alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
The air in the private academy’s library tasted of old paper, expensive leather, and the suffocating arrogance of generational wealth.
To Rican, the world had never been a complex web of human emotion or shared struggle. It was a ladder where everything and everyone was either beneath his feet or hoisted above his head.
He, naturally, existed on the highest of the high.
Born with what he fondly referred to as the holy trinity of existence—attractiveness, charisma that border-lined on hypnotic, and an amount of money that could buy a small nation—he had never once encountered the concept of difficulty.
The word "struggle" was a foreign sequence of vowels that simply did not apply to his universe.
And it definitely didn't apply for school either, not when it was like his personal playground.
His father had personally financed entire sports complexes and academic clubs just to ensure Rican’s boredom was kept at bay.
Life was flawless, a golden path laid out before him, except for one tiny thing.
Romantic interest.
Women flung themselves at his feet daily, but a quick, meaningless hookup was all he could muster.
And of course Rican took it upon himself to make it a mission to find someone who could be more than a hookup. (someone who could MAYBE give him a high-five trust)
His first attempt at finding love had been an utter disaster. It ending within thirty seconds when the girl’s voice proved to be a fraction too shrill for his ears, causing him to walk away mid-sentence without a backward glance.
The second target had shown promise until he cast his eyes downward and noticed the scuffed, criminanal sight of her off-brand loafers.
The mere sight of such poverty had induced a physical wave of nausea, forcing him to cross her off his list immediately.
But of course Rican was nothing if not persistent. Third time's the charm, right?
That was when his gaze had drifted to the back of your head.
You were cute, undeniable, but Rican didn't just want a doll—he wanted a prize that felt worthy of his high status.
To test the waters, he had casually slipped a crisp bill into the teacher's palm, ensuring that the seating chart for the semester's most intensive research project was altered.
The investment paid off instantly. Over the first few days, he discovered you were genuinely funny, easy to talk to, and possessed a face that perfectly aligned with his exact aesthetic preferences.
You, however, viewed the entire arrangement through a lens of profound skepticism.
You weren't naive. You knew how wealthy boys functioned.
So of course, you expected him to be arrogant, you expected him to be detached, and you fully expected him to eventually try and pawn all the project's actual research off on you.
What you did not expect, under any circumstances, was the warp-speed at which his brain apparently operated.
By the third day of the project, the casual banter had completely vanished, replaced by an intense, suffocating focus that made your skin prickle.
He could scoot closer to you, and stare at you even when you weren't speaking. It was becoming to the point where you were more shocked if he wasn't staring into your soul.
It was all little things just added up to eachother, like him cleaning the eraser dust off your lap faster than you could or him paying for your bus ride home and even more money so you could buy some food. (You never mentioned how you take the bus)
Then came the fourth day, and with it, the absolute pinnacle of his delusion.
He slid a gourmet bento box across the table toward you—a daily ritual he had aggressively started since the first day of pairing up—before leaning forward on his elbows.
His face was a picture of serene, absolute certainty as he uttered the words that made your entire brain grind to a screeching halt.
"How much for you to date me?"
You immediately froze.
"What?"
You weren't opposed to the concept of financial security, and like anyone else, you enjoyed the idea of having money. But just the sheer audacity of someone trying to buy you like a piece of livestock was completely uncalled for.
He didn't even look ashamed. He just sat there in his expensive chair, a massive, triumphant grin spreading across his face as if he had just offered you the deal of a lifetime, entirely blind to the look of sheer confusion freezing your features.
"Yes, like to have you," Rican clarified effortlessly, his voice dripping with a casual nonchalance that only made the situation a hundred times worse.
He leaned in a bit closer, his eyes bright with a terrifyingly possessive spark. "Preferably forever, and chained wrist to wrist to me."
"What the hell are you talking about?" You looked around frantically, half-expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out from behind the fiction section, but there was nobody—just Rican and his completely unhinged, romantic delusions.
His smile only widened at your reaction, his head tilting to the side as he analyzed your expression with a creepy, clinical fascination.
"Your eyes look pretty, they're big right now," he mused, his voice dropping to a soft, delighted purr. "Is it because you're scared, or maybe excited? I really hope it's the second option."
"Rican, we've literally only known each other for like four days!" you hissed, leaning across the table to whisper-yell, desperately trying to keep your voice down so the librarian wouldn't wander over.
"What are you talking about? Dating? Where did that even come from?" You were genuinely baffled by the absolute lack of self-awareness.
How did rich people navigate the world so completely blind to the discomfort of others? How could he look at your pale, horrified face and see a green light for marriage proposals?
"Yeah, dating then marriage," he replied instantly, nodding his head as if he were explaining a very simple, chronological timeline to a child.
"Or we could just go straight to marriage and babies. But my tutor said it's more normal to become boyfriend and girlfriend first, so I'm trying to do it the traditional way."
You just stared at him. The sheer gravity of his insanity left you entirely speechless.
"I'll give you a weekly salary," he blurted out, misinterpreting your stunned silence as dissatisfaction with the terms.
You stared even more, your mouth slightly open, completely incapable of processing the words coming out of his mouth.
"Daily! Daily, instead?" he corrected frantically, his composure fracturing just a fraction as he leaned further over the table, his hands gripping the wood, desperate to seal the deal.
Your continued silence seemed to throw him into a spiral of panic, his mind incapable of understanding why a human being wouldn't immediately capitulate to the power of his wallet.
"Hourly?" he offered, his breath hitching.
"Every minute?" Rican pleaded, his voice dropping to a desperate, pathetic whine as he reached out, his fingers twitching with the urge to grab your hands.
"Please, I just need you."
eisnewisnshe any new requests yall omg this has been laying in my drafts for like more than 5 months
and also guys I'm kinda in writer's block idk so I'm sorry if this is bad !! I tried my best and hopefully next post is better !! <33
𐙚 plug!choso x fem!reader | divider by @/cursed-carmine | mdni | m.list | art by @/_7undeed on twt
𐙚 “The fuck is your problem?!” “YOU’RE my problem!”After not seeing your plug Choso for a week, you give him attitude that he has no problem fixing for you.
It wasn’t often that you argued with 𐙚 plug!Choso. In fact, you didn’t really argue at all. So when you came over as you usually did, you were quiet while he fixed the blunt up in the pretty pink papers he gets just for you.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, how’s school?” He coughs, eyes flickering up to your face just to see you not even looking at him. Instead you were tracing circles on your thighs. He watched you shrug, which takes him back- the fuck?
“It’s been alright. The usual.”
Even your tone was off. Choso makes a face but he stares back down at the tray. Pink, hello kitty themed. The grinder he used was one he ordered just for you, pink and also hello kitty themed. Hell- he had a whole fucking set just for you when you came to smoke with him. Everytime was fine except now.
“…Alright cool.” He murmurs, “How many you wanna smoke today?”
“None. I want my stuff to go.” Your arms folded over your chest. Choso’s tongue licks alongside the paper before rolling, and he laughs. You look over at him- finally look at him. The whole set up pink, contrasting with his grunge-like attire.“What’s funny?”
“You’re funny.” He sets the tray down, inspecting the pink joint before grabbing his lighter and lighting the end. You watch as he his tips back, arm outstretched on the back of the couch as his body relaxes into the furniture. The end of the blunt entering his pierced lips before he inhales deeply, blowing the smoke out. “…I’m not doing that.” He leans back up, eyes dead locked on yours.
He watches the watch your brow twitches with that cute pout on your lips. “Cho, I’m serious.”
“So am I, princess.”
“I want my shit to go.”
“Now she’s cursing at me.” His eyes widen, smile on his face growing. Usually you bossed Choso around, he liked it, but he could tell something was bothering you and that this wasn’t an act. “Seriously, what’s wrong?” You smack your lips before rolling your eyes and getting up.
“If you’re not gonna do your job then I’ll go see what Sukuna’s sellin-“
I’m sorry? He pauses, the smile fading from his face.
