I really like The Walking Dead, Criminal Minds, Supernatural, and sometimes The 100. Sometimes I like to write little oneshots for fun, so they aren’t the best. I also write on Wattpad which I’ve had for years so let me know if you want my user!
SSA Amberleigh Brown, one of the newest additions to the BAU team. This week they were heading to her home town of Golconda Nevada. It’s a very small town where her best friend still lived, and worked on the police force. Apparently a serial killer comes here every year to visit one person. Crazy Jane.
We had landed not too far from Golconda , and I offer to drive Reid, Prentiss and I to the local precinct while Morgan, Gideon, and Hotch go to the latest crime scene. As soon as we got there I gather my bag and check to make sure my weapon is properly holstered before entering behind Reid. I look around and then suddenly see a familiar face, “Amber it’s nice to see you. I missed you so much!” My best friend, Elena said while nearly hugging me to death. I chuckle and lightly hug back and soon step back, I was never really a hugger but Elena is. “It’s nice to see you too El, this is SSA Emily Prentiss and Dr. Spencer Reid. Guys this is my best friend and officer Elena Woods.” I said, introducing my new friends to my closest one. “Right, right. Sorry, its nice to meet you all. Amber told me you would need a room and a board so follow me and I’ll show you where you can set up.” She said shaking Emily’s hand, while Reid just nods.
We walk down a small hall and enter a small room, “Its not much be we’re a small town and never really needed a larger precinct. But the coffee is out front and if you all need anything let me know.” She says, walking out of the room presumably back to her desk. I set down my bag and start going through the case files. “Well she seems nice, lots of energy” Emily said with a grin, I snort “Yeah, try growing up with her. And she hasn’t simmered down at all”
Time passes by and we are still in the room trying to figure out why the hell this man comes back to this town every year. Suddenly El’s head pops in, “Hey guys I’m heading home, I’m taking Jane with me per request from Sheriff George. Call if y’all need anything, I probably won’t be getting much sleep till we catch this guy.” I smile at her and nod “Will do El, see you in the morning.” And with that she walks off.
The next day Gideon is at a local diner talking to the unsub. I am waiting outside patiently as I know he knows what he is doing. I try reaching El a few times but it keeps going to voicemail, which worries me but she might be sleeping. She couldn’t have been taken considering the unsub is with Gideon. But I call inside to Morgan “Hey Morgan, I’m gonna take a ride with a few officers to officer Woods’ house, she’s not answering and she took Crazy Jane home with her last night.” He says okay and to be careful. “Hey Hotch, wanna tag along with the officers and I to check on Woods?” I ask turning to him and all he does is nod.
We get to her small two bedroom home and I knock on the door, “hey El! It’s Amber you home?” I put my ear to the door and hear nothing, I look back to the officers and shake my head. Then to Hotch and he nods. I try the door knob but it’s locked. “It’s locked, I’ll break it down, two of you go around back and see if the back door is locked. Watch your backs” I tell them. I take my gun out of its holster on my side and forcefully kick in the door and rush in with my gun held high. I walk down the hall, back always to a wall checking the two rooms and bathroom. Nothing. “Hotch she’s not here, did you find anything?” I tell him, holstering my weapon after checking the safety was on. “There was a struggle, her gun is on the floor and a chair is knocked over. She must have been spooked by something because there is something spilled on the floor.” He pauses and looks into the kitchen right before an officer is about to pick up the pitcher “put that down! We need to profile the scene!” I yell. The officer stands back up and walks to me getting in my face “What is there to profile?! He got Elena and we need to find her!” I yell back “Don’t you think I know that?! She’s my best friend, but we are going to do this the right way or we may not find her!” The man steps back and nods.
I look to Hotch and see him holding a syringe, “Damn, he musta drugged her” I say. Hotch puts it into an evidence bag and walks to the kitchen. “These must be Janes prints, running to the back door. And someone else’s. Looks like he wanted to go after her but knew there was only so much time before the Ketamine wore off.” He said squatting down pointing at the prints. “He must have used the back door, it was unlocked” an officer said. I’m standing there for a minute, zoned out. Staring at a picture she had hung up on her wall of her and I right before I left for college. “Agent!” I hear someone faintly yell and I come back to reality looking at Hotch “Are you okay?” I nod “Yeah, let’s find her and arrest this jerk” I said walking back out to the car.
After some thinking Reid, Emily, Hotch and I went to Janes house to hopefully find her. But as we walk up the front steps we see so many wind chimes. But when I take a closer look I realize what they’re made of. “Guys look, human rib bones. He must leave these as gifts every time he comes to see her” I said taking a glove out of my pocket and spinning one. “Let’s check the house” Hotch said. After searching the house we find nothing, we call CSI over to back up the wind chimes. “If he spent so much time here how did she not know? Did she just think an alien was leaving her gifts?” I ask to no one in particular. “Well he thinks he’s in love with Jane but he’s a sexual sadist, it’s not possible” Hotch said. Emily added while bagging a chime “Well what exactly is love?” Reid replies with his facts “It’s a mixture of Dopamine, Norepinephrine, and Seritonin, which can actually be found in-“ “chocolate, I love chocolate “ Emily interrupts Reid before he continues “And peas! Which is-“ Hotch stops his rant before he can go all geeky on us.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a shed behind the house, “Guys there’s a shed back there, let’s go” so we all unholster our weapons and go in. And behind the shed we find a trailer. “Guys” I say as Hotch and Reid take the lead and go in first as Emily and I follow them in. There were medical instruments lining the walls along with diagrams of the human body, a ceiling mirror and a table in the middle that was still full of blood. “Thought I’ve seen it all” Hotch says. “Look, this is a coffin” he says, while opening it. A dead body is laid in there with blood all over her. “There’s another over here”, Emily points out. I go over and open it quickly and inside is Elena. “Oh my god, Elena everything will be okay, don’t talk” I said hurriedly as I bend down to wrap my arms around her taking a spike collar looking thing off from her neck.
“I’m so glad you’re okay El, I was so worried. Let’s get to the dinner to the other officers. Alright?” I say, and she nods hugging me tight which I reciprocate. Not long after we get back to the dinner we find out that an empty bus had been found on the outskirts of town, the bus driver killed. Gideon is walking the man out of the diner when an officer pulls up with Jane. Gideon and him make a deal, that he and Jane go with him to get the kids but no one else. I was not fond of this idea because he gets off scot free. But within a few hours we are heading to the ridge out of town and Gideon is there with an ambulance and the kids. I jump out of our suv and took long strides towards him, “Which way did he go?!” “West” he walks out in the direction they went, I follow along with Morgan. But suddenly the footprints disappear. I start to continue to walk until someone puts their hand on my arm, I turn back and it’s Morgan. I brush his hand off “What? He couldn’t have gotten that far! I grew up here I can find him! Let me go!” I yell as I try to continue west when he grabs me again.
“We will find him, we will but we don’t need you getting lost” he says. And I break down “He hurt my best friend and you expect me to stand here and don nothing?! Our job is to catch the son of a bitch and that’s what I’m trying to do!” I scream while tears are running down my face, Hotch walks over and says “I know it’s hard but that’s exactly what I want you to do, stand here. There is nothing you can do, it’s dark. We’ll have helicopters scope the area but until we find him, take Officer Woods home and get some sleep” he said. I scoff, “What the hell ever” I mutter as I make my way to a squad car fuming. “Take Woods and I to her house” I say to one of the officers. He doesn’t hesitate and we all get in the car.
The End
*I never post anything on here but I might start to. I know my writing isn’t that great but I find it fun so I don’t really try to make it amazing. Below is how I see my OC Amberleigh. I also own Elena Woods*
summary: your adoptive father, deacon, find rocker in your bedroom after he spends the night.
word count: 2.4k
request: anon- Could you do one with reader being Deacons sister or daughter and he finds out she is dating Rocker and he freaks out
a/n: i made deacon reader's adoptive father, just so it's race inclusive, i hope that's okay to whoever requested this! enjoy<3
warnings: none, no use of y/n, plus size!reader, fem!reader, race inclusive!reader
Your quiet giggles fill the room as Rocker hovers over top of you in bed, pressing kisses all over your face and neck. No matter how many times he wakes you up like this, it still makes butterflies erupt in your belly.
“Stop it!” you manage to get out through your fit of giggles, squirming under him as his body weighs you down and his hands keep your wrists firmly trapped beside your head.
“Can’t, sweetheart. You’re just too pretty.” he muses between kisses, but after a moment he pulls back, taking in your soft form beneath him. Your skin prickles from the feeling of his stubble brushing across your face and neck, and you’re slightly breathless as you look up at him, your eyes twinkling with something between love and lust.
He rolls off of you slowly, but keeps himself propped up on his elbow as he lays on his side beside you, admiring the way your chest moves with your breathing and the way the bright golden sunlight of the early morning hits your skin through the crack in your curtains.
He tells you about how one of the guys on his team got very rudely, but very justifiably, rejected by a girl at the bar a couple days ago when the team went out for drinks after work. You laugh as he tells you about the man digging himself a bigger and bigger hole as he tried to get the woman to go home with him, when you hear a knock at your door.
“Fuck!” you exclaim as you shoot up in bed, feeling Rocker sit up beside you instinctively, face laced with confusion.
You’ve been dating for a couple months, and although he works with your dad, and they’re both friendly enough with each other, you still haven’t told your father about your relationship. He spent the night at your place last night, and in all the excitement of having him in your space, you completely forgot your dad was going to stop by in the morning on the way to work and bring some breakfast.
You were only six when you met Deacon. His team had rescued you from a shooting where both of your parents were killed, and he had felt such a strong urge to protect you as one of his own, that he immediately went home and asked Annie about adoption. It was very early in their marriage, and they had barely even spoken about having kids yet, but Annie had also gotten attached to you the first time you met, so it felt like a no brainer. It was a tough process, but you were both extremely happy that it worked out, and that you didn’t have any other family to go to. Deacon hadn’t been the one to save you, it was actually Luca who pulled you out, but Deacon was the one who helped calm you down, and you felt instantly safe around him. It felt a little weird being so much older than your adoptive siblings, but you love all of them anyway.
“You have to stay in here. He can’t see you.” you tell Rocker as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. You walk over to your closet and throw on a plain black t-shirt dress, opting not to try to match a shirt with a pair of pants.
“Who?” Rocker asks as he stands up, walking up behind you and wrapping his arms around your soft waist once your dress is on. He presses a soft kiss to your neck, swaying you both back and forth gently as you try not to get distracted by his touch.
“Who do you think?” you ask with a raised brow, turning in his grip and facing him. You give him a smile before you push him away. You need to get the door now, before your father thinks something’s wrong and decides to break your apartment door down. Not only because of the man currently standing naked in your room, but also because you could not afford to fix the broken door.
“Why can’t we just tell him? As much as I love the sneaking around, wouldn’t you like to, you know, actually go out?” he asks, his hands flailing as he speaks. He’s not mad, per se, he just selfishly really wants to see the look on your father’s face when he finds out that he’s been fucking his daughter for months behind his back. It’s no secret that their teams have some sort of rivalry that you’ll never understand, and seeing how mad it would make him is just the cherry on top of how pretty and perfect you are for him.
“Can we please talk about this later?” you ask, crossing the room and giving him a peck on the lips, your hand touching his cheek for just a moment. You pull away quickly as you hear another knock on the door, giving him a pleading smile as you back up towards the door, mumbling a quick “be quiet” before you’re out of the room and opening the door for your father.
“Hi, honey.” your father greets you as you open the door a little breathlessly. You think for a moment that he’s going to ignore how long it took you to answer the door, but he quickly adds “what were you doing?”
You move out of the way as he tries to move past you and into your apartment, placing the takeout bag on the counter once he gets to the kitchen. Your eyes instinctively glance over at your closed bedroom door, praying that Rocker won’t make a noise while your father is in your apartment.
“Just, uh, in the bathroom.” you lie in a sweet voice, following him into the kitchen and beginning to help him take out your food containers.
You call this your bi-monthly catch up. Although you speak to your father very frequently, doing this makes you feel closer to him after getting an apartment of your own. Plus, he also wants to hear about everything going on in your life. You’re not sure if it’s the job that makes him like this, but he’s always been extremely overprotective.
As Rocker sits on your bed, still naked, leaning back against the bed frame, he listens to the barely audible conversation coming from the kitchen. After a while, he checks his phone, eyes widening as he realizes what time it is. He knows he won’t be late for work, knowing that Deacon will leave early enough for him to sneak out after him and get to work on time, but he figures he should at least get dressed so he can leave right after he does. He knows it won’t make Deacon necessarily suspicious if he’s late, but he knows that the job makes them especially receptive, so he doesn’t want to take any chances.
It’s really an accident when he knocks the plant off your dresser, the soil seeping into the light coloured rug on your floor. While he’s getting dressed, he has a thought about making enough noise for your father to catch him, and thus having your relationship out in the open and a front row seat to his reaction, but it leaves as quickly as it arrived. He knows it’s a bad idea, as much as it makes him excited. While he’s putting on his jeans, though, he trips, knocking into your dresser and sending the pot flying to the ground. He pulls his jeans up quickly and buttons them. At least if Deacon walks in, he’ll be dressed, he thinks.
You’re telling your father about a new hire at work that you’ve been desperately trying to train when you hear a loud thud coming from your room. Both of your heads snap to your closed door, and your father immediately stands up, shoulders squared.
“What was that?” he asks, eyes leaving the door for a split second as he looks over at you. He observes your wide eyes, and the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek, and he knows immediately that you’re hiding something.
“Nothing.” you get out, silently wondering why you didn’t try to think of an excuse while eating, just in case Rocker happened to make a sound. He raises a brow, relaxing a little now that he knows that whatever made the noise is not a threat. He puts a hand on his hip as he gives you a “really?” look, and your eyes dart across the room as you try to think of something to say.
“I have the window open, the wind must’ve knocked something off my windowsill. I have this little trinket on it, and it’s kinda wobbly.” You’re not sure where that came from. You don’t even have a windowsill. At least, not one wide enough to put things on. Your father rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Honestly, he thinks you brought home some stray animal. You’ve always begged him for a pet, so he assumes that you just don’t want him to give you a lecture about how much effort it takes to have an animal to take care of.
Your eyes widen as he turns and stalks toward your bedroom door, and all you can get out is a “no, wait-” before he swings the door open. His eyes immediately move from the floor, where he thought he would be met with the tiny little eyes of a cat or a dog, up to meet Rockers, who gives him a sheepish, but smug, smile.
“Hey Deac, what’s up?” he asks, flinching instinctively when Deacon takes a step towards him with his jaw clenched.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He raises his finger to point at Rocker as he speaks, his face growing red with anger.
“Dad, please. Just let me explain.” you plead, taking a cautious step to stand between them. You don’t think your father would do anything drastic, but you just want to make sure.
“Explain what? How you’ve been sneaking around with one of my coworkers? And him? Come on.” he says, a hint of disappointment in his eyes as he flicks his hand in Rocker’s direction. He can barely even look at the man standing behind you, and his mind is racing as he thinks about how the hell he didn’t figure this out sooner.
“I’m only sneaking around because I knew you’d react like this.” you argue, motioning down to his clenched fists and squared stance. You were worried at first, but now you’re a little pissed off. It’s not like Rocker’s a bad person, they just can’t get over their stupid pissing contest that seems to carry on outside of work.
“Well, how did you expect me to react? You think I’m just gonna let him put his hands on my daughter?” he asks in disbelief, having to look away as the image crosses his mind.
“I’m an adult! I’m way too old for you to be acting like this! He’s a good man, and I’m gonna date him whether you like it or not. But I’d rather you approve of it.” Your voice is raised at the beginning of your sentence, but your voice softens by the time you get to your last sentence. You want more than anything to tell your father about your relationship. You’ve definitely dated some douchebags in the past, and you knew that once your father gets over the initial shock of you bringing home the 50 squad leader, he would see that you finally managed to find a good man.
Although a small part of him wants to laugh at the situation, Rocker knows he has to try to get in good with Deacon. If things go his way, he’ll be his future father-in-law, after all.
“I really do like your daughter. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. Even though I like to show you how it’s done at work.” Rocker says the last sentence in a joking tone, jumping back when he sees the daggers both you and your father shoot at him.
“Not the time.” you and Deacon say in unison, and he raises his hands in surrender, taking a step closer to you. If you weren’t in this situation, you would laugh at his unsure, and slightly afraid expression, but right now, all you can think about is trying to diffuse the tension.
“So what do you say, Deac. Will you give me a chance?” Rocker asks after a moment. He extends his hand to your father, who grabs his hand in a deathgrip.
“If you hurt her, no one will ever find your body.” he tells him sternly, pulling him close to him.
“Understood.” Rocker says in a quiet voice, swallowing as your father finally shakes his hand.
“Now, you gonna join us for breakfast? You’ve just been caught in my daughter’s room. I think it’s the least you could do.” Deacon says sternly, raising a brow, as if daring him to decline.
“Right. Of course.” Rocker says with a smile, letting out a sigh when he sees your father nod once and turn to walk back to the kitchen. You let out a sigh at the same time, fighting the urge to melt into Rocker’s touch as he puts his hand on the small of your back. The whole interaction has you on edge, and you want more than anything to get back in bed with Rocker and let his comforting touch allow you to forget about all of this.
“So, how long has this been going on?” your father asks once you’re all seated. You’re in the middle, like a mediator, and Rocker’s hand is secretly placed on your thigh, rubbing comforting circles. You freeze. Why didn’t you think that he would ask this question? It was bound to come up sooner or later, and you knew your answer would probably set him off again. You can tell by the look in his eyes, however, that he would not brush past this.
“Um, like, 6 months.” you say, and it comes out as more of a question than an answer.
“What?” your father practically yells, eyes wide and fists clenched again. You let out a sigh. This is going to be harder than you thought.
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warnings: 18 ‼️, dry humping, fingering, p in v sex,
// I honestly forgot about this series but I had most of the chapter finished so I figured I would finish it
You shifted in the make shift bed you and Shane were currently sharing. He was clinging to your stomach, his face burred in your chest. Since he found you again he hasn't let you go, he always finds some way of being next to you. It was cute but a little suffocating.
"Shane.." you whisper running your fingers lightly through his hair. You tried not to startle him awake and for the most part you don't.
"Just a few more minutes baby." he mumbles squeezing you a little. You sigh scratching his scalp as your fingers glide through his hair. He said the same thing every morning and every morning you have to push him off.
"We both know that's a lie." you laugh but make no effort to move. Mornings are the only calm silence you get, so you enjoy them.
"Come on, i'm not a lier." he smiles kissing the top of your breast making his way to your neck.
"Hmm, I know at least three people that would say different." you tease.
"you talk to other people?" you feel him smirking against your skin, god he was a smartass.
"This is why people don't like you." his teeth graze your shoulder making you let out a soft gasp.
"But you like me right?" he sits up a little, just enough to see your face.
"I'm starting to rethink that." you smile at him as his lips crash into yours. He kisses you like he needs it his lips slowed against yours.
You keep your hands at the base of his neck while he keeps his on your hips. You've never gone further than kissing, haven't had the time for it. Shane was still kinda leader for the group so he was sent every which way and you tried to make yourself as useful as he was.
His hands slipped under your shirt making your shiver at the warmth. The roughness of them sliding against your soft skin, squeezing the fat of your hips. He swipes his tongue across your bottom lip and you happily open your mouth for him. You're forever grateful Shane isn't the type to shove his tongue down your throat. He licks into you like he's trying to taste you, which at this point you're sure he is.
You wrap your legs around his waist moaning at the feel of his bulge against your clothed core. He pulls away when you grind up against him, breathe caught and lips flushed.
"we should slow down" he mumbles, eyes never leaving your lips.
"I dont want to" you shake your head before leaning up to kiss him again. You could feel him thinking about it, his hands stilled on your waist. "Come on Shane, please?"
"How could I say no to you sweetheart" he dips his head back down to capture your lips once again.
It feels like something snapped, he kiss you with more desperation, his hips grinding against yours. You slide your hands from his neck to his chest before skimming the bottom on his shirt. Tucking your fingers under the soft fabric of his shirt you felt the heat of his skin against you fingers. As you explore the planes of his body his shirt pulls up with your hands.
"take this off" your voice was barely above a whisper but he heard you anyways, pulling back to take it off and toss it somewhere in the tent. He smirks at your eager hands on his chest. Sitting back on his knees he pulls you up with him.
"you too" you blushed as he helps you do the same with your shirt. Before you could even freak out about how exposed you already are he leans in, his hands reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.
Goosbumps prickle across your skin while he slides the straps down your arms, tossing it with your shirt. You grip his biceps trying to will yourself to relax.
"your so pretty baby" he whispers against the skin of your neck. His warm hands sliding down your back to grip your hips once more.
You tighten your legs on his hips as he lays you back down. Kissing his way down your neck he stops to suck at your pulse point, bruising the skin. He cups the fat of your breast as much as he could, squeezing it.
"Shane.." you whine, grinding your hips against his bulge. He smiles against your collar bone, teeth grazing it.
"needy little thing arn't ya" you moan as he takes the bud of your nipple in his mouth, keeping a sweeping hand on the other. You could feel yourself soaked at this point.
"Shane.." you whine again.
"what do you want sweetheart? I need to hear you" he was teasing you but your to desperate to care.
"I need you, please. Please just touch me" you left your hips again shivering at the deep chuckle he can't help but let slip.
He kisses you again pulling away before you could deepen it. Reaching for the button of your shorts you unhook your ankles from behind his waist.
"lift your hips for me" you do as he says, he pulls them off as well as your underwear. Bearing your dripping cunt for him.
"your so wet" your watch his pupils dilate, lips parting in awe. His eyes snap to yours as you squirm under his staring.
Shane ran a finger through the slickness of your folds, his eyes never leaving your face. You let your legs fall open even more, eyes fluttering closed. He brought to fingers to your clit rubbing loose circles around the swollen bud. At your reaching hands he leans back in letting you wrap your arms around his neck.
You arch your back and moan, pushing your bare chest into his. The pads of his fingers building the heat in your lower belly. Clenching around nothing as he continues to rub your puffy clit.
"Feel good baby? your practically drippn' for me" he leaves open mouthed kisses along your neck.
"Feels so good.." you whine, grinding your self against his hand. The squelch of your cunt and soft moans fill the tent.
You feel his thick finger prod at your entrance before he slides it in. He groans at the warmth of your tight hole. His thumb stays rubbing your clit while he works you open with his fingers. The stretch slightly burns as he adds another finger into your dripping cunt.
Shane licked a stripe between your breast his finger never stopping their torment. Moaning his name you arch your back as much as he would allow. Raking your nails down his chest, leaving behind angry red lines. When he adds a third you let out the loudest moan you could manage, cumming around his fingers. Your thighs trembled as he fucks you through it.
"You did so good for me" he praises, kisses your cheek. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath. The sound of a zipper snaps you out of your daze.
Leaning up on your elbows you watch Shane pulled down the last of his clothes. His cock springing free, slapping against his stomach. It was as bigger than you thought. Dripping with pre and an angry red tip. You gulp as he leans back over you, placing a grounding hand by your head to steady himself.
"we can go as slow as you want okay?" you nod, bracing your hands on his arms.
His tip slides through your wet folds before pushing your hole. You tense, fingers squeezing his biceps. He keeps pushing the tip in until your cunt closes around it. His lips parted as you squeeze around him. The burn of the stretch making you whine, scratching angry red lines down his arms.
"your taking me so well sweetheart, just a little more" you moan as his hips come flush with yours.
"its too big" you whine, it felt so full. Tears tickling your lash line.
"I know baby" he mumbled against your cheek kissing it softly. Shane let you adjust for a moment but once he felt you relax a little he pulled his hips back before snapping them forward.
