#witlessly

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[rpfisfine]

in i think 5th grade i got a love letter from a boy younger than me one day who told me to read it in some private place so i took it to the bathroom at school and read it in one of the stalls and bc he didn't rly know how to spell or how to distinguish between y and i in czech yet and was also in the process of learning cursive at the time and bc in cursive the capital S looks kind of very similar to the capital L he wrote my name as "Synda" instead of "Linda" in the very first sentence and it made me so unbelievably mad i flushed the whole letter down the toilet after reading it

[vanderilnde]

bury me beneath the basswood tree

pairing: ghost/soap/reader [12k]

rating: 18+ only. minors don’t interact.

tags: non-con sex, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, size kink, forced fellatio, forced cunnilingus, impact play, brief watersports, double penetration in two holes, forced breeding, implied hybrid/shifter au

Needing time away from her humdrum life at home, she ventures into the woodland for respite. Little does she know, straying into that cabin in the woods will be the worst—or best—decision she’ll ever make. Depending on who you ask.

all my thanks to @/ohbo-ohno! thank you for being the best beta reader and sitting through my abhorrent typos <3

AO3 MIRROR

The mountain’s breadth of trees and foliage are written with prose. 

It’s repetitive. Mind-numbing. She’s already passed this necrosed tree stump five times before. On the sixth circle, she treks through the undergrowth like it’s curdled milk, the tiny scythes of branches whispering against her arms and slicing her open the same way thumbs tear into oranges. 

Dehydration crystallises like sediment in her mouth. It makes her bones heavy, bending against her flesh as if they’re groceries about to tear through a plastic bag. The balls of her feet are calcified, her thighs chafed. They rub against her threadbare jeans the same way a match reacts with red phosphorus to produce a flame. It burns, and so do her muscles. They feel moth-eaten and spent. Hung out to dry. 

The stench of damp soil and sugar maple impairs her like an opiate. The peal of idle birdsongs grate against her ears. She’s sick of it—she’s been here for three days—and already, she’s sick of it. 

She tries her phone again. It’s unresponsive, no signal. She unfurls her map but it’s mottled with rainwater and mud. Her lungs feel dry, pruney, as the dew drops slipping off fern plants seem to replicate the tears thawing in her eyes. 

Evening mist hangs over the ground, and the sky turns red-bottomed as it progresses into nightfall. It’s as if the mountain is sentient. Nocturnal. Stirring from a torpor once the sun sets and awakening all that lives within it. 

A sob wracks her ribs. It has the same effect of a bullet, ricocheting. She keeps moving even though she doesn’t know where she’s going. She believes that should she continue walking, nothing will be able to catch her. Not the spindly tree branches that take the shape of arms or serpentine shrubbery. She won’t give the mountain any time to fossilise her, if only she keeps moving.  

Her movements are clumsy though. Her eyesight is hindered by panicked tears, turning everything shapeless and blurry. She keeps tripping and skinning her knees like the hide of a pomegranate, her flesh peeling back to show the red pulp of her innards. 

It was a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement that brought her here. To a conscious mountain that lives and breathes and feels her fear. It was her heart, empty, carved out and replaced by brutal loneliness. Her friends back home are heedless and her parents are never satisfied with what she does. She figured that if none of them would listen, the woodlands would. 

And listen, they did.

When she cries out, the wind howls. When she changes her direction, pivoting on her heel, the soil rumbles. She sees things—a shadow spotting her vision, not composed of matter—peeking from behind a tree trunk before quickly slipping away. She witlessly calls out, asking if anyone’s there, and is met with the forest's silent presentiment. She feels the stark pressure of piercing eyes sprawling down her dewy neck, sweeping over her body. 

The longer she spends lost, the more she sinks into Appalachia.

It pulls her down like molasses. Like she’s an innocent fly trapped in glue. Soon, she knows there’s no hope. She knows her scent is written into the bark of trees—supple, sugary. A treat for whichever predator finds her first. 

A brown bear, swinging its claws at her until her entrails are threadbare and striated. A snake, injecting venom in her blood. A bobcat if she’s lucky. It would be a quick death—sinking its loose jowls into either side of her neck until it snaps and she goes slack. 

She’s apt to let go. She’s keen to yield to the alluring call of the woodland to let go, to fall to the forest floor and sit there until she rots. Until the roots worm into her breathing wounds and branches start growing out of her mouth. The urge to stop moving and become one with the mountain is suddenly cogent, leaves no margin of doubt. It comes with the promise of eternal respite and divine mercy. She’s about to find a cliff to jump off of, but before she can, something catches her attention. 

A plume of smoke curling in the air. 

Whorls of slate-grey soot thinning and disappearing into the sky. She looks for the source and follows it blindly, shouldering past pine needles and hawthorn and all but sobbing as a cabin comes into view. It’s made of wood and the tufts of wildflower that sprout from its thin fissures. It looks neglected and eaten by the elements. Its vaulted roof is stained by the off-white assault of bird droppings, discoloured by acid rain. Some of the windows look covered with dewy newspaper, but still, she knows it can’t be vacant. The smoke undulating from the chimney tells her that.

She staggers onto the porch. Her fist rasps against the door, clippings of wood burying itself into her skinned knuckles as she wildly knocks. Silence. Not even the leaves flutter against each other. Fleetingly, a stint of panic seizes her. What if nobody’s home? But she’s twisting the knob and pushing herself inside anyway, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump, stepping inside.

The cabin makes for a liminal space, smelling of sawdust and pine. There’s a layer of dust on every surface, making the air thick. All the furniture is carved from wood and a couple taxidermied deers are mantled above the stone fireplace, looking more like warnings than decoration. The pelt of a black bear is unfurled across the floor, and a few trinkets are strewn around—a bookshelf of spine-cracked novels, dead plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A mountain of used cigarettes, but strangely, no ashtray. 

There’s everything but picture frames. Nothing she can use to humanise the cabin nor the people supposedly living in it.

She guides herself to the kitchen by feeling the walls. There’s a piped stove in the corner and cast iron tools hanging above the counter. Her stomach bubbles, and immediately, she starts scouring for food. 

There’s three barrels by the door, and upon popping them open, the stench of brine sprays her in the face. It’s fish with a crust of salt, preserved. In the other barrel is meat buried in shelled corn, and fermented poultry in the last barrel. 

It’s all raw and bloody. She steps back, gagging, turning her attention to the shelves that line the faraway wall. Jars of pickled cucumber and carrots. Garlic braids hanging from the edge. Rusty milk churns nestled in the corner. 

There’s a galvanised tub full of ice on the floor. She digs through it and almost moans at the jars of jam. She untwists one, sticks her fingers in it, and wipes it clean with her tongue and teeth. It’s tart and tangy but it’s food, sticking to the walls of her stomach, satiating her. And once she starts she can’t stop. She goes back to the wall and finds a stained jar, fishing out a handful of fermented cabbage, stuffing it in her mouth, her face tightly puckering at the sharp sourness.

The juice of the food goes spilling past her lips, sluicing down her chest. It sticks to the chasm between her tits and mixes with sweat, making her shirt cling to her skin, revealing the barest outline of her nipples. She’s so engrossed in keeling over the counter and stuffing her face that she doesn’t even notice the pointed shift in atmosphere. The deer outside stopping their rutting, the trill of birds ceasing. The leaves stilling, as if holding their breaths to hide. Thick, silvery clouds nestling together and eclipsing the sun, casting a thin overcast over the woodland, darkening the already-dim surroundings. 

She’s too preoccupied to recognise the tell-tale croak of the door swinging open. It’s tinny, but bullied by the sound of her smacking on marinated cabbage. She doesn’t notice the dull, throbbing footfalls. Pays no heed to the stench of blood invading her senses because she believes it’s coming from her dry, leathery lips that split open as she widens her mouth to fit the cabbage inside.

It’s only when the room darkens, a box-shaped shadow sweeping over her vision, does her blood run cold. She freezes with a handful of vegetable raised halfway to her lips, the brine rolling off a cabbage leaf like it’s an awning, dropping to the floor—drip, drip, drip—the rapid succession of shedding liquid hitting the floor sounds similar to the beating of her heart against her fickle, feeble ribs. 

The saline spray in her mouth gets soaked up by her tongue, making it puffy, too big for her mouth. She turns around clemently—treating the shadow like a wild animal—no sudden movements. She goes rigid. 

It can’t be human. 

It’s huge. Bigger than anything she’s ever seen before. Sweeping shoulders, broad thighs. Its neck is bent uncannily because it’s too big to fit in the doorway. Its chest rises heavily like a bull.

She tries to find a face, and when she does, the blood is drained from her.

It just makes her feel… uncomfortable. Its face is the poor imitation of a human, as if someone tried drawing one from memory but scarcely failed. Failed to capture the humanity, the animation, leaving it looking like a half-convincing resemblance. Its tapetum lucidum glows yellow, burning in the thin mist of moonlight that penetrates the newspaper sticking to the windows. 

It stares blankly at her. The hair on her arms stick up, a bead of sweat slices down her neck. 

“I’m sorry…”

The creature raises an arm and pulls on a hanging bead-chain, tugging on the light, which is simply a naked bulb in the middle of the kitchen. The kindle is weak but does more than the delicate moonlight. Just barely illuminates its face. His face.

She tries not to let her fear show. Tries not to preen under his depthless eyes, the mean twine of his lips. His hair that seems to have been shaved too closely to his scalp, if the nicks and small cuts on the shells of his ears are anything to go by. 

He grumbles an idle prusten. He rolls his elbows back—his shoulder blades unfurling like folded wings—and twists his thick neck.

“What’re you doin’ in my home?”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, her words stifled around a wad of cabbage. “I– I’ve been lost for three days. I came up for a hike but lost my way and I saw your cabin and I’m sorry, but I’m just so hungry and–”

A deep, guttural voice peals from the living room. 

“Simon!” It says. “Where should I chuck the deer? It’s too big for the livin’ room.”

The aforementioned Simon, she presumes, doesn’t answer the unobserved voice. He keeps his eyes on her, face twisted into a puckered, mean mug.

A string of footsteps precede the face that appears behind Simon’s shoulder. A rounder, ruddier face. A salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes so blue they glow like bioluminescence. 

Johnny acts surprised as if Simon hadn’t smelled her from miles away. Her honeyed scent roiling off of her, curling into the air and thinning between the trees. Her sweat pooling in the gusset of her panties, raw and pungent. 

He’s purposely coy. It’s written into the furrow of his brows and the caper of his cupid lips but the girl is too disoriented to catch on. She looks at him and beseeches, but almost faints at the deer hanging limply over his shoulder. He holds it like it weighs nothing—a sack of sprouting potatoes.

He coos. “Who’s this?”

“Lost bird,” Simon grunts. “Found her diggin’ through our food.”

“Oh, poor lassie,” Johnny hums. More so to Simon than the girl, which makes her squirm. “She didnae mean any harm, Simon. She’s just hungry… tha’ right, lass? Are ye hurt?”

She stutters out a nod, gesturing to how her jeans cling to her knees, sun-bleached and darkened with blood. She rolls her shirt over her ribcage, showing them her wounded torso. How her skin sticks to her bones.

Johnny bristles. 

“The lass needs a place to stay, Simon,” he whispers. “And she’s hurt. Bleeding.”

They talk of her as if she’s advertised merchandise in a magazine catalogue. She squirms.

Simon turns to look at her. The depression in her cheeks due to her hunger and the split skin of her mouth. The pert curve of her breasts. The desperate look in her eyes. 

He grumbles, looks over his shoulder at Johnny. “I’ll start the fire. You take the deer out back and drain it ‘fore it hardens.”

“Aye,” Johnny says. He thumps away in clunky boots and a thin t-shirt and jeans. The deer sways with his gait and disappears behind the screen door when he steps outside. 

She redirects her attention to Simon, who’s already looking at her. More specifically, at her pulsing neck. His jowls are slightly unfastened, his pupils blown out and eclipsing his irises. 

Presentiment settles in her stomach. She blanches. 

Suddenly, Simon is grunting and gripping her arm, heedless towards her whimper of fear and fleeting stint of resistance. His nails are sharp, digging sickle-shaped impressions into her arm. He drags her down the hallway and into another room—a bathroom—and tugs the flickering light on. It lacks sheen, barely illuminates the room from its moss-covered nooks to the tiled floor caked with crusted dirt. 

(The lightbulb is so dull. It doesn’t reach the farthest corner of the bathroom where the radiator is placed. The radiator bathed in black, hidden beneath the lip of shadows, so she isn’t able to see the forgotten handcuff hanging limply from one of the pipes.)

Simon works his heavy body around the bathroom. He leans over the clawfoot tub—which he dwarfs—and twists open the spigot, watching as brown-coloured water slowly ripens into something clear, gushing out of the faucet. He stuffs a plastic plug into the rust-ringed drain. 

He straightens back into his full height. All-encompassing, panoramic. Simon is so impossibly large that it’s a wonder he has so much muscle packed under his skin. Rustic, hard thighs. A shirt that bends against his arms, about to snap. 

“Take a bath,” he commands. “Get y’rself cleaned up.”

Simon shoulders past her and ducks to exit the bathroom. There’s no door separating it from the rest of the house, but a multitude of beads hanging above the threshold to imitate one. She keeps her eyes trailed on it while she strips—peeling off her jeans, pulling her shirt over her head. Rolling down her panties and consciously hiding them beneath her other clothes. 

She clutches the lip of the bathtub for leverage and dips her toes into the water. Immediately, she melts. The hot water swallows her foot and travels like a spool of thread to the rest of her, weaving itself into her wounds, licking her open like the first thaw of spring. 

She submerges herself fully, bringing her knees to her chest. Her neck hoists backward and into the water, soaking all the grit and dirt knotted into her hair. It’s like plying through syrup as she lifts an arm, retrieving a homespun bar of soap, clutching it to test her grip. There’s coily hair knotted into it and sticking to the dried bubbles. She brings it up to her nose, sniffing. Hesitates before rubbing it into her skin and around her throbbing wounds. 

The water idly sloshes as she cleans herself. It’s a hollow sound, amplified by the echoey room. She trails her hand below her waist, slipping her sudsy fingers between her lips and stroking, rubbing herself clean. 

Beneath the tinny sounds of water surrounding her like a petticoat, something else peals out. Something like a whine. Her fingers cramp above her warm cunt and she goes taut. She turns her head to the threshold of the bathroom and nearly screams but her throat puckers before she can, blocking it, her mouth hanging open in a soundless screech instead.