“…Sit down, princess.” It wasn’t often Choso talked to you like that either. He spoiled you too much. He was always soft and gentle with you, hurting you was something he never wanted to do. His deep voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you froze for a second before huffing and turning away from him.
Choso took another drag of the blunt, “Not gonna tell you again.”
“Then don’t.” And you had a smart ass mouth. “Stop acting like you give a fuck.”
“The fuck is your problem?!” Choso shouts. You flinch for a second before giving him the middle finger. He’s never raised his voice at you…well, in a serious manner, only at others who really, really got on his nerves. You’ve seen every side of Choso and how he was with others, not you.
But Choso knew you well, and he knows that you don’t like being yelled at. “You’re my problem!” You grab your bag, shuffling to put on your shoes.
“Princess-“
“Shut up Choso!” You bolt for the door, slamming it shut as you left. Choso stares at it for just a second in disbelief, playing the words back in his mind before he followed you out. You haven’t even left from in front of his door before he’s grabbing you by the waist and pulling you back in (and locking it).
He presses you up against the door, bros furrowed as he stared at you- down at you. “You wanna repeat what you said?” He questions. His breath fanned over your face. His face slightly red, you could hear the panic in his heart beat. He held your hands firmly but not tightly. You could definitely break free from his grasp. If you wanted to that is.
You could also tell that he was worked up by the way he panted. “Repeat what you said to me.” A demand this time.
“…Shut u-“
“Before that.”
“I…I’m gonna go see what Sukuna’s selling.” You swallow back a whimper. You watch as his lips twitch before he lets out a breath. He looks away for a second, in disbelief. Why would you, of all people on campus? Of anyone even remotely close in what Choso sold- fucking Ryomen Sukuna?
“Yeah?” The tone in his voice made your heart thump against your chest. You hadn’t heard it in a while. Choso’s face gets closer to yours, down by your neck. You didn’t even realize how hard you were breathing, his voice deep in your ear, “You gonna go fuck him too?”
“No-“
“That what you did while I was gone? Is that why you’re acting like a damn brat right now?” And you shudder, thighs squeezing together. “I leave for a week and suddenly you wanna have an attitude with me.”
“N-No- s’nothing like that.” His lips graze your neck, your eyes fluttering shut as you let out a small sigh of relief at his lips on you. He licked the spot, teeth grazing it before sucking. “Cho-“ You whine.
“Nuh uh, tell me you’re gonna go see Sukuna again.” Choso takes the skin between his teeth, humming as you squirmed. His lips felt gentle on your skin even when he teased you. He kisses the spot once more before letting your hands go, his eyes filled with annoyance, but Choso wasn’t one to dwell on things for too long, and he surely didn’t want to be upset with you.
Instead, he waves you off, turning away from you to sit back down in his spot on the couch. You watch him pick back up the neglected blunt and light it back up. You swallowed thickly, your breath heavy as you just…watched. The spot on your neck throbbed, knowing he left a hickey there that he’d usually get yelled at for.
His tired eyes drag over to you, low as he blew out smoke. “Go on, Y/N.” It’s been so long since Choso’s called you your actual name. The feeling cold in your chest as you bit your lip. You didn’t think he’d get that upset. “I’m not gonna charge you for anything since you didn’t smoke… If that’s all you can leave.”
Everyone knew that Choso and Sukuna were related in some way, but they didn’t like each other for plenty reasons, one being how they were technically in competition with each other.
You hadn’t see Choso in a week. Maybe your reaction was a bit petty over a man that wasn’t your boyfriend. A man who spoiled you with anything you asked for like it was nothing. Someone who smoked and fucked you and took you out afterwards. You talked everyday, but for a week the contact was silent.
Standing by the door, you found yourself picking at your nails. Choso was there when you got them done. He watches you before sighing, leaning back into the cushion. “Cmere.” Voice soft, gentle yet still laced with annoyance. He pats his leg, and you shuffle to take your shoes back off, walking back over to the couch, the rug soft beneath your feet.
“Take the blunt.” His hands rub over the curve of your hip. the moment you straddled him. You hold the joint between your fingers, knowing that Choso was the man you’d only ever buy from- except your services were free.
He watches your gloss covered lips take the pink blunt between them. Your eyes close instantly, the warmth clouding your lungs. Your body relaxes into his grasp like it always did. “That’s it..” He hums, scooting you up closer until he could feel the softness of your breast against his chest. His fingers graze your chin before his lips are on yours, smoke traveling from your mouth to his. You whine softly as he bites down on your lip. The kiss greedy- hungry. You missed him. He missed you. Choso lets out a grunt, his hand finding the back of your neck to pull you in deeper. The metal on his tongue flicking against the roof of your mouth.
Choso swallowed all of your whimpers, your clothed cunt rubbing against the fabric of his pants. He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing until a loud smack ! has you pulling back and flinching with a yelp. “Cho-“
“You still mad at me?”
You bite down on your lip, looking down at his chest. “..Yeah.”
Without a word, Choso scoops you up into his arms, holding your legs around his waist while you held on tight- wrapping your arms should his shoulder. “What are you doing- put me down Choso!” You huff.
The man says nothing, carrying you all the way to his bedroom. You’re immediately hit with the scent of soft vanilla, the room a mixture of him and the random things you had over- a hello kitty plush on his bed (the only plush on his bed), little figurines sitting on his desk that you’d got together on various trips, your strawberry lipgloss (that you thought you’d lost) sitting right there on his nightstand. He lays you down on the bed, body hovering over you.
His fingers trail up your thighs up to the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down without a word, kissing moving down your body. Your panties were soaked, and you felt shy in his arms. “…Say something.” You try to close your legs but Choso shakes his head, prying them open wider. With a soft hum he pins your arms above your head with one of his hands, the other slipping into your panties.
“Need to fix this attitude of yours.” Choso kisses your forehead. His finger circles your wet clit as you whine, gasping softly. You stare up at him, the wrinkle between his brow deepening as he flicked your pearl faster. Taking his lip between his teeth, he adds another finger. “Cho…” You whimper, your breath picking up as your back arched slightly, legs opening wider. More, you wanted more.
“Feel good?” His fingers dip down between your slick folds, dragging the slippery mess up to your clit. “Y-Yes—!” You moan, your hands twitching in his grasp. “Yeah?” He whispers, your legs twitching. Slippery fingers pressed down on your clit.
“So wet for me..” Choso groans, his fingers rubbing faster. Your breath hitches, mouth falling open as another moan passes your lips. Your hips start sputtering, rubbing into the hand for friction. “M-Mhm- fuck— fuck Cho g-gonna cum.” Your high so close you could taste it, eyes closing as your body relaxed in his grasp. His touched that you longed for and it had only been a week. The heat building into your lower stomach as you whimper, awaiting the orgasm that never came.
Your eyes opened immediately. Choso pulls his fingers out of your panties, taking them into his mouth with a small groan. “Cho.“ You frown, eyes staring wide up at him. Watching the fingers in his mouth go right back to those panties.
“Yes princess?” He traces your clit teasingly through the fabric. Down to that waiting hole of yours, leaking so much that you couldn’t help the small noises you were making. “I-I didn’t cum.”
“I know.” He grabs hold of the wet fabric, tugging them to the side until a loud riiiiiip ! of the material shouts throughout the room. “My panties!— The fuck Choso-” Your hands tugging to be freed while you glared up at him.
“Shut up, I’ll buy you some more.” He huffs.
Choso was messing with you right? Trying to scare you from going to see Sukuna. It made perfect sense. Is that why he didn’t let you cum? …It had to be….
It was torturous. The way your legs shook, his palm rubbing against your clit while three fingers thrusted deeply inside of you- so deep they touched that pretty spot inside, curling.
“F-Fuck—!” Your back arched, but Choso kept you down. His brows furrowed in concentration, the wet sound filling his ears alongside your pleasure filled cries. Your pussy squeezed around the fingers, the squelches getting louder, but Choso knew your body well.