You moaned into his ear, hands sliding up his back. He tried to go slow you could tell but he couldn't help himself. He fucked you so good your brain felt foggy. You whined as he straightened his back, his hands gripping your hips at a bruising force. Cupping his wrist was the only comfort he let you have, his cock sliding in and out of your cunt. Shane moaned at you clenching around him. Your warm and wet cunt gripping his leaky cock.
"you feel so good baby, your pussy just keeps sucking me in" you clench around him again.
You could already feel the band in your stomach tightening. The feel of him stuffing you full driving you to your end.
"Shane! im gonna-" you moan, squeezing his wrist.
"You gonna cum for me baby? Who's making you feel this good huh?" he picks up his pace, his tip threatening to bruise your cervix.
"Shane!" you squeeze your eyes shut.
"That's right. I'm the only one that can stretch this pussy out like this" he grunts. You cum moaning his name, cunt clenching him as hard as you can.
You whine when he pulls out, stroking himself into he cums on your stomach. Painting your skin with thick hot ropes of it. Your clit still throbs and thighs shaking from being pushed open for so long. Still you smiled up at him and he smiles back. Leaning down to kiss you softly. He rolled off you and onto his back.
"Do you think anyone heard?" you looked at him as he laughed.
"defiantly" you groaned hiding your face behind your hands like that could shield you from the consequences.
Summary: Preacher's daughter and trailer park Daryl, no apocalypse, fluff and comfort
Word Count: 475
Note: This is pretty self-indulgent. I wanted to try my hand at writing. Really nervous. Hopefully, I get super good and can start writing more. Just a little something something. Not a long read.
You lay on his thigh, his jeans rough yet comforting against your smooth cheek. There was something playing on your TV not that you were paying attention. Daryl had snuck in your bedroom earlier. Your door locked and your parents asleep.
You're old enough. It shouldn't matter that you have a man in your bedroom. It shouldn't matter that you're dating someone from the 'wrong side of the tracks'. Yet here you are a preacher's daughter dating so called trailer park trash which couldn't be further from the truth.
Daryl's sigh brings you from your thoughts. He seems to be bored with the action movie on the screen and all the commercials playing out before you two. Your eyes lift to the screen just to see the typical, skinny beauty queen that the action hero always gets to kiss and throw his arms around her waist.
Instantly, you grumble and burrow into Daryl's lean, muscular thigh. It's just a reminder of your extra weight and the curves that adorn your body. Curves that society will never accept.
"Hey, ya good?" Daryl's ragged southern accent slices through your thoughts. Pleasant chills run down your spine as his fingers run through your hair and you nuzzle deeper into his steady thigh.
Another grumble leaves your lips and sinks into his denim. Your heart aches as all your insecurities rise to the surface and you can't think of how to open up. How do you tell your boyfriend you feel ugly? How do you choose to be so vulnerable?
You clear your throat and finally open your mouth in the dimly lit bedroom. "I could never be . . .one of those girls." You lift your hand pointing lazily at the sexy, skinny, and scantily clad heroine in the main character's arms on the screen.
"What's that supposed ta mean?" Daryl asks with a slight scoff. He's immediately tensed up, angry with the way you sound self-deprecating.
You sigh, "the main heroine. They are always skinny. Skinny is sexy and all my weight is just . . .well, there's so much." Your cheeks burn and you shift on the bed, springs squeaking while you hide your face in his toned stomach.
His soft sigh fills the late night and caresses your ear. His calloused hands are gentle as they guide you to sitting up. Then, his warm hands cup your cheeks. His pretty blue eyes meet yours.
"You're beautiful. Who cares how much you weigh?" Red races up his neck matching your flushed cheeks. "'Sides, I kinda like it," he adds with a slight curve to his lips.
You take in his genuine words and the TV light bathing his hair in silver. His baby blue eyes and steady hands. Your heart pounds, enamored with the redneck. "I love you." You whisper before brushing your lips over his own.
(MDNI 18+, smut will be eventually happening in this story line but still please respect the MDNI)
(Plus size reader x Negan. In the world of the dead rising, you just happen to fall for the one fucked up person who has no interest in you. And I am aware the timeline doesn't add up but for the story I had to make the timeline longer than a couple months.)
*Trigger Warning - There will be a few hurtful words. Negan is going to be an asshole for the first part of this so if you want the fluff and smut just skip past this chapter. Fatphobia. Eating Disorders. Fat shaming.*
You remember the day that you were found and bought to the Sanctuary by Negan himself. You had been abandoned by your own people and left to die in the woods, Negan and his crew were on their way back home when he spotted you sitting at the base of the tree.
"Well Shit looky here" he said, and you looked up at him as he flung the bat over his shoulder. "You lost little lamb?", you were too scared to reply so you just nodded. "You alone?" again you nodded. "Do you speak?". You took a deep breathe and shallowed the ball of fear that had made it way to your throat "Yes, ummm" you didn't know this man, but holy hell was he hot. "I'm Negan, you may have heard of me?" He questions again.
"No sorry I haven't." You tell him truthfully. "Well fuck me girly you have no fucking idea who I am" He looks shock as he lowers himself to your level, your eyes lock on to his.
"Where did you come from; I own all the survivors in this area?"
"My group never settled down, we were constantly wandering in search of supplies and would bunk down wherever we felt safe."
Negan nodded understanding now how she wouldn't have known him if they were always on the move.
"So where is your group now?"
"They left me here, so I don't know."
"Excuse my fucking language but they fucking left one of their own out in this shithole world, what are you gonna do be walker bait? you don't seem to have any weapons on you, you're as helpless as a baby."
You shrug, "I really don't know what I am going to do."
He gets up quickly, but not before grabbing your hand and making you stand up to.
"You are going to come to the Sanctuary with me. It is safe there, plenty of supplies and you can work for you food and other things,"
"Ok" is all you said as you follow Negan back.
The first night there they didn't have a spare room for you so Negan let you crash in his room while he went and have fun with his wives. You had wanted to object to staying in his room, no doubt you could bunk on the floor anywhere else but he insisted that you had a goodnight sleep and that was that.
For the first time in years, you slept peacefully.
You had lived with Negan as your leader for a few months now. You were thankful for the first time in your life to be a fat person, it meant Negan didn't want you as his wife, you could fly under the radar when it came to that way of living. You had been told many times by the other women there how they all had been asked to be his, but they had decided not to, they were allowed to live and work here.
He had a type as you could tell by the wives that he paraded around the compound daily and the ones he checked out when new people were bought in. His type was the tall skinny type, the ones that would go out nightly and party, who now obeyed him and gave themselves over to him whenever he wanted.
Yes, he was nicer to you than he was to most, he spoke to you with a kind voice, but he never asked you to be his, he never asked you to go hunt the dead down or even fight the ones who threaten to take over. Whenever you had interactions, he would never yell, and would often be smiling at you, of you took it as he was being a friendly leader. He disliked it when his men would interrupt your conversations. You did see his dark side, you saw what he did to people, the punishments, the torture.
After a while you started developing feelings, you tried to deny them, try to tell yourself it was pointless but it never worked, the more he spoke and showed you affection the more harder you fell and it made your heart break every time he had his body wrapped with his wives, it hurt to hear him talk about how they pleased him, how hard he was for them almost every day.
That changes in a blink of an eye.
"Hey Y/N Negan wants you in his office now" Simon says, leading the way to him.
You panic, have you done something wrong, have you not been pulling your weight? Had you missed an order he had given you?
"Come in" Negan says as soon as Simon knocks.
"Sit" He orders you and Simon leaves you two alone.
The room ran cold suddenly, this was not the Negan you knew.
"It has been bought towards me by some of my men that maybe you should have less portions than the others considering how fat you are" Negan smirks, a laugh in voice.
The words cut you like a knife. You look away from the man in front of you. "It really wouldn't hurt to lose a few now, would it?"
All you can do is nod. "Answer me dammit" he screams his hands hitting the desk.
"Yes Negan" you muster up in a quiet voice. "I agree"
"Well alrighty then you can go finish your job then." he says dismissing you. You walk quickly to the bathroom, rushing past people trying to hide the tears.
"You, ok?" A female's voice says from one of the stalls.
You know her, she is one of his wives. "Yeah, I'm fine"
She puffs on a cigarette, "Let me guess you're Y/N?"
"How....did you know that?" You ask wiping your face.
"He talks openly around us, without realizing we hear and remember all, and from the tears he said some hurtful things, right? He has been boasting that shit all week. I am so sorry he said those things."
You shake your head, afraid of saying anything in case she would report it back to Negan.
"It is the truth, I am fat, I could use less food. I am not going to deny it. Less portions for me means more for others."
You leave the bathroom, feeling more shit about yourself than before.
It took about 2 months of planning before you had snuck enough weapons and food to make your get away. Sherry had helped you plan and save up for you to escape when nightfall came, she wanted to give you a chance, something that she didn't have at this point in time.
"Promise me you will never come back here" She asked as she opened the gate for you quietly.
"I promise but you deserve this so much more than I do" You whisper back to her, tears forming in both.
"I know Y/N but if I can help you and the others than maybe one day, I can be free to" she says wiping your tears away.
"You shouldn't have fallen for such a cruel man; I hope you find your happiness out there one day." Sherry gently places her hand on you cheek and smiles then closes the gate, leaving you in the woods once again. You run to the car that she had bargained just for you about 15 minutes away.
Once you started driving away you fought back the urge to cry. You were alone again, traveling to God knows where.
You had been at Alexandria for about 6 months when those trucks came rolling into your home. You had heard the stories about what he had done with Ricks gang and Rick knew that you had been one of his people before you escaped, only he knew the truth, he kept your secrets.
He made sure that each time Negan came to collect you were out scavenging. He wanted to protect you from him, with fears that maybe he would force you to return or hold some grudge over you leaving.
But on this day Negan had decided to come two days early and you looked at Rick for answers, you couldn't run and there was no point hiding as they searched the houses. Today you would be out there, you had just hoped that he didn't recognize you.
"Go over to the garden. Keep yourself blended with them; keep you hat down. He shouldn't bother you." Rick says pushing you to go.
You run over and quickly make yourself look busy, you picked up the small rack and you grabbed a spare hat and put it on, hiding your face.
You heard the tires, the brakes of the trucks squeal and a very familiar voice.
"Well Ricky boy look at you, your so close to pissing yourself aren't you."
You couldn't hear his reply. His men started to grab the goods that you spent time getting for him, a couple of them walked past you are smiling and wolf whistling at you and the others. You could hear him and Rick walking to the pantry, Olivia greeted them.
Negan laughed when Olivia was explaining that they were running out of food and staving.
"You got a fat chick guarding the food, are you sure as hell she not sneaking it at midnight.?" Rick stayed silent and Olivia started crying, you couldn't bear it.
You storm over to Olivia and Negan and slap him hard across the face. You turn to hug Olivia tightly.
"Fuck me, who the fuck do you think you are?" He says rubbing his cheek. You look at Rick from under your hat, "I'm Sorry" you whisper to him as he stares in shock.
"I asked you a question, you are to fucking answer it" he says grabbing you from Olivia pushing you to the floor, aiming Lucille at your face.
The hat still hiding your face, "You come here and take our stuff, that we worked hard on, that I don't care about but to talk shit about someone's weight is the fucking worse thing. You have no right to judge us on appearance." You say getting up, ignoring the protests from your friends and the fact that Lucille was still aimed.
"You must have some lady balls to speak to me like that. Who are you?" He uses Lucille to push the hat off and stops smirking. For the first time in 12 months, he locks eyes with you. Negan cannot believe what he is seeing.
"Y/N." he whispers. He notices that you have changed so much, you look good, not that you didn't look good before he thinks to himself.
"Are we done here?" Rick asks, everyone not sure what is about to happen.
"Leave us, I think I need a word with Y/N alone." Negan places Lucille on his shoulders and one by one they leave. The group questioning Rick about you.
"Have you been here the entire fucking time?" Negan was mad.
"What does it matter?" You respond, eyeing him off.
"You fucking left in the middle of the night. Why?" He growls.
"Not like you cared but so what. One less fat mouth to feed would be a good thing, right?" He can hear the venom in your voice.
Now Negan understands, "So that is why? You were hurt by what I said."
"I am not the only one who wanted to escape you that night." Negan raises and eyebrow., you ignore his question.
"Let me guess, Sherry helped you. I had a feeling when she acted all weird the next day, avoiding me and shit." Negan slams Lucille down onto a coffee table, smashing it.
You don't flinch, you just look at the table, all broken. Wondering if you could repair it.
"AFTER EVERYTHING I DID FOR YOU. " Negan screams. You just breathe deeply.
"I was always thankful for what you did for me, saving me, giving me a bed and a room and a job." you say ignoring the tantrum that he was having.
"THEN WHY LEAVE OVER A STUPID COMMENT?"
"WHY?" You scream back before taking a deep breath "I was already eating less portions, if you or your men even cared to have noticed I only went to 2 dinners a week, I skipped most breakfast and lunches. I was already feeling bad for being fat, the looks I got for having the EXACT amount of food then everyone else confirmed what everyone was thinking and then you go and listen to your men and ask me to cut down more without even consulting me."
You tell him the truth; you were starving yourself anyway.
"You acted like an asshole; you could have maybe noticed that I was trying to change but you didn't." You spit back at him.
"So, you come to ole Ricky boy here and he takes you under his wing?" Negan eyes blacken as his says Rick's name.
"They saved me from a horde, I was stupid enough to try something and got overrun and stuck for a couple days on the roof of a shop. Simple as that, Negan."
"YOU WOULDN'T HAVE GOT STUCK IF YOU HAD STAYED WITH ME" Negan shouts the anger is bad once again. "I never asked you to scavenge, I kept you inside for a reason. I didn't want you to get hurt. I was always nice to you; did you not notice that?"
"And that is why your men did what they did, you showed me kindness, you showed them weakness, so when they came to you, telling you lies, and shit and you felt scared and put on the Big Bad Wolf pants and did what you did."
"I have nothing more to say to you Negan. So, get the shit Rick and the rest of us have collected for you and get out." You look at him straight in the eyes, he just stares at you sternly, pointing Lucille at you. "If you were anybody else, I would have killed you."
With that he turns his heels and stomps out, you hear shouting and the sound of the trucks being loaded. Once the gate closes, you break down crying.
You feel Rick hugging you as you cry.
The next time you run into Negan, he a prisoner in Alexandria.
You could tell Daryl liked you before he ever said anything. The way his face lit up when he talked to you. The fact that he talked to you alone was enough to prove his feelings. Sticking to his usual people but adding you to the list along the way.
He would also bring you little gifts he found on runs. Cute little stuffed animals or maybe just a notebook. At first it was about giving you something but then it turned more into just a reason to talk to you. But he liked the grateful look on your face and your thanks anyways.
Carol was teasing you about it everyday, though she probably teased him more. A blush spread across your face as everyone else chimed in. He was that obvious.
"You know, words work too." he brought you a teddy bear with the words I love you stitched in the belly.
"Not good with words." you smile at him. He's so cute.
He waited at least a month to kiss you. You thought he was the type of guy to jump you as soon as he could. Daryl waited until it was just the two of you alone in the dark. Moving slowly as he gets closer and closer it was painfully slow leaving you to rush in.
You could tell he was surprised, his blue eyes widening a little. But you just smile against his lips enjoying his shyness. Not that he was shy for long. His rough hands cupping your face, pulling you closer to him. His tongue sliding across your bottom lip getting you to open up.
From then on he was much more affectionate with his touch. Never around anyone else just when it's the two of you. You never followed the same rules but kept it pg, just to show he was yours. He thought it was funny that you got so jealous. Even going as far as scoffing every time you said someone was looking at him for too long.
"Im serious, you're too handsome." you sigh, looking actually troubled. It made him smile that you thought he was handsome.
"Don't matter." you had to learn very early in your relationship that you would have to read between the lines. Daryl almost never outright said what he meant you always had to dicier his code.
It was part of the fun.
// hi guys ive been feeling a little writers block so sorry for all the blurbs 😔
Summary: Across every stage of the outbreak, your physical relationship with Daryl mirrors his emotional growth from detached survivor to a man who worships and protects the one person he refuses to lose.
Classification and content warnings: Smut +18 | Rough sex, consensual but primal encounters, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex, biting, marking, mild choking and creampies.
Temporal setting: Season 1 to 11
Word count: 4,5k
Divider by me ;)
Quarry Camp:
In the early days, the world was fresh in its death, nerves raw with everyone on edge.
Daryl was a ghost at the edges of the group, crossbow always in hand, resentment simmering under his skin from Merle’s absence and the constant babysitting of these soft strangers. You were useful, another set of eyes, a decent shot and not afraid to get dirty. That was all it was.
He didn’t talk much, never did but one night after a supply run gone tense, the quarry’s humid air thick with insect noise and distant moans of the dead, he cornered you behind the tree line, away from the flickering campfires. His hand landed heavily on your hip, callused fingers digging in as yours did the same over the tent in his jeans.
“Need this,” he growled low, more a statement than a question.
He spun you against a thick trunk, rough bark scraping your palms as he yanked your pants down just enough. His own jeans were shoved low on his hips, cock already hard and leaking from the day’s pent-up rage and there was no kissing.
He spat in his palm, slicked himself once and pushed in a raw and thick, burning stretch that made your teeth clench. He fucked like he was punishing the world with brutal, shallow thrusts at first and then deeper, hips snapping with frustrated force. One hand fisted your hair while the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as grunts and low curses spilled from him.
“Fuck…tight…f–shit,” voice gravelly and breathless.
It was quick and ugly. He came with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he forcefully pulled out, then quickly tucked himself away while you were still catching your breath, slick dripping down your thighs. He quickly wiped you with a rag from his pocket, offered a nod and he was gone back to his tent. There was no aftercare or additional words because it was a matter of convenience and release, in the same way he would scratch an itch or hunt for food.
CDC:
The CDC felt like false hope wrapped in sterile walls. Everyone was drunk on wine and the illusion of safety while Daryl was still on the outside of the main room, distrust thick in his veins but the alcohol loosened his tongue just a fraction. You ended up in a dim side corridor after everyone else had passed out or paired off.
He was a little less feral here, still no tenderness but the frustration had changed into survival-fueled need mixed with the knowledge that tomorrow might be the end. He pulled you into a shadowed lab room and bent you over a cold metal table, pushing your jeans down and shoving your shirt up so he could look at your strengthening back muscles. His mouth was on your neck this time, biting more than kissing, teeth scraping skin as he lined up and sank in with one rough thrust.
“Keep quiet,” he muttered against your ear with a thick voice. His pace was steadier but still punishing, hips slapping loud in the empty room as the table creaked under you.
He reached around, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing in messy circles, it was in no way skilled, mostly effective. You clenched around him and he cursed, low and filthy, pounding in harder as sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. When he came it was with a bitten-off groan, hips flush against your ass as he pulsed inside.
He lingered a second longer than at the quarry, forehead pressed briefly to your shoulder while he caught his breath but then he pulled out, helped yank your pants up with a grunt and left. This time, it was convenience with the faintest edge of mutual reliance now since you watched each other’s backs out there more than once.
Hershel’s Farm:
The farm brought fragile stability as days blurred into chores, patrols and quiet nights. Daryl was more integrated but still prickly, especially after Sophia. You hunted together now as silent but efficient partners in the woods and inevitably, that shared competence started bleeding into everything else.
Sex wasn’t random anymore. It happened after long days tracking, in abandoned barns or deep in the woods where no one wandered. He still didn’t do ‘soft’ but there was more of a rhythm now and he made sure you came at least once.
One evening after a successful hunt, blood still under his nails, he tugged you up the ladder into the hayloft, moonlight filtering through the slats. He stripped you slowly, your shirt went first but he still hesitated to touch anywhere else. When he pushed inside, you were on your back in the hay, legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts were deep and grinding, less frantic than before but still very blunt. Skin slapped and heavy breathing filled the space with the occasional low “Yeah…like that,” when you moaned or tightened around him.
He watched your face more, studying reactions like he studied tracks. One hand pinned your wrist above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could hit deeper. Sweat-slick and grunting, he fucked you until your legs shook and when you came, he didn’t stop, just kept that relentless pace until he followed, burying himself with a ragged groan and staying there longer, hips twitching.
Afterwards, he didn’t leave right away. He rolled off but stayed close, one arm draped heavy over your waist while you both breathed heavily. There was no ‘love talk’ or any real cuddling but there was a quiet acknowledgment, you were not just a warm body anymore. You were the one who moved silently with him through the trees, the one who didn’t flinch at his scars or his moods.
Respect was starting to root, even if feelings were still buried deep under layers of loss and survival.
The road after the barn burned:
The farm was ash and the group was scattered on the road, exhausted, hungry and hunted while nights were cold and the days brutal. You and Daryl fell into a rhythm of scouting ahead, hunting small game and watching each other’s backs without needing words.
The sex became less about pure frustration and more about grounding each other in the chaos, two hardened survivors stealing heat and release when the weight of leadership and loss pressed too heavy.
One night the group camped in a tight circle of cars off a forgotten highway. You slipped away together into the tree line, far enough for privacy but close enough to hear if walkers or threats appeared. Daryl pulled you behind a thick oak, his crossbow leaned nearby within easy reach.
The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. He was dirt-streaked and tense but his hands were sure when he turned you to face the tree. “C’mere,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel though you were starting to like it. He tugged your pants and underwear down to your knees in one motion, then freed himself, he was already hard, thick and flushed, veins prominent from the day’s adrenaline. He spat into his palm again, an old habit but this time he reached around and worked the slickness over your entrance with two rough fingers, opening you up properly for the first time in weeks.
When he pushed in it was still shallow, still a stretch that burned so good, too good, but slower. He bottomed out with a heavy exhale against the back of your neck while one arm braced on the trunk above your head, the other wrapped around your waist, holding you steadily against him. His thrusts started deep and rolling, in long strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, yet the slap of skin was muffled by the night. He grunted softly with each thrust, breath hot on your skin.
“Fuck…you feel good,” he admitted between clenched teeth. It definitely wasn’t sweet talk, it sounded more like pure honesty, a bit surprising. His hand slid down, callused fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm, steady circles in time with his hips.
He was learning your body now, paying attention to the way you clenched and gasped, so when your legs started to shake, he didn’t speed up, he kept that relentless pace until you came hard around him, biting your own arm to stay quiet.
Only then did he let go, hips snapping sharper as he chased his own release. He came with a low, broken groan, pressing deep and staying buried while he pulsed inside you, forehead dropped to your shoulder.
For a long minute he just breathed there with you, arm still banded around your middle like he just remembered what came after this. He pulled out carefully, helped you fix your clothes with surprisingly gentle hands, then wiped himself with a rag before offering it to you.
You hunted together the next morning like always and the respect was palpable now. He trusted you with his life out there and the sex had become another way you took care of each other in a world that took everything.
The prison (Before the Governor):
Prison walls finally offered something like safety with its cells, fences and routines. Daryl was more settled but still carried the weight of the group on his shoulders.
You two shared a cell more often than not as the weeks passed and the sex reflected that. It was still rough around the edges but laced with intimacy born of partnership since you had bled together, killed together and kept the group alive together.
Late one night after a long watch shift, the prison was quiet except for distant walker groans outside the fences. You were in the lower bunk of a cell in another block, the place you usually went to when you needed to get away from the group. Daryl climbed in after you, his body heavy and warm as he pressed you into the thin mattress. No words were needed before he stripped you both efficiently, hands roaming your sides and mapping scars he had memorized by now.