It’s Johnny. He stands in the middle of the hallway, peering into the bathroom and staring at her, half-obscured by the bead curtains. He looks like a sit-and-wait predator like this—silent and unassuming, if not for his blindingly-white smile shining through the curtain like strobes of sunlight breaking past trees. He steps inside now that he’s been spotted, and that causes ice to lick her organs—she sinks her breasts below the water’s surface, squeezing her thighs together. She bristles as Johnny strides impossibly close, the lip of the tub cutting into his thighs.

He stinks of sweat and iron and wood. His t-shirt clings to his skin, darkened with deer blood, outlining the barest hint of his bulky chest.

He grins. “Brought ye some clean clothes.” 

“Oh. I… thank you,” she mumbles. “You can leave it on the toilet if you don’t mind?”

Johnny sets it down. A folded flannel and a pair of sweatpants. He idles a little longer, still smiling, before leaving the bathroom. She counts the minutes in her head and tries to find the right time to leave the tub, outstretching her hand for the towel once it comes to her. But the towel is just scarcely out of reach. The terrycloth grazes her fingertips, teasing her. It’s like it was methodically placed there. Bait at the end of a fish hook to ply her out of the water and stick her ass in the air, reaching over to grip the cloth and tug it over her breasts, stepping out of the tub.

Her eyes stay locked on the crude door while she changes. She buttons the flannel up to her neck and takes heed of the pointed absence of any undergarments, slipping her legs into the gauzy sweatpants, tying them at her waist.

Johnny bursts in as if on cue. He’s still slick with blood, his mohawk odd-angled, spun-thread and matted to his head with sweat. His cheeks bulge around another grin.

“Too big for ye, is it?” He pants. “Might as well take it off. Might trip and hurt yerself again. Wouldn’t want that happenin’, right honey?”

Johnny shortens the space between them in one stride. His fingers, thick and jaded, are already fumbling around the knot she tied, pulling it out of its bow and letting the sweatpants fall, pooling into a crimp around her ankles. 

The flannel is big enough to reach her thighs. Still, she clenches her fingers around the hem and tugs it lower, preening under Johnny’s smouldering gaze. It’s almost paradoxical how it works—his eyes are icy blue, yet they have the same effect as basaltic molten. Burning hot. He’s fixated on her skinned knees, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Simon’s got the fire goin’,” he says. “Let’s go get yer wounds cleaned too, aye?”

Johnny’s walking out before she can blink. She follows after him, flustered, stumbling into the living room lit by a dulcet fire. Simon’s kneeled beside it, sticking his hand in to adjust a lopsided stock of wood, unaffected by the flames that eat away his arm hair. Johnny takes the girl by the scruff of her neck, guiding her to a hand-crafted chair placed conscientiously in front of the fireplace. He presses on her—the sensitive divot between her shoulder and her neck—and pushes her into the seat, unzipping a first-aid kit. 

Johnny takes her feet and pulls them into his lap. The angle makes her flannel hitch up, exposing her bare cunt to the hot embers of the fireplace, and the equally hot embers of Simon’s prying eyes. She squeaks and covers herself, averting her gaze as Simon’s stare darkens into the colour of midnight splash hanging over the sky.

“You’ll feel a wee sting,” Johnny warns. He rips the corner off a rag and drenches it in vodka, poising it over her flayed knees. “Should probably give my hand a squeeze or somethin’, ye ken? To lessen the burn, o’ course.”

She hesitates but slips her hand around Johnny’s all-encompassing one, her fingers barely meeting whilst wrapped around his palm. She winces when the ethanol meets her wound, shooting through her veins, and tries recoiling into herself. 

But the amplitude of her pain swells, and her muscles girdle. 

It’s Simon’s massive hand splitting itself across her thigh that keeps her pinned to the chair. His fingers bite rivets into her skin, the pinch overriding the sting of her tissue soaking up the alcohol.

“Stay still when he tells you to,” he grumbles. “Otherwise it’ll hurt.”

She wriggles uncomfortably. Tries not to flinch when the rag meets her knees again and burns her wound. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave her thigh until he’s throwing another block of wood into the fireplace.

Johnny hums. “So, what’re you doin’ up here? Religious retreat? Mental health?”

She smacks her lips, unsure if she should answer that. She chances a glance towards Simon and bristles because for some reason, she just knows that if she lies, somehow, he’d tell.

“Um. Just stepping away from home, I suppose,” she mumbles. “Friends. Family.”

“Oh. They dinnae care about you?”

She flinches. Not because of the vodka against her skin, but Johnny’s implications. 

“No,” she says. Her words are so fickle, so distorted by misery that not even she believes it. “They do care about me. I just needed space.”

He nods. Slowly, his eyebrows press together. “I don’t remember much of my family. It’s a wee bit odd. Can’t say if they liked me or not…”

Simon squeezes the back of his neck. “Enough of tha’. Pay attention.”

Johnny makes a sound like he’s humiliated. It’s only when he unrolls a spool of gauze, wrapping it around her kneecaps, is he afforded mercy when Simon changes the topic.

“Where’s the bird gonna sleep?”

“We’ve still got a cot in the root cellar, aye?” Johnny replies. “For hurricanes and tha’. Figured she wouldn’t mind it there. Wouldn’t ye, lass?”

Clemently, she shakes her head.

Simon grunts. He stands up, towering over them both. “The deer’s there, Johnny. What kind of hosts would tha’ make us? Puttin’ her up with a corpse?”

Johnny blushes as if he’s been scolded. His bottom lip curls out, petulant, a waspish colour flooding his cheeks. 

“Aye…” he grumbles. “Tha’s right. The livin’ room, then?”

The girl is sitting, her head oscillating between the two men like a pendulum as they talk. 

“No,” Simon says. “We’ll move the cot to our room.”

Johnny nods. He scratches his stubble, pretending to think. “It’s important we keep an eye on her wounds, too.”

“Exactly,” Simon says, petting Johnny’s head. “Smart boy.”

He clicks his tongue and Johnny shoots up, scurrying out of the living room to retrieve the aforementioned cot. Muffled sounds peal out from the root cellar below them. Johnny comes stumbling back up in mere minutes with a rickety cot fitted under his armpit and disappears into a dark room.

“Best get to sleep before it’s too late,” Simon splays his hand over the small of her back. “Y’must be tired.”

She submits to Simon’s touch, letting him guide her through the cabin and into the darkest room lit only by a lone oil lamp. 

Johnny is finishing up the cot when Simon releases her. He drapes a cable-knit blanket over the surface, fluffing up a pillow. She doesn’t point out how close it is to their bed, the lip of her cot almost touching their rickety mattress.

“Fair warnin’ lass,” Johnny begins, peeling off his shirt, kittening into bed. “Simon snores quite a bit. Dinnae be feart to smack his gob if he gets too loud, aye?”

She stiffly nods. She climbs into the cot and bunches the blanket around her, making a conscious effort to hide her bare legs. Simon crawls between them, the mattress sinking with his weight, and throws their whisper-thin blanket over his legs. 

Darkness penetrates the room when he blows the lamp out. The only smoulder is the silvery glow of moonlight invading the curtains and the reflective light in Simon’s eyes. 

He sits up impossibly straight, staring at her like a cryptid caught on a trail cam. It causes discomfort to congeal under her flesh, but slowly, the longer she looks, a bristle of sleepiness lays hold of her. She closes her eyes and falls into limbo. Her breaths thinning into a short, even pattern.

———

She’s between the threshold of awake and sleep when she hears it.

She can’t tell if it’s a dream or the amplified sounds of Appalachia. She feels as if she’s underwater or stuck in syrup, able to hear the rushing brook of her blood against her ears but unable to distinguish the sounds around her.

There’s a grunt. And a moan. The wail of the bed next to her snapping then creasing. Heavy breathing. Sprinting hearts. 

Her head is so muddled she can’t register anything. Her mind tells her that the violent slapping of skin against skin is the crack of thunder. That the strangled whimpers are the call of a cottontail. 

“Right there, Johnny?” A voice asks. “Takin’ my big cock so fuckin’ well. Greedy lil’ bitch, you are.”

A long, drawn-out whine chases after it. A choked-out scream as if something hurts, succeeded by a wet squelch. 

“Look at ‘er,” that voice jeers. “Think she’d take it? Better than you? Think she’d bleed all over it like– fuck… how I smelt it on her?”

The other voice—broken in, wispy—chokes on a response. It sounds a little stifled, as if speaking through something shoved in its mouth.

“No… nae better than me,” it mumbles. “Nae better than me…”

It’s like she’s drowning in purgatory. She can’t move, can’t speak. She’s caught in a phantasmagorical limbo between reality and fantasy. She can feel the serpentine hands of something with no material existence wrap around her and stain her slick with sweat, sweeping over the space between her legs, licking a wetness up her pussy. 

A dewy sound peals out. It’s a predator loosening its jowls, stringy and frothy, flaying its lips to bare its teeth. A rumbling roar rips out of its throat, animalistic. She can hear the popping of teeth sinking into flesh. The dull sound of skin breaking.

“Ah!” A squeal. “Simon, tha’– it hurts.”

She feels a vortex in her belly, an ache in her clit.

It’s like she resurfaces the water. All at once, she hears clearly. It’s a lone word whispered in a guttural cadence so close that she swears it’s mumbled against the hot hull of her ear.

“Good.”

———

She wakes the next morning with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and a damp heat between her legs.

Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, hitting the bed next to her. The bed is starkly empty she notes, as she crawls out of her cot and pops the stiff muscles in her back, stretching. 

She pokes her head out of the bedroom and tiptoes around the cabin as if avoiding a barrage of landmines. There’s a downward force in her bladder that tells her she’s been in torpor for the better half of the morning, and a heavy crust in her eyes that shifts when she blinks. She finds her way to the bathroom and shucks the flannel over her hips, lowering herself on the toilet seat, emptying herself.

It’s the only stint of respite. The closest thing she can get to calm since losing her way in the mountain three days ago. She relishes in the idle birdsongs outside and the sound of overnight frost melting into the dew that slips off tree leaves, pitter-pattering to the ground. Listens to the stream of her pee peter out, and the ruffle of folding fabric as she tosses the flannel back over her thighs. She listens to the–

“How’d ye sleep, pretty girl?”

She flinches at the gruff voice. It’s written with sleep, barely lucid under a Scottish lilt. Her hands freeze under the running water of the tap as she watches Johnny waltz inside the bathroom, shucking his pants to his thighs and pulling out his cock, pissing in the toilet. 

She’s stiff. Fixed to the cold clay tiles of the floor, unable to be bent. She tries not to let her eyes wander, tries to block out the chubby mass of muscle swinging between his legs. 

“Oh…” her words are stifled by shock. “F-fine. I slept fine. Thank you again for opening your house to me.” She thinks back to last night—the whimpering, the croaking—and rashly decides to tack on, “But I did hear some weird noises. I could have been dreaming though.”

Johnny chuckles. “...Aye, it’s almost matin’ season ‘round these parts. I think you’ll be hearin’ more of that. It’s best to ignore it.”

Her body girdles when he sways his cock, shaking away the liquid on the tip. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls the flush, grinning. 

“Bet you’re still hungry. Simon’s wrappin’ up breakfast. Let’s go.”

He pats her bum and makes her squeak. He grips the hem of her flannel and reels it around his knuckles like a leash, tugging her into the dining area—which is more of a nook nestled into the living room—and pulls out a seat.

“Hope ye fancy porridge,” Johnny chuckles. He splits his palm across the top of her head, pushing her into the chair. 

She huffs and hoists her neck up, grimacing at the acrid scent of animal hide burning against the base of a cast iron pan. It takes a conscious effort to not crinkle her nose in disgust.

Simon ducks as he emerges from the kitchen threshold. He wields two bowls of food. One for her and the other for Johnny. She takes heed of how—despite his stature—Simon doesn’t have anything to eat.

However it’s a cursory thought, because she’s quickly pulling her lips into a weak smile and examining the bowl in front of her. Food is a generous word, since it looks more like coagulated milk than porridge and smells sour. Simon places a chipped plate of bacon alongside it. It’s curled because it’s overcooked, crusted with charcoal.

She swallows as Simon takes a seat next to her. Johnny, on the other side of her. 

“Looks delicious,” she hums. She turns to Simon, “Are you… not eating?”

He picks an off-white tendon from his canine tooth, flicking it away. 

He answers in a rigid tenor. “Don’t hurt your head over me. You eat your food.” 

She marginally shrinks into herself, embarrassment licking up her spine. She feels like a chided puppy, but perhaps that’s the sentiment. 

When she opens her lips and raises the spoon to her mouth, her flannel curls like a wisp of hair off her shoulder, baring her bruised albeit supple skin. She hastily pulls the sleeve back up. 

She speaks around the stale porridge and her rising apprehension. “Uh, do you have my clothes from yesterday?” She asks, squirming as her sweat glues the back of her thighs to the chair, sticky. “It’s just, uh, they fit me better.”

“Oh,” Johnny blinks, “o’ course.” 

She watches him stand up and slip through the backdoor. He walks towards a clothesline hitched between two trees and retrieves her clothes, returning with them tucked under his arm.

“Here ye go sweetheart,” he grins, setting them on her lap. Petting her head.

She slowly peels through her clothes. Her fingertips drag against her threadbare jeans, her overripe shirt, but never touch the sweat-imbued gauze of something more… intimate. Her maw tenses around the hot porridge. 

“Where are my… um…” she lowers her voice even though it’s redundant—Johnny is leaned in close, practically huffing against her ear, sniffing her neck. “... Undergarments?”

Johnny tilts his head, puckering his lips in confusion. He’s written with the innocence of a puppy—whether it’s real or fabricated, she can’t tell. The words have begun bleeding together, blotchy and unintelligible. 

“Panties, ye mean?” He laughs. “Ye never had any of those.”

She swallows thickly. 

“No, I… I did. I wouldn’t go hiking without–”

“Ye must be goin’ crazy, lass,” Johnny says. “This was all you gave me. Nae panties.”

He stares at her with large, intercosmic, unassuming eyes. His gaze flickers towards Simon. It’s so fleeting that she almost misses it. The sweep of his blue irises widening, eclipsed by his pupils. She tenses. Omniscience hits her like a brick.

Her tongue goes heavy in her mouth, melting her words. The porridge turns frothy in her gut, nausea sticking to her organs and presentiment curdling in the air. She tightens her throat around a gag.

“... When can you drive me into town?”

Johnny reaches over and grips her thigh. He digs divots into her flesh like a fish hook caught in a flayed gill.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as ye want, pretty. There’s nae rush.”

She feels bile crawl up her throat.

“Oh, well, I just don’t want to overstay my welc–”

“He’s excited to play host,” Simon growls. His words are marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. He leans over the table, his wifebeater clinging to his muscle, his wiry chest hair pressing against the soft cotton. “We rarely get visitors ‘round here and he’ll be upset if you leave. Y’wanna make him upset?” 