You hiccuped, small test slipping down your cheek as your orgasm neared for the fifth time. “You wanna cum?” He asks sweetly, softly above you, as if he was going to let you. Still, you whined, “p—please!” and for a second, Choso considered letting you have your way. You always got your way with Choso.
Your chest felt heavy. You couldn’t think of anything, nothing but the man whose fingers played between your legs. Sweat beaded your forehead. You were close..so close. Sniffling softly, you hiccup, biting down on your lip.
“You look pretty so pretty princess.” Princess. You realize just how much you missed him for that one week. How badly you wanted him to call you by the name he’d whisper into your ear everytime he fucked you like you were really his.
“Cum for me.” He pulls his fingers out, quickly rubbing them against your clit. Your body jerks, “Choso—fuck I-I’m—“ Your toes curl, a broken moan falling from your lips as your orgasm finally hits you “Fuck- fuckfuck-“ You were seeing stars, vision clouding through the overstimulation.
His fingers still caressed you sensitive clit as you felt your pretty pussy gush between your legs, making the creamy mess even messier. “There we go…thats my pretty girl.” Your body clinging to Choso’s voice as he touched you until the very last drop spilled.
You felt the cool metal of his lip piercing and the softness of his lips on your forehead, working down to your nose and finally to your parted lips. “You did so good princess.”
Choso makes quick work of his shirt, throwing it somewhere in the room. “So perfect for me.” He murmurs, sliding the torn fabric of your panties down your legs. His lips kiss your thighs softly. He wipes the tears from your eyes, carefully slipping your shirt off and tossing it. “I-“ Love you, he wanted to say
He pulls your body gently into his arms as he laid on his side. The cool air of his room hitting your skin just the way you like, with his body cradling yours. He kisses your forehead, your head leaning into his chest, eyes fluttering shut.
When you woke up you were surrounded by Choso’s scent, but not the man himself. You rub your eyes, feeling around the bed. Changed sheets and covers, but your plush the same. “Cho?” You had on one of his shirts. When he didn’t answer you bit your lip, going into the living room.
“Cho?”
The smell of smoke hits your nose. You peek into the kitchen to see him leaned up against the counter, blunt hanging from his mouth with his eyes closed. On the stove was a pot with the isle on low. His eyes peel open, holding his arms open. You hug him tightly, tucking your face into his chest. “I made you something to eat. Want some rice and stew?”
“Mhm…”
“..Im sorry for earlier.” He murmurs, arm wrapping around your body, fingers running through your hair. “…Could you tell me what I did to make you mad?”
You tuck your face farther, the hand in your hair pausing. “You don’t have to-“
“Haven’t talked to you in a week.” You mumble, “I was overthinking is all.”
“Overthinking?” Choso puts out the blunt in his ashtray, pulling your body back to look down at you.
“Yeah.. I know we’re not dating, but I got really used to your company and then it just went radio silent so I figured you wanted to go back to just strictly business or you figured I started catching feelings and was pulling away and-
“Slow down, princess.” He puts the blunt out in the ashtray on the counter. “One, I asked you if I could be your boyfriend before I left. Two, I also told you I’d be in the mountains for Yuji’s birthday week without service…You don’t remember?”
You stood frozen, searching your mind for the memory of two weeks ago. The last time you hung out with Choso before he left you’d tried something new he had got a hold of. “I…fuck I have to stop smoking.”
He laughs, running a hand down his face. “Fuck, you…really had me nervous.”
“Nervous enough to edge me?” You huff, reaching behind him for a bowl, your stomach growling.
“Because why the fuck would you even mention going to Sukuna-“
“Why else?” You stick your tongue out, tapping the hickey on your neck.
My six month talking stage said they just wanted us to be friends a few days ago. I feel so sick bro, I genuinely thought we’d be together 💔 I just want my baby back. Mind you they’d promised to never leave me
You only meant to buy produce. Instead, you found Camille Zhenjiah(oc) —tattooed arms, calm voice, eyes that cut sharper than her knives. The town whispers about hoe nobody knows her, about her smokehouse. You tell yourself not to think about it, not to wonder why the meat tastes so rich, not to picture her standing over a blood-stained table with that quiet smile. But when she pins you there herself, whispering sweet, sick promises against your throat, you don’t fight. You moan. You let her touch you. Even knowing she could split you open as easily as she carves meat, you can’t stay away.
▪︎~6.7k+ words, horror erotica(mild), dubcon, plot before smut, suspense, mention of murder, references to dismemberment, slaughter, and implied cannibalism(I PROMISE NO ONE IS GETTING CONSUMED), descriptions of blood, butcher knives, animal/meat imagery, southern coded, making out, oral(you’re receiving), fingering, strap action, choking, threats, praise & degradation, knife play(?), etc▪︎
˖ 18+ 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽 ˖
By the time you make it to the farmer’s market, the air is already heavy with heat. Sun sticking to your back, the smell of frying catfish and boiled peanuts winding through the open stalls. Annie-Mae spots you right off, waving with sugar-dusted fingers, her apron streaked with flour.
“Come on, baby,” she calls, voice syrup-thick. “Got you a slice of cobbler.”
She presses the plate into your hand before you can protest, warm peaches steaming through the paper. You take a bite standing there, tongue burning, but it’s sweet enough to make your eyes close. You buy fruit, some okra, potatoes. The rhythm of the place feels safe, ordinary—familiar voices calling out prices, the squeal of kids chasing each other down the dusty lane.
And then you see her.
She’s behind one of the far stalls, standing over a table stacked with cuts of meat. Broad-shouldered, taller than most men here. Dark skin catching the sun, black hair tied back slick, not a curl out of place. Tattoos wind around both arms—barbed wire biting into muscle, the kind of ink that makes you look twice, wonder what it must’ve felt like going in.
Her eyes catch you first. Brown, sharp, steady, lashes so long it doesn’t make sense, like they’re framing something dangerous. Then her mouth: full lips, unsmiling, but soft-looking all the same.
The meat laid out in front of her makes you pause. Wrapped in brown paper but already bleeding through. The color too red, the edges still wet, like it’s barely stopped moving.
You mean to pass, but your feet take you closer.
“Those look…” You falter, throat dry. “Fresh.”
Her gaze doesn’t flicker, just holds you there. When she finally speaks, her voice is low, slow, like it’s meant to settle under your skin.
“Only sell the best product. Cut it myself.”
Your stomach does a funny twist. You look at the meat, then at her arms again—thick muscle beneath the barbed wire. You picture her lifting a blade, the clean power in her shoulders.
“What about old man Anthony?” you ask, softer than you intended. “Ain’t this his stand?”
Something sharp glints in her expression—amusement, maybe. Or warning.
“That’s my daddy,” she says. “He won’t be working here anymore.”
The way she says it leaves no room for more questions. But the silence between you stretches anyway, taut as wire. You break it with a smile, small and polite, digging for bills in your pocket.
She takes the money with one hand, slides change back with the other. Her fingers brush yours. Not accidental. The press lingers, hot and deliberate, a pulse of warmth that jolts up your arm before she lets go.
“Thank you,” you murmur, but it comes out lower, rougher, than you meant.
Her lips curve just slightly. Not a smile—something hungrier, harder to place. Her eyes don’t leave your face, even as you back away.
You keep walking, bag of produce heavy in your hand, Annie-Mae’s cobbler tucked safe under your arm. The market’s still noisy, kids still running, but everything feels sharper now. Too bright. Too alive.
And all you can think about is her hand, the weight of her stare. The raw, red meat gleaming in the sun.
᭧
You spread the vegetables across the counter in neat little piles—okra trimmed, onions halved, potatoes cut into thick coins. Each glass bowl fills up bright and orderly, colors stacked like stained glass under the kitchen light. Knife steady in your hand, the rhythm of chopping almost meditative.
It’s when you reach for the meat that the rhythm falters.
The brown paper is damp where it sat on the counter, little spots of red blooming through. You peel it back slow, and the smell comes first—iron-rich, heavy, stronger than what you’re used to from the grocery store. The cuts glisten dark, like something still alive.