He settled between your thighs, cock heavy and leaking against your soaked pussy. This time he took his time entering, thick inch by inch, watching your face in the dim light filtering through the bars. Once he was fully seated he paused, hips flush, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. “Good?” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. You nodded and he started moving deeply with precise thrusts that rocked the bunk frame quietly. His mouth found your neck then, sucking marks that would be hidden by a high-neck shirt in the morning.
He fucked you like a man who knew exactly what you needed after a hard day. One hand pinned your hip while the other braced beside your head and the angle let him grind against your clit with every thrust. His grunts were low and guttural, “That’s it…take it…fuck, too good of a habit to quit.” The words slipped out heavily with the truth of your partnership as he was claiming you in the only way he knew how.
When you came he rode it out, stroking you through it until you were trembling, then he let himself go, burying deep with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he filled you. He collapsed half on top of you afterward, breathing hard against your neck with one arm wrapped around your waist. He didn’t pull out immediately, he stayed inside you, softening, while his thumb stroked lazy circles on your skin, yet there were no grand declarations but the protectiveness was there in every touch. You were his hunting partner, his cellmate, the one person he let see the cracks and he realized how respect had become bone-deep loyalty.
The prison (After the Governor):
The Governor’s attack left scars, literal and otherwise. The prison was damaged, the group fractured and trust in short supply. Daryl was darker now, angrier and more withdrawn after losing so many, as a result, the sex turned fiercer, punishing in its intensity but it was still the one place where the two of you could reconnect without the weight of leadership crushing you.
After a brutal day reinforcing defenses and scouting for revenge, he found you in that same secluded cell block and tension rolled off him in waves, same with you. He pushed you against the cold concrete wall, removing your boots, yanking your pants down roughly while his own were haphazardly shoved low by you. He was rock hard, angry-hard and he spat on his cock before hiking your thigh up and driving into you in one brutal thrust.
“Need you,” he growled against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. There was no warmup that time, he fucked you hard and fast with deep, punishing strokes that lifted you onto your toes. The slap of skin echoed as his hand wrapped around your throat lightly, holding you possessively while the other remained at your thigh, fingers gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me too,” he snarled between thrusts, voice cracking with everything he wouldn’t say outright.
It was desperate and sweat dripped. Your moans mixed with his grunts as he angled to hit that spot inside you relentlessly until you shattered around him, clenching so tight he cursed viciously. He followed right after, slamming deep and staying there, cock pulsing as he spilled hot and thick inside you with a long moan.
He stayed pressed against your front for a long time, breathing ragged, arms caging you in until he softened and pulled out, resting his forehead against yours for a silent moment, allowing rare vulnerability. Then he helped clean you up with hands steadier than his mood.
The partnership was ironclad now, he would kill for you without hesitation and the sex was how he reminded you and himself that you were still here, still his to protect in this brutal world. There weren’t any feelings yet but the foundation was set, layered with deep respect, fierce loyalty and a bone-deep need that only grew stronger with every loss.
Alexandria (Before Negan):
Alexandria’s walls felt like a different world between the clean houses, running water and the people still trying to pretend the dead weren’t out there. Daryl was uncomfortable with the softness and domesticity but he was adapting. You two had a house now, a shared space and inevitably, the sex changed noticeably. The frustration and pure convenience were gone since respect had deepened into vulnerability and feelings started to surface in the quiet moments after, now that there was a space they could live in safely.
One night the house was quiet and the neighborhood asleep. You were in the bedroom you shared, moonlight cutting through the curtains when Daryl came back from a late watch, still wired. He found you already in bed and stripped slowly, eyes locked on you the entire time and when he climbed over you, his touch was still callused and sure but there was a new reverence in it.
He kissed you now in deep, hungry kisses that tasted like want and something softer. His mouth trailed down your neck, sucking marks you no longer hid and he took his time undressing you, hands mapping every inch like he was memorizing you all over again.
When he finally pushed inside, it was slow and thick, stretching you open with a groan that vibrated against your throat, though you didn’t need to be quiet now.
“Goddamn…always so good for me,” he murmured, voice rough but laced with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. His hips rolled in deep and steady thrusts, they had grown confident and controlled, hitting every spot that made your back arch. He was fully present, watching your face and adjusting his angle whenever your breath caught.
One hand laced with yours above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper.
The pace built gradually making your skin slick with sweat as the bed creaked softly. He ground against your clit with every thrust, low grunts mixing with your moans. “Been keeping those sounds away from me? Those are mine now,” he whispered against your lips, it was the first time he said it quite like that, claiming in a way that carried weight. When you came he rode it through, kissing you through the tremors, then let himself follow, burying deep with a ragged groan as he filled you, hips stuttering with the intensity of it.
He stayed inside you for a long minute, then rolled you both so you were draped over his chest, arms wrapped around you as one hand stroked slowly up and down your back. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, small and hesitant but at least there was no more bolting and no more walls to keep up. The feelings were there now, quiet and extremely terrifying for a man who had lost everything. He held you like you were the one thing in this world he refused to let slip away.
The Hilltop:
Hilltop brought new alliances, new dangers and new responsibilities. The relationship had settled into something solid by then as sex reflected his growing confidence, he knew what he wanted, knew what you needed and he gave it without hesitation.
You stole a night in one of the smaller trailers on the outskirts. The air was cooler, tension from recent runs still humming under his skin as he pulled you onto the narrow bed, stripping you both with practiced hands. He was harder and more assured now in what the two of you had built.
He went down on you first, something that had become more common. His rough stubble scraped your inner thighs, tongue and lips relentless and skilled from practice before two thick fingers curled inside you while he sucked on your clit until your hips bucked and you came against his mouth with a muffled cry. Only then did he climb up, cock heavy and dripping as he slid into your soaked pussy in one smooth thrust.
“Fucking…perfect,” he growled, voice low and gravelly. His thrusts were powerful and confident in deep, rolling strokes that made the bed frame knock against the wall. He pinned your wrists lightly, mouth on your neck, sucking fresh marks while he fucked you steady and hard. He changed angles until he found the one that made you keen, then exploited it mercilessly, hips snapping with precision.
The possessiveness was stronger now, mixed with open care. “Stay with me,” he rasped between thrusts. “Ain’t losin’ you out there.” When you clenched around him and came again he groaned loudly, following you over the edge and burying himself to the hilt as he spilled hot and deep, hips grinding through the pulses.
After, he cleaned you both with a warm cloth from the basin, then pulled you tight against him under the thin blankets. His hand rested on your hip, thumb stroking lazy circles and he talked more now, just quiet murmurs about the day, about worries for the group and about how you made the weight feel bearable. The man who once fucked you against a tree and left was gone, this Daryl held you like you were home.
Alexandria (After Negan):
Negan’s shadow had left its mark of blood, loss, captivity and war. Daryl was harder again in some ways but with you he was open like he never was before. The sex, when he could finally indulge in it, was emotional, a release and a reaffirmation that you both had survived. He had lost too many and the fear of losing you fueled everything.
Back in your shared house in Alexandria, the first night after Negan and the Saviors were successfully defeated by the group, he was on you the moment the door closed and he kissed you like a man drowning with deep and desperate hands roaming everywhere. Clothes came off in a frantic trail to the bedroom and once you reached it, he lifted you onto the bed, spread your thighs wide and buried his face between them first, eating you out with single-minded hunger until you were shaking and oversensitive.
Then he was inside you, thick and stretching you out perfectly. He fucked you with deep, shallow strokes, hips snapping against yours with control. Every thrust carried the weight of relief, love he still struggled to name and inevitably, the fear of tomorrow.
“Can’t lose you,” he growled against your mouth, voice breaking. “You hear me? You’re it for me.”
He laced your fingers together, pinning your hands beside your head while he drove into you. The pace was relentless and the sound of skin slapping obscene as sweat-slick bodies moved together. He watched your face the entire time, drinking in every moan and flutter like it was the first time and when you came he didn’t stop, he kept fucking you through it until you were sobbing his name and cumming again, then finally let go with a deep, guttural moan, emptying himself inside you in long, pulsing waves that sounded painful.
He collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you so tight it was almost bruising. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in and apologizing for being so “gone” which you immediately corrected even as he pressed soft kisses to your temple and shoulder. His hand stroked your hair, your back and anywhere he could reach because there was no hiding anymore, the feelings were overflowing and terrifying. He whispered rough promises against your skin, about how he would always come back to you and how he would protect what you had built together.
This Daryl was confident, devoted and deeply in love, even if the words still came slowly. The evolution was complete in its own way, from frustrated quick fucks in the woods to this raw, emotional and unbreakable connection without a place to hide.
The Commonwealth:
Years had carved their marks deep into both of you. The Commonwealth offered structure, safety, even a fragile sense of normalcy with its bustling streets, electricity and attempts at governance but Daryl had seen too many utopias crumble. You were the one constant he refused to lose, the one person who had walked every mile of hell beside him, from quarry dirt to these polished Commonwealth streets. The sex between you now was no longer just release or partnership, it was love made physical and intricate, a language only the two of you fully understood. It was slow when time allowed and desperate when the ghosts pressed close, always profound.
One night in your shared apartment, modest by Commonwealth standards but private and secure, Daryl returned from a long day helping with outer perimeter checks. The weight of old habits lingered in his shoulders, his crossbow still strapped nearby even there.
You met him at the door and the moment his eyes locked on yours, the tension changed. He pulled you into a deep, claiming kiss, hands sliding under your shirt to feel warm skin, thumbs brushing the familiar scars he knew by heart and clothes were shed without rush but with purpose, leaving a trail through the living room into the bedroom. The bed was larger than any you had shared before, dressed in soft sheets that still felt foreign against skin used to rough blankets and forest floors.
Daryl laid you down like something precious, his body covering yours, heavy, solid and safe while his mouth explored with patient hunger, kissing down your throat, across your collarbone, sucking one nipple until it pebbled under his tongue while his callused hand palmed the other breast. He moved lower, broad shoulders spreading your thighs wide as he settled between them.
His stubble scraped deliciously against sensitive skin while his tongue parted your folds, licking long, slow stripes before focusing on your clit with precise, relentless circles. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right, pumping steadily as he sucked and licked until your back arched and your fingers fisted in his long hair. He didn’t stop when you came the first time, drawing it out and savoring every flutter and gasp, murmuring low praises against your slick flesh, “Tha’s it…let me hear ya…so fuckin’ beautiful f’me.”
When he finally climbed back up, his cock was heavy, flushed dark and leaking. He held your gaze as he pushed in, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.
A deep groan escaped him at the tight heat and for a long moment he stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing the same air. “Can’t lose you,” he whispered, voice rough and cracked with years of unsaid terror. “Lost too many…not you, never you. I’ll be selfish ‘bout tha’”
Then he began to move in deep, rolling thrusts that ground against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips moved with confident precision, the years of learning your body were evident in every stroke. One hand laced with yours, pinning it beside your head as the other gripped your hip, tilting you just right so he could sink even deeper.
The rhythm built gradually, skin sliding hot and slick together as the wet sounds of sex filled the room alongside his low grunts and your moans. He kissed you through it, messily and open-mouthed, tongues tangling as his pace turned harder and more possessive. He moved to hook one of your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle until you were crying out with every thrust. “Gonna marry ya,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing the skin he had marked a thousand times before. “‘S always been ya. My home…my reason.” The words were sparse but heavy with everything he felt, the love, the fear and devotion of a man who had finally found something worth living for after the world ended.
When you came again, clenching hard around him, he rode it out with gritted teeth, prolonging your pleasure until you were trembling and oversensitive. Only then did he let go, thrusts turning deep and erratic, hips snapping as he buried himself as far as possible and came with a long, broken groan. You felt every pulse, every hot spurt of thick cum as he filled you, marking you from the inside like he always had. He stayed buried deep, hips making tiny, involuntary rocks while he softened, savoring the connection. His arms wrapped around you, rolling you both so you were draped across his chest as his hand stroked slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.
For a long time the room was quiet except for slowing breaths and distant Commonwealth night sounds. Daryl pressed kisses to your hair, your temple and shoulder, as small reverent touches that spoke volumes. His fingers traced old scars on your body, then newer ones, making a silent catalog of everything you had survived together as he murmured quietly about the day, about worries for Judith and the others and about how you made the weight of survival feel bearable.
CW: 18+ Sexual Content, Heed the Prompt, Gore, Blood, Dub-Con-ish, This is not the cannibalism you're expecting, but it is the cannibalism you need🫵 This is not my EJ but it is a really fun one.
KINKTOBER '24 MASTERLIST
You couldn't help the gag that escaped as his lips pressed greedily against yours, teeth clipping against your mouth over and over, sending shocks of pain through you. You weren't sure what exactly the liquid running down your chin was, the possibilities almost endless. Most likely it was a mixture of blood and saliva, but tar was a definite possibility based on the taste.
A low growl-like noise came from the gray man on top of you, his nails digging into the meat on your waist and holding you firmly in place. Your stomach felt queasy, eyes watering as you fought to keep your stomach contents in place. You couldn't understand his need for this, eyes flitting around his bleeding body. Was that blood? Or more tar, maybe?
The sight of him injured was not only rare but something you previously thought to be impossible before today. His own nails tore into his thick skin, a deep gash on his wrist causing your stomach to lurch in disgust. The flesh hung off his arm, wet and dripping onto your shaking bare chest.
Goosebumps lined your body as you shivered, his freezing skin pressed against yours as he sunk his tongues deeper into your mouth. The slimy feeling of one trying to slide down your throat had you ripping away, gasping for air as you looked down at the disgusting mess that was your naked body. Tar-like blood dripped off steadily, heating your cool skin–it was the only warm part of his body.
You looked up at him, cringing as you met his empty sockets. He was leaking from them heavier than usual, his mouth panting and open to reveal the teeth that could tear you open with no struggle.
“Jack,” you called, looking up at him sweetly. As though that would calm him and aid your situation. “I'm not hungry,” you eased, “it's okay.” After getting his blood in your mouth, the taste being more rancid than the familiar copper you were used to, you were more than simply not hungry.
He only shook his head, the thick blood running from his arm creating a deep puddle on the floor below you both. His mouth opened to speak, voice raspy and more beast than human by this point. Your body involuntary cowered upon hearing it. You knew the score.
“You have to eat.” Was it worth arguing? Could you even dream of winning any type of fight with the beast in front of you? You felt your stomach rolling at the thought of what was likely next for you. His mouth was on your neck, his teeth nicking your skin and allowing more blood to drain from your body. The thought of his tar getting in your wounds had you wide eyed, worried for your safety as you thought about the potential consequences.
“You have,” he growled out, the words low and more serious than before. “To eat.” You couldn't help but close your eyes as they teared up, sucking your mouth against your teeth with a whimper that begged for mercy. He was tearing the loose flesh that hung from his forearm, the sight of it ripping down his arm causing you to gag into your fist, blood blooming to the surface after a few seconds. The sight of his insides in those few seconds before the blood oozed over everything had you shaking in your spot on the cold ground.
“I can't–,” you're cut off by his mouth on yours, his hands spreading open your thighs as he lays against you. He's stroking the back of your head gently, as though that's enough to ease your panic. It does nothing to steady the shake in your limbs.
“I'll help,” he says, his voice low against your neck, hips beginning to move against yours. “I'll make it easier,” he eases, your eyes screwing shut as you feel his hardness against your inner thigh, trying to shove down the flutter in your stomach as you feel him.
You can't protest as he slowly guides his tip against you, up and down slowly as his sockets gaze at you, gauging your reactions. His mouth is sucking bites down your chest as he eases himself against you. He slides into you without warning, and you whine as you feel the stretch and burn.
His thumb is rubbing against your clit slowly as he eases into you, his mouth working against yours to muffle the noises that escape you. Your legs spasm as he pushes deeper inside you, sparks shooting through your core as he rubs slow circles against you. It doesn't burn nearly as much when he makes you feel good, and he smiles knowing that.
“See?” He whispers in your ear as he begins to move against you, hips rolling slowly at first. “I'll make it easy.” You want to curse at him, to tell him it won't be any easier at all–but you're far too busy moaning as he fucks into you.
Before you can register it, your eyes are opening to his open arm wound being forced against your lips, the tar-like blood filling your mouth and coating your teeth in a revolting thick film. You gag against his gray skin, trying to pull away but unable as you feel him pinch your clit, sending shocks straight through you. The flesh he'd torn off was still connected, chewy against your teeth.
Your nails dig into his shoulders pitifully, the only sounds able to escape being whimpers. You're shaking in his grasp, tears spilling over as his blood slides down your throat unwillingly.
“Swallow,” he commands, his voice gentle but firm. You shake your head, unable to tear the flesh from his arm and eat it. The idea of it being in your mouth has you trying to move your head away, only to be stopped as he tears it off for you, shoving it past your teeth with his fingers. You cough, the texture of it not only rubbery but wet and slimy.
He picks up the pace of his hips, shooting conflicting pleasure through you as your mouth struggles. Your legs are closing around him, doing their best to keep him flush against you. Completely opposite, your head thrashes away from him, a battle that you're slowly losing.
You're writhing under him, your walls clenching around his dick as he fucks into you deeply. A whimper escapes you, the flesh finally making its way to the back of your throat as your fight gives out. He's shushing you, his voice soft, an attempt at reassuring you. You gag and sputter as it slides down your throat, your body spasming in both disgust and pleasure.
You're gasping, mouth free from the chunk of flesh but still filled with his blood, the taste causing you to almost throw up everything you've managed to keep down. He's kissing you again, sucking on your tongue as he pushes his body against yours. Now that you're able to focus almost entirely on the way he feels, you feel yourself tensing as you clench around him, sucking him in.
He's groaning against your mouth, pleased beyond belief that you did as he asked. You can hear the adoration in his voice, sweet praises for how well you did pouring from him. A heat in your core has you clenching your legs around him, back arching as you cum. The sounds you make as you find your release has him sighing, savoring the noises that escape you.
You barely feel him pull out, nor do you process his words as he soothes you, his bloodied hands rubbing up and down your body. Does he notice the mess he's made of you? Does he care? Or is this his form of care?
CAST | jack nyras (eyeless jack), the operator (slenderman), the rake, jeffrey woods (jeff the killer)
WC | 26.3k
GENRE | horror, slight angst, smut, strangers to lovers, captive x kidnapper
WARNINGS | semi-canon & non-canon origin stories, references to slender: the eight pages, references to the proxies but no appearances, explicit language, explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption (casual), smoking (cigarettes), dissection, medical torture, surgery without anesthesia, non-consensual injections, gore, de-gloving, cannibalism, attempted murder, murder, murder cover-ups, stabbing, strangling, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, scarification, biting, scratching, bruising, extremely rough sex, hair pulling, spanking, choking, oral (fem receiving), degradation, knotting, breeding, unprotected sex, overstimulation
SYNOPSIS | as a graduate student finishing up your final rotation, you’re quite used to the monotony of the laboratory. there are only three things on your mind until graduation — dissecting dead mice, finishing your thesis, and securing a recommendation from your professor. that is, until your professor proposes a new project with a new subject — and this one isn’t giving in without a fight.
A/N | this fic is special to me because it’s been a full decade since the last time i wrote for the pastas but i’m back and i hope people enjoy this fic — please reblog or comment if you do!! it was super super fun to write this and i hope to write more for the pastas very soon ;) inspiration behind jack’s three tongues are from @rainrot4me and @yuriversal. i was also inspired by @cryingintheclubdhmu’s interpretation of jack and by @bloodblanks’s works to write for creepypasta again in general. love to see the fandom alive and thriving in 2026!!
request to be added to current and future taglists here!
MASTERLIST | CREEPYPASTA MASTERLIST
prologue.
Despite the fact that it was late summer, when the junebugs were thick in the air and the cicadas chirped loudly, the wind had a chill to it as it blew straight through Jack’s hooded silhouette. There was so much life fleeing with him — the aforementioned noisy insects, the fluttering birds overhead, even a deer with velvety antlers bounding alongside him momentarily before being scared off further into the woods by a stray bullet.
With all of that life surrounding him, it was a shame he was about to die.
Jack’s feet pound heavily against the ground as he pushes himself faster, further. He kicks up dirt and leaves, twigs snap beneath his boots as his desperation grows. His heart hammers in his chest, uneven and panicked, as yet another bullet whizzes past his head — this time just barely missing him. Jack curses under his breath, inhaling deeply as sweat trickles down his temple, his face suffocating beneath his mask.
Just a little further.
Trying to duck beneath a low hanging tree branch, Jack slows momentarily, using the moment to turn around and look at his perpetrators. Much to his dismay, he can’t see anyone — only hear them, and smell them as they grow closer.
Not wasting another moment, Jack speeds off again, hoping that he’s far enough into the Operator’s territory that the Rake might get to them before they can get to him.
He keeps running, until he feels a sharp pain in his side and his knees buckle one by one.
Once his head hits the forest floor — hard — he doesn’t see, nor feel, any more.
The last thing he hears is the cicadas and crickets, jeering at him before everything fades into silence all at once.
i.
You might need to do something about that, you tell yourself with annoyance.
Although your home isn’t fancy by any measures, and it’s an extremely temporary living situation, you feel as if you’re entitled to a living space that doesn’t literally leak.
Quite the pleasant way to start your morning, being awoken by the sound of water droplets pitter pattering into the growing puddle in the corner of your room. Supposing that it’ll be worse to put it off, you sit up in bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and pushing your covers back. The air is chilly, unusual for this time of year, and your teeth chatter a little as your bare feet make contact with the cold wooden floor. It creaks loudly with each careful step you take over to the sopping corner, and you suck in a breath as you see the extensive amount of water that’s made itself welcome during your once peaceful slumber.
Much less careful and much more awake now that you’ve assessed the situation, you stomp over to your closet and pull out a towel, throwing it onto the puddle and watching the fabric darken with dampness. Using your foot, you step on the towel gingerly until it seems the puddle is gone, and you run to retrieve a bucket of sorts while you dial your landlord’s number on your phone.
“No, it’s literally dripping right now — I swear, I can send you a video,” you say, quite irritated as your landlord denies it. You hold the phone to your ear with your shoulder, thrusting a large pot beneath the drip as your landlord insists that the building couldn’t possibly have any such issues; he’d inspected it personally before you moved in.
“I refuse to be late for work because of this. It’s leaking, and I expect it to be fixed by the time I come back!” you shout, gripping your phone with more strength than necessary. You’d never even taken a negative tone with your landlord before, but seeing that this was a temporary situation, you couldn’t care less what the stupid man thought about you as a tenant.
Your alarm goes off at that exact moment, reminding you that it’s your last chance to look decent for the day before you really have to leave. You glance down at your phone, turning the alarm off and exhaling deeply. Just a few more months of this, and then you’d have your degree and a job lined up for you.
For now — work was your priority. It would just be nice if little inconveniences could stop building up and getting in the way of that.
—
The chill that permeated your bones as soon as you stepped out of bed should have been a sign, but you were so scatterbrained about being late that it didn’t hit you until you stepped outside.
This weather was the sort that could penetrate through layers of clothing with ease, and there it would stay all day until you could truly warm yourself at night beneath the covers once more. It was wet and soggy and downright melancholy. It certainly didn’t help you want to go to work on such a dismal day, especially not when you had no desire to go in the first place. Although it was your priority, it didn’t cancel out the fact that you were exhausted and ready to graduate from the laboratory.
Your fingers are already going numb as you fumble with your keys, managing to lock your door after a few pathetic misses. You bring your hands up to your face, exhaling warm air into your enclosed palms, attempting to warm yourself up as you walk to your car.
Chilled dew rests upon each blade of grass, dampening your shoes as you wearily trek across the neatly trimmed lawn of your apartment complex. Despite its upkeep, the short green blades are still long enough to tickle your ankles beneath your pant legs, making your face twitch as you grimace and try to ignore the annoying feeling. The soles of your shoes squeak against the moist vegetation, sinking lightly into the mud and ensuring that your steps are as quick as possible, so that you don’t sink in further.