Finally, warnings blare like strobe lights in her mind. She fidgets in her seat, sweating, shooting a cursory glance to the backdoor. Calculating her chances of survival should she break through the mesh and make a run for it. 

“O-of course not. Not after everything you’ve done for me,” she stutters, feeling a bead of sweat travel down her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking.”

Simon settles back in his seat. Johnny, too, frowning around his porridge. 

“Good,” Simon grunts meanly. “Now shut your gob an’ eat.”

She clemently chews away at her breakfast, preening under their smouldering gazes. Throughout her polishing off her bowl, she’s reminded Simon doesn’t have one. It’s unseemly for a man so sturdy to not be eating, but as Simon’s lips peel back, sated while he watches her take her final bite, she spots a spray of red liquid washing the spire of his fang tooth, glistening in the sunlight. 

“How’d you like tha’, pretty?” Johnny asks. He collapses whatever thoughts—whatever inklings—begin to seize her about Simon as he smiles and their bowls, disappearing into the kitchen.

Right away, Simon is hooking his foot behind a leg of her chair, using it to pull her closer. 

He’s centimetres away from her face when he says, “How ‘bout you start pullin’ your weight?”

Her eyes flicker up to see Simon hovering over her. He’s dewy with sweat, big and burly and drifting above her like the closet-dwelling monster from everyone’s childhood.

“You’ve caused enough trouble in my home,” he continues. “Ate a lot of our produce. It’s time you make up for tha’.”

She resists the urge to snarl. She doesn’t even want to be here yet Simon is insisting she fill her role—whatever that role may be. 

But as she hoists her neck up at him, she gets skittish and looks away, her tongue knotting. She knows it isn’t smart to upset Simon again. He’s a beefy man with sharp canines and vertical pupils, with more hair sprouting from his forearms than what’s considered normal. A man who expels deep tonal flutters instead of regular breaths. Who—despite his size—can’t ever be heard approaching.

So she smiles instead, asking, “What is it you need help with?”

“Floors need scrubbin’.”

He shoves a rag in her hand and holds out a bucket of sudsy water she hadn’t noticed before.

“Kitchen, livin’ room… just get to work.”

The water sloshes over the lip of the bucket when he sets it down. Simon stands to his full height and stalks out of the room, leaving her alone with her multitude of thoughts. 

Slowly, she stands up. She hauls the water bucket to the middle of the living room and is starkly reminded of her strength—or lack thereof. Simon had picked the bucket up so naturally, but with the weak tendons lacing her arms, she struggles. It doesn’t help that her vision is still spotty. 

She lowers to her knees, wincing at the chord of pain beneath her bandages. She awkwardly drenches the rag in the water and wrings it dry, poising herself above the floor, working the rag into the floorboards. 

She tenses when Johnny walks back in. He’s behind her. Unlike with Simon, she can feel him creeping up. She can feel his eyes on the lips of her pussy where her flannel hitches up while she’s bent over, scrubbing the floors. 

Her cheeks burn. She blindly reaches behind her to tug the hem down, covering her warm cunt. 

Johnny chuckles. “This is wha’ Simon has you doin’ out here?” 

She looks over her shoulder, her skin prickling when she sees an axe in his hand. 

“We’re goin’ to the yard to chop some wood,” he says, “but I see you’re already busy bein’ our bonnie housewife.” 

She stutters. That operative word, housewife, burns a hole in the snail-shaped cochlea of her ear. “No, Simon j-just asked me to. He asked me to.”

“I know, sweetie,” Johnny replies. He squats next to her and rubs her back in slow circles, trying to hike up her flannel again. “Simon’s just takin’ the piss. He’s a meanie like tha’.”

She tries shouldering him away but Johnny only holds her tighter. Simon reappears in the doorway, watching with his arms crossed. 

Johnny clears his throat. “Thought we’d spend time in the yard today. Doesn’t tha’ sound sweet?”

She looks at Simon who’s already looking at her through hooded, brutish eyes. She realizes that her autonomy is divested—that she has no choice but to follow what they say because something is very, very wrong here. 

Perhaps this is what the mountain had warned her of. In all of its howling and breathing, the branches gripping her and the delirium written into her psyche, maybe, it was all a warning. 

She hangs her head. “Mhm… sounds great.”

She has no time to process what’s happening before he’s folding his hand into the cavity of her armpit and dragging her up and out of the door, into the backyard. 

It’s more of a cleared grove than a yard. Dead tree stumps litter the small expanse, grass the colour of ripe lemons because it’s been seared down. There’s a block of wood sitting on a stump, split down the middle. Sun-bleached clothes hanging over the clothesline.

“Y’can watch here,” Johnny says, gesturing to one of the tree stumps. “We’ve got to chop wood for dinner tonight.”

He pulls her down on the makeshift seat, finally letting her go. And just as Johnny pivots, slamming the spire of the axe into the block of wood, she sees him scrunch his nose as he sniffs his hand, drinking in the sweat from her armpit. It goes up his nose and through his nasal cavity, making him quiver as if her sweat is an opiate. Disgust slams into her, sinking in her stomach and settling there like sediment. She doesn’t even notice Simon walking out of the cabin and reaching for the axe, raising it over his head, until the resounding sound of wood snapping peals out, and she’s jumping in her skin.

“No need to be feart,” Johnny laughs. “Just his usual routine.”

She watches Simon work. He looks like a beast on its hind legs like this—impossibly large and splayed out with his arms over his head, growling whenever he brings the axe down on the tree stump, splitting it in two. Sweat burns through his wifebeater and turns the fabric translucent, revealing the barest outline of his chest. His chest hairs are matted with sweat, his sinews straining with each chop of wood. His face is curled meanly into itself, his trimmed hair nicked in different places from at-home shaving and washed with sweat.

Every time he brings the axe down on the wood, expelling a guttural groan, something stirs in her. He does it with such force, such strength, it makes her wary. He fractures the wood along the grain without so much of a blink, without any stifling in his muscle.

All those horror films she watches alone—when her friends say they’re too busy to join, when they lead her on after planning a get-together that doesn’t come to fruition—finally catch up to her, sowing the thought in her head that if she stays, she’ll become the tree stump. Impotent beneath Simon’s hacking and eclipsed by his behemoth-like body. 

Her missing panties. Johnny’s sticky hands. Simon’s less-than-human behaviour. It all slams into her like whiplash. 

Her fear rears its head as a rashly undertaken announcement tumbling out of her mouth.

“I have to pee.”

She ignores the way Johnny perks up, as if that activated something in his brain. His ocular vein goes large, rapt, his pupils blowing out as he looks at her and then her navel where her bladder sits, suddenly grinning. 

“I can come with–”

“I’ll go in the woods,” she says. “Behind a bush or something, okay?”

Simon grunts. It’s a deep prusten sound as he splits another block of wood. Johnny pouts but lets her go, watching with those imploring eyes as she disappears behind some foliage. 

It’s now or never, she decides. 

She makes sure she’s concealed by the flowering of a tree before speeding up her walk. She moves like an unoiled machine, rusty, as her walk ripens into a run.

She doesn’t know where she’s running. She doesn’t know how far the nearest town is or how to find the trail she lost herself on, but she knows she needs to get far away from here. 

The woodland is labyrinthine. Everything looks the same. She hopes she isn’t sprinting deeper into the heart of Appalachia and straight into her new grave, but still, she doesn’t stop running. Not until her lungs wilt into themselves and turn pruney, not until her heartbeat plateaus. 

It’s as if she’s working against a rip current. She feels as if a part of herself is already woven into the woodland soil, feels herself written into the rotting, wet trees. It’s like she’s treading water instead of sprinting. And it’s like a supernova has erupted in her ankle as it gets caught under a root, sending her face first into the dirt. 

She reorients as quickly as she can. She raises to her feet but winces at the flaring nerves in her foot, and looks around for a stick she can use as a crutch. 

But something else catches her attention. 

A dog-eared paper taped to a Basswood tree. It’s been eaten by the elements, mottled, barely hanging on. She steps closer and reads the blocky letters across the front, her blood running cold in her engorged vessels.

MISSING PERSON

Fleetingly, hope seizes her, but she soon remembers nobody back home is heedful enough to report her missing, let alone realize she’s missing in the first place. Additionally, the year suggests that the flyer is three years old. Her eyes slink down, trailing over what’s still intact.

LAST SEEN: CLIFF TRAIL

$3,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION

Foreboding clings to her flesh. She quivers, her knees weakening.

FIRST NAME: J-

The tail-end of it is smeared, the ink bleeding and thinning into the paper. It’s unintelligible, so she trails her gaze lower, heeding the victim’s last name instead.

MACTAVISH.

“Sweetie!” Peals out from behind her before she can read any more. “What’re you doin’ all the way here? Had me and Simon thinkin’ ye ran away or something. Hah.”

Johnny hurries close and swallows her flinch with a tight hug. He frowns at the flyer. 

“Why’re you readin’ this silly stuff?” He asks. He tears it off the tree and crumples it up, tossing it away. “That shite gives y’nightmares.”

“Johnny, I–”

“You went pee?” Johnny asks. Nearly makes her screech when he dips his hand low and cups her cunt, feeling around for any dregs of liquid. He buries his fingers unnecessarily deep between her puffy lips, blindly massaging.

“No…” he clicks his tongue. “No. You didn’t. Did ye lie to us? It dinnae matter, sweetie. Here. Do it here, pretty. I’ll wait.”

She musters whatever pluck she has left to shake her head.

However her spine is fickle. All it takes is Johnny glowering, his eyes darkening, his pout upending and curling into something meaner, to force her back into submission.

“Simon’s already angry ye pulled this stunt, sweetie,” he says. “I’m helpin’ you out.”

A tear escapes her. It rolls down her gaunt cheek like the dew that dribbles down trees. She’s quickly crying, expelling howls that burn her energy. She trembles as she squats to the forest floor and pushes pee out of her. She sniffles as she stands back up and lets the liquid sluice down her thighs. 

“Good girl,” Johnny hums. “You’re so much sweeter when ye listen, ye ken?” 

She sobs into her palms, her ribs so brittle they rattle together. Johnny coos vacantly at her, rubbing her all over the same way one rubs stone fruit to test their ripeness, and croons at her swelling ankle.

“See what happens when you’re naughty?” He asks, picking her up, carrying her close to his chest. “Let’s get you home, honey. These woods are no place for a bird like you.”

She hates how she curls into him. It’s her repressed underbelly fighting its way to the surface because the accumulation of neglectful family and friends has soured her, carving a chasm in her heart that forces her body to respond to Johnny’s affections. He’s a warm body for her, a pair of listening ears. It’s scraps, but it’s more than she’s ever gotten.

They make it back to the cabin in what feels like minutes. Simon’s waiting next to the door with his arms tightly crossed, his face meanly pinched. He growls like a provoked animal. He hovers like an executioner. He’s the living antonym of light at the end of the tunnel, huffing like a bull as Johnny carries her inside. 

“How about you rest?” Johnny asks. He sets her down on her cot and pulls the blanket to her quivering chin, tucking her in. “Want some tea? What kind do you fancy?”

She purses her lips, trembling. Johnny sentimentally hums as if he’s sorry. As if he isn’t a part of her plight. Her piercing fear and deep-seated fatigue.

“Garden mint…” he says to himself. “I’ll be right back, bonnie.”

He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a cup dwarfed in his hand. Steam curls over the rim, thinning into the barren bedroom. He tilts it into her mouth, nursing her. 

With every sip she feels herself slip more and more back into the familiar territory of limbo. Her eyelids become heavy, her cognizance slackening.

She peels her tongue off her gums to muster a whisper. It’s so weak. Barely audible. 

“I wanna go… home…”

Johnny croons. He cups her cheek. “Honey, those people dinnae care about you. Not how me and Simon do. This can be your home.”

He raises the cup to her mouth again, stifling any protests on her tongue.

She hiccups around the drink, her eyes warm and wet.

That’s how she falls asleep. 

With hypnotic tea invading her bloodstream, turning her eyelids heavy. Turning her helpless.

———

She wakes with a start. 

It’s a crack of thunder that had stirred her, she realizes, instead of the enigmatic sounds of bed springs snapping.

The bedroom is dark and bathed in midnight light. She can barely see anything, save for the barest outline of Johnny in the bed next to her. When lightning strikes, illuminating the sky with a blinding impact crack, she’s able to see the swell of his body beneath his sheets and the shadow of his spun-thread hair. His chest rising and falling steadily. 

She’s caked with sweat. Her perspiration soaks her flannel and makes it cling to her flesh, which is flared up as if she rolled in a pile of poison ivy. Her mind is so cluttered she almost folds over as she stands up, testing the grip of her toes on the wooden floor, testing her ability to balance herself. 

She’s in limbo. A border space between heaven and hell, awaiting her execution. That’s how it feels as she tiptoes her way out of the room, reaching for an oil lamp, holding it out in front of her. 

It’s almost worse like this. A weak flame that barely illuminates her peripheral. She fears that should she turn too fast, an aberration will materialize from the margins of her view and tear her to ribbons. 

At this point, she supposes that’s a kinder fate. 

She slips into a pair of large boots because she can’t find her hiking shoes anywhere. She opens the door and pokes her head out, immediately met with the spray of rainwater on her face, the wind running through her ropes of neglected hair.

Sheets of heavy rain fall from the awning, creating another divide that keeps her trapped inside the cabin. She steps onto the porch, listening for any incongruous noises. Even if there were any, they would be bullied under the assault of rainfall. She can’t hear her own thoughts like this, can’t formulate a plan to get away from here once and for all.

So of course she doesn’t hear the floorboards settle behind her. Of course, she doesn’t hear the heavy drumming of feet closing in on her.

She doesn’t heed the body behind her until Johnny is sniffing up her neck and snuffing out the oil lamp, laying hold of her in a grudging grip. 

“You just dinnae listen, do you?”

He takes her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back into the cabin, knocking the lamp out of her grip. It falls to the floor and flares into a crash, louder than the rain. Almost louder than her sprinting heart and the blood rushing to her ears.

She wrestles against his grip. “Fuck you both—you sick fucks!”

She almost vomits when her insults make Johnny moan, his cock fattening against her back in a crude Pavlovian response. Each time she struggles against him, his grip tightens. It reminds her of the mountain itself. The more she tries escaping its soporific arms, the deeper it drags her down. It’s fruitless for her to fight it—the whistle of the branches, the tight sinews of Johnny’s grip. 