For a long moment, you just stare. Knife idle in your hand.
You think of her. The stud. How her fingers lingered against yours, warm, deliberate. How she said, cut it myself, in that low, rolling voice that still curls in your head like smoke.
Your frown creeps in before you realize it. You’d been to church with old man Anthony; the butcher, sat through his gravel-voiced prayers on hot Sunday mornings. Your grandma traded recipes with him, talked about his fishing, his bum knee. Folks knew each other in town, even if not well.
And yet—his daughter? Broad-shouldered, inked up, carved sharp as a blade? You’d never seen her. Not once. No mention at fish fries, no face at the potlucks, no polite nod in the aisles of Piggly Wiggly.
You shake the thought off, knife finally pressing down, cutting the meat into cubes. The blade sinks easy, almost too easy, juices running slick across the board. You move fast, try not to notice how deep the red is, how it stains your fingertips as you season it with salt, garlic, pepper, etc.
By the time you pack the meat into a container, stack it neatly with the bowls of vegetables, the kitchen smells warm and right again. Normal. Domestic.
Still, when you wash your hands under the faucet, scrubbing harder than usual, you find yourself thinking of her face again. The sharp eyes. The mouth that looked too soft for the rest of her. The weight of her fingers as she handed back your change.
And you wonder, as the water runs pink down the drain, if you’ll see her again.
᭧
Three days later, the kitchen table is covered in mail and a half-empty coffee mug when you open your journal. The pen moves easy at first, the way it does when you’re just spilling day-to-day things:
Mom’s got a new cat. Tiny thing with a loud motor. I’m happy for her but that house already smells like fur.
You pause, tap the pen, keep going.
Work’s picking up. It’s going to be okay, I know it. Just tired.
And then, softer, you write about the nights:
I keep waking up around two. The room smells like iron and something sweet, like cinnamon left too long on a hot stove. I must be dreaming. Haven’t felt this restless in years.
You shut the book, rub your eyes. The clock on your phone glows 3:27 a.m.
The house is still.
You glance at the corner where Shiki’s tank sits, the lid on crooked from the last time you fed him. Your heart stumbles a little—no sign of him curled on his log. You kneel, push aside an old pair of sneakers and look under the bed where he likes to wedge himself.
“Shiki, why are you always c—”
Your voice dies off.
There, in the dust, is a ring. Gold, wide, heavy-looking, the kind of old band men wore a hundred years ago. It’s too big to fit any of your fingers, but you pick it up anyway, thumb running over the worn edges. Cold against your skin.
You place it on your dresser like it’s nothing, like it’s normal to find strange jewelry under your bed at three in the morning. Scoop Shiki up when you finally spot him by the nightstand, his scales cool and dry in your hands.
“Ghosts haunting me now, huh?” you mutter, half-joking as you lower him back into his tank. But the words don’t feel like a joke in your mouth.
You stand in the quiet, watching the snake settle under his lamp. The smell of iron and spice still lingers faintly in the room, curling around the edges of your unease.
᭧
The pot is already sweating steam by the time you settle in front of the stove, Trigun playing low on your tablet from the counter. The voices drift in and out as you move, half-watching, mostly caught up in the rhythm of cooking.
The vegetables hit the pot with a hiss, steam fogging your glasses. You whisk flour into a paste, slow circles until it goes smooth, then stir it into the broth. The smell warms the room, rich and savory. When you slide the meat in, each cube slipping beneath the surface, your chest tightens.
You think of her.
You’d asked your grandma about it—about the butcher’s daughter. She just frowned, said she didn’t know Anthony had a girl at all. “Anthony got a daughter? He never mentioned her. They probably didn’t talk,” she’d muttered, before changing the subject.
Now, alone in your kitchen, you stir the pot and chew on that answer.
᭧
Later, bowl heavy in your hands, you curl up in bed. Mashed potatoes under the stew, thick gravy spilling down the sides. You take the first bite, close your eyes at the taste. It’s good. Better than your usual batch.
You pause halfway through, spoon clinking against the bowl.
Is it the meat?
You swallow slow, throat tight, and the image creeps in without asking: her standing in some back room, bloody tank top clinging to her chest, muscles flexing as she hacks into a carcass. Her tattoos stretch as her arms work, each cut clean, deliberate. Her eyes sharp, lashes catching the light even in the dark. The imagery pulls at you in two directions at once—heat spreading in your belly, unease prickling down your spine.
Your appetite falters. Spoon lowered, you stare at the half-eaten food.
Why are you thinking about her like this? A woman whose name you don’t even know. A woman you met once at a farmer’s market. Her words echo back, low and steady: That’s my daddy. He won’t be working here anymore.
The words ring in your head longer than they should.
You set the bowl aside, suddenly put off by the smell of meat, the thought of blood. Pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders, you make a mental note—Next Sunday, you’ll check on Mr. Anthony. Just to make sure he's alright, because something doesn’t sit right.
And no matter how much you try, you can’t stop picturing her. You can’t shake the image of her eyes cutting through you, the weight of her fingers when she handed you your change. And the thought that maybe—maybe—it’s better not to ask.
᭧
Sunday morning hums thick and sticky, cicadas still buzzing though it’s barely past nine. You wear the dress your grandma pressed for you, hair smoothed back under the heat of her approving gaze.
“I’m glad you came today,” she whispers as you follow her up the church steps, her hand small but firm on your elbow. “The Lord’s house been waiting on you.”
The sanctuary smells like wood polish and cheap perfume, fans creaking overhead, hymnals worn thin from years of use. You fold yourself into the pew beside her, the preacher’s voice rolling like thunder and honey all at once. You listen, mostly, though your eyes wander, taking in faces you’ve seen your whole life. Familiar. Predictable. Safe.
Except—something’s off.
Anthony isn’t here. His usual place on the third row, the stiff way he always leaned on his cane, is empty. No low hum of amen, no gravelly voice leading the closing hymn.
You hear it whispered when service lets out.
“Anthony didn’t come?”
“First time in years…”
“I’ll call and check on him,” his ex-wife says, frowning deep, clutching her handbag tighter.
Your stomach knots as you drift with the crowd outside, sunlight too bright on the church steps. Folks linger, chatting, laughing, but it all feels brittle. You murmur polite goodbyes, then start across the gravel lot toward your car.
Halfway there, the prickle on the back of your neck stops you.
You turn.
She’s standing at the far edge of the lot, half in shadow where the pines cut the sun. The butcher’s daughter. Broad shoulders, black hair catching in the breeze, eyes sunkissed and steady on you.
For a long, hanging moment, neither of you move. Her gaze pins you the way it did at the market—intense, unblinking, like she’s holding you there without touching you. The air between you feels heavy, iron-rich, like the smell that clung to your room at night.Your breath snags. Words tangle in your throat.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she turns. Walks away into the trees, movements slow, deliberate.
You stand rooted to the gravel, pulse thrumming, watching her back disappear into the green until nothing’s left but the sound of cicadas screaming in the heat.
The only thing heavier than your silence is the sense that she wanted you to see her.
᭧
The market is humming again, vendors calling out, kids tugging at their mama’s skirts. The air smells like peaches and smoke from someone grilling sausages down the row. You wind through the stalls until Annie-Mae waves you over, her wide smile softening the whole morning.
“Got somethin’ for you, sugar,” she says, sliding a little paper bag across the table.
Inside—cookies, still warm, sugar clinging to your fingertips the second you peek in. “Ms. Annie-Mae,” you laugh, shaking your head. “You keep feeding me sweets, I’m gonna gain so much weight.”
She tsks, reaching out to squeeze your arm. “You hush. You’re beautiful just the way you are. Don’t you go worrying about things like that.”
The hug she pulls you into smells like flour and rose lotion, her arms soft and steady. You breathe her in, the comfort grounding you, before you thank her again and move on.
And then you see her.
The butcher’s daughter.