Your headlights gleam yellow through the foggy morning, and the familiar beep of your car welcomes you as it unlocks, your thumb summoning it to life with one swift press of your keys. Droplets of rain slither down the roof of your car as it roars to life, dripping down and soaking into the sleeve of your sweater as you swing open your car door.
Before you step into your car, something inside of you calls for you to look around. The early morning is somewhat eerie in the thick fog, and although you’re used to being awake when not many others are, something about today feels… off.
Just behind your apartment complex and designated parking lot is a man-made field, and just beyond that is a line of trees, the entrance to a thick and dense forest. You shiver a little as you peer into the lush foliage, which looks especially green and wild from the recent rain. The faint sound of dripping water echoes towards you, seemingly from deep in the woods between the hefty trees.
A flock of birds suddenly flies out from the treeline — crows most likely, from how they’re cawing, and their coal black feathers. It startles you at first, your heart nearly pounding out of your chest before you realize it’s only a few birds and nothing more.
Even so, you hurry and get inside your car, locking the doors as quickly as possible and starting your engine.
One of the crows lands on the hood of your car, making your grip tighten on the wheel out of surprise once more. It hops closer, seemingly tittering to itself as its beak opens and closes. Its beady black eye bores deep into your own eyes, unblinking and dark, before it flies off, its caws echoing in your ears.
What the fuck?
You try to ignore it, but the way the bird seemed to be trying to communicate something didn’t help ease the feeling that something felt off about today. It was probably nothing, you try to tell yourself.
But nothing else consumes your mind the way that does — and before you know it, you’re parked in your spot at the laboratory, your clammy hands still gripping the steering wheel much tighter than necessary. Focus, idiot, focus, you murmur to yourself, as you gather your things and step out of your car, at least remembering to lock it in your apparently scrambled state.
The weather is just as, if not more dismal at the laboratory. It was to be expected — it’s not too far from your apartment complex, and the weather around the laboratory was unusually intense, even when it was agreeable elsewhere close by.
It’s in fact sprinkling a bit as you walk up the sidewalk to the front entrance of the laboratory, and you can tell that it has been for a short while. The tiny droplets of rain make their appearance known on the concrete surrounding you, darkening the ground as it dampens it. The smell of rain is stronger here too; the wet stone and earth is almost sharp in your nostrils as you inhale, likely heightened by the fact that the laboratory borders that same large forest outside of your apartment complex — the convenience of living near campus, you suppose.
You’re deep in exhausted, monotonous thought when a hand claps on your shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin for the third time this morning. “Morning, graduate.” The unpleasantly silky voice of one of your labmates — Alex — crawls into your ear, sending a shiver up your spine. Luckily, the shiver gives you a segue into shrugging Alex’s arm off of your shoulders.
“Uh… Morning, Alex,” you mutter, trying but failing to inject a modicum of cheerfulness into your voice. “Not a graduate yet.”
“Ah, well. You will be in the next few months, right? Sooner than anyone else in the lab.” Alex moves away from you, much to your relief, and swivels ahead of you, walking backwards in order to attempt eye contact. “What’s with the Monday blues? Senioritis? Hangover from the Sunday scaries?”
How does he know so many of these damn sayings? You force a chuckle, shaking your head as you speed up your gait, passing Alex and grabbing the handle of the front door — which is freezing cold and wet, much to your dismay. “Just tired, I’ll wake up as soon as we get into the lab,” you assure Alex, holding the door for him to justify your rude exit immediately afterwards.
Speeding off once again, you find your locker in the staff room and shrug off your damp coat, shoving it inside the tiny space along with your depressing soggy lunch. You move as quickly as possible, wanting to be out of there before Alex arrives. Your timing is impeccable, and you squeeze past him as he enters the room, cutting off whatever insufferable question or statement he began with a, “see you in lab!”
The hallway is yellow with warm lighting, giving the illusion of comfort and coziness. You’re all too familiar with this lie, however, and swallow past the scowl that threatens to make itself known on your face as you attempt to ignore the annoyingly positive flyers and posters littering the walls.
A gap in the mess of papers pinned and taped to the walls reveals a door, the office of your professor — the one in charge of this laboratory, your boss, the one that’ll help make or break your future career as a researcher and scientist — Dr. Hellström. Your steps falter for a moment as you stare at his door before you continue on your way to lab.
For a second, you swore you heard something from inside the room, even though Dr. Hellström is always in the laboratory before anyone else arrives in the morning. Always. On your first day in the laboratory, Dr. Hellström welcomed you with a stack of paperwork and only a verbal promise that you’d someday be actually involved in the hands-on experimentation.
Lucky for you, you proved competent and impressed him enough that you were able to work alongside him before any of your other peers (although Alex was the second, only a day after you had proved yourself).
The man himself was, of course, already in the laboratory when you entered, focused on dissecting something tiny; as you get closer, you can see that it’s a mouse. Nothing new — that’s exactly what you’d been doing for the past five years. The sound of you turning on the sink to wash your hands arouses him from his daze, and Dr. Hellström’s head snaps up in your direction. He pulls down his surgical mask, his crooked grin arranging itself on his cracked, chapped lips. “First in the lab again, are you?” he asks, his voice dry both in tone and in the sense that he sounded as if he could benefit from a drink of water. “I’m not surprised.”
“You know me, professor,” you say, your desire to impress overriding your overall annoyance. After finishing washing your hands, you dry them and carefully put on a pair of gloves. You grab a mask and a pair of goggles, putting them on as quickly as possible and approaching Dr. Hellström. “What are you working on?” you ask, just as Alex walks through the door, making you stiffen up once again.
“Take a look. Same shit we’ve been working on all year, don’t get too excited,” Dr. Hellström says with a wheezing laugh, before pulling his mask back up over his rough, patchy facial hair. “Alex, I see you’re here early as well. Do the two of you carpool or something?”
Alex’s responding chuckle sounds genuine, while yours sounds hollow and numb echoing in your own mind.
ii.
The rain outside begins to come down harder, the once gentle pattering of small droplets turning into wet thuds as more substantial downpour begins. The rain against the windows is so thick that it’s impossible to look through the glass and see the other side clearly; everything is awash with those fat droplets, blurring the picturesque green outdoors.
This isn’t something that you would normally pay particular attention to — you’re used to the dismal weather, after spending a few consecutive years in the exact area. However, today, your mind seems to be trying to occupy itself anywhere other than inside the laboratory, where it’s supposed to remain for the next few months. It’s quite frustrating, and you attempt over and over again to force your attention back to the specimens before you. Once upon a time, a new and naive version of yourself was excited to work with any specimens in dissection; your undergraduate years were disappointingly lacking when it came to actual hands-on work in the lab. You so desperately wish for that version of yourself to possess your current self, needing that hopeless, stupid motivation more than anything. The rain outside roars even harder, prompting you to turn your attention to the blurred out window once more, away from your mice — they weren’t going anywhere, after all.
After a brief consideration of the unchanged window, your gaze shifts to your professor. He’s engaged with his work in a way you could only recreate in your wildest dreams — hunched over his dissection, visible sweat beading on his crooked nose and dripping down his balding gray temples, disappearing as they soak into the collar of his lab coat. He hardly seems to be breathing as he examines the fragile, intricate innards of his specimen, his hands completely calm and steady as he maneuvers the scalpel.
At the table beside you, Alex is engaged with his work in a similar manner, which annoys you instead of inspiring you, which is how you felt about your professor. Alex seems to be mimicking the motions and posture of your professor, which makes you feel as if you should be doing the same. You take a deep inhale of the stale, warm air inside of your surgical mask and hunch over your mice, looking for anything new that would be helpful to Dr. Hellström.
For a moment, you actually feel engaged in your work, trying to place yourself in the eager mindset of your younger self. But before you can truly immerse yourself in your work, Dr. Hellström calls for a lunch break.
“I was waiting for one of you to crack first, but the two of you were so immersed today that I suppose I’m the weak link,” he chuckles, tossing his mask and gloves into a nearby trash can. He doesn’t wait for a response from either you nor Alex, exiting the room and whistling a sharp tune as he casually ambles down the hallway.
“I always get like this when I’m getting work done. Just another sign that I’m gonna make it big someday soon,” Alex says, mostly to himself. The notes of pride and arrogance make your nose wrinkle, and you’re grateful that you haven’t yet taken off your disposable gear.
Similar to your professor, Alex doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response, and he doesn’t waste time tossing his gear and washing his hands before leaving the room, presumably heading to the break room where most of the students gathered to eat lunch together.
You move much slower than both Dr. Hellström and Alex, not particularly looking forward to the soggy lunch you had packed yourself in a rushed panic this morning, and especially not looking forward to eating lunch with Alex in the break room. No one else in your lab had showed today, and it seemed like the weather had warded off a majority of the other students as well — meaning that it was highly likely that you and Alex would be the only two in the break room. This time, you don’t need a mask to hide your grimace from the otherwise empty room.
Soberly, you pull off your blue latex gloves, watching the garment turn itself inside out and free itself from your clammy fingers one by one. You dispose of both gloves before your mask follows, but it’s only once you’ve removed your goggles as well that you can truly take in the strong aroma of formaldehyde and other chemicals. Your eyes water, and your nose burns a little from the intensity, despite the fact that you’d spent the last several hours in this room.
You swallow the saliva that’s starting to pool in your mouth from the slight nausea, which is from both the strong smell of the room and the lack of food in your stomach. Eager to exit the room for a break, you leave, your nostrils now flooded with the smell of musty old wood, the general overall smell of the old building.
You’re just passing by your professor’s office on the way to your locker when his door suddenly creaks open, just enough that you can see a sliver of his grizzled old face. “I knew it was you. Can you step inside for a moment? There’s something I want to discuss with you in private,” Dr. Hellström says. He speaks quickly, his tone a little lilting and off — it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, but something tells you that despite the warning signs, you weren’t in danger. Your curiosity begins to bubble up inside of you, stronger than your hesitation. “It’ll be real quick. We’ll be able to get right back to work after this,” he says, his words encouraging but his tone still a little frightening and unfamiliar.
You make your choice quickly when you hear Alex’s loud chortle from the nearby break room — apparently, he wasn’t alone in there after all. Still, the sound of your competitor’s voice thaws you from your freeze, and you approach Dr. Hellström, entering his office as he quickly steps aside, hardly leaving enough room for you to squeeze through. You’re about to chide him for it playfully, when he shuts the door somewhat aggressively, startling you slightly.
“Professor, what’s wrong…?” you ask, your gaze still trained on your trusted boss and educator. You can see now that his breathing is slightly uneven, his lips are shiny with saliva. He notices your gaze, and licks his lips. Although he’s watching you, his eyes are trained on something behind you. The same moment that you make that realization, you hear something behind you. It sounds like chains clinking, something big shifting — and a low growl permeates the thick air.
“Professor…” you say again, your voice clearly less confident this time. It wobbles a little, even though you only uttered a single word. You swallow thickly as you wait for him to respond.
“Don’t be afraid. It can’t hurt you,” Dr. Hellström says, letting out a pleased little hum. “I have asked you here for a few very specific reasons. Firstly, I trust you, on multiple terms.” He turns to ensure that the door to his office is locked from the inside, before turning back to you and starting to slowly walk towards you. “I trust that you’re competent enough to be such a big part of this research project.” Step. “I trust that you’ve got enough grit and guts to take on such an experiment.” Step. “And…” He stops right in front of you, and now you see, all of that reaction was from pure excitement, unfiltered rampant glee. “I trust that you won’t tell anyone about this, unless I say so.”
Your back prickles with the knowledge that you’re being watched from the front, and from behind. Yet, you can’t seem to find out how to walk away — both literally, and metaphorically.
“Yes, professor,” you hear yourself saying meekly.
“Good,” he mutters, “good.” He inhales deeply, and you can hear the mucus and phlegm in his airways as he does so. You try not to let the disgust show on your face. “Then, please turn around. I have our next great experiment right here.”
It was like he released you from a magic spell — as soon as he said you could, your previously frozen legs and feet began to move, and you slowly turn around on the spot. At first, everything that you see is familiar. You’ve spent plenty of time in this office, asking questions and working on reports late into the night with Dr. Hellström. The bookshelves that line a majority of the walls, stuffed to the brim with thick, ancient texts about various related subjects. The large arched windows that are currently obstructed from view with plush velvet curtains, but you know are there. His desk, always messy with papers and spilled ink; the “guest” desk that sits just beside it, where you so often spend late nights. Then, in the center of the room, where usually there would just be an unassuming brick fireplace (which you’ve never seen lit, mind you), there were girthy metal dowels drilled deep into the brick mantle, with the heaviest chains you’ve ever seen attached to them.
The chains had something attached on the other end, as well.
If you thought that you were afraid before, it was nothing compared to how you felt now.
Pure, frozen, white-cold fear began in your toes, freezing you to your spot on the hardwood floor, before traveling up your legs and through your limbs, nearly stopping your heart and lungs. It certainly felt like all of your internal organs had stopped working, as you lay eyes upon a creature that seemed to be damned to Earth by God or whatever higher power there was; there was no sense of purity or innocence in the slightest.
This creature had to be at least seven feet tall, perhaps more, but you couldn’t tell with the position that it was chained up in. The thick chains connected to the dowels on the fireplace led to handcuffs around its dark gray wrists, which were as thick and muscular as they were raw and bloody from the cuffs. These chains left it in a permanent pose, in which it is on its knees, with its arms raised above its head and chained to either side of the mantle. Its feet are chained up too, you can see them bound in chains of similar thickness and weight.
Each feature that this creature possessed was not human; the only humanity that it carried was in its face and general body structure. Although monstrous in muscle and size, the creature’s body still roughly resembled that of a human; bipedal, similar bone structure and limbs. Its feet were clad in the biggest pair of black boots you’ve ever seen, so you could not assess them in the same way you did with its hands — huge, could cover your entire face and then some, with black claws that come to sharp, curved points. You worry that the creature is somehow able to sense your gaze upon its appendages, as its fingers twitch, the first movement you see from it.
You were this comfortable making your observations up until this point, because the first thing that you noticed about the creature was that it did not have any eyes — and you assumed that meant it could not see. Now, though, you have the dreaded feeling that the creature can see — just not in the way one might automatically assume.
This realization makes you tear your gaze away from the creature, your entire body shrinking away in a shudder as you face your familiar professor instead. Part of you thinks that this is fake, that if you look away then the creature will disappear. You glance back with foolish hopefulness, instead feeling the soulless black voids of its empty eye sockets boring into your gaze. You’ll never be able to forget the way its face looks — it’s more horrifying than the rest of the creature somehow, because here is where the creature resembles a human the most.
It has tousled brown hair — its style a little outdated, perhaps, but reminiscent of guys in your age range. A sharper jawline than expected with how large and hulking its body is, and a sharp nose to match. Thin, but shapely lips, a slightly darker and more pigmented shade of gray than the rest of its body, and quite chapped and cracked. The lightest sprinkle of freckles across his nose, and the lightest hint of facial hair, stubbly and prickly. If you ignored the fact that his skin was the color of slate, you might be able to pretend he was a normal human, until you focus on his eyes — for they are not only missing, but seemingly gory, open wounds on his face. The sockets are unnaturally dark; they do not seem to have an ending, as ridiculous as it sounds. The flesh around the sockets are bruised and irritated, and most noticeable of all, there is a thick black fluid consistently flowing from the voids, too dark and too viscous to be blood.
“I found this marvelous being in our very own local forest,” your professor suddenly booms, rousing you from your deep thoughts and analysis, “feeding on something… quite suspicious. This is where my trust in you to keep a secret begins.” Dr. Hellström grunts, and then clears his throat, nodding to himself.
Part of you wants to tell Dr. Hellström to go fuck himself, before running out of the room and screaming like you’re the one he wanted to imprison. That part of you, the sane and selfless part of you, would obviously report Dr. Hellström to the authorities, and get this… creature some help, whatever that would entail. Another part of you, however, a deeper and more sinister part of you that you like to ignore on a daily basis, urges you to stay where you are. Tattling would result in Dr. Hellström being investigated and unable to serve as your advisor. It would mean that you don’t get to become published, nor defend your final thesis on time. It would also mean that you wouldn’t ever get to see this creature again, never have the chance to not only glimpse it but study it. Depending on what Dr. Hellström was planning on proposing to you, sticking around and keeping your mouth shut might reward you with the opportunity of a lifetime.
“You can trust me, professor. I haven’t rejected you yet, have I?” you say boldly, a little louder than you wanted to be. It makes you cringe just as much as your fake laugh from earlier, in lab.
Dr. Hellström doesn’t seem to care — if anything, your loudness spurs him on. He cackles loudly, throwing his head back. “I knew it. I knew I made the right choice with you,” he hums, his voice almost a purr with how pleased he seems. “Now, I must ask you, do you remember that student that went missing earlier this month? The undergraduate?”
“Um… Yes, I do. The girl, the one that lived right off campus? She was in the news for a while,” you reply, a little confused about the sudden change of topic.
Your professor’s eyes gleam with something rabid now, and as he parts his lips to speak there are foamy bits of saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I found her. But we can’t tell anyone, alright?” He seems to gather himself a little here, wiping his mouth with his fingers and gritting his teeth. “She… was what this creature was feeding on when I came across it in the forest.”
The very thought should sicken you to your stomach, and you feel an odd sense of guilt as you realize that your initial reaction was interest. Further interest in this creature, what it was, why it was apparently consuming humans.
“It ate her?” you ask, more fascination coming through in your tone than you wanted.
“Mm. Indeed,” your professor says, nodding slightly. “Come. I have more to show you.”
Intrigued to no end, you follow your professor over to his desk. His desk is situated quite close to the fireplace, where the creature is chained up, and it’s quite a bit closer than you were before. Although you’re interested, you’re still quite wary of being so close to the creature, especially knowing now that you were apparently its idea of a good meal.
Your professor doesn’t seem especially bothered by this fact, nonchalantly plopping down in his desk chair as he rifles through the numerous papers and files strewn across the tabletop. He mumbles quietly to himself, and you wait patiently though your restlessness grows with each passing moment. Finally, beneath a stack of lab report drafts and a long-empty box of chocolates, he pulls out a thick manila folder, so stuffed full that it’s clipped together on the sides for extra durability and security. This seems to be exactly what Dr. Hellström was looking for, as he holds it up and waves it at you triumphantly before tossing it roughly onto the desktop.
“Look through this, and tell me what you think,” he says, reaching forward to undo the numerous clips holding the folder together.
As soon as the last clip is undone, the folder nearly springs open on its own. You realize that the contents of this folder are not hundreds of pieces of paperwork, but instead, hundreds of photographs. Photographs that were seemingly taken all at once, very recently, by Dr. Hellström of the creature.
You quickly realize that the photos are sorted by body part, and that each stack of photos contains up-close shots of a certain part of the creature’s body. You hold up one that analyzes the creature’s hands, flipping through the photos of the claws, the knuckles, the palms.
“I still need some more of these photo sets. I haven’t taken any of the creature undressed,” Dr. Hellström says bluntly. Perhaps the most humanistic trait of this creature, other than its facial features, was the fact that it was clad in human clothing; a thick black hoodie and a pair of black jeans, along with the aforementioned black boots.
Upon the mention of photographs (and perhaps the mention of undressing), the creature suddenly roars from behind you, causing both you and Dr. Hellström to nearly jump out of your skins. Its chains rattle fiercely, the growls and snarls grow fiercer and grow in volume, seeming to make the very room shake. As you freeze, Dr. Hellström flies into action, snatching a syringe from his desk that you did not previously realize was there, and injecting whatever clear fluid inside directly into the creature’s meaty neck. The roars stop, and the creature’s head lulls forward limply as Dr. Hellström removes the needle, exhaling exasperatedly after he does so successfully. For a moment, there is no sound except for the slow drips of the creature’s black eye fluid onto the floor, creating small puddles beneath where his face hangs. You’re almost grateful for the creature’s reaction, a pool of guilt and disgust forming in your stomach from the idea of exposing the creature in such a way — especially after it expressed such discontent at the mere mention.
“As I was saying,” Dr. Hellström says, a tad of irritation in his voice, as if he were appalled by the fact that the creature retaliated. “There are still plenty more tests to run, evidence to gather. There’s so much to do alongside our main lab… I can’t possibly do it all myself.”
This was exactly what you were hoping for, the reason why you were waiting around this entire time.
“Would you be interested in taking part in this research study alongside myself? You would of course be able to keep your position in my main lab as well, with your peers,” Dr. Hellström says, his tone enticing, as if he were offering candy to a baby. “And… you would be able to have two publications under your name, as well as a job at nearly any institution you long for. With a recommendation from me, you’re golden — not to sound too full of myself.”
Your hesitating seemed to have been rid from your system earlier, as you felt none of it now in this moment. “I am extremely interested, professor, and I accept,” you say confidently.
Dr. Hellström grins widely, before extending his hand to you. You take it, shaking it firmly.
“Welcome to the team once again,” he says, placing a hand on your back as he guides you towards the door to his office. The heavy lock clunks into place as Dr. Hellström unlocks it, and the two of you walk back to the laboratory, ignoring Alex’s parroting questions in tandem, in perfect sync.
iii.
Luckily for you, by the time you returned home late that evening — much later than you were supposed to get out, but you were used to the extremely late dismissals — it seemed that some repair person had come by and fixed the leak in your ceiling. There was a faint smell of plaster and wet paint as soon as you entered through your front door, and it only got stronger as you walked down the hallway and entered your bedroom. Now you could see that there was a slightly noticeable patch on the ceiling, with paint that looked like it was still drying; you deduced this from the slightly lighter hue that the area had taken on. Your pot, which had been faithfully catching the droplets until help presumably arrived, had been emptied and was sitting in the same corner, waiting for you.
The luck cheered you up immensely, and even though you were extremely tired and had yet another early day in the morning, you decided to treat yourself to ordering dinner and having both a glass of wine and a cigarette — you needed it after today.
Your apartment had a small fire escape, hardly a balcony despite the fact that you treated it as such. Balanced quite precariously on the shallow, cramped metal flooring was a stool and a tiny table that you assumed was originally a child’s nightstand before you found it at the thrift store. It wasn’t much at all, but it served its purpose as your designated smoke spot.
Before you could go out there, however, you had to wait for your food to arrive.
It was a dull process, and you ended up downing two glasses of wine and watching some shitty reality dating show with plastic faces and bodies on both the men and women. For some reason, you found yourself getting invested in the moment. Your hand shakes a little as you pour your third glass of wine, promising yourself that it’s the last and you’ll save it to have with your food. It arrives soon after — lucky you, once again — and you guzzle the wine within the first few bites and sorrowfully pour just one more, which lasts for the duration of your meal. You can feel the tipsiness; although you’d consumed quite a bit of the bottle you were used to this amount of alcohol in a short amount of time, and it was the perfect amount to get you buzzed but not drunk.
Your stomach full, you rise and yawn, leaving the television on but lowering the volume before opening your curtains and pushing open your window. The fire escape greets you, still damp from the rain. Droplets of water have beaded upon the surfaces of both pieces of furniture, and you ignore the feeling of cold water soaking through the back of your pants and panties, knowing you’ll shed the clothing in favor of a shower soon after your last reward.
Your last reward is waiting for you in your pocket, permanently and safely at home inside one of your jackets that you’ve designated as your smoking jacket. It’s old and thick and thrifted, with a waterproof exterior and now, a slight stench of cigarettes.
