you from his curled position on your floor. A choked sound in the back of his throat.

You smiled, setting your book down with a thud. "C'mere, idiot."

He crawled forwards, burly arms wrapping around your middle. Elation bubbled over in his chest, flowing into his veins like nectar. The soothing coo you let out as you ran your hands up his back send his mind into the stratosphere with euphoria.

He clutched at you like a lifeline as you held him, cheek on his head. The stubble was growing on you. It felt nice, like a soft blanket. You scratched gently behind his ears, resulting in a rumbling purr from his prone form. Soap's head rested on the plush of your chest, eyes half-lidded and bleary.

"Missed ye," he mumbled, grip tightening. You frowned, petting his neck.

"You see me every day, silly goose."

"Yeah, but..." he nosed into your neck, pulling himself closer. "Hav'nae done this inna while. Missed it."

You hummed in understanding, nails raking gentle patterns on his skin. A knot of scar tissue made you pause. He noticed, eyes flicking to yours. Concerned. That echo of terror whispered in your head, remembering.

"You scared me," you whispered, throat tight. You smoothed over the scar, too close to those pretty eyes and the fragile mind behind them. Soap sat up, slowly, something stirring in his eyes. It was too much. You hung your head, eyes welling.

"M'sorry," you choked out, tears bubbling over your hands. He drew you close, murmuring dissent at your quiet sobs.

"Aye, none a' tha', birdie," he sighed, "was just a scratch. 'M alright, doll, look," his hand took your and pressed it to his heart, thumping steadily beneath his warm chest. "See? 'M jus' fine."

You crept into his lap, latching yourself securely under his chin. Soap made no effort to stop you, wrapping his arms tight behind your back. He rocked gently, lulling you until the sniffling ceased.

"Aw, wee one," he soothed into the crown of your head. "Didnae know ye cared so much." His tone had the audacity to be teasing, and you whipped angrily to him.

"Didn't- Johnny MacTavish, how-"

He chuckled, kissing your cheek. "Teasin, teasin'. I ken."

You huffed, brow still pinched. His lips pressed a kiss there too.

"C'mon, it was funny. Laugh. Laugh, bonnie, lemme see tha' smile-"

You tried to keep your face twisted, but the insistence of his lips across your face cracked your composure, face splitting. Giggling as he crowed triumphantly, smacking a kiss onto your nose.

You grabbed his face and pressed your lips to his. A small noise in his throat, his fingers tightening on your hips. You licked gently into his mouth. He tasted warm and sweet, sending a shiver down your back. His hands slid up to your jaw, cupping you delicately. Something blossomed in your chest. This was how it was supposed to be. A feeling, one that had been shoved down in the dark, finally coming up to the surface. You nipped at him, trying to fuse your bodies together. Johnny groaned, cheeks flushed.

When you parted for air, his lips were pink and swollen. He took in your flustered face and heaving chest. Your dilated eyes met his.

"Hi, lamb," he smiled, pinching your blushing cheeks. "Look cute all messed up."

You scoffed, burrowing into his neck. His firm, warm skin smelled of fresh pine. You sucked in greedy lungfuls, nosing beneath his ear. His shoulder sloped perfectly for your head. A puzzle-piece match. Meant to be, your heart preened as your hand fisted gently in his shirt.

"Lass," he said, pecking your hair. You hummed, too content to face him. "Ah've a question."

You cooed contentedly, not really listening as his warm grip kneaded your thigh.

"Can I stay here?"

Your brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"Can...can I stay in yer office?"

Your eyes cracked open, brow raised. "Can you work in my office? Johnny..." you breathed a laugh, shaking your head. "I'd get nothing done. Neither would you, for that matter." He blustered indignantly, puppy dog eyes back in full force.

"But..."

"No, Soap," you laughed, kissing his forehead. "Nice try."

His protesting was silenced when you pulled him closer, lacing your fingers together. You were bluffing, but his pout was cute. You'd ask the CO tomorrow to move his stuff in here.

Soap grumbled, breath puffing over your ear.

"Wha' if I get shot again, then ye have to let me-"

"No."

yippee!

[slasherfantasy]

knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual. cw: noncon touching, manipulation

After years beneath your mother’s watchful eye—less a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and key—you are at last released.

Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.