She’s behind the meat stand, white t-shirt, barbed-wire tattoos wrapped tight around her forearms. The breeze teases at her natural hair, catching on the sharp glint of her silver studs. When her eyes find yours, it’s like she’s been waiting.
“Hey,” she says first, voice low and smooth, carrying under the noise of the market.
Your throat goes a little dry. “Hi.” You glance down at the spread of red meat, glistening, cut too neat. Too raw. “Do you only sell red meat?”
Her mouth curves, slow. “It’s in high demand right now. But—” she leans, gestures at a cooler behind her—“I’ve got chicken. Breasts, thighs.”
“Breast, please.”
She turns, opens the cooler, movements unhurried, deliberate. As she bags your order, you can’t help but notice her hands. Strong, thick, long-fingered, precise. Your gaze flickers to them, unbidden, and a thought sparks—her hands could probably fit the ring you found under your bed.
The weight of that gold band presses at the back of your mind until you clear your throat. “What’s your name?”
Her eyes snap up, sharp enough to cut.
“Camille.”
You tell her your name, offering it like a peace token.
“I know.”
The words are flat, certain. Her stare holds you there as she adds, “Annie-Mae never sells the last dessert. Or the ripest fruit. She always saves them for you.”
Your stomach dips. A smile ghosts across your lips, automatic, even as unease crawls under your skin. “That’s sweet of her.”
Camille doesn’t look away.
You thank her, try to step back, the bag warm in your hand. But before you can turn, her voice stops you cold.
“Heard you were asking about my daddy.”
Your shoulders tense. “Yeah, I…I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”
Camille’s gaze narrows, heavy, like she’s peeling you open with it. “Didn’t know y’all were close.”
“We’re not,” you rush to say, pulse ticking in your throat. “He just seemed nice. Thought I’d check in.”
A beat of silence, then her mouth twists into something like a smile, though her eyes never soften. “Honey,” she says, voice dipping low, “he’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
You nod, forcing your own smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Okay.” But you can’t make yourself say more.
You step away, the gravel crunching loud under your shoes. With every stride, the air feels heavier, like her stare is still on your back. Watching. Waiting.
By the time you reach the far end of the market, you know without looking that she hasn’t stopped watching you leave.
᭧
The sun’s sinking low, painting the yard gold, the air humming with cicadas and gospel music crackling from somebody’s radio. You’re standing with Ms. Annie-Mae near the long folding table, her paper plate balanced on one hand, laughing about how you’ve already gone through three cookies.
“You gon’ run me outta sugar, baby,” she teases, her eyes bright.
Then a shadow cuts across the grass.
“Mind if I steal her a minute?” Camille’s voice. Low, steady. You turn, heart jumping. She’s there—broad shoulders filling out a button up, sleeves rolled past her elbows, tattoos catching the last edge of sun. Her hair’s out loose tonight, black coils shifting with the breeze, silver studs winking at her ears. She looks good. Too good.
Ms. Annie-Mae chuckles, giving you a look that feels both knowing and mischievous. “I’ll let y’all be.” She pats your arm before wandering off, humming under her breath.
Now it’s just the two of you.
You fall into step beside Camille as she leads you across the wide yard, away from the chatter and folding chairs. The grass crunches under your shoes, the air cooling but still sticky.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Camille says, not looking at you, her tone casual but carrying weight.
“I’ve been… going to a different market.”
Her sharp eyes flick over at you. “Don’t like my produce anymore?”
Your stomach tightens. You keep your voice steady. “It’s not that. Just—closer to the house.”
She hums, noncommittal, like she doesn’t quite believe you.
The space between you stretches quiet. That’s when it hits you—her scent. Iron and something sweet, like spice burned dark in a pan. The same smell that’s pulled you from sleep at night. Recognition prickles at your skin, and you shove it down, focus instead on the fading light, the sound of cicadas, anything but the weight of that smell.
She asks you something personal then, smooth as syrup, words that could be a tease or a test. You answer safe, a polite curve of words meant not to give too much away. Her smile spreads slow, pulling.
Then she reaches up.
Fingers brush your chest, warm, strong, intentional as they catch the thin chain around your neck. She tugs it up, the pendant sliding against your skin, the whole chain lifting until it gleams in the dying sun between you.
For a breath, neither of you move. Her face is close, eyes sharp but softened with something else, something heavier. The pull on your chain keeps you anchored there, your pulse loud in your ears, her scent wrapping close and tight.
The pendant sways between you, glinting faint in the last threads of light. That gold ring sits heavy against it, the one you found under your bed.
Camille’s thumb ghosts over it. “Pretty. Looks good on you.” Her tone is casual, but her eyes aren’t—they’re sharp, watching how you react.
“Thanks,” you murmur, your own hand rising, covering hers. You mean to move her away from your throat, but instead you press down—slow, steady—until her palm rests against your thigh. The heat of her lingers there. Neither of you look down.
Instead, you stand in that charged hush, talking about nothing—how the town’s changing, how the summer feels longer this year, how Ms. Annie-Mae will feed you both fat if she has her way. You don’t remember all the words, just the cadence, the way Camille’s southern drawl curls low and sways reason, the way her gaze keeps catching yours in the dimming light.
Darkness gathers, cicadas easing into night song. When it’s time to go, she doesn’t let the silence break. She just falls into step beside you, walking you across the yard to your car.
At the door, she pauses. Fingers flex once like she’s holding something back, then she tips her head, lashes low. “Thank you...for keeping me company.”
Before you can answer, she leans in.
The kiss is sudden, catching. Her mouth is soft but the taste is metallic, sharp, coppery like blood lingering at the edge of sweetness. It startles you, but you kiss her back anyway, breath catching when her hand clamps your waist, pulling you close. The other slides up, curling around the column of your neck, tilting your head back.
Her mouth deepens over yours, slow and unhurried but inescapable. You moan low, heat threading through the unease tightening your chest.
Then she breaks it.
Pulls back just enough to study you. Her eyes are black in the dim light, cutting straight through you, unreadable and intent.
“Drive safe,” she says, voice light, almost tender, though her grip lingers a second longer before releasing.
The night closes in around you, heart screaming.
᭧
Steam still clings to your skin when you step out of the bathroom, towel snug around your frame. The house smells faintly of eucalyptus soap, clean and sharp, but your head is still full of something darker—something spiced, metallic, thick in the back of your throat.
You sit on the edge of your bed, hair damp, phone screen black beside you. The kiss keeps playing over and over in your head: the weight of Camille’s hand on your waist, her thumb hooked against your throat, the way her mouth opened against yours like she’d already claimed it. You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Heat swirls low in your belly just remembering it.
But then—your stomach knots.
That thought.
The one you shoved down weeks ago.
She’s probably cutting up people, and feeding them to the town.
You swallow, jaw tight. You remember the way the meat bled into your cutting board, too red, too warm. You remember how good it tasted—better than anything you’d cooked before—thick gravy clinging to your tongue like it had been made for you alone. And you remember why you stopped. Why you told yourself it wasn’t worth the unease.
Yet here you are.
Wanting her.
Wanting more.
You glance at your dresser, where the chain lies coiled in a loose circle. The ring is still strung there, heavy, its gold dulled in the lamp glow. You reach for it before you even think, the metal cool against your fingertips. You turn it once, twice, then stare.
Too big for your fingers. Too strange to have appeared under your bed. You bring it closer, lips brushing against your knuckles as you whisper, “Who the hell are you?”
The silence presses in.
You can almost hear Camille’s voice again, cool and sure: Don’t worry about it.
But your chest is tight, too restless for comfort. You press the ring into your palm until it bites, until the edge leaves an imprint.
Finally, you say it out loud, sharp enough to startle yourself: “I need answers. I need to know more about her.”
The words hang heavy in the air, like you’ve summoned something. Like the walls themselves are listening.
And for a moment—just a moment—you swear the scent returns. Iron. And that sweet spice, clinging in the back of your throat.
Your skin prickles.