Your fingers are cold and starting to get numb and stiff again, reminding you of the unchanged weather from the morning. Grumbling slightly, you hold a cigarette between your teeth gingerly and fumble for your lighter, clicking it a few times before the flame stays steady long enough for the end of your cigarette to light. You let out a puff of smoke, exhaling as you pull the lighter away, and pocket it as you hold your cigarette in your free hand.
Finally.
Soft patters of draining water dribbling down and hitting the metal stairs fills your ears, leftover rain from throughout the day making its way back to the earth. It smells wet, slightly metallic but mostly of dirt and leaves and trees. Smoke too, of course. You close your eyes for a moment to savor it, all of those sensory details, before you open them again, staring into the void of the forest just beyond your building. It seems so massive and dark, not much less foreboding even in the daylight. That’s where the creature is from. That’s where he ran free until very recently.
That thought sends a chill down your spine. Suddenly, the idea that there are likely more creatures in those woods becomes very, very real.
The timing is perfect, however, and as soon as you start to feel real fear seeping into your stomach, your cigarette goes out. It had started to taste bitter and harsh anyways, so you have no issue stubbing it out on your wet ashtray and hurrying back inside. You double check the lock before pulling your curtains closed, your heart hammering in your chest.
When you lay down to sleep that night, you feel stone cold sober — the pit in your stomach growing and keeping you aware and awake until you drift off into a fitful sleep.
—
The next morning dawns early, and its weather seems nearly identical to the day before. Your commute is just as abysmal (and for some reason, rampant with crows), as are your interactions with Alex in the main laboratory. As he bores you with stories about his undergraduate years that you did not ask about, you think about the time that you’ll get to spend with Dr. Hellström and the creature. It serves as motivation for you to get through the wretched morning hours. Dr. Hellström had promised that you would be able to spend your afternoons — and evenings, if you wished — with the creature, studying it to your heart’s content.
The giddiness in his voice had sickened you a little once again, for he had told you that soon after he had put the creature to sleep quite violently. Your professor went on and on about the details, promising you that he would discuss more with you in the coming days, but it all went in one ear and out the other. You were concentrated on the now slumped figure behind Dr. Hellström. Its arms looked so painfully strained, holding up the entire weight of its upper body as it was forced to practically hang there by its chains. There was no movement at all, other than the soft breathing that served as the only visible sign of life within the creature.
The silver needle glinted in the late evening light coming through a crack in the curtains, making you wince. It was the most honest you’d been all evening; the closest your face got to matching how you felt about this whole ordeal.
At first, you were hesitant. It seemed insane and inhumane. Then, you became confident in your involvement, for the sake of your career and your future in the field. Now that you’d had more time to think about it, and a night to (fitfully) sleep on it, you were hesitating once more. You were undeniably excited at the prospect of such a project and being able to be the first to learn about this unknown creature. But there was still a nagging feeling that something about this was off, that your professor had been lying when he said everything was handled ethically. How the hell could you cover up the murder of a student ethically? Still, though, you were reluctant to immediately tell Dr. Hellström that you wanted to revoke your involvement — because you didn’t fully want to revoke it, to be completely honest. At this point, it seemed like the pros outweighed the cons. You would just have to learn how to sit with this uncomfortable feeling, especially if you wanted to participate in more such studies in the future as a professional. It was the right thing to do.
Lunch finally rolls around, and this time Alex waits for you, much to your dismay.
“I saved you a seat yesterday and you didn’t show! The other lab felt bad for me,” Alex says, groaning with embarrassment — as if you would have sat with him anyway.
“Oh, really? Sorry about that. Tell them I’m taking my lunches and afternoons with Dr. Hellström from now on, then. It’ll stop the rumors and wondering,” you reply, faux pity piled on thick. Alex was the sort of person that didn’t seem to question when people were overly nice and accommodating to them, even if it’s obviously sarcastic.
“Wait, lunches and afternoons? What about our lab?” Alex asks, stuttering a little on the first word. He scratches his temple, looking at you for an answer.
You should’ve known that Alex would pry. Why the fuck did you try and brag? You hesitate for a moment before settling on the fact that Dr. Hellström hadn’t told you to not mention a second lab — he just said no one else could know about the creature.
A slightly uncomfortable laugh escapes you, but Alex doesn’t seem to notice the fakeness of it. “Oh, yeah. He recruited me for a second lab last minute, I’m just helping out again.”
Alex exhales, pursing his lips before his sunny demeanor returns. “Damn. You’re really on that grind, huh? I better get on your level. Congratulations, two research labs is hella impressive.” He claps you on the shoulder again, meaning it as a friendly gesture but only receiving a flinch from you in return. “Well, see you tomorrow, then.” He gives you a grin before whistling and heading out of the lab, leaving you muttering under your breath about what an idiot he is.
You head over to Dr. Hellström’s office as soon as you finish cleaning up your station for the day. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you knock on the heavy wooden door. Dr. Hellström opens it almost immediately, his bloodshot eyes locking with yours. His right eye twitches, and as you look closer upon entering the room, you see his pupils practically vibrating — from excitement or lack of sleep, you’re unsure.
The second thing you notice when you walk in is the dog kennel that’s now in front of the fireplace, and more importantly, housing the creature. Its arms are still bound by the wrists, but now they’re free from the chains and merely held in its lap. It’s able to sit now too, and from what you can tell, move around more freely in general. Similar to its wrists, its ankles are bound as well, still in heavy chains.
“You must look at the samples I’ve been analyzing,” Dr. Hellström raves, clearly not focused on the fact that you’re still taking in the sight of the creature in the cage, “they’re… the answer. The answer to what we’ve all been asking, all these years.” His words are so vague that they’re hard to decipher exactly.
“What do you mean, professor?” you ask, undeniably interested.
He waves you over to his desk. The previously scattered papers are now messily stacked on one side of the surface; the rest is taken up by a large microscope and a slightly neater stack of new paper. His laptop rests on one of the precarious stacks of old notes, shunted off into the corner, unneeded at the moment. He motions for you to come over to the microscope. “Look. Look,” he urges, letting out a shrill, excited little noise as you lean forward and peer into the microscope.
You’re not sure what you’re looking at. There are countless cells — skin cells, from what you could tell, but obviously not human. “Its skin, professor?” you ask under your breath, feeling uncomfortable with discussing the sample so close to its source. You pull away from the microscope momentarily to look at your professor.
“Keep looking,” he grunts, pointing to the microscope. Before you return your attention to the cells, you hear slight clinking, and look over at the creature to see it facing you completely. It doesn’t utter anything, merely watching you and observing you. You were certain yesterday that it could see you despite its lack of eyes, and today you’re now certain that it can hear you from across the room, even though you were whispering.
Shakily, you return your attention to the view under the microscope. The cells aren’t doing much — until suddenly, they are. It’s the oddest sight you’ve ever seen under a microscope — the cells all suddenly stop and freeze at the same time, before vibrating quickly, so fast that it’s just a blur no matter how much you magnify it. When the movement slows, there are twice as many cells as there were before. You let out a low exhale, fascinated.
“The blood does the same. The potential that these cells carry… we could take over the entire medical field if they perform how I expect them to,” Dr. Hellström says, unable to hide his excitement as always.
“Healing properties. And potential cures for all sorts of diseases and disorders that rely on cell regeneration,” you mutter, earning a frantic nod from Dr. Hellström.
“Yes, yes! And more! What if we could extend the human lifespan? Or even further, the lifespans of other creatures? Until we know more, the possibilities are endless.” He laughs aloud, licking his lips and smoothing his hair back to look at you. For the first time since he had introduced this project to you, he looked calm — just like his old self. Then, his appearance seems to shift again, this time into a man that looks older than his years, weary and beaten down. “I can only hope that the subject lasts long enough.”
“How long will it take? Surely, it can survive a few months. It looks hardy,” you say, still keeping your voice low. The creature continues to watch the two of you from its cage, silently.
“It hasn’t eaten since I found it,” he says, sighing. Now he looks over at the creature, almost longingly and affectionately. “I just can’t source human flesh. Not unless I want to end up behind bars. And it won’t eat any of the animal meat I’ve provided it with… beef, pork, chicken… even tried venison and fuckin’ kangaroo meat.” Now he scoffs, the slight affection gone from his voice and his face. “Thing’s picky. And it’s for sure weaker now than it was a few days ago.”
You’re silent for a moment, pondering different possibilities before concluding that Dr. Hellström had likely explored all potential options before even bringing this up to you. “We’ll have to collect samples and preserve them, then. As fast as possible.” There goes the likelihood of analyzing a live specimen up close. At least it would be far easier once the creature was deceased.
“Mm. That’s what I thought, too.” Dr. Hellström sighs. “Well, we shouldn’t waste any more of our limited time, then. Let’s get to work.” He pulls out another syringe, identical to the one that he used to put the creature to sleep the day before. The creature seems to recognize it too, immediately letting out a growl as the two of you approach the cage.
“Now, now,” Dr. Hellström tuts, the mocking tone to his voice making you uncomfortable for the creature, “you know how fast this goes when you don’t struggle, right?”
The creature growls louder, shrinking back into the back corner of the cage, as far away from the two of you as possible. The cage is much too small to contain such a large being, however, and Dr. Hellström is easily able to jab the creature’s meaty shoulder with the needle, chuckling as he watches its head lull to the side uncontrollably.
With seemingly Herculean effort, the creature lifts its head by barely an inch, its eye sockets trained on your face — not Dr. Hellström’s.
“The operator… won’t… be pleased. He… is coming.”
The voice is low, gravelly. It sounds so human — the idea that if you hadn’t seen the creature before you heard it, you’d have no differentiation between it and a normal person sends a chill down your spine, a feeling that’s been much too familiar recently.
After those few bone chilling words, its head drops and its body goes completely slack once more. Just like the day before, you find yourself fixated on the endless black liquid dripping from its eye sockets and puddling on the floor of the kennel.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
If you closed your eyes, you could pretend you could rewind time and go back to yesterday morning. The drips were just from your stupid leaking ceiling — nothing else.
You almost believed it.
iv.
Who was the Operator? What did the creature mean, that he was coming? For you? For Dr. Hellström? For him? Furthermore, the creature could talk? That brought upon a consideration that you hadn’t previously thought about — you had contemplated its sight, its hearing — but never its speech abilities, or the fact that it might speak your language and fully understand how to communicate using the social norms of humans. The vision of the creature’s face floats in your mind endlessly, torturing your consciousness with a burning question. It had human traits — not all of them, but plenty. It spoke like humans, communicated like them, understood them. It dressed in human clothing, and not in a manner that seemed unfamiliar with the concept. Was this creature… human?
It couldn’t be. Another disturbingly clear picture pops into your mind, of the vibrating cells under the microscope. That wasn’t human — not at all.
Your mind is swarming with thoughts, with questions, with oddly clear memories from the past few days. It becomes suffocating after a while, and as you lay in bed on the eve of the creature’s first utterances, you soon realize there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep. Not like this, at least.
Sitting up in bed, you push back the covers that have become sweltering without you realizing. The air outside the blankets is cool and fresh on your clammy limbs, though still a bit stuffy as you inhale deeply. You know exactly what’ll calm you, and at this point you don’t care how many cigarettes it takes you to make it to your graduation.
You don’t go out onto the fire escape, not this time. In fact, you hadn’t used it since the night before, when you felt a foreboding tenseness in the night air. You had no plans in the near future to use it, at the very least not alone or at night — both of which were currently occurring. Instead, you open your bedroom window, reaching into your jacket pocket and pulling out your box of cigarettes and lighter. The air is even fresher now, and once more it smells of petrichor and damp earth. Crickets chirp loudly, the noise unnoticeable when the window was closed. A slight breeze makes you clutch your jacket closer around your body as you lean against the windowsill, bringing an unlit cigarette to your lips before you click your lighter. Each metallic snap sounds like it echoes through the pitch black forest before you, but you feel safer inside your bedroom than out on the fire escape.
The false sense of security lulls you into a half-sleep, a state between dream and consciousness. You’d long since finished your first cigarette — and a second, though you wouldn’t admit it to anyone but yourself — and the butts lay on a discarded paper plate that once held leftover takeout, ash scattered around them. The crickets continue to chirp, but the natural sounds of the night do not wake you — they simply incorporate into your odd dream.
In the dream — which is half reality and half dreamt — you’re standing outside rather than slumped against the wall, right beneath your window. You’re not only outside, but standing on the border of the forest, staring into the black void in front of you. Just like in reality, you can only really see the initial line of trees clearly, illuminated by the silvery moonlight. Beyond that, there are only glimpses of branches and other shrubbery in areas where the foliage has thinned and allows for slivers of silver to peek through. Other than that — there is nothing that your eyes can distinguish from the darkness.
For some reason, you don’t walk away even though fear is flowing freely through your entire body. You stand there, petrified, as you hear branches crackling. The fear hits you tenfold suddenly, but your frozen stance remains unchanged even as your heart pounds in your chest, resonating in your ears.
Within the darkness — somehow — there appears a pit of even darker energy. It acts like a energy focused black hole, and your entire body feels weak and jittery — the pure adrenaline — or perhaps something more sinister — was keeping you standing there.
Black tendrils creep forth from that center of dark energy, and they seem to be made of pure shadow and matter. You can’t tell if they have a true physical form, but they’re coming for you regardless. Just as they reach the edge of the forest, you see two huge white hands, reaching, grasping — and a completely smooth white face. Static and screeching tones blur your vision almost immediately, making you gasp weakly and taste metal in the back of your throat. It gets louder, ringing in your ears until you manage to let out a desperate scream — and then you awaken.
In your bedroom. Sitting on the floor. You close your eyes once more after registering your surroundings, exhaling with relief. When you open them, however, that same blank white face is right in front of yours, making you scream again — and you wake into your body once more.
This time, it’s real. You don’t dare to close your eyes again, standing up and slamming your windows shut. As soon as they lock, you feel a wet substance dripping down your upper lip. You bring your fingers up to feel it, examining your digits as you pull them back to your line of vision. Blood. There’s still a faint ringing in your ears too, and you can feel an intense headache beginning to bloom from the back of your head and moving forwards. “Fuck,” you mutter, pinching your nose shut. As you tilt your head back, you make the mistake of looking out the window once more before you shut the curtains.
Nothing’s there — but now you know what’s waiting in the darkness.
—
You’re again eager to waste away the morning and get away from Alex and the stench of formaldehyde soaked mouse corpses, but today proves… especially difficult.
For some reason, your work with Dr. Hellström and the creature was beginning to lose its luster. The nagging feeling that you were hurting this creature and putting it through unnecessary pain was growing, and the initial thought that it was worth it to prove your name in science was shrinking into a meaningless dud of an apparent opportunity. Thinking about it more, Dr. Hellström probably would’ve written you that letter of recommendation anyways, and you were going to be published regardless.
Further, today you walked into Dr. Hellström’s office, and the creature was already knocked out. Dr. Hellström had sent you an email saying that he had to step out of the building for a meeting during his lunch hour today, but the creature was already sedated and you were free to take whatever samples you deemed necessary. Already wrestling with the growing guilt, the sight of the creature in such a sorry state and the lack of professional supervision allowed for your true emotions to surface.
“Shit…” you mutter, rubbing your tired, red eyes. You hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before either, not after the weird… dream? Sleep paralysis? It only added to the crappy feeling.
The creature was significantly thinner than it had been just a few days ago. Despite the heavy hoodie and jeans, you could see that its frame was already much thinner and bonier. The clothes now practically hung off of its body. The exposed wrists were even more telling, with the bones more prominent. The creature was literally wasting away and dying, in your and Dr. Hellström’s bloodied hands.
You get a little closer, confident in its sedated state. Just like before, the only movement is its slight breathing. Now, you can see the scarring on the creature’s wrists and forearms from the handcuffs. The flesh is worn and scarred over, with new wounds on top of the knotted skin. The rapid cell regeneration made sense now.
The creature’s head of messy brown hair was even messier now, starting to get knotted and matted from lack of attention. The back of its head was especially tangled, and you felt a sudden urge to brush its hair before you shook off the insane idea. If anything, you would try to get a saliva and a hair sample — not literally brush its hair like a pet, or a doll.
You turn your attention back to its hands. They’re resting on the ground, close to the edge of the cage. The creature is in a sitting position, but slumped forward enough that his hands are able to extend out in front of him a bit. Drawing even closer, you kneel beside the cage and look at the creature’s hands. Other than the sharp claws and massive size, you realize that they do resemble human hands quite closely — another comparison that sends a jolt of emotion and guilt through your body. Without realizing, your hand is slowly moving towards his, getting closer and closer to reaching through the bars.
“Holy fuck, dude. This is the project you and Dr. Hellström have been working on?”
The sudden and unexpected voice makes you jerk your hand back quickly, and you turn around to give the intruder a glare. You’re not surprised to see Alex standing there, his jaw dropped as he stares at the creature. “What the hell is it?”
“Get out, Alex,” you snap, standing up and starting towards your labmate, trying to shield the creature from his view. It’s not much help, given that the creature and the cage itself are much larger than you are. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
Alex ignores you, pushing past you without much needed effort despite your hissing complaints. He approaches the cage immediately, leaning on it and making it rattle. The creature does not stir, although he sways a little from the impact.
“Relax, I just want to take a look. I’ve been curious about what the two of you have been cooking up in here anyways,” he scoffs, waving you off nonchalantly. He returns his attention to the creature, letting out a low whistle. “This is insane. You guys will be famous in like, every science field.” He grips the top of the cage, shaking it a little and jostling the creature even more, making you let out a choked gasp.
“Alex, stop it. It’s sedated,” you hiss, stalking over to him and nudging him off the cage. Alex lets out an exasperated huff.
“If it’s sedated, then why does it fucking matter? That’s like saying we have to handle the dead mice like live pets,” he counters, pushing past you again and making you stumble. Your blood boils, but you try to stay calm.
“I don’t know, respect? Human decency? Just not being a piece of shit?” you spit, clenching and unclenching your fists. You can feel your fingernails digging into the soft skin of your palms, for sure leaving marks.
Alex ignores you again, and you’re not sure if that makes you angrier than you would be if he responded with something equally as stupid. He sticks his hand between the bars of the cage, and his arm barely wedges in the small gap. He looks over at you with a shit-eating grin, wiggling his fingers in front of the creature’s face.
“Alex, seriously, stop. The creature eats—”
“Seriously, stop,” he mocks, his tone reminiscent of a young child that has no other more educated comebacks to use. He grabs a handful of the creature’s matted hair, chuckling as he shakes its head from side to side. “It’s sedated, remember?”
He lifts the creature’s head, curious and wanting to look at its face. You grimace and look away, praying for Dr. Hellström to come back and tell Alex off before you kicked his ass.
But as soon as you look away, you hear a yelp — and turn back to see the creature gripping Alex’s wrist so tight that his hand paled and turned grayish white — the color of a corpse.
“F-fuck! Get your ass over here and f-fucking help me!” Alex shouts, pain evident in his voice. The creature cackles, a sound that makes you clench your jaw and hesitate to move.
In one sickeningly fluid movement, the creature pulls on Alex’s arm so hard that the narrow bars he barely fit in initially slice through the flesh of his forearm, de-gloving the appendage up to his elbow where the bony joint stops it from going further. Alex’s screams rattle the walls, enhancing the faint tinnitus that you’d retained from the night before, as the creature leans forward and tears the remaining mangled flesh from the bone. The screams start to quiet, and you find yourself missing them, for they drowned out the harrowing sounds of flesh peeling from body and the gnashing sound of the creature’s teeth as it eats Alex’s arm off his still living body.
You’re unable to turn your head away from the disturbing sight, as much as you want to and know you’ll never be able to unsee this. There’s so much blood. Did the human body really have that much blood inside of it? If you were the one that was getting torn apart, would you paint the room red as much as Alex is? Dark red has soaked into the vintage rug that covered a majority of the office floor, and it has spread so far that it even lays in puddles and flecks across the minimal exposed hardwood. The brick fireplace is absolutely wrecked with red; flecks from the struggle and splashes from the consumption.
Alex is sobbing, having long abandoned his hope of being rescued by you. He’s weak, but still trying to pull away from the creature. It almost seems like the creature is letting him go, its grip slackening and allowing Alex to pull away ever so slightly. There’s a glimmer in his eyes as he takes a step forward, his other foot following.
Crunch.
Alex screams again, but this time his voice cracks mid-utterance and he whispers hoarsely, his face going pale now — the same shade as his hand before it lost its skin.
The creature had returned its iron-clad grip on Alex, inhumane strength yanking him violently back towards the cage. The force and impact makes a sickening crunching sound as one of his joints is popped from their socket — the elbow or the shoulder you’re unsure. The creature laughs again, breathy and phlegmy as a mixture of blood and saliva dribble down its already crimson stained chin — before he takes another bite from Alex’s arm, the nauseating snap of tendon and muscle making bile rise in your throat.
The sound of your gag summons the attention of the creature. He turns to look at you while still gripping the remains of Alex’s now limp, mangled arm. Alex has gone still and silent.
The creature slowly licks its lips, and you swallow back another gag as you watch a second and third tongue emerge, cleaning the blood and chunks of meat from various areas on its face.
“The Operator might spare you,” the creature chuckles, letting go of Alex’s arm, resulting in his body falling to the floor with a sick, squishy thud as he lands on the blood soaked carpet.
The creature grabs the closer of Alex’s legs and chomps down, hard.
v.
Similar to your bedroom at home, Dr. Hellström’s office now smells like wet, new paint.
The brick fireplace, which previously had been darling and antique looking with its natural reddish brown tone, was now muted and mind numbing, painted an off white that made it look permanently dingy. The floor was now bare too, and along with the smell of paint there’s the headache inducing scent of a citrusy cleaning product.
Bleach too, for obvious reasons.
Everything was perfectly in order, and you once more you find yourself unsure if the reality or an alternate scenario would have made you more uncomfortable. You suppose that walking back in here to see Alex’s rotting corpse would have been much less pleasant, but the knowledge that Dr. Hellström had done something with the body was… incredibly disturbing, to say the least.
You supposed he did something similar back when the undergraduate student died, and was found in the forest alongside the creature.
He seemed unaffected by it too, as he worked alongside you, humming to himself. His mask was covering his entire lower face, but you could tell from the deepened crinkles around his eyes that he was smiling ear to ear behind that thin layer of fabric.
He turns to face you just as you shift your gaze away, the back of your neck clammy and nervous as he looks you up and down. Your hands are shaking slightly as they turn a knob on the microscope, but you haven’t been focusing much on the saliva sample that’s been rubbed onto the glass slide.
“I think… it’s time for a lunch break,” Dr. Hellström declares, after analyzing you without much thought. “I’m hungry, so I assume you must be too. And not to mention, our little friend over there.” He nods over in the direction of the creature, who has been awake but docile this entire time, watching the two of you.
“Sure. It’s about the same time our usual lunch is, anyway.” You stand up, peeling back your gloves and mask. The scent of paint and lemons and bleach floods your nostrils again, ten times stronger than it was when you were shielded.
A silence falls upon the room after Dr. Hellström lets out a grunt of approval, no words being exchanged but gentle sounds filling the room as the two of you wash up thoroughly.
You’re about to retrieve your own lunch from the mini fridge in the corner of the room, but Dr. Hellström stops you. “Before you eat, let’s feed it.” He ambles over to a cooler, which is slightly hidden behind his desk. He pulls it out with a sharp exhale and another grunt, opening the lid to expose pieces of flesh and organs. You suck in a deep breath, regretting it instantly as you smell the blood and raw meat, coppery and metallic in your nose and mouth.