It’s a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.

You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.

As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the King’s service and court.

Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr. 

Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.

His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.

“An old comrade—Sir Simon Riley.”

You run a thumb over the edge. “Is he as handsome as his portrait?” you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.

Lord Garrick only grins. “He is, dear one.”

“And noble? Chivalrous?”

“The very image,” he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.

You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling. 

You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.

When you arrive, you trail in your sister’s shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.

You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.

Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, you’ll be presented formally.

On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.

“There’s someone I’m due to introduce you to,” he says. “Sir Riley.”

He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.

It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction. 

But the man you’ve come to love as a brother—steady, kind Lord Garrick—pats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.

He bids you wait. He’ll fetch Sir Riley himself.

You let him go with a wobbling smile.

When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.

It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.

“‘eard you been wantin’ to meet me, girl,” his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.

You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.

“It’s…an honor, sir,” you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. “I wasn’t expecting…That is, I thought Lord Garrick would–”

“Thought he’d stay? Look after you?” Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. “Nah. Garrick’s a busy man. ‘Sides, if it’s lookin’ after y’need, no one’ll do better.”

The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.

You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure that’s served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isn’t how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.

And yet here you are. 

He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.

You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.

“I only meant…we’ve only just met, and I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere—”

He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.

The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that you’ve backed into the wall.

“I should go,” you eke out. “I’ve no doubt you’re very tired from your duties, and this isn’t right—”

Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.

“You’re a nervous one.”

He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.

He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.

His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violence—keloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promised—but the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind you’ve spied in the King’s hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.

“What’s wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.”

The word—pet—snaps like a ribbon.

In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.

You look at him again, truly look this time.

And realize: perhaps the artist hadn’t lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth he’d once had.

You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays you—a stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.

Sir Riley notices.

He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey he’s cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.

“You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your mouth dries. There aren’t many portraits of you beyond your family’s walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on one—a secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.

You never questioned what became of it.

“I—I should go.”

You move to slip past him, but he doesn’t allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes different—ash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.

You try again. “Lord Garrick—he didn’t say—he never said you—”

“Yeah?” 

He smiles. Not kindly.

“That I-I,” you whisper, heart beating hard enough that you’re sure he must hear it. “That I’d be alone. This isn’t right—”

“Not alone, pet,” he shakes his head. “I’m here, aren't I? I’ll see you well looked after.”

Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.

You could faint.

Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.

You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.

“No need to shy from me,” he rasps.

Your breath catches. 

(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall now—the alternative—)

He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You can’t move. You should, but your feet fail.

He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. “You’re shaking.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

“You don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?” he drawls. “Bet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.”

His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.

“Want me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?”

Your heart screams no.

But nothing comes.

He watches you in that awful silence—measured and methodical. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.

He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.

You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Go on. You’ve been staring.”

Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. It’s rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” he asks, almost amused.

Your throat tightens. “No—no, I—”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie. Don’t like liars. You scared?”

You are. You’re mortified, shaking with it now—caught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. There’s something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.

He sees it. Of course he does.

And he pounces.

One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. It’s a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.

You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesn’t let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.

It’s too much. He is too much.

When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of what’s just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.

He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.

“There she is,” he says quietly, near reverent.

You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.

He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.

“Didn’t think you’d be this sweet,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Garrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured I’d ‘ave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said there’d be no need. That you’d behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?”

His eyes flick over your features—warm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.

“Look at you. Shakin’. Precious thing. ‘Course you are.”

He kisses you again. Harder.

No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.

Another panicked noise makes him smile.

He sighs. “Didn’t guess you’d be this soft. Bet you’re soft everywhere.”

Then—

The door bursts open.

A gasp of startled voices—servants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.

Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explain—this isn’t what it looks like—but you never get the chance.

Sir Riley doesn’t release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.

In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of them—their roles, their kin. Swears they’ll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what they’ve seen.

They flee. Mute. Terrified.

When the door shuts again, it’s like the last breath is sucked from the room.

You’re a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.

With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness you’d dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.

“What a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?” he murmurs against your damp skin. “How fortunate that Garrick and I already ‘ave an audience with the King.”

He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.

“Dry your tears, pet.”

He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.

“By spring, you’ll be Lady Riley. That’s a promise.”