Somewhere deep inside, you know curiosity is what’s going to ruin you.
᭧
The night air is damp when you slip from your car, shoes crunching on gravel. Camille’s truck is parked outside, dark paint glinting under the floodlight that hums low above the smokehouse. You clutch your phone like a lifeline, thumb brushing over the screen where your location is already shared, that half-written text to your best friend waiting unsent just in case.
The closer you get, the worse it smells—iron and smoke, with something sweet rotting underneath.
You push the door. It creaks like it doesn’t want to open, but it does, spilling you into a place you shouldn’t be.
The blood-stained table is the first thing you see. Sturdy wood, slick with dark stains that have seeped deep into the grain. Chains dangle low, catching the dim light, and knives gleam from their hooks in the corner. Some are long, thin, precise. Others heavy, cleavers meant to break through bone.
Carcasses hang from hooks, ribcages split wide, slick with fat and congealed blood. The air is thick—sweet, metallic, rot edging the sweetness. You can hear the soft drip of something still bleeding, slow and steady, hitting the floor in rhythm. A mirror in the corner catches it all—the butchered shapes, the sway of meat, your own face gone pale and trembling. For a second it shifts—pig snouts, human mouths, wide and open mid-scream. You blink. It doesn’t stop.
Camille’s there in your mind’s eye, apron stiff with dried gore, cleaver rising and falling. The sound of bone giving way—wet, sharp. She hums while she works. Cuts clean, methodical. Cubes, grind, shape.
You can’t stop shaking. Your stomach twists hard—acid rising, but you cover your mouth, swallowing the taste of bile.
But still, you move deeper, eyes darting to the massive locker freezer at the back. The lock is heavy-duty, industrial, the kind you couldn’t pick even if you knew how. You tug it once anyway, just to prove you can’t. The metal clang echoes like a scream in the tight space.
And then—behind you. A sound. A shift in the air.
You whirl, heart slamming.
And she’s there. Camille.
Standing in the doorway like she’s been waiting. Broad shoulders filling the frame, barbed wire tattoos coiling up her arms, her white tank top clinging to muscle that relaxes when she steps inside. Her hair is loose, falling into her face, catching against the sharp line of her cheek.
Her voice is low, calm, carrying in the hush of the smokehouse. “Why are you here? You follow everyone you kiss home like some creepy little stalker?”
Your throat closes. You tremble so hard your phone almost slips from your grip. “I—” your voice breaks, throat drying. “I just wanted to… ask you something.”
She steps forward, slow, deliberate. The floor creaks under her shoes. “And what exactly do you need from me?”
You panic, looking around the room before bolting for the door.
But she’s faster.
Her hand snags your arm, spins you, and suddenly your back hits the blood-stained table. The wood is cold, sticky in places, and your breath stutters as her body cages you in. One palm presses to your waist, firm, the other anchoring your arm down like you’re nothing but prey.
“So flighty,” she murmurs, amusement curling her lips. “You always this jumpy, sugar?”
You shake your head, wide-eyed. “Who are you? You’re not Anthony’s daughter.”
Camille’s smile sharpens, her grip tightening on your hips until you gasp. Her dark eyes pin you, unblinking, endless.
“You’ve been in my house,” you whisper, voice cracking. The scent is choking you now—iron and cinnamon, that same sweet spice that clings to your sheets some nights.
Camille hums low, like the sound pleases her. Her hand leaves your waist only to slide under your shirt, rough palm dragging slow up your stomach. Heat radiates from her skin, every inch of contact willful, claiming.
Your fingers clamp around her forearm, desperate, shaking. “What're you going to do to me?”
She dips her head, hair falling into her face, the shadow of her lashes sweeping across her cheek. Her lips brush the line of your jaw, warm, lingering. “Make you feel good.”
Her mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing, tongue tasting. You moan—low, strangled, betraying yourself.
Her tattoos flex as she pins you harder against the table, muscles coiled and ready, her calm voice steady even as your pulse races out of control. “Hush, baby. Don’t fight me. You came here looking for answers—this is the only one that matters.”
The knives gleam in the corner. The scent fills your lungs. And all you can do is hold on. Camille’s lips drag slow over your throat, her breath hot, her teeth grazing just enough to make your pulse jump. You try to twist, but she presses her hips flush to yours, her weight pinning you against the sticky wood of the table.
“Nosy little thing,” she murmurs into your skin, her voice calm, almost affectionate. “Always pokin’ where you don’t belong.”
Your nails dig into her arm, dragging over the inked barbed wire twisted into muscle. She doesn’t flinch, just grins against your neck, pressing harder until your back arches. Your eyes sting, wetness spilling over, the tears hot against your cheeks.
“Where’s Anthony?” you choke, the words trembling.
Camille hums, low in her chest, like the question pleases her. She lifts her head just enough to meet your gaze—dark, endless eyes boring into you. “Somewhere no one will ever find him. He’s with the others.”
Your stomach drops, legs shaking against the table edge. A sob sticks in your throat.
Her hand leaves your waist, cups your face instead, thumb brushing a tear away almost tenderly. “Shh,” she soothes, steady, soft. “Don’t cry, baby. I won’t hurt you. Not unless you’re into that.”
And before you can speak, her mouth is on yours. Deep, claiming. The taste of bloddy-iron lingers—metallic, wrong—but the heat of her tongue silences everything else. You whimper into her kiss, your tears salt-slick between you, her mouth swallowing every sound.
She’s already working at your clothes, strong fingers sliding under your waistband, tugging until your bottoms fall, puddling around your ankles. You’re left in nothing but thin panties, trembling under her stare.
Her hand traces lower, brushing over the cotton that clings to your sex, pressing just enough to make you gasp into her mouth. The table is hard at your back, knives gleaming in the corner, and yet your body betrays you—hips twitching, heat blooming where her fingers tease.
You break the kiss with a desperate gasp, but she follows, teeth catching your bottom lip. Her palm spreads over you, rough and hot even through fabric, rubbing slow circles that soak the thin cotton in seconds. You can hear the wet drag already, obscene against the hush of the smokehouse.
Camille pulls back to look at you, lips swollen, eyes sharp but softened by something stranger. Her thumb presses harder over your clit, slow and sure. “See?” she whispers, almost sweet. “Scared out your mind, but your pretty little pussy don’t lie.”
Her words hit you low, shame and want tangling. You moan brokenly, forehead pressed to hers.
Camille smiles—fond and filthy at once. “I’ll keep you safe, sweetness. Safe right here, spread out on daddy’s old table, cryin’ for me with your legs spread. You're so perfect.”
Her fingers flex, sliding the soaked fabric aside, skin to skin now—rough calluses gliding over tender folds. You jolt at the touch, thighs trying to close, but she holds you open, steady, patient.
“Shhh,” she coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your ear. “Don’t fight me, baby. Let me have you.”
The horror lingers—in the blood beneath your back, in the glint of steel, in the truth she just confessed—but the heat of her hand, the steadiness of her body against yours, keeps you rooted. Terrified. Wanting.
Camille doesn’t give you time to breathe or protest. One thick finger pushes inside, slow only for the first inch, then sinking deep, her knuckle pressing firm against you. Your body clamps down around her, trembling, your breath breaking as you meet her gaze.
Her eyes are so dark you can barely see where the iris ends. Your vision blurs with tears, lashes wet, but you can’t look away.
Your hands shake as they clutch at her arm, at the ink and muscle flexing while she moves inside you. She crooks her finger once, testing, and your back bows hard against the blood-stained table.
A low chuckle rumbles out of her chest. “Haven’t had anyone in you for a while, huh, sugar? Tight little thing. Grippin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”
You writhe under her, whimpering, the sound breaking against her calm. And then she adds another—two thick fingers plunging into you, stretching you wide. You cry out, nails clawing at her skin. “Camille—”
She shushes you, but her grin sharpens. Her hand pumps harder, faster, wet sounds filling the hush of the smokehouse. The table creaks under the rhythm, knives and meat swaying faintly on their hooks.