Dr. Hellström retrieves a long pair of tweezers, picking up a long strip of flesh that, much to your horror, seemed to be from Alex’s shin, for there was his tattoo of a rose. It was unmistakable; Alex had shown it to you the day after he’d gotten it done, lamenting about the fact that it was done by an apprentice, and they had apparently fucked up on some of the shading. You can see the uneven part he had complained about, just before Dr. Hellström strolls over to the cage and tosses it over to the creature. The creature watches it hit the side of the cage and fall to the floor, before reluctantly picking it up with its still shackled hands and pulling it through the bars. The distinct sound of teeth cutting through flesh makes you grimace, as Dr. Hellström comes back over to the cooler and picks up what looks to be part of an intestine. The creature lets out a low rumble, and as soon as Dr. Hellström tosses it over, it grabs the organ and shoves it into its mouth, smacking obscenely and growling like an animal.
Dr. Hellström looks over at you with a sly grin. He picks up another organ — clearly a lung, this time, and throws it to the creature. Once more, the creature gobbles it up with much more enthusiasm than the strips of flesh.
“We’ve cracked the code, my dear pupil. Now, time is our friend, not our enemy.”
He spears another organ onto the end of the tweezers — another bit of intestine, it looked like — and throws it to the creature.
—
You’re really an idiot.
Your head pounds with the need for a cigarette, but all that stares back at you is the glaringly empty box in your shaking hand. You knew this too — told yourself that you needed to stop by either before or after work and pick up a new box — you’d hate yourself if you didn’t.
And now look. You really do hate yourself at the moment.
“Fuck me,” you spit, crushing the box in your hand and stalking over to your kitchen. You open the cheap, plastic trash bin and throw the remains of the little cardboard box inside, sucking at the inside of your teeth to try and keep yourself from swearing aloud more, for no reason.
Letting out a shaky breath, your gaze drifts over to your car keys, haphazardly tossed onto the surface of your kitchen table. Without another thought, you numbly walk over and snatch the keys, the cool metal pressing against your heated palms and engraving the exact shape of your house and car keys into your soft skin.
“One fuckin’ thing… couldn’t remember one fuckin’ thing…” you mutter to yourself, still extremely annoyed as you throw on your smoke scented jacket and stumble out your front door, the toe of your boot catching on the lifted lip of your doormat. Cursing again, you slam your door and lock it, trying to quell at least some of your rage before you get onto the road.
Deep inhales allow the damp, fresh smell of earth and rain to cycle through your lungs, the scent of nature rather than stale laboratory air calming you just enough. Crickets and other insects unknown to you chirp and buzz in the black night.
Your drive to the nearest gas station is short, but enough time to reflect upon the events of the day, and the looming expectations of tomorrow. Small raindrops begin to scatter across your windshield, and you turn on your wipers. They drag across the glass slowly, one of them making an irritating screeching sound as the rubber scrapes against the smooth surface; replacing the wipers is just another thing that you need to add to your never ending list of mundane chores.
Think of today. Less mundane.
You stop at a red light, the bright colors splashed across the oily black road and reflected back in neon puddles. The short pause allows your mind to settle a bit.
Earlier today, after the creature had finished feeding, Dr. Hellström had put the cooler back in its inconspicuous place behind his desk. “There should be enough in here for at least a week or so. Unless we stuff the brute full each meal,” he had promised.
After that… well, you suppose the rest of the day was less mundane when compared to other aspects of your stagnant life. But still quite monotonous when compared to the exciting events that had conspired in the previous few days.
You pull into the parking lot of the gas station, your tires crackling on loose asphalt. The engine goes quiet as you turn it off and exit, squinting up at the glaring, blinking sign that displayed the name of the place — not a name that anyone would commonly know, rather, a local mom and pop shop that wasn’t a chain.
Inside, it smells musty and still. Much like the basement at someone’s parents’ house, or the inside of a dying mall. It makes sense as to why — there are no windows that open into the small building from what you can see, and the slight breeze that comes in through the door with you as you enter is the only movement. It stops as soon as the door closes behind you, and you’re left inhaling the still air.
You don’t waste time looking around, shuffling up to the cash register. A young man stands behind the counter, his gaze already settled on you — you’re the only one in here, after all. He looks a little too young to be working here, surely not old enough yet to drink or purchase cigarettes himself. His acne marked cheeks and sparse mustache point towards teenhood, but the dead look in his eyes and the slump in his shoulders makes you question it. He sniffles as you stop in front of him, and you hear him swallow a thick gulp of phlegm.
“How can I help you today?” he asks, scratching at one of the scabby pimples on his cheek.
“Marlboro reds. Thanks,” you mutter, already digging in your pocket for your wallet. The man doesn’t seem too disgruntled, but you hear him let out a light exasperated exhale as he turns around to eye up the wall of cigarettes behind him. He grabs the box.
“$11.95.” He tosses the box down onto the counter in front of you, but you’re still digging through your pocket. All you’ve managed to come up with is your phone and your keys (and an embarrassing amount of lint).
“Uh… shit. One second,” you say, gnawing on your lower lip. Your hands turn out the pockets of your sweatpants; empty as well.
“We don’t have a tap to pay system here,” the man says, coming to realize that you don’t have your wallet with you. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” you spit, more annoyed at the situation than any individual in particular. You manage to choke out an apology as you leave through the front door, before angry curses tumble from your lips loud and clear.
Your annoyance only grows when you can’t seem to find your wallet anywhere in your apartment. And you swear you’ve turned it upside down, and it’s nowhere to be seen. Sure — at first you were a little too pissed off to be thoroughly searching, but the more you looked the more your panic grew. If it wasn’t here, it had to be back at the laboratory. You hadn’t been anywhere else today.
It was late. The clock on the wall above your kitchen table read just past midnight. You knew that you had access to the building — that wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that it would most definitely be in Dr. Hellström’s office, and you would be alone with the creature in there while you searched.
Habit taking over, you start chewing on your raw bottom lip again, tasting blood when you accidentally rip a piece of skin off too fast. The iron-y taste blooms across your taste buds, and you swipe your tongue over your lower lip slowly before you tighten your grip on your keys and turn on your heel to leave your apartment once again, for the second time in under an hour.
“Idiot,” you say to yourself again, watching your headlights illuminate the rain slick black asphalt before you; the path towards the dreaded creature that’s guarding your beloved belonging. Your turn signal clicks steadily as you wait to round that last corner, the one that’ll take you right up towards the laboratory parking lot. The light turns green, nearly blinding you as you frantically blink your rapidly tearing eyes and turn onto the dirt road.
Pebbles and loose chunks of earth are kicked up by your tires as you slow to a stop in your designated parking spot. The lot is completely empty, except for one other vehicle. You’re not sure who it belongs to — you’re actually not sure you’ve never seen it here before. It’s a black van with tinted windows, parked in the closest spot to the building. It gives you a peculiar feeling as you stare at it, and you decide to hurry up and get this shit over with. You’d have to be back here in the morning anyways — you could just ask your professor about it then.
Your key card beeps softly, and the front door makes a loud clunking sound as it unlocks for you. The neon lights of the hallway are all still on, buzzing quietly as you make your way towards Dr. Hellström’s office.
The building is completely silent save for the faint buzzing of the lights and your own footsteps. It makes the entire experience that much eerier. As you finally make it into the right hallway, your skin prickles as you hear a faint screeching sound. Screeching — or screaming? You’re unsure. It doesn’t sound human.
Your heart skips a beat as you think about the non-human individual that’s being kept in this very hallway. You start speed walking towards Dr. Hellström’s office, your heart now pounding loudly in your chest with anxiousness. The screams grow louder. You’re now almost certain that they’re from the creature, as you hear a growl trail the end of one of the utterances.
Swallowing hard, you stand before Dr. Hellström’s office door. The screams are more sporadic now, but no less gut wrenching. Your hand shakes as you hold your key card up to the door, hoping that you’re wrong, praying to whatever higher power is out there that you’re mishearing things.
The doorknob is cold in your grasp as you turn it, but the screams intensify tenfold. It chills your blood, curdles your soul.
The creature is strapped down to a surgical table, Dr. Hellström hovering over it as he shaves off a sliver of flesh from its abdomen — clearly not the first, you realize with horror, as you spot a small silver dish with a few other bloody grayish slivers. Your eyes dart from place to place, analyzing the various wounds on the creature — it’s missing a nail from its right hand, slivers of flesh from its abdomen, a chunk of hair from its head. There’s an area on the creature’s stomach that’s marked, and you realize with even more horror that Dr. Hellström was intending to likely get an organ sample next, judging from the empty awaiting jars beside the other already collected samples.
“I wasn’t expecting you this late,” Dr. Hellström says calmly, bringing one bloodied glove to his face and lowering his surgical mask. He grins at you, his teeth yellow and stained in the bright light of the lamp above the surgical table. “But I’m glad you’re here. I’m so close to finding our answer! I just need—”
“I won’t be part of this any more,” you shout, your voice cracking — much to your own horror. “You’re — you’re operating on it without any numbing? Any anesthesia? I could hear its screams from down the hall!” You clench your jaw, hating how emotional you sound in the moment. You want to stress how inhumane this is — not entertain your professor with your childish personal feelings.
“What does it matter?” Dr. Hellström lets go of his mask, letting out a dry wheezy chuckle. “You were on board with it starving to death after we got what we wanted up until a few days ago. What changed?”
You grit your teeth. “I’m not a hypocrite,” you begin with, your voice wavering slightly.
Dr. Hellström barks out a loud, rough laugh. “Oh, you’re not? Then maybe you’re just a liar. A pathetic, cowardly, liar.” He takes a step towards you, wagging the bloodied scalpel at you disapprovingly. “I brought you onto this project because you said you could handle it. If you can’t handle it, I might have to do something I’ll regret—”
There’s a loud ripping sound from behind Dr. Hellström. You see it before he even has time to turn around — the creature is free.
How, you’re not sure. It had been strapped down to that table being tortured for who knows how long, but only now did it escape.
In reality, hardly a second passes between the moment that it breaks free and the moment it tackles Dr. Hellström to the ground. But as you watch it, you feel like life is moving in slow motion.
Dr. Hellström doesn’t have a chance to turn around and see what’s happening before the creature is on top of him. Roughly seven feet of pure monster is on top of him, making his knees buckle instantly. He lets out a yelp as he plummets to the ground, face smacking onto the tiled floor as his scalpel is knocked free from his grip. The creature lets out a low rumble as the clatter seems to catch its attention, and it snatches the tool before Dr. Hellström has a chance to catch his breath. The wind has clearly been knocked out of the man, as he gasps and chokes beneath the creature. His gaze flickers up to you once and only once.
There’s no regret in his eyes, and no fear. Only anger as he presses his chapped lips together and grits his teeth, the weight of the creature starting to really affect him now.
The creature twirls the scalpel between its fingers, and you can’t help but notice that one of the fingers on said hand is missing a nail. Your eyes dart over to the samples on the table before you look back at the creature and your professor — but by then the creature had clearly made up its mind, and had begun to take further action.
Dr. Hellström lets out a gurgled scream as the creature plunges the scalpel deep into his back, the sharp blade piercing the flesh with ease. Dark red immediately begins to spread across the back of Dr. Hellström’s white lab coat, blooming in rusty splotches as the creature retracts the blade and drives it back in over and over again.
The sound — it’s sickening. But it doesn’t phase you, not after you’d watched and heard the creature devour Alex’s limbs. You watch, completely still, as your professor slowly goes limp. The creature continues to pierce the tender flesh of your professor’s back with the scalpel, until the entirety of his lab coat has been painted red. Only then does the creature stop. Only then does it stand up, panting raggedly, clenching and loosening its fists over and over again.
Only then does it look at you.
It lasts for just a moment, before the creature’s attention is back on your professor. It flips the corpse over with brute strength, using one claw to slice through the front of your professor’s shirt. Then, it grips the scalpel tightly and slices through the abdomen with precise, practiced movements.
It gets much less precise after that, however.
Something seems to overtake the creature, and it lets out a growl that seems to reverberate around the dark room. Both clawed hands thrust inside the slit, even more blood pouring forth from the incision and pooling beneath the body, staining the floors that had just been scrubbed clean of crime. Squishy, sloshy noises make you slightly nauseated as the creature rifles around your professor’s insides, until it finds what it’s looking for. Its mouth opens wide, three black tongues snaking out one by one, dripping with tendrils of hot, viscous saliva. In goes a kidney. Then the other. Then a long piece of intestine.
It’s then that you manage to look away. You hadn’t been sickened before, but it was starting to get to you now. It was starting to sink in that you were witnessing your professor’s innards get brutally removed and devoured, right before your eyes. And that was a bit much for a weekday night, even for you.
The slight movement of your head gets the attention of the creature again. Slightly satiated now, it has more capacity to think rationally.
Eliminate the witness.
The speed at which its hands close around your neck is inhumanly fast — and just like your professor, you don’t even have enough time to turn your head and see it coming before your vision goes black.
vi.
Popcorn ceilings are fucking hideous.
Why did you move into an apartment with popcorn ceilings?
The sight that your eyes are met with as soon as they open is more than unappealing — you can’t think of a properly hurtful word to describe it at the moment, so you close them again, welcoming the darkness.
It is inside the peace of that darkness that you remember — you don’t have popcorn ceilings.
Your eyes snap open again. This time, you try to look around more while still being inconspicuous. The assumingly recent events of — well, you can’t remember what or when exactly, but the last time you were conscious — were beginning to come back to you piece by piece.
So… you were strangled into unconsciousness by the creature, and now you were here.
In this room.
From your limited movements, you gathered that you were in a bedroom. Where this bedroom was, you were unsure. It wasn’t familiar in the slightest, and you were almost glad for that — the room was a sight for sore eyes.
The walls seemed to have once been a beautiful creamy white, but were now yellowed with age and nicotine stains. The wallpaper is peeling in many places and destroyed in the others, many patches of the original wood paneling showing through. There’s that terrible popcorn ceiling, and in the middle a cracked ceiling light that doesn’t seem to have a lightbulb inside anyways.
A small closet was in the far left corner, and the door to the rest of the building in the far right corner. The bed occupied a majority of the room on the other end, but you could see that there was a beat-up old nightstand on your left side. Other than that, the room was void of furniture.
The nicotine stains were telling on their own, but with every breath you take you can smell stale cigarettes and rotting wood. It would take years, maybe even decades, of heavy smoking in this exact room daily to make it this bad. To pair with the initial stench, there was a light odor of ammonia — equally lovely.
Looking down, you see that you’re covered up with a crusty white sheet, tucked neatly into bed. It’s insulting, the neat and almost careful way that you were left here juxtaposing with the disturbingly filthy state of the bed itself. You’re not sure what most of the stains are, but some of them are definitely blood. Whose blood, you’re unsure you want to know.
You decide to take a risk and sit up, only to regret it immediately. You find that your wrists are in chains — almost identical to the ones that the creature had been bound in whilst imprisoned in Dr. Hellström’s office — and they clink noisily with every slight movement you make. Sitting up was more than a small movement, and it’s evident in the way the chains rattle so loudly that the sound seems to reverberate around the empty room.
Almost immediately, heavy footsteps begin approaching from the right-hand door.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” you mutter under your breath, staring down at your bound wrists, now free from the confines of the dirty sheet but nothing else. You hadn’t noticed the pain before, but your wrists have been rubbed raw from the metal cuffs. Your voice, too, is different — scratchy and rough. You only now realize how sore your throat is, how much it hurts to put any sort of strain on your vocal cords with a mere utterance.
The door opens, slowly at first and then all at once, slamming into the wall and leaving a mark on the wall. Not that it made much of a difference, with the state that the walls were already in.
The creature stands there, hulking and massive in the dim doorway. It’s wearing a mask — one that you recognize from some of the photos that Dr. Hellström had taken upon his first interaction with the creature. Dark, almost navy blue. No facial features except for two cut outs for eyes, black mesh covering the holes. You can see the crustiness of this part of the mask, black goo both new and old dribbling down from the mask’s eye holes and catching in the mesh. Enough of the goo escapes, however, that there are wet and dried black tears leaking down the mask’s blank lower face. It’s also wearing an identical outfit to the one it was captured in, a black hoodie and black jeans.
It is also holding a plate with a sandwich on it.
You’re unsure when the last time you ate was — seeing that you’re also unsure of how long you’ve been unconscious. Judging from the way your stomach growls at the mere sight of food, it has to have been at least a fair while.
“You’re awake. Finally,” the creature says, its voice muffled from behind the mask. “Eat this. You’re probably starving by now.”
Almost every instinct in your body screams and protests against it — why would you trust food from a non-human creature that had just abducted you? Further, you’re put off by the sudden smoothness in the creature’s voice — so different from the raspy, gritted words he had uttered while held captive.
Despite that, your stomach gives another desperate pang of hunger. The creature’s extended hand stays in place, almost taunting you with the sandwich. It looked normal. Smelled normal.
Not hesitating any further, you gingerly take the plate from the creature’s hands, your chains clinking gently as they sway with your movements. You don’t eat it straight away, staring down at it for a moment before regarding the figure in front of you. It’s staring right back at you, almost curious about your actions.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” you ask bluntly, hoping that if you were to get any answers to your questions, this would be one of them. “Back at the lab. Why am I here?”
The creature lets out a sigh that’s between a chuckle and a growl. It comes closer, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning towards you. The crunchy mattress dips beneath the creature’s weight, your body starting to slide towards the divot, towards the creature. “Why’re you asking, little thing? Would you have preferred that?”
Despite the fact that the mask separated its face from yours, you could practically feel its warm breath washing over your face, hot and metallic. You shiver, shaking your head. Suddenly, it becomes very apparent that this is the first time the roles are reversed between the two of you — now, you were inside the cage. And it was the one studying you.
The creature plants both hands on either side of your head, its calloused palms colliding with the wobbly wood of the headboard and making you flinch from both the sensation and the sound. It’s hovering over you now, your legs trapped between its knees that are rigid and stiff in place. The plate with the sandwich has been overturned, and you can faintly smell mustard and mayonnaise.
“I took you to return the favor. After all, you were the one running plenty of those experiments behind the scenes. Not that idiot professor.” The creature croons, and it’s almost tender, the way it words the abduction like it was a favor to you. “You experimented on me, so I’ll do the same to you. That professor wanted to kill me, so I killed him. See? It’s only fair. ‘M only taking back what’s mine, and making things even.” Its voice is sickeningly sweet now, as it lays out its reasoning for you. Almost as if it expects you to be grateful for it. And in a way, you are. You weren’t lying when you said this was preferable to being brutally murdered.
“Let’s start, shall we?” it asks, breaking you free from your ornery, self pitying thoughts.
It doesn’t give you a chance to answer.
You see it just before you feel it, and far before you register what it is. A flash of silver in its clawed hand, and then a sharp pain on your abdomen, beside your belly button. You have enough sense to look down, letting out a pained gasp as the sharp stinging continues. The creature is using a scalpel — the largest scalpel you’ve ever seen, mind you — to carve slits into your soft abdominal flesh. The first few are shallow, just painful enough to get your attention, which is what it wanted. Once that initial reaction had been evoked from you, the creature cuts deeper.
With this slice, more than a thin line of red appears. Skin and meat separates cleanly from the effortless slice of the razor sharp, intricate blade. Red dribbles from the cut, and much to your horror the creature lifts its mask just above its mouth and leans down, licking the wound clean.
The creature moans aloud, causing a ripple of fear and disturbance to wrack your body. Its free hand grips at the flesh of your hip, squeezing as it sucks at the wound roughly, making you cry out in pain.
“So sweet…” it mumbles, gripping the scalpel tightly with the other hand. Almost regretfully, the creature pulls back to look at the cut, which is already oozing more dark red blood in the absence of his consuming tongues. Said tongues are still thrashing about outside of his mouth, garbling his speech slightly as they frantically lap at his nose, his cheeks, his chin, desperate for more of the sweet nectar that is your blood.
The creature quickly makes more slits in your flesh, and now you’ve enough sense to turn away from the gory scene unfolding before you. The pain is still there, but you’re so overwhelmed that you almost don’t recognize it until the creature returns its lips to your skin, biting this time with teeth that are just as sharp as the blade it wields.
“Gonna savor every fuckin’ piece of you…” the creature snarls, its voice on the precipice of another moan. Grunting, the creature bites down beside the mess of sliced flesh, creating another new wound and eliciting a weak whimper from you.
The creature resists the urge to tear your meat from your bones, unclenching its jaw and releasing its hold on your soft skin. Sharp teeth retract from where they were embedded deep in your flesh.
“Soon…” it mumbles to itself, tongues cleaning the blood from its sharp teeth, its chapped lips. “But not yet.”
With what seems like a Herculean amount of effort, the creature pushes itself up off of you, staggering for a moment as it backs away. One hand comes up to wipe a mixture of drool and saliva off its chin.
“Not yet,” it repeats, seemingly more for itself than for you. Then, as rapidly as it appeared, the creature vanishes from your sight, the undeniable thunk of a heavy lock clicking into place behind it once it closes the heavy door.
Your heart is still hammering in your chest, processing what just happened. With shaking hands, you lift up the blood soaked hem of your shirt to see several deep cuts and bite marks surrounding two initials — E J.
EJ?
vii.
From what you deduced after that first “experiment” that the creature — or, EJ, apparently — had performed on you, you predicted that you had approximately three days to live. Even if the experiments weren’t meant to kill you, you weren’t sure how much your fragile body could handle. You weren’t an exceptionally strong or physically capable candidate in the first place — and that first experiment had weakened you significantly, in both a mental and physical sense.
So the next time that EJ entered your room, you prepared for the worst. Branding? Amputation? Organ removal? You had already pondered it the entire night after your initial experience as the subject of EJ’s experimentation. Anything was possible.
But then the impossible happened.
There had been no more experiments since.
The next time EJ entered your room, he came with another sandwich in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. It was the morning after the first (and only) experiment. You had indeed scarfed down the remains of the first sandwich a few hours after EJ left, ignoring the fact that the ingredients had been scattered across your filthy, germ-riddled sheets, and had faced no gastrointestinal consequences. And besides that — it had been a surprisingly decent sandwich.
Still, you flinch at the sight of him.
If EJ notices your reaction, he doesn’t show it. He simply hands you the plate and sits down on the edge of your bed again, eyeing the crusted over portion of your shirt.
“Can I?” he asks, surprising you once again.
Mid-bite of your sandwich, you pause. EJ is motioning to your shirt, and holding the first aid kit in its lap.
“What’re you gonna do?” you ask suspiciously, your grip on the sandwich unconsciously tightening and squishing the bread down.
“What do you think?” EJ’s voice is exasperated as he holds up the first aid kit, shaking it mockingly.
You swallow thickly, the bite of food getting lodged in your throat for a moment and making you cough. “Um… sure. Yeah, you can.” You gingerly move your arm aside, making sure that EJ has decent access to your wound.
Carefully, he lifts the hem of your shirt to reveal the cuts, which are puffy and irritated. You look away, nauseated and concerned, but EJ doesn’t flinch. He takes out a bottle of alcohol and a clean ball of cotton, wetting the latter with the former.
“This will sting,” he warns you, looking up to meet your gaze.
“I know,” you murmur, gritting your teeth. “‘S fine.”
EJ gently brushes the alcohol soaked cotton ball over your wounds, the sensation making your irritated skin feel like it’s literally sizzling. You don’t want to let EJ know that it’s really getting to you for some reason, so you clench your jaw and turn your head to hide the tears burning the backs of your eyes.
“Sorry. It’s over now,” EJ says, sounding genuinely apologetic. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, exhaling as you look back down at the wound, at EJ.
The navy blue mask stares back up at you, fresh black tears oozing from the eye sockets. “Sorry,” he says again, quieter. Then he looks away, turning his attention back to dressing your wound. He applies a thick ointment, slathering it all over the area generously with a cotton swab. A thick piece of gauze is pressed to the area next, and secured with a few strategic placements of medical tape.