He swings his arm around her neck, pinning her against his chest in a headlock. Her lungs stutter and her eyes turn dewy, her deep-seated fear ripening into paralyzing terror.

A web of lightning shatters the sky, and she almost dies right there.

It’s Simon but worse. A mutation gone wrong. A changeling, perhaps. He’s squeezed inside the threshold, breathing wildly. His wifebeater is torn in different places across his body, split around tufts of fur. Fur that is matted with thick ichor, wiry and sprouting from the spot behind his ears.

Another flash of lightning ignites the cabin, revealing the shaggy coat of hair on his chest. The sheet of fat over his stomach that flutters when he puffs, growling under his breath. He clenches his jaw because he can’t clench his hands, because his thick fingers have turned into claws, sharp spires covered in gore.

Simon snarls. Blood and spit drip from his bloodied teeth as if he’s a rabid animal with a limp maw. He rolls his shoulders and cracks the cartilage in his neck, the sound pealing out so loudly, it’s more like the popping of bubble wrap in rapid succession. 

She can barely see him through her tear-filled eyes. It’s the epilogue to her life as he strides in close, biting his talons into her hips and drawing out blood. A snarl of satisfaction escapes him when he smells it—her blood, sweet, albeit stale due to her dehydration. 

“Anyone ever told you you’re an ungrateful mutt?” He growls. “I give you food to eat an’ clothes on your back but here you are, tryin’ to sod off.”

Her cheeks dimple when he grabs her jaw. She opens her mouth to protest, but her grievances get smothered beneath Simon’s claws. He stuffs his fingers down her mouth, stunting her complaints. She gags and coughs around the taste of metal and mire crusted under his claws, bile shooting up her throat.

“Dogs don’t talk,” he tuts. 

He hoists his arm back and she puckers, preparing for an attack. However, instead of her cheek, Simon’s hand slices against her shirt. He tears her flannel into ribbons, making the fabric slide off her like water from a milk bath.

She stands naked, her skin pocked with fear. She shivers despite being pressed between Simon’s furry chest and Johnny’s warm arms. 

“‘Bout time someone taught you some manners,” Simon mumbles. “I was in the middle of my dinner you know? Fuckin’ rude to interrupt.”

She blanches when she sees a limp coyote behind him, splayed out on the porch. She recognizes it as the orpiment-coloured fur to the hair flossed between Simon’s teeth.

She screams as he wrestles her from Johnny’s grip, pulling her towards the bedroom. Simon throws her onto the stiff mattress, her spine shuddering from the impact. She tries covering herself, tries wrapping her arms around her body, but Simon is having none of that. 

He pounces, taking her hips and pinning them to the bed. He hovers over her, rainwater dripping from his broken nose, impossibly large as he makes up her whole world. Simon swallows her entire view, leaving her with no chances of escape. 

Her gaze flutters down to the chub outlined by his sweatpants and decides she’s left with no chances of survival, either.

She flails her legs as Simon slithers low, flattening his nose against her cunt. She lets out a protracted cry as he hitches his lungs and inhales, breathing in the musk of her bare cunt. The sweat stuck between her fuzzy hair, the sticky arousal that spreads as he forces her legs open. 

Simon hisses. It rides the ruck of his throat, expelled from his nose. It’s not in any capacity a human sound. It seems more like a bear flaring its nostrils, poised for attack.

Johnny notices the confusion between her eyebrows because he’s leaning in and murmuring against the shell of her ear, licking it.

“Remember wha’ I said about matin’ season, kitty?”

Johnny leans away, leaving it at that. Equivocal and cryptic and calcified into the furrows of her brain. She isn’t allowed to wade in her confusion though because Simon’s tongue is lolling out, sweeping a fat stripe over her pussy.

It’s like the first thaw of spring. Simon licks her open, spreads her out on his tongue. She can’t help the immediate warmth that courses through her, swathing her in silk. 

She cries out. Her back bends off the mattress when Simon pulls her lips into his mouth to suck. 

She looks to Johnny for help. She twists herself and tries reaching out, tries crawling off the mattress, but Simon is gripping her ankle and popping the gauze of her bandage with his claws, pulling her back down, wrapping his lips around her engorged clit.

Johnny’s face doesn’t show contrition, but is pinched in jealousy. He watches with a fat mass growing in his sweatpants.

She splits her hand over Simon’s shaved head, using the cauliflowered shell of his ear to try pulling him off of her. That only makes him growl, the vibrations quavering up her spine, his claws digging into her flesh. 

She folds her arms over her face, sobbing. Simon’s tongue is wet and hot against her pussy, lapping between her soft folds, slurping her juices. She flushes at how wet she is. At how pleasure leaks through the cracks in her resolve and spreads all over her, reducing her to a panting mess. 

Simon releases her clit with a pop. He raises to his knees, towering over her, and now she’s unsure if his glistening chin is because of the rainwater outside or her arousal. 

“Hold her down, Johnny.”

Her heart drums against her chest. Johnny crawls onto the bed and kneels behind her head. He pins her wrists down with his kneecaps, keeping her from squirming.

“Will ye let me put my cock in ‘er mouth?” Johnny asks. “Simon, will you–”

“Shut it,” Simon snaps. He shoves down his sweatpants, his cock springing out. All of her nerves bristle like rope, her heart sputtering to a stop.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. It droops between his thighs, drooling with precum. It’s stiff but hangs because he’s so large, the engorged tip angling downward, his balls plump, ruddy.

He chokes his hand around it, tugging it. Her throat closes in on itself but her legs instinctively peel apart. Her puffy lips spread open and she flushes at the sticky sound, hoisting her neck back to look at Johnny.

He has his cock out too, pumping it. He grins when they lock eyes and smacks his dick against her cheek. Johnny presses his cockhead into the corner of her mouth, using it to tilt her lips into a repugnant curl. It’s reminiscent of a smile, but it isn’t one. 

She wails.

They both make up her beginning and end. They trap her between themselves, leaving her with no escape. Simon at her feet, Johnny at her head. Each of the men are more intimidating than the other, both inspiring fear in her feeble heart. Both inspiring unwanted arousal between her legs. 

Simon slaps his flaring tip against her clit. She mewls and hates herself for bucking her hips into him. She’s dew-skinned as Simon pushes her knees to her ears, thumbing her clit.

He deeply inhales.

His chest expands, tugging at the steel-wool hair felted against his big chest. He quivers as he expels his breath, his mating call, and finally feeds her his cock, pushing past her first ring of muscle.

Her body tries curling in on itself like a Venus flytrap, but Johnny is quicker. He bites his fingers into her wrists and pins her to the mattress, keeping her still while Simon stuffs himself deeper. Johnny kisses her tears away while he does it. It’s oxymoronic and it’s betrayal—a Judas kiss—while he wraps his lips around sweet encouragement against her cheeks.

“Got so much fight in ye, sweetie,” he whispers. “Just stop strugglin’ and it’ll feel good.”

Simon leans over her, his cock slipping deeper into her warm cunt. The blood and saliva from his maw drips onto her chest, the blood is so fresh there’s still steam, hitting her like scythes.

Johnny’s getting restless. He watches raptly as Simon starts slamming his hips into her. Johnny ruts against the chafe of her brittle hair and hopes it will give him satisfaction by proxy, but it does little to offset the ache in his balls. His lip warbles.

“Simon, please,” a voice crack, “can I put my cock in ‘er mouth?”

“Fine,” Simon growls. His hips are piston-paced against the girl’s skin, unrelenting and uncaring to how her nails scratch striated lines down his chest in her struggle. “Just stop interruptin’ us.”

Her jaw cramps when Johnny cups her chin. He puppets it open and forces his fingers down. They’re caked with dirt as he swirls them over her tongue, coaxing up the warm spit from the furrow of her throat to be used as a natural lube. 

The only mercy she gets is the stint of time between Johnny pulling his fingers out and gripping his dick, laying it on her tongue. He forces her lips apart with the tip of his cock, smearing himself all over her. 

“So pretty like this sweetheart,” he hums. “Simon smelt it on ye. Hundreds of klicks away. How sweet y’are.” 

She doesn’t have the energy to decipher that. Most of it is being wrung on trying to fight the two men off, but it’s fruitless. Johnny is already slipping into her mouth, and her cunt is already stretched around Simon’s plump cock. 

Johnny starts pumping in and out, his cock embroidering a burn in the hinges of her jaw.

She lies there limply, but as Johnny’s wiry hair meets her nose, she realizes there’s one thing she can do. In her thrashing, she undertakes the lapse of judgement to clamp her teeth together, sinking them into Johnny.

He yells and pulls himself out. Johnny wraps a hand around himself, squeezing, placating the sting. A warm wash of tears twine his eyelashes together, long and babydoll-like. He looks to Simon, preening, imploring. 

“She bit me.” 

Simon slows his hips, only scarcely so. Only enough for her to fill her lungs halfway before he’s dragging himself out agonizingly slow, burying himself back inside. 

His eyes, hungry, flutter down to her. His lips wind back, revealing his sharp fangs. He snickers. 

“Now you’ve pissed him off, hm? Dumb girl. This is why puppies need owners.”

He pinches her clit, softly tweaking it between the pads of his fingers. He looks at Johnny and condescendingly smirks. 

“C’mere, boy. If she won’t suck you off, why not take a go at her other hole?”

She tenses. Fear washes over her like a rip current, all the way down to her ass that squeezes in protest. Her heart feels too big for her chest suddenly. She can’t even see Johnny’s blinding grin through her cloudy eyes as brine tracks down her cheeks, mixing with her sweat. 

She whimpers. “No–“

A palm whistles through the air, exploding into a crack of thunder as it breaks against the skin of her cheek. 

She lapses into silence. Little hiccups escape her while she peers up at Simon, sniffling. 

“Yes,” he says. 

He grips her by her hips and flips her over. This way, Simon’s on his back and she’s on top of him, his cock digging deeper. The position is etched with a degree of intimacy that causes heat to pool in her belly—she can feel his hot breath fanning over her face, she can see his feline-like eyes better.  

She almost jumps out of her skin when Johnny presses his fingers into her ass, trying to break her in. He thumbs at the puckered muscle, chuckling when it tries squirming away from him. 

“Cute little thing,” he says. “She ever been fucked?”

The way she sobs when Johnny forces his forefinger inside gives him his answer. He almost comes right there. At the sound of her slick lubing her up, at the sound of her being torn open like a stone fruit and her pitiful cries for mercy. 

“Stop…” 

“Stop?” Johnny repeats, “Sweetie, if I stop it’ll hurt when I fuck you. Ye need prep, silly.”

That only wracks her ribs harder. The patrionizing lilt in his voice, the way he pats her bum like she’s nothing but a dumb puppy. Johnny sinks another finger in, knuckle-deep, and curls himself into the walls of her ass, massaging it.

Simon starts thrusting again. He takes one of her tits in his mouth and tongues at her nipple, snapping his hips into her. It only adds more pressure to her other hole, the one being fingered open by Johnny.

“Y’think she’s ready, sweetie?” Johnny asks. He slaps his cock against her hole, teasing her. “I think she’s fuckin’ hungry. Look at ‘er winkin’ back at me.”

Johnny collects the saliva moulded into his gums and sputters out a wad of spit, wetting her tight asshole. He presses his cockhead against her opening, pushing himself inside.

She buckles, doubling over. Her cheek falls on Simon’s chest, chafing against his coarse hair. She’s never felt so full. Folded between the men and being fed two big cocks, left with no space to breathe. She isn’t given respite. No mercy. No time for her to stretch around their cocks.

Johnny splits his hand across the divot where her spine begins and shoves her into Simon. Her jaw hangs loose, her lips parted dumbly, her drool trickling onto Simon’s chest. She’s limp. Letting them have her way with her. Letting them brand her with their fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into her skin. Letting them break her open with each of their jackhammering thrusts, letting their pants of encouragement and degradation swirl around her like whistles from the woodland, causing goosebumps to arise and her head to pound.

“Do ye feel it, Simon?” Johnny pants. “Is it comin’ on?”

His words sprawl by like a lazy river in her mind. Desultory, like lukewarm water. They don’t click into the empty chasm of her cognizance until something else happens. Something inhuman. Something that has her choking on the raw bile that scratches her throat and the spit coaxed into the rivets of her tongue by Johnny’s assaulting fingers.

Simon’s ramming gets shaved into stunted thrusts. It isn’t due to a loss of energy, but is due to something else keeping him from slipping out. A balloon pushing against the walls of her pussy, swelling inside her. It isn’t fat but is chubby enough for her to feel it, flutter around it.

The knot snarled into Simon’s cock plugs her up. She can’t pull herself off him because it’s puffed up past her cunt, keeping her stuck on top of him. It doesn’t help that Johnny keeps slamming his hips into her, riling the thin skin that separates her cunt from her ass, bending it to the shape of Simon’s cock.

Johnny gasps. “I’m close– shite, I’m close.”

She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is too. She feels her nerves begin to fray at their edges, her stomach wearing thin. Johnny slips his hand low and blindly sweeps at her clit, nibbling on the husk of her ear.

He only gets three more pumps in until he’s emptying his balls in her ass. He grabs her hair when he comes, puppetting her head back so her mouth falls open and he can spit inside. His thrusts are slow and deep and peter into something calm, his cock softening inside her. Johnny grins.

“Say thank you, kitty.”

It crosses her tongue as an unintelligible mumble. She can’t speak properly with Simon’s cock still in her.

Johnny chuckles at that. He wraps his arms around her and pinches her nipples. Twisting them, pulling them.

Simon’s so big beneath her, lounging like a bear. He fucks into her, his thrusts curtailing into sloppy snaps of his hips.

“He’s close, bonnie,” Johnny says. “Kiss ‘im when he comes. It’s what he likes.”

Finally, Simon’s knot unravels, his thick ropes of come sticking to her walls. He makes sure that the warm come dressing her is so deep, it’ll have no choice but to take. 

Her body betrays her when it crests and crashes into her orgasm. She’s flashbanged with blinding light, gushing out an off-white liquid that coats Simon’s thighs. It seizes her so deeply it hurts, the panoramic pleasure. An orgasm that makes her brain melt, makes her feel otherworldly.

Belatedly, she remembers Johnny’s order. She leans down to kiss Simon, her lips leathery against his. She only wants a modest peck—something to sate Johnny—but she can’t pull away because her bottom lip is caught between Simon’s teeth, pinched, and being sapped of its blood.

He laps it up before letting her go. 

He slips his softening cock out but keeps his come inside her with two fingers, his claws having retracted.

He huffs like a bull. He presses his heavy paw into her abused cunt, palming it. He reeks with a carnal musk, the aftertaste of his rut heavy in the air.

Suddenly, it all makes sense to her.