“You like that?” she whispers, lips grazing your ear. Her fingers scissor deep, finding your softest spot, grinding it. “Answer me.”
You choke, thighs quivering, your head tipping back. “Y-yes—”
She drives her fingers harder, the wet drag louder, slick dripping down to the back of your thighs. “Say it pretty. Tell me you like me stretchin’ this needy pussy.”
Your moan breaks into her name, desperate and shaking. “Camille—please—”
She groans like it feeds her. Her free hand fists your shirt at the chest, yanking you closer until your lips almost touch. “That’s it. Beggin’ already.”
You reach for her, clutching at her shirt with trembling fists, dragging her down. Her mouth crashes against yours—hot, wet, filthy. Her tongue takes and takes while her fingers piston deeper, knuckles grinding your insides raw in the sweetest, dirtiest way.
When she finally pulls back, your spit glistens between you, strung on your lips. Her voice is a low hum against your cheek. “Take off your shirt for me.”
Your hands shake, but you obey. You strip it over your head, baring yourself down to your bra, panties already soaked through, clinging.
Camille’s gaze drags over you—your trembling stomach, your heaving chest, the swell of your breasts cupped in lace. Her thoughts shift as her hand twists harder inside you, stretching, punishing. And now you’re laid out—half-naked, pinned on a stained table, carcasses, hooks, and knives gleaming in the corner, your body bucking helplessly as Camille fucks you open with her fingers.
Her mouth finds your throat again, sucking a bruise deep, teeth catching on skin. “Goddamn,” she murmurs, voice low and reverent. “You’re so sweet like this. Scared, wet, shakin’. You're so good for me.”
The table groans under the force of her hand. Every thrust drives you closer, nails biting into her inked skin, eyes rolling wet as she ruins you slow.
Camille doesn’t let up. She drives a third finger in, stretching you even wider, your walls clenching hard around the invasion. Her palm grinds your clit once, twice—then circles it, cruel and deliberate. The scream that tears from your throat pitches high, sharp with pain, but it melts into a moan before it’s fully out.
Camille’s smirk widens, teeth flashing. “Make noise like that again, sugar, I’ll hang you on one of those hooks.” She tilts her head toward the glinting steel swaying in the corner. The way she says it—soft, calm, like a promise—only makes the heat between your thighs spread. Your hips rock helplessly, the table sticky beneath you.
“You like that?” Her voice dips low, right at your ear. “Gettin’ wetter ‘cause you’re scared?”
She slows her thrusts, dragging those thick fingers out and shoving them back in with obscene squelches, each push rocking you deeper into the stained wood. Then she leans over you, pressing her chest to yours, body heat burning through you, her mouth sealing over yours. The kiss is deep, suffocating—your whimpers swallowed whole.
Your trembling hand snakes up, tangling in her messy dark hair, holding on like you’ll fall apart if you don’t.
Camille breaks the kiss, your spit shining on her lips. Her voice is low and reverent, like a prayer. “You’re lettin’ a murderer fuck you on a table soaked with other people’s blood.” She grins when your eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking down your temples. “What's wrong with you, filthy girl?”
She yanks your bra down, her tattoos shifting as her inked arm pins your side. Her mouth latches onto your breast, hot tongue circling your nipple before she sucks hard, teeth scraping.
You arch under her, a broken moan falling from your mouth.
She pulls back just enough to murmur against your skin. “I want my ring back.”
You nod without hesitation, chest heaving. “O-okay—”
“Good girl.” She presses a kiss to your sternum, deceptively tender. Her fingers keep moving, fucking you open while her other hand palms your breast roughly.
Then, sudden—she slides her fingers out of you with a wet squelch. You whimper at the loss, thighs shaking.
“Be quite,” she orders, dark eyes glinting. With a vicious tug she rips your panties down the middle, fabric tearing loud in the hush of the smokehouse. Then she unhooks your bra with one deft flick and tosses it aside.
Now you’re bare, trembling, laid out under her gaze.
Her lips curl soft, almost affectionate. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”
She kisses down your stomach, slow, sweet, the kind of tenderness that only makes the terror coil tighter in your chest. Her hair brushes your skin, damp strands sticking. She keeps going lower, teeth grazing the swell of your hip before her mouth finds the slick heat between your thighs.
Camille kisses your cunt—soft, deliberate—like she’s worshiping it. Her tongue drags lazy and slow, savoring.
Then she lifts her head, eyes dark, lips wet. “All mine?”
“Yes,” you gasp, voice breaking, "Yours.”
Camille hums low in her chest, satisfied, the vibration rolling against your skin as she presses another kiss to your inner thigh. Then she drags her mouth higher, lips soft, tongue deliberate, until she’s spreading you open with a firm push of her hand.
Her breath hits your pussy first—warm, steady—before her mouth seals over you. The first slow lick drags the air from your lungs. Her tongue is thick, flat, savoring you from base to tip before she circles your clit once, slow, cruel. Your back arches hard against the table, nails clawing at her shoulder, but the sound that rips out of you is pure need.
Camille’s sharp eyes flick up, pinning you. Even with her mouth buried in you, she’s watching, unblinking, the glint of hunger in her gaze enough to split you open. You try not to look, try not to think of the blood, hooks swaying in the corner, of the knives gleaming under the low light—but her tongue curls just right and you can’t think of anything but her.
“Oh, God—” The words tear from you, shaky, half a prayer, half a curse.
Her chuckle hums into your folds. “Ain’t God listenin’ here, honey. Just me.”
She latches onto your clit, sucking hard, the wet pull obscene in the smokehouse hush. One hand pins your thigh down against the stained wood, her grip bruising, while the other slips back between your folds, rubbing that slick bundle in rough, tight circles.
Your vision blurs with tears and pleasure. You can’t breathe right, can’t focus—the coppery tang of iron in the air should make you gag, but all you can taste is her kiss on your tongue, all you can feel is her mouth eating you alive.
“Cam—” her name slips out, ragged, and she groans into you like it feeds her. Her tongue spears inside, thick and insistent, fucking you with deep strokes before she pulls back to suck your clit again, harder, sharper, making your whole body tremble.
The tension snaps fast—your orgasm hits brutal, overwhelming, ripping through you so hard your scream splinters into a moan. Your thighs shake, your hands claw at her hair, holding her down even as your vision whites out.
But Camille doesn’t stop. She keeps her mouth locked to you, tongue dragging slow and deep while her fingers rub harder at your clit, wringing every aftershock out of your body. You sob, trembling so bad the table rattles, new tears streaking down your cheeks. “P-please—” you choke, shaky and pleading, voice thin.
She only hums, eating your cries, eating your pussy, relentless.
When she finally pulls away, your thighs are wet and shaking, your body slick and wrecked. Camille climbs up, chest heaving, tattoos shifting with the movement. Her mouth shines with you, lips wet, chin glistening.
She kisses you deep, filthy, shoving your own taste onto your tongue.
Her voice is velvet when she pulls back, eyes dark and hungry. “You taste so fuckin’ good,” she whispers, brushing your tears with her thumb. “Sweetest thing I ever put in my mouth.” She licks her lips slow, savoring, before leaning back in for another kiss—low, messy, suffocating—like she’s already planning to drag more out of you.
You’re trembling, body slick with sweat, heat still throbbing from Camille’s mouth. Your face is wet—tears streaked across your cheeks, smeared into your hairline.
Camille doesn’t let you come down. She kisses over your jaw, down your throat, sucking until the skin pinches, leaving little aches and bruises in her wake. Her teeth graze your collarbone; she bites, not enough to break skin, but enough to make you flinch. Every mark feels like a claim.
Her mouth roams lower, dragging heat and sting across your breasts, her lips wrapping around your nipple before her tongue flicks sharp. You gasp, shame thick in your chest, because she’s taking you apart again, feeding on every little sound you make.
Her earlier words echo... you’re letting a murderer fuck you.