Once the wound is dressed, EJ stands up awkwardly, not saying anything. You don’t say anything either, looking down at the remaining crumbs on your otherwise empty plate.
“Thanks,” you manage to say.
“Yeah. No problem,” EJ replies, before retreating once more with both the empty plate and the first aid kit.
—
The system that EJ came up with for you was fairly simple. It was also fairly similar to the system that had been implemented for him whilst he was captive in the laboratory.
First, you weren’t ever to be unchained. Even when you left the bedroom to use the bathroom, your wrists and ankles were still bound. Only when you were in the shower were you unchained, and they would be put back on immediately after you were finished. It was humiliating to slowly shuffle down the hallway — which wasn’t long or vast in any sense — rather than walk, but you supposed that you could be forced to sit in your own excrement. So it could be worse — could be a lot better too, though.
You learned quickly how to adapt with your wrists and ankles bound together. Your shuffling grew faster, your ability to pick up food and eat it strengthened. It wasn’t the same as being free, but you adapted.
Second, you were fed only when EJ allowed you food. Over time you were granted more access to the building — which you came to realize was some sort of cabin in the middle of the forest — including the kitchen, but EJ was strict about accompanying you nearly everywhere.
And thirdly, EJ stressed the fact that if you tried to escape, you would be punished. He did not detail exactly what this punishment would entail, but he did insinuate that it would ensure you wouldn’t ever try again. It sent prickles up your back and a chill through your body, the way his voice dropped to a growl when he said it to you.
All in all, you supposed it made sense. For someone being held captive, you could’ve had it worse. Especially when considering the similar structure to the laboratory’s system, you understood the choices that EJ had made and the reasoning behind it. You were a pretty understanding captive.
At first you were restless. You dreamt about escaping in the night and finding your way back to town, getting EJ captured and killed once and for all. You’d be celebrated, praised for your story and for surviving to tell it yourself. It was an alluring fantasy, but the longer you spent in the cabin, the more that dream lost its luster.
You think about the illegal and inhumane ways that were normal to practice in Dr. Hellström’s lab. The paperwork and the documentation that proved just how many rules the two of you broke during your experimentation — even with the mice, disregarding EJ. You think about the proof in the office about the cover-up of Alex’s death, and the undergraduate student from the year before. You think about how Dr. Hellström escaped consequences for his actions through death, but if you were to return you’d have to face them. Not only the consequences for your actions, but for your professor’s.
You were just as guilty as he was. Maybe even more so — EJ was right, you were the one doing a lot of the paperwork behind the experiments.
Going back would only ensure the death of your career, the abandonment from peers and family and friends alike — not that you had many in the first place. Was there anything to go back to, at this point?
Besides that — you weren’t sure you wanted EJ to be captured and killed. Even after all of this.
Perhaps it was the monotony of the endless identical days that drove you to this conclusion. But at some point, you realized that you didn’t want to go back. You didn’t especially want to stay with EJ, but you couldn’t return to your old life. Not now, and not ever.
EJ himself became less mysterious by the day. Though it was obvious that there were certain things you’d likely never know about him, there was plenty that you gleaned merely by existing alongside him in the cabin.
He was a man, just as well as a creature. The only thing he liked to consume besides organs and flesh was liquor, and one night he got tipsy enough on cheap vodka to tell you that this was the only thing he remembers enjoying from his life before. He didn’t elaborate on what he meant by “before,” and you didn’t ask. You just nodded, and asked if he wanted a beer from the fridge too.
At times it felt more like a roommate situation, than a captive one. After EJ granted you access to the rest of the cabin, you found yourself preferring the main room, not minding his company as the two of you watched old reruns of soap operas mindlessly, or sat on opposite ends of the room reading different novels.
You also find that EJ tends to read memoirs, often written by tortured minds that have long since passed on. There are quite a few littered around the cabin, and whenever the two of you are reading in the same room you take a peek at what he has. It’s always something along the same vein.
His interest in human stories, paired with his vague mention of a “life before,” makes you wonder. He has an extensive knowledge about medical practices as well, but you’d been under the assumption it was because of his taste for organ meat. After his dressing of your wounds and seeing the various medical textbooks alongside the memoirs, you start to piece together what kind of person EJ is, not just what kind of creature he is.
It becomes second nature to consider him as a fellow human, as a roommate, rather than a monster and your kidnapper. You settle into a routine so easily that you almost miss your chance to escape.
It begins just like any other morning. EJ unlocks your cuffs with a skeleton key that he keeps on his person at all times, once you’re in the bathroom. There aren’t any windows inside the small room, so there’s no chance of you escaping once you’re uncuffed, unless you escape the bathroom altogether.
“Shout for me when you’re done,” he says casually, pocketing the key and turning on his heel. “I’ll be reading.”
You hum out a response, closing and locking the door behind you. Nowadays, you prefer to shower in the mornings. The cabin has a certain chill that permeates your bones once the sun sets, and you don’t enjoy the feeling of the cold and the dampness at the same time. The shower itself is quite nice; EJ had asked you to make a list of necessities and he brings you more every time your supply runs out. Despite the grunginess of the bathroom as a whole, cleaning it up a bit and having your own preferred products spruced it up quite a bit. The same went for the rest of the cabin.
Once you’re done and dressed in fresh clothing (also picked up by EJ at some point, from your old apartment), you unlock the door and open it just a crack. You expect EJ to be there waiting — you’ve never had to call for him before, he always hears the water shut off and comes over to wait for you. You know it’s to make sure you don’t run off, but you’ve come to enjoy his constant company regardless. It’s almost comforting, in a way.
However, this time, he isn’t there.
In fact, the entire cabin feels eerily silent and still.
“EJ?” you call out, your voice sounding thin and afraid in the suddenly vast silence. “I… I’m ready.”
There isn’t a response to your feeble call.
Part of you wants to call out for him again, but another part of you stops yourself before you do. You fool, you murmur to yourself in your mind, this is your chance, don’t you see? He’s gone for now. Which means it’s your chance to escape.
You’re torn, wanting to escape and wanting to stay at the same time. What was waiting for you on the other side of the forest’s edge? Was there anything to return to? Yet, the thought of staying here with EJ forever gave you a peculiar feeling in your gut — not one specifically of fear, but of something much more complex.
You choose to run.
You don’t wait for EJ to come back. You book it, bare feet pattering against the hardwood floor as you approach the large window in the kitchen. It’s the biggest one in the entire cabin, and you’re almost certain that it locks from the inside — meaning you can get out.
The window comes into your view, and still no one comes to interrupt your escape. Your heart hammering in your chest, you scramble onto the countertop and reach for the lock on the window. It’s there, you were right! Your fingers fumble with the lock, unfamiliar with its specific mechanisms, but you get it after a few moments of confused scrambling. The glass slides aside with ease, and suddenly you’re faced with the forest beyond the cabin, bright and cheery from the morning sunlight. The chirps of the morning songbirds and the whooshing of the wind is so much louder now that there’s no walls separating you from it — you’d forgotten just how beautifully loud nature could be sometimes.
You begin to lean out the window, breathing in the fresh air. Your front half is now entirely outside, the warm rays of sun cascading down and gently caressing your vitamin deficient skin. You can taste your freedom.
And then you can literally taste blood.
You’re yanked back inside violently, a large hand closing around your throat roughly and making you choke on your own breath.
“Three fucking rules! I gave you three rules to follow!” EJ’s voice bellows. He releases his grip on your throat only briefly, to reposition his grasp. He makes you face him before grabbing you by your neck again, slightly looser this time. His mask is askew, pushed to the side and exposing his face. You haven’t seen his face since you were back at the lab, and it makes you pause your struggling for a moment. His expression is one of anger and concern, his thick brows knitted together with worry and his mouth curled into a wounded snarl.
“EJ…” you whimper, scrabbling at his grip on your neck. Even though he’d loosened it, you could still feel your face flushing from the lack of oxygen.
Much to your surprise, EJ loosens his grip more — completely. He lets go of you, turning to shut and lock the window before looking at you once more.
“Tell me you weren’t trying to leave,” he says, his voice as hurt as his expression. He approaches you, his massive form towering over you. With each step he takes toward you, you take one back, until your backside hits the counter and you’re forced to let EJ come as close as he wants.
“I wasn’t,” you lie hurriedly, “I… I just needed some fresh air.” It sounds stupid, even as you say it out loud. You look away, ashamed.
“You know, it’s rude to lie. I’m giving you a chance to tell me the truth here,” EJ says, annoyance flickering in his voice.
“I’m not!” you protest, your own anger flaring up in defense. It cools as soon as EJ presses you against the counter, igniting something else within you. Something you’d never expect — something you thought died long ago, when you dedicated your life to your studies and your work and nothing more.
“You’re lying again.” One of EJ’s hands grabs your chin and tilts your face upwards to force you to stare at him. His grip is tight — but in a different way this time. It’s more dominating and firm, rather than violent and desperate. “Tell me the truth. Now.”
You swallow hard, unable to look away. You stare at EJ’s face — once so monstrous, now so familiar and as human as could be.
“I… I initially was going to try and leave,” you mutter, your gaze finally flickering away from his face. You can’t handle the way his lips are trembling, the way one of his tongues darts out to wet the chapped skin in eager desperation. “but… then I really did just enjoy the fresh air. Promise.”
EJ doesn’t respond for a moment, but his thumb gently strokes your chin. His other hand grabs your hip, and you’re suddenly extremely aware of the fact that your body is pressed up against his. You can feel the heat of his flesh through all the layers of clothing that separated you from him, and it was making that fire inside you burn brighter by the second.
“Promise?” he asks, and the tone of his voice tells you that he won’t take another lie for an answer.
“Promise,” you say back, after the briefest of hesitations.
You don’t look away — you can’t look away now.
Something in EJ’s demeanor shifts slightly, and he lets out a low groan as he leans down to bury his face in your neck, resisting the urge to sink his teeth into your flesh again.
It makes you realize what he was murmuring to himself about the first time you woke up in the cabin. The way he assured himself that it would be “soon, but not yet.” He growls softly as his hand on your hip moves lower yet, claws catching on the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” he asks again — with a very different meaning this time.
“Yeah, you can,” you hear yourself saying.
And you mean it.
EJ’s clawed hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, one of his fingers tracing over the scars of his initials. The wound had healed a while ago now, but the knotted flesh was still sensitive. The sensation of his gentle, feather light touch makes you shiver, squirming beneath him.
“… Cute,” he mumbles, before releasing his grip on you, only to scoop you up in his arms right after. You let out a surprised yelp, clinging to his shoulder tightly. Muscle ripples beneath his clothing, beneath your touch, and it makes another wave of arousal and attraction pass through your body. EJ seems to sense this; he groans and hurries his pace out of the kitchen and down the hallway.
You’re flustered, but not so much that you aren’t paying attention to your surroundings. EJ isn’t taking you back to your room — he’s taking you to the room that he always disappears to — presumably his bedroom.
Able to balance your weight with one arm, EJ shifts you to one side as he fumbles with the doorknob, managing to kick open the door and throw you onto the bed. You land on a soft mattress, and you take a moment to look around.
EJ’s room is slightly cleaner than the rest of the cabin. The walls aren’t stained with nicotine and water damage, and there was a common theme of navy blue around the room. More books, both medical textbooks and memoirs, littered the desk and the several shelves against the far wall. A small window is behind the headboard of the bed, with no curtains to shield either of you from the incoming sunlight. It washes over both of you, highlighting you in honeyed rays. It only makes EJ look more enticing to you, especially as he throws his mask aside, exposing his face fully.
It’s surprising that you once found it monstrous. In the pure golden light, each one of his features looks perfect. He looks… beautiful, as he hovers over you and leans down to capture your lips in a heated, rough kiss.
His lips are chapped and his teeth are incredibly sharp — not the best combination, especially when paired with an inexperienced owner. EJ wasn’t exactly inexperienced, but it had certainly been a while since he’d cared about the creature he was fucking. Upon your first pained groan as one of his razor sharp teeth grazes your lower lip, he pulls back slightly, one of his tongues entering your mouth instead. The long appendage tangles with your own, and you can taste stale liquor and a hint of cigarettes. You try not to think about the lingering metallic taste as he moans against your lips, knowing it’s the blood of another.
His hands are on you again suddenly, pulling at your shirt roughly, impatiently — until he loses all of his patience at once and slices through the fabric with a single claw, making you squeak and cover your bra clad breasts with your arms. EJ lets out a chuckle, gently grabbing your wrists and pressing more kisses to your swollen lips. Wordlessly, he tells you to stop hesitating — to let him in, to let go of your fear. He moves your arms aside, leaning down to inhale the scent of your sweet skin. Naturally, he can’t help but taste you too, with how delectable you smell. One of his tongues darts out from between his lips once more, this time lapping greedily at the valley between your plump breasts. He lets one of his teeth graze your supple skin a few times, the small droplets of blood only making the taste even more irresistible.
“Fuck…” he growls, pulling your bra down just enough to free your tits, his hands leaving your wrists and coming down to squeeze your chest. A shuddery moan escapes you as his rough thumbs start playing with your hardening nipples, your back arching into his touch. “That’s right, come here…” he croons, reattaching his lips to your neck, shaking from the effort of holding back his more violent tendencies. Still, he nips you a few times, just enough to make you squirm and bleed a little, not enough to actually hurt you.
“EJ…” you whine, the heat between your legs only growing harder to resist as he teases your sensitive tits. You can feel yourself leaking, soaking the fabric of your panties.
“I know, little thing… but be patient for me, hm? I wanna take my time with you.” He chuckles, almost cruelly, amused by your whimper of protest. To compensate, he slots a meaty thigh between your legs, pressing up against that aching center of your needy cunt.
The relief — and the need for more — is immediate. You let out a moan, your hips grinding and moving of their own accord, your body desperate for any satiation. EJ grins toothily, inhaling deeply — he can smell your desperation, your arousal — and he’s obsessed with it.
“So fuckin’ wet already, can’t believe it,” he coos, pressing his knee harder against your sopping cunt. He can feel the heat of your folds, the dampness of your juices, beginning to soak through your shorts as well as your panties. He doesn’t waste any more time, his own patience growing thin and overwhelming his amusement at teasing you.
His touch leaves your body, and you feel like you’ve lost him entirely. The warmth fades, and you breathily call out for EJ, despite the fact that he hasn’t really left at all. He’s preoccupied, shedding his hoodie and jeans, kicking the items of clothing aside before turning back to you. You, however, are now extremely focused on EJ’s nearly naked form.
He’s muscular but a little soft at the same time, the softness mostly centered around his thighs and gut. There’s still clearly muscle, however — you watch with great interest as his thighs clench and ripple as he walks towards you.
He grabs you by the waist, hooking his fingers beneath the waistband of both your shorts and panties, pulling them off in one go. Your face flushes with heat; now you were the one being ogled.
EJ lets out a grunt of approval as you reach back to unclip your bra, gripping your thigh as he sits back down on the bed. He doesn’t give you any time to think about being embarrassed, nor does he ask before he wedges your thighs apart to reveal your glistening folds. He gets into position between your legs, his lips parting slighting to let one of his tongues free. He licks at your inner thigh, his nostrils flaring as he inhales the scent of your arousal.
“EJ, please…” you beg, wiggling your hips impatiently as he kisses and licks at your inner thigh. He lets out a low rumble, tightening his grip on your thighs.
“I told you, be patient,” he scolds, letting his teeth sink into the tender flesh of your thigh as a warning. You moan as he laps up the blood, starting to kiss closer and closer to your aching center.
Finally, his tongue licks a long stripe up your slit to your throbbing clit, eliciting a shaky moan from your trembling frame. EJ’s eye sockets narrow with lust and focus; one of his hands comes up to gently part your folds before he attaches his lips to your clit and starts sucking hard.
“E-EJ!” you cry out, hands reaching down to tangle in his messy nest of brown hair. The rough, desperate tugging only spurs EJ on further, as he sucks harder on your clit he starts teasing your leaking entrance with the pad of his calloused thumb.
He releases your swollen clit with a pop, admiring his work for a moment before one of his tongues curls around the bud, squeezing and rubbing it as his other two tongues begin to prod at your entrance. You mewl and grind against EJ’s face, your mind a haze of pleasure and need. The tongue around your clit increases its pace, and before you can properly react you feel a sudden pleasurable fullness as the other two appendages enter your tight cavern. You and EJ moan in unison; you at the feeling of a tongue prodding at your cervix and g-spot simultaneously, him at the taste of your sweet nectar coating all of his tongues at once.
You can feel your orgasm approaching steadily, unable to form proper words past babbling, as EJ works each one of your sensitive spots expertly. He lets out muffled moans and grunts, joining the cacophony of your babbles and mewls, and the lewd slick sounds of your pussy as he devours you. He tightens his grip on your thighs, holding you down against the mattress as you start to buck and twitch more erratically.
“I… f-fuck, I-I’m—” you stutter, choking on your own words as you cum before you can give EJ any sort of warning.
You sob loudly, tears burning your eyes as you cum harder than you have in years, shaking uncontrollably against EJ’s solid form. He doesn’t stop, his tongues working you through your orgasm until you’re kicking and breathlessly trying to say his name, the pleasure turning to overstimulating pain.
He pulls away reluctantly, and your form slumps against the mattress tiredly as he lets go of you. You can’t help but let out a sheepish giggle as you see the state of EJ’s lower face; completely drenched in your juices. His hair is messier than before and sticking in every possible direction, from your pulling and grabbing.
“You can take more, can’t you?” he asks, his voice edged with a growl. He presses his crotch against yours, and you can feel his cock throbbing through his pants. You’d nearly forgotten about that, in your own selfish, pleasurable haze.
You nod, not trusting your voice at the moment. You do trust your body however, grinding up against EJ’s fat bulge.
God, he’s so fucking big. You’re a little terrified to see what’s underneath the thin fabric of those boxer briefs, but you’d be lying if you said you were hesitating at all. You wanted him. You needed him.
EJ — either able to sense your desperation, or just impatient himself, pushes down his boxers and kicks them aside, allowing you to get a clear view of what was between his legs.
Just like the rest of him, his cock is enormous. Thick and meaty, with dark bruise-y veins running up the girthy shaft. Naturally, it’s the same shade of gray as the rest of his body, the mushroom tip slightly darker and slick with pearly pre. He wraps a hand around his shaft, his lithe fingers closing around himself as he moans, thrusting into his own fist. You whimper, wanting to feel him thrust inside of you instead.
EJ clicks his tongue in mock disapproval, nudging your thighs further apart and on second thought, guiding your legs to loosely wrap around his waist. Suddenly, meanly, he presses his pulsing length against your weeping slit, chuckling with glee and enjoyment as you helplessly grind against him, covering his cock in your slick. “God, you’re impatient. Guess I shouldn’t make you wait any longer, hm? That’d just be mean. Downright cruel.”
He does exactly that, a fitting cruel smirk on his face as he drags his hot, hard cock up and down the length of your pussy, taking extra care to apply more pressure as his tip passes over your swollen clit.
“EJ, f-fuck!” you cry out with frustration, as his blunt tip catches on your fluttering hole for what seems like the millionth time. “P-please!”
He pauses, and you do too, waiting for his response. “Please, what?”
So this was the game he wanted to play. This was what he wanted from you this entire time.
“You asshole, fuck me! Please, fuck me!” you snap, frustrated and more aroused than ever.
His hips suddenly snap forward, burying at least a third of his length inside of your tight heat — stretching you beyond imagination. The pain is searing, burning hot; only tolerable because of the faintest hint of pleasure beneath it all. You scream, the sound between a moan and a cry, as you reach for EJ, grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling him on top of you.
He isn’t faring much better than you — he’s lost in the pleasure, jaw clenched and teeth gritting against each other as he resists the urge to bury himself inside you completely. It would tear you apart, and he simply couldn’t have that. No, he needed to be gentle with you. Hard enough to rough you up, have his way — but gentle enough to ensure that you wouldn’t endure any lasting damage.
But you’re just so fucking tight.
And hot. And you’re squeezing his cock like a vice, practically sucking him in. He lets out a strangled gasp, apologetic words tumbling from his lips as his hips thrust forward again.
A majority of his cock is inside you now, and it’s undeniably painful. You sob, tears and snot and spit wetting his neck as you shudder against him, your pussy stretched to its limit around his monstrous girth. “G-God, I can’t… f-fuck, I can’t…!” you babble, your nails digging into EJ’s flesh, holding him close and trying to push him away at the same time. “It hu-urts, EJ!”
He shushes you immediately, soft and crooning and sweet as one of his hands cradles the back of your head, the other gently scooping you up effortlessly by your waist. He murmurs soft nothings in your ear, all while guiding you the rest of the way down onto his cock. “Mm, just like that, little one, just like that… you’re doing so good for me.”
Finally, finally, he bottoms out, and it feels like he’s in your lungs. You gasp, one hand finally releasing EJ’s shoulder, leaving behind tiny bloodied crescent moons from where your nails cut through flesh. He doesn’t seem to notice, however, for he’s too focused on the feeling of your walls completely surrounding his aching length. His mind is spinning, his hands clammy and numb as he holds your body flush against his. He can feel every pulse, every clench, every drip from your hole as he starts slowly grinding against your cervix, your moans joining together once more.
“I’m sorry, c-can’t hold back any more. N-need… need to fuck, need to cum… need to breed…” he whines, the protective hands on the back of your head and the small of your waist suddenly leaving, reappearing as a bruisingly tight grip on your hips. He starts thrusting fast and hard, hammering into your cervix, his girthy tip dragging against your g-spot with each snap of his powerful hips. His head dips down close to your chest, his lips suddenly attaching to one of your sensitive nipples, suckling and pulling as he rapidly fucks into you.
Lewd squelches and slaps reverberate around the room, but your own moans are all that you can hear. You can’t seem to stop, each roll of EJ’s hips practically forcing a mewl or a gasp from between your lips.
His balls tighten up, swollen and full. You can feel the heat of it against your ass, as he bottoms out inside you and moves his hips in a circle, pressing into you as deep as possible. One of your hands flies up to press against your own stomach, keening as you feel the bulge of his cock moving deep inside you. “Oh, fuck, Eej…” you moan, pressing against it slightly, making EJ’s hips stutter. He suddenly starts thrusting faster and harder, making you squeal as he pushes your legs above your head, practically folding you in half as he hammers into you harder and faster.
“Fuckin’ tease… such a fuckin’ tease…” he pants, grunting as he feels your slick starting to dribble down his sensitive balls. He can feel how much you like being manhandled by him, how much it turns you on as he handles you like a fuck toy, like a doll.
Just as you were unable to warn him of your first orgasm, neither of you can find words as you orgasm together. You cum first, thrashing underneath him as you scream his name and dribble copious amounts of fluid, soaking his crotch and the navy sheets beneath the two of you. Not that he wouldn’t have cum without that, though — he was so close this entire time, he was surprised that he lasted long enough to make you cum again. Before your own orgasm is through, you’re gasping and shuddering under EJ as you feel heat flooding your cunt, filling you to the brim and starting to spill out, further soiling the bed.
EJ moans lowly, grinding his hips into yours again, the feeling of his tip rubbing against your cervix elongating his pleasurable orgasm. He releases his grip on you, allowing you to lazily, loosely wrap your legs around his waist once more, while laying flat on your back. You shiver, overstimulation starting to settle in once again as your orgasm fades. As that fades, however, something else begins to grow. You can feel a mass of some sort at your entrance, growing and throbbing against your sore folds. You shift, furrowing your brow as you feel EJ starting to try and grind that against your slippery entrance.
“EJ… what… what is that?” you murmur, your voice hoarse and feeble. The ball is bigger now, and EJ is pressing harder, his breathing ragged and uneven. He mutters something under his breath. “What? What did you say?”