Simon is the crux of all cautionary tales. The mountains aren’t sworn off because of rabid raccoons or feral fishers but because of something eldritch, whose reputation and folklore precedes any proof of its existence. Whatever Simon is, it can’t be put into words or into anything material, so he’s condensed into the urban legends that have haunted the woods for centuries. The stories that keep hikers off needle-covered paths and unmarked trees and make them carry crucifixes in lieu of bear spray.

She doesn’t even realize she’s softly sobbing. It feels like that’s all she does these days.

Johnny hugs her as if he hadn’t taken a part of her dignity. 

He kisses her, kittening into her so that Simon is able to wrap his arms around them both, hugging them. 

The calm that lolls after the storm only bruises her further. They act so normal after they’ve stripped her of everything. Johnny massaging her thighs, Simon igniting a cigarette between his lips. 

“Will you ever let me go?” She mumbles against Simon’s chest. 

He exhales the smoke. “Go where, love? You came into my house, remember?”

Johnny won’t stop kissing her. He’s a pest that’s attached itself to her dewy flesh, trying to lick her clean. Simon curls his fingers in her and makes sure that’s where his come stays.

Simon takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not like anyone back home would miss you, anyhow.”

———

She watches with a smile on her face as Johnny roasts the flank of a moose on a homemade grill and as Simon chops some more firewood.

She lounges in a chair, swathed in her caribou-hide coat. Winter is at its height, laying a skin of pillowy snow across the mountain.

The cubs wriggle in her lap, pawing at the loose tendrils of her hair and trying to pinch her nose.

“Lookin’ so pretty today, mama,” Johnny hums. She giggles when he kisses her, scratching at the cubs’ bellies. 

“Ain’t she bonnie?” Johnny turns around and prompts Simon, “Our wee looker.”

Simon pauses his wood chopping and nods. He grips the hem of his lumberman’s jacket and raises it to his forehead to wipe his sweat away, revealing his chest and his hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The cubs yip when he resumes his chopping, splitting a tree stump in two. 

She grins. 

She loves her family. Her providers and the offspring of their seed. She loves the cubs’ fine hair rubbing against her cheek when they jump on the bed to wake them up in the mornings, their blunt fangs biting her when they’re hungry, and the tiny chines on their back where their sharp spine will eventually grow in, just like Simon’s.

Briefly, she tries to remember her other family. The one that came before this one. But all that encompasses her mind is a supermassive black hole in place of memories. For some reason she can’t delineate them. The face of her father is blurry and the features of her mother fit together like a crudely sewn patchwork quilt.

She doesn’t remember much of her family. It’s kind of weird. She can’t remember if they liked her or not.

But she knows that doesn’t matter. Not when she has doting men around her and their litter hanging off her hips, another one currently swelling under her belly.

She pays no heed to the missing person posters taped to the fringes of the mountain that look eerily similar to her. Not to the K-9’s that try tracking scents but fail because she’s written with Simon and Johnny’s musk. She ignores the odd helicopter passing through each month, scarcely flying past their ramshackle cabin.

None of it matters because she knows she’s where she needs to be.

[cemeterything]

[sexting] there is an important distinction that must be drawn between the words dissection and vivisection. a distinction that would appear to be lost on you. your purpose was to listen and yet at every turn you have pried, you have prodded and you have interfered. have you not been paying attention? did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? and still you harass. and now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on a sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed.

[blackvelvetofnight]

[sexting] There is an important distinction that must be drawn between the words dissection and vivisection, a distinction that would appear to be lost on you. Your purpose was to listen and yet at every turn you have pried, you have prodded and you have interfered. Have you not been paying attention? Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harass. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on a sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this. When a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth.

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Hush Hush

Kaz Brekker x reader

Kaz comes to you in the dead of night. His sweetheart, the daughter of a merchant. For once it’s not about money or revenge. For once, it’s all about pleasing his darling whom he’s begrudgingly realizes he adores. 

⚠️ WARNINGS ⚠️: smut, mentions of touch aversion, fingering, oral, toys, 

Enjoy this garbage

…

Kaz Brekker has always hated climbing. His bad knee doesn’t agree to hefting his body up ladders or stairs let alone any kind of building or rock face. Even so, he always finds his way to your bedroom, tucked into the corner of the second floor on your home. Usually he’ll simply break in to your father’s manicured mansion but on nights where your father is hosting dinners and meetings that drag late into the night, Kaz sucks it up and riddles out a route to your bedroom windows. 

Why?

Well, Kaz can’t quite answer that. He’s not supposed to be caring for you. The oldest daughter of the merchant Kaz has been trying to smother for weeks now. The merchant was a close colleague of Pekka Rollins and dealt in similar trades.

At first Kaz wanted to lure you in to use you as a tool. Collect information for him and manage mischief in the mansion. He was shocked to find he didn’t have to bribe you. You’d give him intel at no price. 

This left Kaz baffled and  cautious. He had his Wraith watch you from time to time which lead to his discovery of your promised hand. Your father was arranging a marriage for you and in your desperation to escape the binding curse, you gave information to the Dregs. 

Fascinated by the free intel, Kaz came to collect it himself. His visits became more frequent and more daring. Kaz was never one to charm yet he had this effect on you. You couldn’t help but becoming sweet on Dirtyhands, who was at this point, taking pity on you. He promised that in exchange for the data you provided him, he’d take you away from your home and give you a new one at the slat. He hadn’t decided what job to give you yet but that would all come in due time. 

For now, he’d take advantage of his growing feelings for you to exact some vengeance on the merchant and Rollins. He didn't like what was going on between you and him, but you were just so unfathomably irresistible to Kaz. He wanted you. And Dirtyhands always gets what he wants. 

So, Kaz approaches the side door of the mansion, striding audaciously up the groomed pathway. He can see that you’ve left your window open so that you can listen for the familiar thump of his cane. Kaz’s lips perk up at the thought. You eagerly listening for his arrival. Dirtyhands is pleased to be so anticipated. 

The side door is unlocked, not surprising. You’ve gotten into the habit of waiting for the servants to all check in for the night and then sneaking off to unlock the door for him. He slips inside of the mansion, unimpressed with the gaudy decorations and ostentatious furniture. The golden banisters on the stairs, the patterned wallpaper, the checkered floor polished until it almost reflects his mirror image back at him. 

Kaz shakes his head and begins the journey up the stairs. The second floor is decked with a plush crimson carpet that muffles the thump of his cane as he rounds the corner. Down the hall he hears the laughter of two men, your father and your fiancé. Thoughts of disgust cross his mind. 

Earlier, Inej had reported to him with the notions of the handsy fiancé helplessly trying to woo you. Foolish boy. Putting his hands on you. Witlessly trying to please without knowing the first thing about you. 

Disgust changed to smugness as Kaz knocked on you door. Only Dirtyhands had ever been worthy enough to find his way into your bed. You swept the door open to allow him in and Kaz is greeted by the sight of your smile and bright eyes. He tips his hat and enters.

Kaz runs through the usual questions: Have you learned anything new? How are the movements of business between your father and Rollins? Are stocks concerning them at all? What is your father investing in? Blah Blah Blah.

Then it’s your turn to ask. You’re always so eager to know what the Dregs have been up to. The gangs of the Barrel have always fascinated you because you’ve never understood how they operate. Kaz is amused by your curiosity and humors you with decorated retellings of his best heists. 

It is easy to talk to you. You listen, even when you don’t understand. He’s never told about Jordie though he’s wanted to. You found out about his no-touching rule early on which has made your dealings both easy and difficult. Easy because Kaz knows you won’t impulsively touch him out of desire. Difficult because he desires you but he cannot bring himself to shed his gloves.

Even so, Kaz has found that as long as he wears gloves, he can touch you as he pleases. He’s also found that texture on his lips reads subtly different than it does on fingertips. He’s found kissing you, not exactly your lips, but the knuckles of your hand and the smooth expanse of your shoulder to be tolerable at times. 

As things have recently always gone, the questions dwindle and the desire bubbles up. 

Greed is servant to Dirtyhands. 

But Kaz Brekker is servant to lust.

If there’s one person he lusts after it’s you. If there’s one person he’d die to please, it’s you. He hasn’t let onto this but as soon as you set foot in the Barrel you’ll figure it out. You’re his weakness.

Kaz shepherds you towards the decadent bed he’s become so fond of lately. The image of you cradled in the blankets and sheets as you twist and keen beneath him is etched in the backs of his eyelids from visits past. Tonight will be no different. 

“So soon?” Your eyebrows quirk as your expression goes soft. Usually you talk for a bit longer but if that continues tonight Kaz is in danger of opening up more than he would like. 

He shrugs, “There’s only so much time in a night and I’d like to spend mine efficiently. ”

He leans his cane between the bed posts and the wooden dresser near the foot of your bed. His coat drops off his shoulders as he drapes it over an armchair. He finally turns to you, “I’ve been thinking so carefully about tonight.”

Kaz kneels before you, a gesture he’d give to no one else quite so willingly, and lifts your hand to his lips. He then reaches for the drawer of your nightstand. He pulls out a pair of gloves. The leather is still immaculately clean and soft, thinned down and made specially for nights like this one. He swaps pairs, the new set better and more breathable than the last. These gloves are made to pleasure you.

Kaz’s hands first find your temples. He brushes the hair away from your eyes and then his touch travels down to your cheeks. His fingers continue their their path, finding their familiar trails. They stop at the straps of the slip that you’ve begun to favor on warm summer nights. He fiddles with the neckline, teasing the tops of your breasts that show just above the hem. And then he’s pulling the straps down.

The gossamer soft silk drops down your body until the straps catch at the hooks of your elbows. Kaz pushes you backward, onto the mattress, and sits himself down between you thighs. 

“Been thinking about you a lot lately.” He murmurs. The leather meets the warm skin of your ribcage. “Can’t really seem to stop.”

“mhm?” You hum as the seam of the glove tip crests the underside of your breast.

Kaz smirks and takes one of your pert nipples between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, thoughts of you are honestly insufferable. It’s no wonder your beloved fiancé can't keep his hands to himself.” 

He pinches and twists ever so slightly. The smooth leather does nothing to absorb the sparks dancing under your skin. “Really?” You whisper breathlessly. Already you’re at his mercy.

“Really.”

He leans down and his lips wrap around the peak of your other breast. He feels a bubbling in his stomach that’s half hunger at your own pleasure and half anxiety. He’s so close to you and the air in your bedroom hardly seems breathable. His mouth his off your breast just as he was beginning to suckle at it. Instead, His other hand thumbs at the moist skin and soaks up your heavenly image.

Before you can adjust to the onslaught, he lifts the bottom hem of your slip  over your hips and exposes the cotton panties beneath. He wedges a finger between the covered labia and rubs over the swelling bud. You hum and wiggle your hips. 

“Patience, darling.” His palm soothes at your thigh. 

The finger moves in slow circles around your clit as he watches your slick soak through the cotton. Once he decides you’ve had enough teasing, he pushes your thighs up so he can slip the panties off and reveal your wet cunt, swollen and slick just for him. 

“Oh, please Kaz!” You beg softly. 

Kaz looks up at you, your eyes pleading your case and you lips parted as you suck in a breath. He’d love to kiss you. He’s been dying to. But now is just not the right time. 

He squeezes at the meat of your inner thighs as he returns his attention to your awaiting sex. Two fingers press into your clit and drag circles into it. You pant and plead with him as he works up a pace. Then the fingers slip down to your hole where they prod at your entrance. Tentatively, they dip in. Your walls clench at his fingertips and he smiles.

Only he can do this to you.

He eases his fingers in, scissoring them apart and rubbing at your walls.

 “Ka-az!” He hears your faint plea but doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s going to take his time with you. He curls his fingers back, pulling them from you before jamming them back in. Your breath catches. 

Good. He thinks. You’re going to fall apart for me.

His fingers are swift, ringing wetness out of you as he sets a rhythm. You clutch at the sheets as his hand works you. Pleasure coils up inside your gut as his thumb snags on your clit. You squeeze his hips between your thighs as your face heats up and your back arches. “Come on, sweetheart. Won’t you cum for me?”

You whine and seize up, the orgasm taking control. Your hips rock into his hand as he fucks his fingers into your. His thumb never quits on your clit, rubbing the shocks of pleasure out of you.

As you cool down, Kaz reaches for the nightstand again. Not only does the little wooden table hold his special gloves, but also an array of toys he’s collected for such occasions. He selects a glass dildo that he pocketed from a shipment to a brothel. He remembers the first night he brought the thing in. Freshly cleaned and cold to the touch. He’d almost been afraid to use it on you because if you didn’t like it he wasn’t sure he could fully satisfy you. Yet as he stretched you open and sunk the glass into you, you’d moaned like he’d never heard before and begged him to go faster. 

He rubs the tip through your folds, collecting the slick so that the stretch is easier for you. “Spread your legs a little farther for me. There you go. Good girl.” He praises as he pushes the toy into your sucking hole. He’s hypnotized by the sight.

You’re moaning and grinding against the toy. He places a hand on your stomach, two of the fingers sticky with cum that strings between the digits and smears over your skin. You can’t help squirming as the toy fills you up. The cool glass makes you shiver but the brush of Kaz’s knuckle against your inner thigh is electrifying. 

And that’s when he hears it.

The footsteps coming up the hall.

He curses himself as he claps a hand over your open mouth and looks over his shoulder at the door. He’d forgotten to lock it in the initial frenzy of seeing you. 

The footsteps stop outside your door. You glance between Kaz and the door. If anyone were to walk in, what you two were up to would be on full display. 

“Listen, my daughter,” Your father speaks through the door. “Your fiancé is a good man and he’ll take care of you-” 

Upon realizing that your father isn’t going to walk in, Kaz gets an idea. 

He begins to push at the toy that’s only halfway in. You jerk and squirm as he thrusts the dildo into you.

Either you’ll be quiet and your father will leave or you make a peep and your father enters, sees you dallying with Dirtyhands himself.

What will he think? Kaz grins and thrusts the toy a little harder.

Hard enough to make you go cross eyed and to make you choke. “Hush, hush, sweetheart.” Kaz mutters under his breath.

 Hopefully the merchant can’t hear the squelch of your pussy as Kaz fucks you with a toy. You tug at the sheets, struggling with your sounds. Kaz pushes down on your stomach to try and gain more leverage. 

You want to scream but your father is still outside the door. Kaz manages to pick up an even faster pace and your mind is spinning. You grasp his wrists as you start to shake. You’re so close.

“Goodnight, my daughter.” There’s a hint of something sweet in your father’s voice as he walks away but you’re too busy falling apart to notice. 