Your stomach twists, fresh tears burning your eyes. She is a murderer. You can feel it in the way she moves, in her calm certainty, in the iron scent clinging to her skin. And you—pathetic, stupid—you didn’t fight her.
Your gaze flicks to the corner. Knives hang in neat rows, steel glinting dull under the low light. There’s a cleaver heavy enough to split bone. Hooks sway above the table, stained darker at the tips. You could reach for one, you could swing, stab, run.
But you don’t.
Instead, your breath stutters, your thighs quiver, and your body stays under hers like it belongs there.
A sharp smack snaps you out of your spiral.
Camille’s palm—light, quick—slaps your cheek. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to startle. Your head jerks back to face her. Her expression is unreadable, dark eyes searching your tear-stained face. “What’re you thinkin’ about, sugar?” Her voice is low, lazy—dangerous.
You open your mouth, but a whimper spills out instead of words. Her hand slides down, fingers gliding over your folds, still swollen, still slick. The faintest brush makes your hips jerk.
Camille smiles at the reaction, sharp and slow. She grips your jaw, forcing your chin up, her thumb pressing against your lips. “Speak.”
You choke on a sob, body shaking, nerves fried. You want to scream at her, want to claw at her arms—but your thighs are clenching, wet, aching, betraying you.
“You’re a… a sick, demented bitch,” you spit, voice breaking.
Her eyes gleam. She moves quick, one big hand wrapping around your throat, dragging you upright until you’re sitting on the blood-stained table. The wood creaks under your shifting weight. Your legs dangle, knees weak. Her grip is firm but not crushing—just enough to hold you in place, make you small beneath her.
Her free hand slides down your spine. Her palm is hot, steady, spreading over the small of your back before tracing lower, over the dip of your waist. Big hands. Hands that could crush you, cut you, skin you alive. Instead, they smooth over your body like you’re something precious.
She leans close, breath brushing your lips, eyes locked on yours. “Sick?” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Maybe. But you’re worse.” Her thumb strokes your throat, slow, coaxing. “Didn’t even fight me. Just opened up. Let me eat you till you cried.”
Her words sink deep, truth curdling in your chest. Shame claws up your throat.
The silence stretches taut between you, the air thick with iron and smoke, cicadas rasping faintly outside. Her gaze pins you down harder than her hands ever could.
Your palm stings before you realize you’ve moved. You slap her. Hard.
The crack echoes in the smokehouse, bouncing off hooks and steel, shocking even you. Her head tips slightly with the force, hair falling into her face.
And then—stillness.
Everything freezes. The knives gleam. The hooks sway. Your chest heaves, waiting.
Camille turns back slow, lashes lifting. Her expression is unreadable again, that calm mask slipping back into place. Except her eyes—sharp, bottomless—cut into you like blades.
She looks terrifying. Beautiful. Sexy in a way that makes your stomach knot with hunger and dread. Her jaw flexes once. Then she smiles. Small. Crooked. Dangerous. The room feels colder.
The silence breaks with the rasp of metal sliding free.
Camille’s hand moves slow, deliberate, fingers curling around the hilt of one of the butcher knives hanging at her side. She draws it from the holder, the steel catching the dim light, gleaming sharp.
Your breath catches.
She doesn’t raise it—she doesn’t need to. Instead, she lays the flat of the blade against your skin. Cold. Heavy. Right along the swell of your chest. Your nipples tighten against the chill, your lungs lock, and she drags it lower, over your stomach, down to your thigh.
“Mm,” she hums, voice velvet and low. Her lashes lower as she watches your reaction, her lips curling faint. “Easy it’d be. Split you open right here. Just like I do the meat.”
Your stomach flips. Heat and dread war in your chest.
Her mouth dips to your ear, the blade still grazing your thigh. “Raise a hand to me again,” she whispers, calm as a hymn. “And I’ll slit that pretty throat of yours. Feed you to the pigs behind the O'Connell's farm.”
Your eyes widen, tears rising hot. But you force yourself to speak, voice trembling but steady enough. “You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t get away with killing me.”
Camille leans back, studying you, that crooked smile flickering again. Her dark eyes cut deep, unreadable, but sharp enough to slice you open.
“You’re right,” she murmurs. Her eyes linger on the cracked phone at your feet. “Wouldn’t get away with it.”
She lets the words hang heavy. Then she tilts her head, smile pulling at her lips, voice soft, almost sweet: “You want something else, then?”
Your heart stutters. “Wh-what?”
She doesn’t answer. She just kisses you. Hot. Slow. Her tongue slipping past your lips, tasting, claiming. You freeze, then melt, traitor to your own fear. Her mouth is soft, her kiss deep, and your body betrays you—arching closer, kissing her back.
You wonder why. Why your hands cling to her shirt. Why your lips move hungrily against hers when she terrifies you. Why you want her this badly.
The knife clatters to the floor, forgotten.
Camille’s arms slide around you, one big hand under your thigh, the other braced at your back. She helps you off the table like you’re fragile, guiding you down until your feet touch the concrete. Your knees nearly buckle, but she steadies you, her tattoos flexing with the strength in her forearms.
She leans close, lips brushing yours once more before pulling back. Her breath is warm, steady. “Come with me,” she says simply, like it’s not a request.
Her hand finds yours, fingers closing firm, guiding you toward the dark at the far end of the smokehouse.
Your stomach knots with terror. Your chest burns with heat. You go anyway.
᭧
The sheets smell faintly of smoke and iron, faint musk and spice clinging to them like her skin. Your body aches already, wrecked, trembling from how many times she’s wrung you out, but Camille doesn’t relent.
She’s behind you, her weight solid, one thick hand around your throat, the other pressed to your lower back to arch you down into the mattress. Your palms sink into the sheets, nails clawing for purchase, ass high, back arched like a bowstring.
Every thrust is brutal and deep, her hips smacking into the swell of your ass, her sttap dragging slick through your fluttering walls. The sound is obscene—wet, messy, the slap of skin to skin echoing in the room.
Your breath comes broken, whines spilling out as she drives into you, your voice ragged: “C—Camille—”
Her grip tightens at your throat, just enough to make your head swim, her lips curling against your ear. “Mm. That’s all you know how to say now, huh? My name.”
You try to answer but it comes out a strangled sob. Her hips piston again, deeper, grinding against that raw, swollen spot inside you until your thighs quake.
“You’re so wet, baby,” she murmurs, her tone almost tender, almost indulgent—ruined by how sharp her teeth catch the shell of your ear. “Drenched. Can feel it dripping down my thighs. You like bein’ used like this?”
“Yes—yes, I—oh, God—”
“Not God, sweet girl. Just me.” Her words wrap around your throat tighter than her hand. Her hips never falter, her strap dragging in and out of you with slick, obscene squelches, your body answering every thrust. You’re incoherent now, drooling against the sheets, tears wetting your cheeks.
She eases up on your throat just enough so she can hear you clearly. “Say it. Tell me who’s fuckin’ you this good.”
“You—Camille—you are—” you whimper, words breaking.
“Good girl.” Her voice goes low, almost cooing, but the snap of her hips makes your body jolt. “Now cum for me again.”
Her free hand slides between your thighs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing hard and fast, ruthless circles that make your legs shake. Your scream is muffled into the sheets, your cunt clenching down around her dick like a vice as you shatter.
Camille groans low in her chest, fucking you through it, dragging it out until you’re sobbing, your body twitching beneath her. “That’s it. That’s my sweet thing. Keep milkin’ me.”
You collapse forward, cheek pressed into the pillow, breath hiccuping as aftershocks roll through you. She finally slows, hips rocking lazy now, still buried deep inside you, hand stroking down your side like she’s soothing you.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Just your panting, the creak of the bed, the sound of your wetness dripping onto the sheets.
Camille leans in, her mouth at your ear, voice silk and smoke. “You fuck so good,” she whispers. “Almost makes me forget I promised Anthony I’d never let anyone find out what I did to him.”
Her teeth graze your skin as she breathes the last words: “And now you know too much.”