“Kaz!” You choke out as you hear a door slam distantly. 

He snickers, “Go ahead and cum... dirty thing.”

And you do. You clench around the glass and cry out. Overstimulation and ecstasy kicking in. He yanks the dildo out of you and watches your slippery cum dribble out of you. 

“Saints, you’re so perfect.” He mumbles, “Clean this for me.” He’s prods the tip of the dildo at your lips and works it into you mouth for you to suck.

You think he’s done because usually he lets you rest after the toy but tonight he he hikes you up the bed with strength you forget he has and lifts your thighs over his shoulders. You don’t miss the subtle grind of his hips as he slides down the mattress. 

“I wanna try something, if that’s alright with you?” Kaz licks his lips. His dark eyes glimmering with want. He pulls the glass cock out of your mouth and inspects it. You nod and swallow. 

Kaz strokes the outside of you thigh. His lips kiss the skin bellow your belly as he decides to drop your legs wide onto the bed. He pins them open and lowers his lips down to your core. You whimper as the delicate flesh of his lips presses to your folds. 

“You don’t have to if it makes you nervous, Kaz.” You whisper when you notice beads of sweat on his brow.

“Let me.”

Though his stomach is in shambles, it takes one look at your desperate and fucked out expression, for Kaz to fall back under the reign of lust. His tongue parts his slick lips and dips into the swollen labia. He timidly feels his way through your mess until he nudges your clit with the rough buds of his tongue. 

This seems a fine option to him and he wedges his tongue between the bundle and the puffy lips around it. He scrubs at it, laving wet trails caressing the over sensitive nerves. 

Tears prick at your eyes. He’s so uncharacteristically gentle in moments like these and that combined with the overstimulation is mind numbing. He flattens his tongue out and licks from your clit down to your entrance and back up. Your taste is divine in his mouth and he gives a good suck at your bud as he returns to it. He’s so invested in mouthing at your sex that he barely registers you writhing against him. 

Saints it’s good. And it’s too much and not enough at the same time. You don’t know what to do with yourself. So you focus on his warm mouth driving you crazy and fight to keep your thighs apart. 

“Fucking-KAZ!,” you begin to sob as chills ravage your body. “Ha-ah!” 

Kaz clasps your sweaty palm in one hand, sweeping his thumb over your knuckles, as his other unused hand reaches for your breast. He traps the tip between his ruthless fingers and plucks at it. 

His tongue makes its way into your hole and begins to fuck in and out of you. You can’t take it. You choke on a scream and go rigid as your last orgasm wreaks havoc on your nerves. It smashes through you, dulling all other senses and sucking you into a sea of stars. 

Kaz finally lets you go, lips coming away soaked from your release. He’s shaking too, a dark patch blossoming at the gusset of his trousers. He’d barely noticed how his own hips had dug into the mattress. He sits up and runs his hand all over you, trying to sooth you. 

“Come back to me, darling.” 

He pulls your slip down and adjusts the straps back over your shoulders. You finally catch your breath and reach for him. “Won’t you stay tonight?”

“I shouldn’t.” He really shouldn’t but he wants to. More than anything. Except for that moment when your father was at your door, Kaz hadn’t even been thinking about revenge. He could only focus on you. 

He’s not sure about these feelings he’s got. They’re a distraction and distractions are no good. Yet here he is, caving to your wishes. Despite how uncomfortable and sticky the inside of his trousers have become, and how much paper work he’s got, he agrees to stay with you for the night. 

He slips his shoes off and shimmies up the bed. While he doesn’t cuddle you, he slips off his gloves, and plays with the tips of your fingers. You lay facing each other, wordlessly basking in each others company.

Kaz mulls things over. If he takes you back to the Slat, not only will he be upholding his end of the bargain, he gets excess perks. He can control your doting father like a puppet. And he can have you like this whenever he wants. Though he knows it’s mostly you having him. 

But as he grows drowsy and still, he thinks to himself, would that really be so bad?

[ms-scarletwings]

Aberrant Fish

The first hint many an angler will get of the dark, insidious secrets these waters hold,

and yet, they are the first thing to be accepted as only another flavor of mundane.

The game text calls them grotesque. The fishmonger calls them corrupted. You get to call them a bonus. Rather than fear and revile them, tradesmen will pay a shiny extra penny to add them into their stock. They are gestured to and spoken of, but never truly elaborated on by the townsfolk. They have probably been here long before most of them, and so will be here long after they are gone. They were certainly here before you. Maybe you don’t need their answers, and yet if you are like me, you still witlessly question and keep dredging for more.

Like many things pulled from those cursed depths, they whisper flecks of madness from an impossible voice. What messages do they carry, and what forces do they play vessel to? Are they the lingering embers from a long-extinguished calamity, or are they harbingers of the next one to come?

I believe we have already seen signs of fire with our own eyes- impossible, great beasts that prowl the four (now five) coasts, the dying cult, gibbering fog…. That damned book. These tortured creatures are but another form of the same smoke.

To the question of where they came from, if your fisherman pokes around enough and braves the darkness, he may have already found a response in one of the many obelisks scattered around the map. Specifically, I refer to this.

This would suggest the aberrants themselves are what leaked in through the cracks that the largest of all monsters wants to rend apart? Not entirely, but in part. For the researcher at the Stellar Basin came to her own conclusion I want to factor in.

Her words give credence to the possibility that it is actually those greater beasts themselves at the heart of the corruption. I think she was half onto something, because what if these twisted forms, both large and small, were blooms along the same set of festering roots?

The more dark stones you disturb in the frenzy of your own madness, the more you learn about the age before your arrival, about the islands, and especially about their current guardians. The Mindsuckers- carrion puppet masters given a home, the Basin creature- a spore that miraculously survived its dive to the abyss, and the Serpent- lifeless stone made animate and malicious, all had their creation remembered in great detail by the obelisks. Some hints point that their emergence was rather recent, relative to even more powerful beings, such as the leviathan.

Maybe there are even more unseen horrors far below, blessedly out of our reach, for now. My view is that the malformed beasts are the aimless children of that unfathomable thing which waits beyond the veil. With them came its influence, and its corruption, and from them it continues to spread to all life surrounding. The smaller rifts were always a transformative disease upon the harbor’s fish, but with the rise of the new monsters, the sickness runs farther and less avoidably than ever. Whether these aberrant spawn are a gift to the worthy, or another deceptive evil that leads to madness remains left to be seen.

I will be giving a spotlight to each of these fascinating specimens at the back of Dredge’s encyclopedia, including those found in the Pale Reach, for further comment and appreciation. Updating the list below as we go along!

[#79-84]

[#85-90]

[#91-96]

[#97-102]

[#103-108]

[#109-114]

[#115-120]

[#121-126]

[#127-132]

[#133-138]

[#139-144]

[#145-150]

[#163-168]

[#169-174]

[Bonus I. Night Angler]

[Bonus II. Serpent]

[Bonus III. Basin Creature]

[Bonus IV. Mindsuckers]

[Bonus V. Unseeing Mother]

[Bonus VI. “Narwhal”]

[anhed-nia]

So I'm in the middle of this research project centered on Dario Argento's OPERA, for which I have required myself to watch as many screen adaptations of the Gaston Leroux novel The Phantom of the Opera as I can take. What I have determined so far is that the Phantom of the Opera is a story everyone wants to tell, but not very many people are sure of how to tell it. In fact, it's not that easy to say what it is about archetypally. You know, Wolfman stories are typically about "the beast in man" (with femininity positioned as some sort of cure for this personality split), Frankenstein stories are usually about human nature (i.e. an uncanny creature can have more humanity than vain and bigoted humans), Dracula-type vampire stories are most generally about the problems of being an outsider (queer, foreign, etc). But Phantom of the Opera is like...well, everyone likes the love story part of it, which is more or less modeled on Dracula, with a woman torn between seductive darkness and the safety of square society. But then there are all these other parts that seem to flummox people in the retelling.

I haven't read the Leroux novel YET but the first round of movies have been interesting, and also sort of perplexing. The iteration from 1925 holds up, largely due to Chaney's creation of the Phantom which remains a top tier monster. People don't often talk about the mask though! Which looks like a cross between Peter Lorre and the Devo Boogie Boy, it's disturbing and I like it.

This Phantom was born in the dungeons during a revolutionary bloodbath and is disfigured from birth, drawing on the antique idea that a mother's trauma is translated in the deformity of her children; also, compellingly, these dungeons lie fathoms beneath the opera house where the bourgeoisie are witlessly dancing on the graves of martyrs and criminals embodied in the Phantom. The ingenue Christine is an interesting figure who breaks up with her boyfriend at the beginning because she wants to give her whole self to her career; when the Phantom starts murmuring to her through the walls it's as if the spirit of opera itself has chosen her to be its avatar, which she seems to find totally rational. It's sort of cool, what other movie of this era has a likeable heroine choosing her potential for greatness over love? This is the element of the story that is the most interesting, but I'll expand on that in a minute.

The Chaney edition benefits a lot from keeping things simple. The 1943 version with Claude Raines has a little bit too much going on and the story doesn't get a lot of time to congeal between so many long opera sequences; this movie really takes the opera part of the title seriously! Actually they're the best thing about it, mostly because of Nelson Eddy who is extremely beautiful and a real opera singer, and who projects this blazing desire for Susanna Foster that is incredibly convincing. Like I'd normally say they have great chemistry, but I think it's just a lot of power radiating from him specifically.

Ahem.

Uh anyway. This movie picks up the reoccurring (but not universal) idea that the Phantom is a genteel and sophisticated composer who has just fallen on hard times, who goes mad when his latest concerto is stolen. He is disfigured while struggling with the plagiarist and installs himself under the opera house where he can haunt his former protege Christine, who is already torn between dreamy Nelson Eddy and her stuffy cop boyfriend. One of my favorite things here is that even though this film is extremely quaint and old fashioned, everybody hates cops; this Christine is less a self-determined careerist than someone who is under pressure from her artist friends who find it profoundly repulsive that she is dating a policeman. Meanwhile the Phantom is just way too gentle and sappy, which is extra disappointing because Claude Rains's Invisible Man is so fabulously chaotic and sadistic, it made me really aware of the Phantom that could have been. This one doesn't properly represent the high society vs. underworld dichotomy that Christine should be torn between. So what is this movie about? There's so many guys in it and a few different themes flapping in the breeze. Is it about love? Is it about self-actualizing through art? Is it about the cutthroat world of showbusiness? It doesn't have that much to say, ultimately, and it just seems really unmotivated. Also I don't like this mask, sue me.

The Hammer edition is even more disappointing, considering the studio's previous successes with Universal Monster remakes. Here Christine is torn between a suave opera producer, the lecherous composer who has plagiarized the Phantom, and yeah the Phantom. Too many guys, it confuses whatever the dynamic and themes are supposed to be. Michael Gough as the plagiarist is so much more evil and threatening than poor Herbert Lom's Phantom that it's hard to stay focused on the main point here. Curiously the Hammer version is rather unromantic, with the Phantom just slapping Christine around until she sings his tunes right; that is kind of refreshing in a way, although it also means that the film lacks tension, which contributes to its being surprisingly anticlimactic. The best guy in the movie is actually Thorley Walters whose character serves almost no narrative purpose at all, he just hulks around with this WTF? look on his face and it is kind of adorable. I guess I like the gross mask in this one, too.

But the Hammer version has one interesting strength, which is that Christine is singing the lead in a new opera about Joan of Arc. Just like Joan, Christine hears a disembodied voice prophesizing her ascent to power. The best thing about the Phantom lore is the idea that the woman has this latent power that can either be activated by the Phantom, or suppressed by her square boyfriend (the relationship being mutually exclusive with opera stardom in many iterations). She isn't just a love object to be possessed, she herself possesses of some kind of devastating energy that needs to be awakened and channeled--or contained and forgotten, if she decides to get married and stay home or something. This is pretty cool, and it is interestingly realized in Dario Argento's OPERA, in which (spoiler alert I guess) a killer stalks an opera singer with the aim of catalyzing her own latent psychopathy. This idea is at the center of my thesis and I'm looking forward to fleshing it out, although I'm kind of dreading all the other PHANTOMs that I have committed myself to watching. I really don't want to deal with Andrew LLoyd Webber at all, but after I get through at least the Joel Schumacher one of the those I'm going to reward myself with a rewatch of PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE which I'm going to guess right now is the best retelling of this story after the Chaney one. I'm counting on Paul Williams' music to be catchier than Webber's.

I'm whining about my own decisions, I know, but really the main hardship of this project is that now I keep getting the Vandals' punk theme song from PHANTOM OF THE MALL: ERIC'S REVENGE stuck in my head, and let me tell you that is very unwelcome. Here it is, if you've decided you're done being happy and sane:

[eldritch-spouse]

Imagine how bad it would be to work from home or run a business from home while dating/ being the obsession of Santi or Breg. Locking the office or room you're working in wouldn't be enough. might have to start working at the job or rent a workspace just so they can't bother you

(I would ask Ludwig if he'd be down to help me with my business since he's a jack of all)

Ludwig is down for almost anything he can have enough time to learn.

You don't have to worry about Santi too much. He doesn't bring his meals home usually, so it' not not as if you're having a meeting and there's a chorus of wanton moaning in the next room. He does however, not dress anymore than usual at home, which may make him a distracting presence in the few moments he passes by. Of course, there's always the occasional moment where he'll crawl under the table and nip at your legs until you let him eat you out, but you can always just put something in his mouth and give him a leg to get off with. Think smart.

Breg is more of a nuisance. He doesn't really know what to do with himself and he's also curious enough to just stare witlessly without really understanding his presence is unrequited. He's not good at keeping quiet for the sake of your conversation/work, and oftentimes a loud "Ha ha sorry-" can be heard, likely from the kitchen. Depending on how much time you spend bent over your responsibilities, the breeder may be heard unceremoniously jerking it somewhere.

[donnerpartyofone]

nothing to see here

I have to get over this crippling fear of being misunderstood that makes me angry, paranoid, anti-social, and sometimes even aggressive. It makes me say too much or too little. It makes me a worse writer.

I think that when most people complain about being misunderstood, they are talking about having a bad reputation, being slandered, or having no one who takes the time to get to know them. The latter thing correlates with a false equivalence between being understood and being liked, which is not a necessary product of understanding. Sometimes people also equate being understood with being correct--forgetting that someone can understand what you are saying and still disagree with it. Variations on all of those things have happened to me, just like anybody else, but my anxiety is really about people simply not comprehending the basic things that I am actually saying.

People in my life tell me that I'm very articulate, this is held to be my main quality I think, but that idea is contradicted by the frequency with which I go to great pains to explain something as specifically as possible, only to have people (often the same people who tell me I'm smart and well-spoken) completely misconstrue it, project their own baggage onto it, hold me responsible for assumptions about what I mean that are contradicted by what I just said, repeat back to me what I just said as if it were their own original idea, or even answer questions that I didn't actually ask. Mansplaining is alive and well in 2024 CE, perhaps especially among leftist men who believe they could never personally commit this crime, which presumption leaves them wide open to mansplaining all the time without thinking. But that's only a small part of the story of why so many people never seem to have the slightest idea of what I am saying to them, no matter how specific and detailed I try to be in my quest to say one thing clearly, while eliminating all over possible meanings.

I suppose it is terrifying to be misunderstood because it can make it so that you cannot control your circumstances. Advocating for yourself counts for nothing if people witlessly or willfully fail to understand your words. Language control is a major weapon of authority. I have been in corporate situations where my colleagues and I were prevented from resolving problems because upper management, who were tired of hearing about the problems, instituted language bans that prevented us from even discussing the problems clearly and effectively. I was once at an ayahuasca retreat (don't ask) where the shady organizers banned everyone from using the word "sick", which I guess was contrary to their whole healing ideology; so if you had to "get well" then you would "get well" into your bucket and an attendant would empty the bucket into the "wellness pit". One of the people I was with had grown up in an evangelical environment and went on to study religions and cults, and he pointed out that this form of language control is a classic red flag--and in particular if you are taking away a person's ability to make a critical distinction like the one between sickness and health, that can indicate a pretty dangerous situation. For another, even more obvious example, if you're in a relationship where someone is creating ambiguity around words like "yes" and "no", and inventing all kinds of subtext and context for your words, you're in trouble.

Of course, misunderstanding happens for all kinds of innocent reasons too. People don't listen that well, they don't read that well, they are just waiting for their turn to talk, they're angry and they don't think about what they're really hearing or saying, they are full of subconscious projections, they assume they know what you're talking about without reviewing your whole statement and then they just make their usual foregone conclusions. They have some narrative in mind, often a more optimistic one than whatever you are struggling to describe, and they'll contradict you with this attitude like they're doing you a big favor (like they're not kind of calling you a liar). It's incredibly frightening to be misunderstood. It's like one of those nightmares where you're running away in slow motion, or more aptly you try to scream but nothing comes out. I'm 100% sure this is why I'm so obsessed with language: I think that if I can just figure out how to say things that are always understood, then I will be able to save myself from danger.

But this fear makes me take things seriously when I shouldn't. The internet can help you find your people and it can show and teach you things you didn't know about before, but every time you say anything online, to friends or strangers, you create limitless opportunities to be misunderstood in ways that you have never dreamed possible. It is so hard for me not to correct people. I KNOW that it is not important for internet randos to understand me. I also KNOW that most people still won't understand me even if I correct them. But it is SO HARD not to say "That's not what I said" or "That's exactly what I already said" or "You're making an assumption that isn't based on anything and is also not true" or "I didn't ask" or "That's not even what I was talking about." I KNOW it doesn't matter, and that if I dig in with someone, I am likely to become MORE FRUSTRATED. But when I don't correct the person, this DANGER light goes on in my brain and all day long I have this anxious feeling like I forgot to do something important, like I left the oven on or something, and I had better go back and fix the problem OR ELSE. It's easy to decide intellectually that not everyone's opinions and perceptions matter, and it is obvious that misunderstanding is a common problem that you can never eliminate completely, so the only thing to do is ignore the situation and keep living your life. But if only ignoring the situation were not so emotionally loaded, it would be a lot easier to steer clear of making bad situations worse.

Another option is to just stop saying things altogether, and this is actually an appealing possibility. Unfortunately it comes with just as much emotional difficulty as the fruitless struggle to make oneself understood.

[katabay]

Have you read The H Word: Bringing the Horror Home, by Dale Bailey? It's a little post on the internet that I like to chew on a lot

it didn't sound familiar, so I looked it up, but I think I have! I might have read it back when I was deep DEEP into a haunted house fixation (prompted by Jacob Geller's Control, Anatomy, and the Legacy of the Haunted House video essay, which plays in my head rent free)

The H Word: Bringing the Horror Home, by Dale Bailey

and to follow that up, may I in return offer my favorite excerpt from Kitty Horroshow's Anatomy (which is about. a fucked up house)

There is an important distinction that must be drawn between the words dissection and vivisection. A distinction that would appear to be lost on you. Your purpose was to listen and yet at every turn you have pried, you have prodded and you have interfered. Have you not been paying attention? Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harass. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on a sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this. When a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth.

[vanderilnde]

what circumstances would have to happen for butcher!simon and trouble to hook up finally?

i hate to say it but i haven’t given this much substantial thought yet. all i know is i want them to fuck nasty LMAO

Simon probably hears Trouble getting fucked next door and listens in w his cock in his fist :// the next day, he’ll corner her in the lift and witlessly as if he made her come… keep in mind that he’s socially inept and has his whole disposition reminiscent of some eldritch horror character, so he’ll ask it all lowly and fragrantly, huffing like a bull. doesn’t matter if she did orgasm or not. Simon’s saying that she shouldnt let random men into her flat, dont you know how dangerous they are (he has zero self-awareness)!! that she shouldn’t have to abase herself to such low levels for mediocre sex. he beseeches (harshly tugs) her into his flat when he sees her reservations cracking………… then he fucks her five ways backwards 😞😞

[writerswhy]

This whole week I’ve been trying to write up a post to push my “soul society is a haunted house” agenda and unfortunately, I’ve fallen down a philosophy rabbit hole (and I don’t even like philosophy like that), but it all started with this post:

Since then I’ve asked myself:

What did I mean by “…all ghosts in SS have some amount of spiritual power (+ memory), and that the one-of few-but-most-pervasive pipeline from ghost to soul is through the propagandist nature of the Seireitei. By buying into/exposure of/being taught the self-mythos of shinigami that results in the othering and subsequent neglect/oppression of ghosts.”

And what does #1 have to do with “…Rukongai ghosts [echoing] some vestigial humanness in the land of the dead.” Aren’t shinigami closer to a living soul than a Rukongai ghost? (That’s what the Seireitei says.)

This was supposed to be a pretty straightforward post where I reference the video game Anatomy, specifically this bit from the opening monologue: 

“In the psychology of the modern civilized human being, it is difficult to overstate the significance of the house. Since as early as the Neolithic era, humankind has defined itself by its buildings.”

And from The Haunting of Hill House: 

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality. Even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. ”

The conclusion being: Soul Society is a haunted house. 

Simple. Yet…I feel like it’s missing something. A lot of the haunting in Bleach is sociopolitical and existential given the nature of souls and the power of will that’s intrinsic to Bleach. I’ve branched off and started reading papers on architecture and the soul/heart, time and the nature of memories - basically I’ve spun out of control when all I really wanted to do was circle back to point #2.

All I really want to do is circle back to this: “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.”

Because like, ostensibly we know how ghosts “live” in Soul Society. But here’s the catch, Soul Society is not meant to be a home. It’s a transient plane, a nonplace (coined by Marc Augé). When a ghost arrives they are given a number and sent to live in one of its many resource poor districts. They cannot reunite with family. They do not need to eat. They don’t even need their memories.

Here, the house rejects humanity. It sounds haunting, living under this absolute reality. But was it always like this?

Perhaps the butchering of the Soul King unleashed a blood curse so catastrophic it made Soul Society the gravity well it is today (the Soul King is the haunted house; they’re living in his body).

What if the first ghosts to arrive were masses of tissue. Through sheer will and spiritual power (“Being does not see itself. Perhaps it listens to itself.”) these ghosts start shaping their body. Like a phantom pain, their memories echo an arm here or a leg there. Some remember the beating of a heart. Others a pair of eyes. The evolution varies, from faceless ghosts like in The Haunting of Bly Manor to humanoid creatures like the Pale Man from Pan’s Labyrinth.

They could even end up as a hollow, an organism gone insane under the absolute reality of living in a dead body (it’s not the house that’s haunted, some are just predisposed to hollowfication.)

In a bid to restore and maintain balance, the Seireitei was established. And the ghosts they preferred? Ghosts that continuously referenced themselves to the point of creation, recursion in a house that rejects humanity.

They are no longer ghosts. They’re different. Their souls are different. They’re shinigami. That’s what the Seireitei says.

(And now they’re the ones doing the haunting.)

————

“Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harass. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on a sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this. When a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth.”

[bittersweetarts]

Little Lamb - Aemond Targaryen x Reader (Chapter 10)

Aemond Targaryen x You –  Chapter 1

Word count: 3933 words

Summary: As a maiden of a noble house, it is your duty to wed well. But how will you manage to, with a curious and possessive Prince in the picture?

WARNINGS: Violence, misogyny, dub-con (kind of)

Spotify Playlist – AO3 Page

Chapter 10: Solemn Oaths

Riding on Vaghar was not as terrifying as you had anticipated. Perhaps you felt devoid of emotions and tired, but when Prince Aemond rustled you out of your sleep, and you saw the dragon a distance away, you were not actually afraid, which surprised the both of you.

“So that is Vaghar.” You say calmly, watching the she-dragon as she faced the two of you. You did not know how to read her expressions, as this was the first time you have ever seen a dragon up close, but by her lack of noise, you assume that she too was calm enough and would not eat you alive. The she-dragon was massive, bigger than you could have even imagined, and though calm, she still had a threatening aura.

As you watched Vaghar, Aemond watched you. The blonde had set you to your legs, knowing that Vaghar would not respect any sign of weakness. As you stood before her, you attempted to assure yourself that all would be fine, and that Aemond would not let anything bad happen to you.

The Prince’s relationship with his dragon has been turbulent. When he was young and had become her dragonrider, he felt as though he were a God, one that all should fear. Only through tragedy did he learn that Targaryens did not actually control dragons, rather that it was merely an illusion. Thus, he was cautious in not forcing you to meet Vaghar until you were ready.

“Yes, that is Vaghar.”

As he spoke, Vaghar took a massive leap towards the two of you, and up close, you felt more threatened. Immediately, Aemond place himself before you, his arm raised before him.

“Vēdros daor, ñuhys raqiros.”

Immediately, Vaghar kneeled enthusiastically, as though she knew that she was about to fly. You had no idea what Aemond’s words meant, but you knew that it was Valyrian. Sometimes at night, the Prince would mutter incoherent sentences and only now do you realise that it was only incoherent to you, as it was likely spoken in the ancient tongue.

“Come.” Aemond pulled on your forearm, but you remained in place. You felt almost silly; you were not completely terrified of Vaghar, but you were terrified of dying, which is what you believed would happen if you followed the one-eyed Prince.

Aemond speaks your name softly. “Come.”

You shake your head in a response, shutting your eyes in unease. Sighing, Aemond turned to face you and softly kneading the back of his hand against your cheek.

“Tell me your worries.”

You contemplate just ignoring him and running back to Thunder Fort, but decide against it, as you believed that Vaghar would chase after you as if you were a prey. Biting your lip, you answer the Prince.

“I am going to die before we make it to King’s Landing, aren’t I?” You say witlessly. This only causes Aemond to chuckle. Opening your eyes, you see Aemond looking at you endearingly.

“You are not going to die.” He responds, holding back a grin.

“How would you know? Have you ever ridden with someone else on Vaghar before?” You say accusingly, not liking his dismissing attitude.

“Once.” The one-eyed Prince responds ominously, before urging you to go with him.

You think about pressing on the matter but decide against it. Mayhap it is not smart to irritate a dragonrider when his frighteningly massive war dragon is right in front of you. Sighing, you let him pull you towards Vaghar, and your heart races like it never has in your life before.

Getting on Vaghar and the journey to King’s Lading might as well have never happened, because your memory of it is practically ceased to exist. As Aemond helped you onto Vaghar and buckled you in, you felt as though you were not actually in your body, but rather a spectator. It felt as though your spirit vacated your body, and all that was left was an emotionless bag of blood and bones.

Being so high above the ground felt surreal, the air tighter and colder than you could have ever imagined (the idea of this did not even occur to you). You do not know how long you flew for, or what Aemond was thinking, as he sat before you with his back to you, your hands securely clasped around his waist. Throughout the ride, you lean against him for emotional support and focused your sight on the sky, which was like an everchanging painting. At first, the clouds were heavy and the sky dim, but the landscape got brighter and clearer the closer the three of you reached for the capitol. You tried to see how long you could stare at the sun, but it was too blinding to be for long. Soon, the sky started bleeding, with pink and red hues plaguing the sky, and you found yourself beginning to enjoy the flight.

Occasionally you heard speak to Vaghar, in what you presumed was Valyrian, given that you did not understand it. Aemond did also try to speak to you though at times, when the air around you was more calm and your heart steadied.

“What did your sister say to you?”

You ignored him though, and feigned sleep, shutting your eyes whilst leaning more into him, and you could feel a disappointed sigh release from him.

When you returned to King’s Landing and the Red Keep, it was as though you never left.

Your days continued as they had before, with you fulfilling your duties to the Targaryen Family, and as did your nights, with Prince Aemond still visiting at late hours for some conversation and sleep. You also did not fail to notice how your visit back home was rarely mentioned in conversation, at least with you. Then again, who did you talk to other than the Targaryens. You had no other friends at the Keep, although Lord Larys Strong does continue trying to be, finding opportunities every day to grace his unwelcome presence and offer of friendship to you.

Aemond opted to ignore your shared journey to the stormlands, instead choosing to discuss his new favourite subject of conversation: your wedding.

He insists upon a grand affair, which you opposed, for you see no point in having a big celebration if your loved ones were not there to celebrate it with you. The very notion of being wed to a Targaryen Prince felt very surreal to you, and you felt detached, opining little with regards to the celebration. If Aemond discerned your hollow attitude, he did not show it.

“We will start preparations for our wedding immediately after Jaehaerys’s oath ceremony.”

Following Jaehaerys and Jaehaera’s tenth nameday many moons ago, King Aegon’s small council thought it prudent that the Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms swear fealty to the King’s heir, Prince Jaehaerys, promising to honour and defend his rights of succession. Especially considering that following the war, many houses had new heads. Many of these heads were also now women, as many widows had been left to lead. This oath ceremony had been fast approaching, and though you were not involved in its arrangements, you knew that your Aemond was, which is why the two of you could not be wed yet.

Aemond’s brother, Prince Daeron was away at Oldtown (you assumed that this had something to do with the oath ceremony), so you had yet to speak to him, meanwhile the Queen Alicent would skirt around you, hardly saying a word relating to your arrangement with her son, nor anything about your trip, except for when the two of you had arrived.

Upon your return from Storm’s End with the one-eyed Prince, the two of you were immediately escorted you to the small council chambers, where along with Queen Alicent and the small council, you silently waited for the arrival of King Aegon. It was well past dinner, and the King had retired to his chambers; naturally, he was the last one to arrive, and the council chamber was tensely quiet before he did.

As you stood at one end of the table, with Aemond’s arm firmly fixed around your waist, you avoided the stares of everyone present, which included Lord Wylde, who you were sure would not celebrate your union. Judging by the lack of surprise by how inappropriately close you and Prince stood together, you also understood that your situation with Aemond was not as concealed as you once thought, and that you had only deluded yourself into believing so. Evidently, your indiscretions were simply ignored, and you had no doubt that it was due to the fear that the Kinslayer garners.

Only after King Aegon entered the council chambers did the silence finally break, with him directly addressing you, for the first time ever since you stepped foot into King’s Landing. The sickly-looking King, his untidy hair and still dressed in his evening robes, sang your name before speaking.

“It is a shame that the lord’s right to the first night is no longer customary.”

As the King spoke, you see him glance over you from the other end of the long table, where he sat, as though you were meat at a butcher’s shop. You also feel Aemond’s fingers dig into your side, which makes you slightly wince. In the year that you have spent at the Keep with the Targaryens, you have understood Aegon to be a rash King, one that acts at the whim of his impulses, unlike his younger brother, who is calculating and cunning.

“Brother, what amusement is there with the abolished entitlements of lords when you are King.”

An underlying menacing tone echoes through the one-eyed Prince’s response, and some resentment you realise. Feeling mortified, you avoid Aegon’s stare, and look at the Queen Mother instead, who has a sympathetic expression on her face. You do not know what to expect, and slightly lean into Aemond, as though it would protect you, and as your nerves overcome you, you slowly begin picking on your fingers.

“Hmm… you are not wrong, little brother. And I welcome your Lady as though she were my own sister.” You have no doubt that the double meaning was not missed by anyone, and you feel your stomach turn. No one comments on this though, and you can feel Aemond’s barely restrained anger seethe from him. The King pauses to yawn before continuing.

“I do not believe a meeting so late in the evening is necessary. Our Prince Aemond wishes to marry? Let him. I do not have any desire for him to be a Kingslayer as well. He can marry a harlot for all I care. If anyone has any objections, voice them now. Otherwise, I bid you all a good night.” The King stood in his place for a few moments, looking over everyone, before impatiently finishing.

“Lovely– the matter is settled then.”

As the King quickly slipped away, others in the room followed. Some congratulated the Prince and you, meanwhile Queen Alicent and Lord Strong lingered behind. The Mother Queen smiled at the two of you, grasping hold of your hand and pulling you away from Aemond, welcoming you, which made you feel relieved, as you anticipated much worse. This relief was brief though, as Lord Larys begins a quiet conversation with you as Prince Aemond talks with his mother.

“Best wishes on your union, my Lady.” The gaunt man slightly lowered his head, and you thanked him, forcing a smile.

“If I may impart some counsel, as a friend.” You look at him, pressing your lips together, and nod, for what harm can words do. At this, master of whisperers smiled and spoke lowly.

“Though wolves are trustworthy, they are not a threat to dragons. I would be wary with who I trust.”

His advice shocks you, and you are reminded of your sister Lauryn’s parting words. How could Lord Larys know anything about it? You unconsciously look at Aemond in poorly concealed despair, only to see him staring at the two of you with hard eyes.

Queen Helaena remained her usual self, talking about things which you had little understanding of, relating to the spiders and winter. Like her siblings and mother though, she spoke no word about your trip, but shared her excitement about your union to her brother.

“I always wished for a sister when I was little.” This made you smile warmly, and you impulsively embraced the young Queen in affection (thankfully, she returned it, albeit a little apprehensively).

It was mostly the children who curiously asked about your time away, and the place you grew up.

Maelor wanted to know about the skies in the stormlands, and whether the weather would make it difficult to ride a dragon there; Maelor’s dragon egg had recently, which excited the young boy, who aspired to be a great dragonrider like his uncles. Jaehaerys, the eldest, on the other hand, would cautiously ask vague questions relating to the journey, rather than your time there. Through him you understood that someone has probably instructed people at court to not speak word about your visit, but as it is in a child’s nature to be curious, the three young Targaryens did not listen. Jaehaera on the other hand, inquisitively asked about your family and life, with many detailed and intrusive questions relating to your childhood, and failed to hide her jealousy when you spoke of your youngest sisters and how pleased you were to see them after missing them for so long. It took a lot of assurance and promise of cake to lift her spirits again.

And so, the weeks passed and the Keep steadily came alive again. Modest parties of lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms arrived at King’s Landing, and soon there was no room at the Keep. As a Lady-in-Waiting, you found yourself more oft than not greeting these noble people with the Targaryen family, many of whom you realised were quite young (unsurprising given that their predecessors most likely perished during the war).

The first you greeted was the young Lord Kermit Tully, who arrived with his girl bride Myrielle Peake, along with her father, Lord Unwin Peake, the Head of House Peake, the oldest of whom constantly appeared unimpressed by everything. Following them though, you lost count and found yourself during the evenings sequestered in your chambers, noting down on parchment the people you met, using an extensive genealogy book you borrowed from the Keep’s library to aid your efforts.

You would have no need for it if Aemond had been there, but the both of you knew that it would be unwise for him to spend nights with you with so many guests at the Keep, much to the Prince’s displeasure, who tried to convince you to stay with him at his chambers.

“Let them talk behind closed doors. What does it matter to us?”

“It should. We cannot give them any reason to not pledge loyalty to Jaehaerys.” Sighing, the Prince conceded, and now, the two of you spent less time together, and almost always with his family. The one-eyed Prince still would find opportunities to touch and hold you though, with a hand on your upper back when walking together, and a discrete hand on your thigh during dinners. He relished in your surprised reaction, which you always failed to hide, and others noticed how a side smile frequently plastered on his face when he was with you.

Following the ceremony, an immodest celebratory feast was to be held in honour of the new pledges, and this demanded the prolonged stay of the guests that arrived earlier.

It took some days before all of the invited guests had gathered, and you had been tasked with keeping the Ladies present entertained. This proved to not be a difficult matter, for all you had to do was arrange for food and drinks to be ever flowing at the Royal Gardens, and bards to be always present, composing personalised ballads for the noblewomen. The Queens nor the children were present for these gatherings, but thankfully, bonding with these women was not as difficult as you had initially anticipated.

Many of the Ladies were the wives or the Heads of their respective Houses, such as the widowed Lady Johanna Lannister, who you found intimidating at first. However, thw two of you soon had lively conversation; her dry sense of humour made you laugh, and she was a formidable woman that you came to respect. Nevertheless, she scared you, as the tales of her brutality, such as her gelding of Rodrik Greyjoy, a salt son from the Iron Islands, further making him her youngest son's fool. This was a story well known throughout the lands, and you still maintained cautiousness around her, as well as the other women present, as these were women capable of horrifying deeds.

It is important to mention that you only entertained the company of noblewomen (as well as some children who had journeyed with their mothers to visit the capitol), which is why it was surprising that during one of these afternoon, alone into the Gardens, came striding a towering and well-built, dark-haired man, dressed in attire uncharacteristic of capitol fashions.

As he did, you see many of the women present slightly back and gasp. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you realised that he was approaching towards where you were, under shade with a Lady from a minor House in the Riverlands. As he came closer, with a hand upon his sheaved sword, the burly man called upon you while lowering his head. As he did, his deep voice echoed, and the Lady you were conversing with subtly cowered behind you.

“Forgive me, my Lady, for disrupting your peace.”

You cock your head in response and smile, remembering to remain courteous despite his daunting presence. You could show no weakness, as some of the women around you would remember it and could use it against you in the future.

“There is nothing to forgive, Lord …” You trail off, waiting for the nobleman to introduce himself. Much taller than you (and even Aemond), you find yourself looking up at him.

“Lord Cregan Stark, my Lady.”

As he speaks, his stare is direct and demanding, and you feel yourself unable to pull away. Unlike his demeanour, his dark eyes are warm and full of life. Smiling, you bow, recognising the Lord of Winterfell by name alone, of course. As you do, the Stark stops you.

“Please, there is no need for such formalities. Your kin is my kin after all.”

Lauryn. It makes sense now, why the mighty Lord was here, seeking you out, a woman of no consequence. In fact, you feel a little silly now, having not recognized him immediately, for his physical similarity to his cousin, Brandon Stark, was striking.

“I am not good with words, but if your Lady does not oppose, may I have a moment of your time.”

As he speaks, your eyes stray to the women around you, who you see are attentively listening. While it would be inappropriate for Lord Stark to be alone with you, you know that it would be disreputable for you to reject him, and perhaps even scandalous. Your mind strays to the thought of what happened to the last time you had spent time alone with a man other than the Prince, but you decide that the huge Northman before you would not be in similar peril.

Smiling, you nod and offer your arm for him to take. As he does, you lead him towards the grand tree, a distance away from the rest of the women, but still in their field of view. As you walk away, you begin conversing the towering man.

“My dear sister Lauryn speaks highly of the North and Winterfell. She loves it there. Thank you for welcoming her so warmly into your home.” You say, smiling as you.

Actually, Lauryn had said no such things, for you have barely spoken to her, nor have you even any idea of what the North is like, but it seemed appropriate. You were also trying to shift the frown off the Lord’s face, but failed, as he stared ahead apathetically.

“There is no need for thanks. The North is harsh, but we take care of our own at Winterfell.”

“I thank you, nevertheless.” Winterfell was where your sister wed her husband, the cousin of Lord Cregan Stark. Life at the North was difficult, so much so that at their wedding, only your mother and brother were present, as no more mouths could be fed. You were no fool regarding the sacrifice it took to look after women and children in Winterfell, and Lauryn was well looked after.

“How may I help you, my Lord?”

As you ask, the two of you reach the grand tree, and you face Lord Cregan. The man had a rough look to him, with unruly hair, thick facial hair and a well-built figure which only strengthened his baleful demeanour. You could understand the fears and intrigue of the others ladies present, as they observed you from a distance, as though you were animals at a menagerie. Lord Cregan was ruggedly handsome, and you had no doubt that some of the women here wished to secure an alliance with the man. If memory served you well, his wife had died a few years ago, and he had yet to remarry.

Following your gaze, the Stark Lord turned around. As he did, all of the ladies turned away, feigning disinterest, and this served only to irritate the Northman.

“Words and women. Those are the two things I have never excelled at.” The grisly Lord proclaimed, turning back to face you, speaking in a lower tone, his voice tensely coarse.

“I do not understand the matters of woman, nor how to ask about them, so I shall ask you directly. Are you being forced by the Kinslayer?” Your eyes widen with shock as he speaks, taken aback by his candour, and it takes a few moments for you to muster a dim response.

“What?”

Sighing, the Lord relaxed his shoulders and repeated himself.

“Has the Kinslayer been dishonourable with you? You are a noble Lady of a house which House Stark considers an ally, and the Prince and his family come from a line of oathbreakers. You can be honest, for you are nothing but a victim here.” As he finishes speaking, you feel your confusion shift into anger. Crossing your arms, you tilt your chin up, directing yourself at him with conviction.

“You really must not understand the matters of women, my Lord, nor have a way with words, for I take offence to being called a victim." You huff out, vexed by the notion of being perceived as naive little girl destined to a fatal end. Staring back at the burly man defiantly, you continue. As you do, the Northman stares at you flabbergasted. Your reaction was not one that he had anticipated, for he did not judge you to be of a headstrong nature, and in addition to shock, his interest has been spurred.

“I do not need any man to rescue me from my circumstance, nor will I ever ask anything of a man. If I ever do face trouble, I am more than capable of saving myself.” Huffing out, you uncross your arms, positioning them to your side, unconsciously clenching your fists. “I thank you for all that your House has done for my sister. Please excuse me, I must return to my duties.”

Curtsying slightly, you leave furious, not waiting to hear back from the Stark Lord. As you face and approach the noblewomen again, you see many staring at you in shock and horror, and you contemplate whether you have acted rash and foolishly. Taking a deep breath, you smile at the women staring at you, and storm back into the Keep.

Author’s Note: Translation for “Vēdros daor, ñuhys raqiros.” is “Don’t be angry, my friend.”

I know that the twins are supposed to be eight years old at 131 AC, but I felt like they needed to be a little older, particularly because if I were a Lord, I would not be pledging unreserved loyalty to an overgrown toddler. In my defense though, this story obviously is not canon whatsoever. Also, I am so excited to finally write about my fav himbo, Creg Stark <3

Hope you are having a lovely day!

– Chapter 11

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[idontwikeit]

@iwtvfanevents prompt: Haunted houses

(Flash and epilepsy warning)

There is an important distinction that must be drawn between the words dissection and vivisection, a distinction that would appear to be lost on you. Your purpose was to listen and yet at every turn you have pried, you have prodded and you have interfered. Have you not been paying attention? Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harass. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on a sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this. When a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth. (Anatomy, Kitty Horrorshow, 2016)

[Youtube]

Part 2

[haggishlyhagging]

In the following pages I will analyze a number of barbarous rituals, ancient and modern, in order to unmask the very real, existential meaning of Goddess murder in the concrete lives of women. I will focus upon five specific righteous rites which massacre women: Indian suttee, Chinese footbinding, African female genital mutilation, European witchburning, American gynecology. In examining these, I will seek out basic patterns which they have in common, and which comprise the Sado-Ritual Syndrome. Those who claim to see racism and/or imperialism in my indictment of these atrocities can do so only by blinding themselves to the fact that the oppression of women knows no ethnic, national, or religious bounds. There are variations on the theme of oppression, but the phenomenon is planetary.

My analysis of sado-rituals will include an unmasking of deceptive legitimations by scholars and "authorities." The scholars of patriarchy, despite protestations to the contrary, embrace and perpetuate the same Higher Order as the ritual performers/ destroyers they are studying. Although they rarely publicly admit to this basic fraternity, it is evident in their own words. Understanding this aspect of the Sado-Ritual Syndrome is essential to understanding the universal sameness of phallo-cratic morality. The fact that patriarchal scholarship is an extension and continuation of sado-ritual is manifested—often unwittingly and witlessly—by its language. This language betrays, or rather, loyally and faithfully displays, the fact that the "authorities" are apologists for atrocities. It is an essential task of feminist metaethics to examine and analyze this language, untangling the snarls of sentence structure, unveiling deceptive words, exposing the bag of semantic tricks intended to entrap women.

-Mary Daly, Gyn/Ecology