“Take it… fuckin’ take it…” he repeats, louder now. He lifts his face from your breasts, his hollow sockets boring deep into your eyes.
You whimper, feeling EJ starting to press that mass — his knot — against your entrance with much more force now, one hand traveling down to try and help ease it inside. “E-EJ…” you moan, clenching around him tightly unconsciously.
“Stop clenching,” he grits out, “f-fuck, gonna knot you so good… breed you full…”
With an effortful grunt, his knot pops inside of you, making you cry out and arch against him, the burning sensation almost unbearable initially. You can feel more spurts of cum — albeit much weaker now — pumping into your womb, trapped inside by his girthy knot. He moans with satisfaction, lapping up the sweat and tears from your precious face.
The pain slowly lessens, and you eventually don’t mind the fullness. When his knot finally deflates enough for his softened cock to slip out of your abused hole, he seems to return to his normal self more than before. He looks almost sorrowful, as he takes in your bruised and battered state.
“… Sorry,” he mumbles, hesitating but eventually pulling you into an embrace. Suddenly, he sounds just like the awkward, sheepish man that asked to clean your wound.
“Don’t be.” Your voice is muffled, as your face is pressed into his chest, but he swears on what he heard. His own heart starts racing, and he holds you even closer, afraid that if he lets go your battered body might shatter into a million unfixable, unchaseable pieces.
“EJ,” you prompt. “EJ, please look at me.”
“Jack,” is all he says. “My name is Jack, not EJ.”
viii.
Your second chance to escape comes much sooner than you think. After messing up so badly the last time, you assumed that Jack would tighten things up and lock you away again.
Jack, however, has done the opposite.
You’d been learning about the sort of person he was, slowly. You’ve seen things from the surface level; his interests and passions, his habits and talents. You’ve also seen his vices, heard tidbits about his seemingly troubled past, and witnessed him in his most… “monstrous” states. Feeding, butchering, killing.
And now… you’ve seen his intimate side. You’ve seen him completely bare in the physical sense, though it hasn’t happened again since that afternoon. You sort of want it to, but you hesitate to instigate — unsure of where Jack stands with you. It seems like he’s becoming more vulnerable — quite literally — but there’s still something that makes you feel somewhat distant and disconnected from him. No matter how close you get to him, no matter if every inch of your skin is pressed against his, you have an inkling that it won’t be resolved until he chooses to resolve it himself.
Tonight, the second opportunity for freedom, is a peculiar night.
It’s nearly mid autumn now, but summer is still hanging on by its claws. It’s warm and muggy out, a little humid. The few fireflies that are left blink yellow in sparse groups. This year’s summer had been mild, most nights cooler than tonight was. In turn, autumn had been exceptionally lackluster.
It still felt like summer too, and Jack had given up on keeping all of the windows closed. The kitchen window that had once held your complicated hopes of escaping was now wide open, letting in the warm breeze of the evening. The window in the main room was open too, and you stared out into the darkness behind the cabin from your seat on the couch. Jack is sitting on the far end of the same couch, holding a book open in his lap but not really paying attention to it, instead focused on the television that’s playing a stupid advertisement for a new flavor of gum. The drone of the overly cheerful infomercial adds to the sleepy lull of the warm night, and your eyelids grow heavy as you start to nod off.
An odd shriek pierces the once peaceful night, waking you from your half asleep state immediately. By the time you jump to your feet, wobbling a little as the blood rushes to your head, Jack is already up and looking out the open window, a low rumble sounding from his chest as he surveys the area.
“Jack?” you whisper, finding the courage to creep up beside him, clutching the sleeve of his hoodie. “What was that?”
Thoughts of the various creatures from Jack’s tales come to mind; was it the Operator? The Rake? Surely, it couldn’t be Jeff, or perhaps worse one of the Proxies. All of these names were merely that to you, names. You had vague pictures in your mind that you pieced together from Jack’s descriptions, but all you really knew was what they did to the unfortunate souls that happened across their path.
Jack sniffs the air, narrowing his eye sockets in a squint before looking down at you. “It sounds like the Rake,” he says lowly, cocking his head to the side slightly. “But it doesn’t smell like the Rake.”
“What — who, does it smell like?” you ask timidly, unsure if Jack has an answer and simultaneously unsure if you want that answer.
Jack is silent. He sniffs again, before shaking his head and retracting himself back inside. He closes the window, locking it securely and sliding the blackout curtains into place. He glances at you, taking you by the wrist as he stalks over to the kitchen window and doing the same. His lack of response paired with his quick actions makes you queasy with sick curiosity and fear.
“Jack…” you pry again, anxiety creeping up on you too, making it unbearable to stay in the unknown.
“I don’t know,” he says shortly, his response not satisfactory to you in the slightest. He starts toward his bedroom, and you follow for a few steps before stopping, watching him disappear down the dark hallway. He reappears momentarily, clutching his scalpel and wearing his mask.
“Stay here. If it’s the Rake, I’m gonna go find an offering for it, make sure it stays out of my territory. It should know better.” His voice is strained, and you can tell he’s concerned.
“What if it’s… something else?”
Jack shakes his head again. “I don’t know why an unfamiliar being would approach these woods, let alone enter ‘em. I doubt…” he trails off, going quiet again. His grip on the scalpel tightens, and he starts towards the front door. “Stay here,” he repeats, before exiting without giving you a chance to respond.
You stand there for a second, unsure what to do. Then you go back over to the couch and sit down on the edge of it, a peculiar feeling washing over you now. You knew for sure that Jack was gone, and wouldn’t be back for a while. You knew how to escape from the cabin from several exits. And — you look down at your wrists and ankles — you weren’t chained up at the moment.
You’d taken a shower late that evening, simply by coincidence. After spending the afternoon cleaning your bedroom and rearranging the few pieces of furniture, you wanted to bathe.
And Jack hadn’t put the cuffs back on after.
You’d been wearing them less and less these days anyway — especially after that night. He’d let the breaks between last longer and longer, and tonight… well, in his hurry, he’d left without ensuring that you were properly captive.
You glance at the curtain covered window just beyond your reach on the near wall. Then you look over at the kitchen window. You nearly choose the latter window, but then realize that nothing’s stopping you from literally walking out the front door.
So you do.
The outside world seems so vast to you. You’d been used to it once, but now it was so foreign to be able to look up and see sky and land surrounding everything in your line of vision.
Stars twinkle down at you, guiding you and serving as a sliver of hope within the inky blackness of the never ending sky. Long, lush, unkept grass brushes against your waist, blowing in the gentle night breeze and tickling your exposed skin. Beneath your feet, you can feel the soles of your shoes sinking into the moist earth, mud caking the once pristine fabric.
You cast one last look at the cabin behind you before you break into an unsteady run, your legs not used to this sort of exercise any more. Your shoes make squelching sounds as they sink into the mud, trampling the grass in your path. You’re not sure when you’re running to — not particularly trying to find your way back to town, and not particularly trying to find help either. Just a stupid idiot, drunk on freedom and solitude.
Soon, you find yourself surrounded by trees. All sorts, with differently shaped leaves and trunks with juxtaposing textures. Old and young, tall and short, dead and alive. Despite all of these differences, you find it difficult to remember where you came from and which direction you want to keep going in. Every tree starts to blur together slowly as you wander through the thick, lush foliage.
You’re maneuvering around a dip in the pathway, scooting down a large rock rather than climbing down the rough patch of terrain, when another shriek pierces the night — much louder this time.
A chill runs up your spine, and the sound of your own breathing fills your ears as you whip around to make sure nothing is following.
The pathway is indeed empty behind you, eliciting a sigh of relief from your sore lungs. You continue on your path, breaking into a light jog to keep a quicker pace while also maintaining some semblance of stamina.
Each squish of your shoes and exhale from your lungs makes you sweat with dread; would this be the sound that gets you caught? Would this be the last word you utter before you’re killed?
The further you go, the more you regret your decision. Just like last time, you begin to wonder if there’s anything to return to, if you were to go back to town — if you should go back to town, if that. You’d brought it up to Jack once, laughing it off but curious of his reaction. He’d been firm; there was absolutely nothing to return to, and you were better off staying with him unless you wanted to be turned over to another resident of the woods. One that would be much more inclined to hurt you, he’d insisted.
Panting, you slow to a halt when you reach an old, gnarled tree stump. Using it a makeshift chair, you sit down on the edge of it and catch your breath.
Instead of a shriek that rips through the night, this time it’s a strangled shout — one that sounds eerily like Jack. It seems to come from the direction you were heading away from, and you find yourself turning around and running back, heart pounding in your ears as you will Jack to make another sound, one that’ll continue to point you in the direction towards him. You’re consumed with the question of what happened to him, and if he was okay — rather than figuring out how the hell to escape this maze of a forest, once and for all. Suddenly, your purpose for leaving the cabin becomes clear. You really weren’t trying to escape Jack, you were chasing your sense of freedom, and shockingly — staying with Jack was giving you that. Your freedom from the monotony of everyday life, your savior from your professor, was at risk the moment he left your side, left the cabin.
You needed to find him. If not because you’d come to care for the man himself, then for your own selfish thirst for freedom.
“Jack?” you whisper shout, arriving at a clearing that you definitely hadn’t been at before — telling you that you were way off course again.
Squinting and staring across the clearing, you swear you can see something white standing out against the dark wood of all of the trees. As you get closer and closer, it becomes apparent that it’s a piece of paper, attached to the trunk of one of the many trees surrounding the clearing.
You look around one last time before you reach the tree, murmuring to yourself as you read out the one repeating word scrawled messily across the note.
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO —
A sharp, high pitched ringing surrounds you, enveloping your senses entirely as the sound alone warps your vision and makes you smell and taste blood. The sudden, violent tinnitus forces you to your knees, your legs suddenly feeling incredibly unstable. As you collapse feebly, weakly, there’s only one clear thing in your line of vision — that dreaded note, with a crude depiction of the exact creature that had showed up in your sleep paralysis months ago.
Monstrously tall, impossibly thin and spindly. Long, black tendrils emerging from its suit clad abdomen.
A completely smooth, blank white face.
The ringing suddenly increases sharply in pitch, the squealing making you let out a guttural gasp of pain as you feel something warm and wet dribbling down your neck. You might not have enough strength to stand on your own two feet at the moment, but you’re able to shakily bring a hand up to swipe across the front of your neck. It comes away streaked in red.
Your hearing is slightly muffled, and you can feel the wetness of blood dripping from your earlobes. So that was where the blood was coming from — it made sense.
What can only be described as static further degrades your vision, finally the paper note on the tree becoming blurred and distorted with fuzziness like the rest of your vision. Warm wetness starts leaking from other orifices; you can feel it wetting your upper lip, dribbling down your chin, coating your cheekbones and making your eyelashes sticky.
Somewhere in the distance, you think you can hear Jack’s voice. Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. You’re unable to run to him now, anyway.
Your mind drifts to pleasant memories with Jack from the past few months, after things had taken a turn for the better. The meals you shared, the films and novels consumed and discussed both together and alongside one another. The all consuming, undeniable attraction that blossomed once you both let it happen.
Jack was so different than EJ, and EJ so different from the creature. As you kneel here in the rain soaked earth, choking on your own blood, you think about how it’s impossible that you once thought Jack a monster. How stupid you really were, and how this time it cost you everything. Just as you’d begun to figure out your complicated feelings about it all, too.
There was nothing to return to now, not at the laboratory, not at your own apartment, and certainly not at the cabin. Not if Jack wasn’t there.
Completely overwhelmed, you succumb to the torture and collapse fully on the forest floor.
ix.
There was one night that far overshadowed your other happy memories with Jack, one that both added to and resolved your conflicting feelings about the situation and the man himself.
It happened not so long after that other night. You remember because you were still sore and bruised, and Jack had been tending to your wounds silently as the sun went down. The windows were open just a crack, just enough to let in the warm breeze, and you were unchained.
Instead of staring out the window, or being lost in thought, you were focused on Jack. His large hands so gently cradling your leg; one hand carefully cradling the underside of your leg where it bends as the other scrupulously wipes at a healing gash on the top of your knee. His maskless face had a hardened expression, the same one he wore whenever he apologized. And he had been apologizing a lot lately, mostly for things he had done at the beginning of your stay with him. Regret was more of a proper word to describe the emotion etched into his tired features.
He hadn’t even caused this wound; you had done so yourself when kneeing the corner of a table accidentally, the sharp edge slicing through your sensitive flesh. Still, you can tell that there’s an air of guilt as his touch hesitates over healing bruises that he had indeed caused.
“I don’t like how fragile you are,” he says finally, breaking the soft silence between the two of you. “Most humans aren’t this susceptible to injury.”
You shrug. “Clumsiness?” you say nonchalantly, examining your newly dressed wound as Jack slowly removes his hands from you.
“Stupidity,” he says bluntly, his answer making you scowl.
“What do you mean by that?” you ask, prodding.
“It’s… stupid that you can tolerate being around me. After what I’ve done to you. After what you’ve done to me.” He lets out a listless chuckle. “I just — I don’t get why you seem to be content here.”
“Because it’s more fun to keep me around and torture me?”
Jack lets out another hollow laugh, bringing a hand up to ruffle his own hair in disbelief. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’re so content with this fucked up situation.”
You almost shrug again but stop yourself, instead thinking about it more. It was a fucked up situation, undeniably — he’d laid it out for you. You were each other’s victims and captives, a reversible symbiotic relationship of predator and prey. You knew it was toxic — for lack of a better term — but you liked the rush. And it didn’t help that you liked Jack, too.
“So… just kill me then. Get rid of me.”
“No!” Jack sounds irritated now, but his tone confirms what you need to hear. He likes it just as much as you do. He’s keeping you around for a reason after all.
He pulls himself to his feet, sitting on the couch beside you. One hand gently grabs your neck, tracing over the fading bruises from where he’d both strangled and choked you, as the other guides your legs to drape over his lap. He didn’t say it aloud, but you could tell that he liked that queasy feeling of uncertainty and closeness too.
He hadn’t felt anything in a long, long time.
And he was addicted to feeling all of these things with you — never mind that they weren’t really all healthy feelings. It was enough.
—
“Breathe. Breathe, you dumbass, breathe!”
Everything is so dark. It hurts so much. I feel like I’m drowning, even though I’m not underwater.
“Fucking dumbass.”
“Never listens to what I—”
“I said, breathe!”
Everything is too bright now. It hurts more.
“Jesus, there’s so much bl—”
“Can you hear me?”
“Dumbass.”
It smells like Jack. Smells like home.
“If I wanted you dead—”
“—would’ve killed you myself—”
“—I didn’t want this, stupid, stupid idiot—”
—
The sheets are soft, and you remember them though you spent only one night tangled in them.
You can’t help but smile when you realize where you are.
“Stop smiling. Open your eyes before you get all smug.”
You listen, of course. Just hearing his voice made your heart sing with hope.
Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking wearier and thinner than you’ve ever seen him before. Your smile fades a little when you register the state he’s in. You’d never seen him look this frail and small — not even when you recall the days in the laboratory, chained up in the dog kennel.
“What happened to you?” you ask, chuckling softly. “Suddenly growing a soft spot for all humans? Can’t kill any more?”
Jack scowls, but he still moves closer to you. “No. Obviously I’ve been holed up here, taking care of your stupid ass.” He collects himself, sighing. “And obviously… I’ve been worried about you too.”
“So you have a soft spot for one human.”
“You still sound smug.”
“Can’t I be smug if that one human is me?” You sit up, wincing a little and making Jack rush in to hold you, his hands knowingly avoiding your sore spots.
“Don’t try to sit up yet.” He sucks in a worried breath, brows knitted with concern.
“I’m okay. Just sore,” you grunt, adjusting to the new position. “Anyway… I didn’t think you’d come for me. I thought the Rake got me.”
“That was the Operator,” Jack says, sternly. “The Rake ended up being… uninvolved, miles off.” He shakes his head a little. “He thought… well… I guess he knew you. He wanted you gone, though. Didn’t like that I was keeping you around, in the forest.”
“So… he spared me? Why?”
“I asked him to. He isn’t my boss, I don’t have to obey his exact orders. I just stay out of his way.” Jack looks a little uncomfortable, giving you a lot of information he never thought he’d have to divulge to anyone. “But… that’s partially why you weren’t supposed to leave the cabin. Especially not alone.”
“And I was being held captive,” you remind him, as if it were something he could forget.
He doesn’t laugh, instead seems to bite his tongue as he looks down at the floor. “If you want to leave, you can. I… I feel weird about keeping you here after everything that happened. It’s a lot, and I’ve started acting in ways that I don’t recognize.” He cringes, again having unveiled a little too much unnecessary information — this time emotional. “If… if anything, we’re even now.” He references his initial reasoning for taking you, instead of killing you back at the lab. To get back at you for keeping him captive.
You look out the window. It’s a beautiful, crisp autumn day. The leaves are finally changing color, with the first few beginning to loosen from the branches and fall to the ground in brown, crunchy droves. If you were back in town, there would be pumpkins for sale at the farmer’s market and the local farms themselves would be inviting the community to come apple picking. Your favorite coffee shop probably had their seasonal drinks back, and if you remembered correctly there was a book release you were looking forward to that was supposed to come out around this time.
Then you look back at Jack. He isn’t looking down at the floor any more, he’s looking at you. There’s a wistful, hopeful expression on his handsome face — and it looks like home, more than pumpkin spice lattes and book releases.
You could have those things anywhere.
You shake your head, a small, hopeful smile on your own face. “Nah. You can’t get rid of me that easy.”
This time, Jack lets himself chuckle a little at your stupidity.
epilogue.
Despite the fact that it was late autumn, when the leaves were long dead and the chill of winter was beginning to seep its icy claws into his very bones, there was an unfamiliar but welcome warmth inside the once lonely cabin in the woods this year.
With all of that ice and snow surrounding him, Jack was glad he had something to come home to.
It had taken time, and plenty of brutal honesty between the two of you before things felt remotely normal — and even then, it was a new normal that you settled into. The shared understanding and acceptance that this was an odd and probably realistically illogical relationship helped soothe any doubts. The two of you were just happy in the moment, away from the chaos of the rest of the world.
A fire roars in the once dusty and abandoned fireplace, the brick scrubbed clean and the surrounding walls cleaned and re-wallpapered. No longer was there a lingering stench of nicotine and rot, now a warm smell of firewood and pine.
Jack sits on the couch, one arm around you as the two of you stare out the window. The first snowfall is coming, tiny snowflakes swirling in the chilly breeze. Neither of you feel the chill, warm and content inside the solid walls of the cabin, wrapped in each other’s embrace. He looks outside — not as a captive, not as an experiment — but as a free man, a free monster, with his human that chose to stay and is watching the window alongside him, just as free as he is.
For the first time in many, many years, Jack felt his old human self sighing with contentment, melding with acceptance to his new self.
The last thing he hears before he closes his eyes, drifting into a comfortable sleep, is your soft snuffles of sleep and the crackle of the fire.
petrichor-han 2026. do not translate, repost, or feed into ai.
please consider reblogging and/or leaving a few kind words if you enjoyed this fic :) tumblr posts revolve around reblogs, and i'd appreciate the gesture!!
Far from the dregs of modern society and the plight of humanity lay your home. A reclusive–much like you–modest cabin, nestled amidst towering oak trees and far off the main trail. It had taken you a few years to establish your self-sustaining sanctuary, but now it was a thriving homestead.
Vibrant green leaves sprouted up in even rows of dirt beside your house, a few paces away from a fire pit you had dug yourself one Spring evening. You would, of course, travel into town for luxuries like AA batteries and processed chocolate, but your trips became few and far between–eventually optional. You found yourself leaving less and less. You didn’t miss the drone of rush hour traffic, overly congested sidewalks, empty night skies, or ever-climbing prices.
If anything, the quiet felt earned.
As your disdain for your old way of life grew, your want to stay dwindled until you ditched it all and went off the grid.
Everyone assumed you would last a week, perhaps a month, and you hated to admit you had held similar sentiments. The initial move was hard, but once you had set up a decent router and a generator, you became settled much more quickly.
Settled.
That was the word you used, anyway.
The only absence you felt was a social one. As days of silence stretched into weeks, the realization of your isolation became harder to ignore. Your shopping ventures hardly fulfilled your needs, filled with mindless small talk and passing remarks purely for the sake of politeness–and in hopes of earning a tip. The remaining connections of substance you did have all but eroded with the separation, not only physical but emotional as well. Quitting your job all but severed your connection to former coworkers, up and leaving your friends had earned you their ire, and your family was a complicated mess that all but caved in on itself after your decision.
So, there you were. Your best friend may have well been the ground hog that had made itself a home beneath your porch, and your only conversation came from the few and far between hikers in dire need of directions.
They never stayed long, and you never asked them to.
It was, at least, easy to be of service; the criss-crossing of trails was familiar as all of the forests’ odds and ends were second nature. That muscle memory carried you from your cabin and down the steep slope of your backyard.
The grass around you grew slim and short from the limited sunlight that made it through the thick canopy of trees. Sparse green patches faded into smooth pebbles and sandy mud as you closed in on the shallow stream cutting through the woods. It was just deep enough to house small fish with a healthy population of frogs at various stages of life. Because of its frail inhabitants, you avoided fishing there–however, the water did attract a decent amount of other wild animals ripe for hunting.
That wasn’t your particular intention today, instead you were simply scouring the area for any plants you had yet to harvest. So, donning chunky rain boots and worn gloves you began searching. Parting shrubs and shifting stones you were greeted with the expected wriggling earth worms, scurrying ants, and–
Heavy steel-toed boots.
You froze.
Huh?
Before you was a huge pair of work boots, made of worn black leather caked in mud with straps galore. Tucked into them was black cargo pants, plentiful with pockets which were all stuffed full. As if that was not enough storage, a utility belt hung from his waist. In one of the loops a serrated hunting knife caught your eye, stirring some surprise and apprehension.
You hadn’t heard him approach.
Taking a tentative step back for your own safety, you weren’t sure what was more shocking–the appearance of another person or the fact that they were decked out in tactile gear like the world was about to end.
How odd this truly began to set in. How had you not heard anything? Why was he so close?
Your heart rate picked up a bit as you stood up, eyes flitting from his black belt to his black hoodie–
Wow. This guy had a favorite color.
Underneath his baggy sleeves was, you guessed it, black gloves which seemed to be pulled over bandages of some sort. And then–best of all–was a dark blue mask, stained with heavy black tear streaks.
Great. Just great.
You had been discovered by an edgelord with a knife which was basically a would-be serial killer–assuming you were his first victim. If that were the case you were fucked.
For one, he had no discernable features, save for a mess of dark curls peaking out from beneath his hood. And, secondly, he was huge.
The stranger was easily the tallest man you had ever seen, pushing seven feet tall with wide shoulders and a soft stomach.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t shift.
He just…stood there.
“Hello.”
He spoke firmly, his formal voice much smoother than you would have expected.
“Hi…” You croaked out in turn, wishing you had brought a more substantial weapon with you than a spade. Clutching the shovel like a life line you did another rapid once over. He was at least a head taller than you and could probably snap you in half like a twig. Swallowing the lump in your throat you waited anxiously for his response, a bit too scared to prompt him yourself.
“You live near here.”
His choice of words left you dumbfounded. He stated it, like it was a fact–which it was, technically–but how the hell did he know that?
“Yes, I do.” You replied, the words coming out more like a question than an answer.
A hum of understanding left him, a deep rumbling vibrato. He raised his hand stiffly, more like an animatronic than a man. It paused midair, fingers twitching once before settling, pointing at you.
“Food.”
“Yeah…?” What the fuck was wrong with him.
“What do you do for food?” he continued. “Is it…easy to hunt? Have you ever been interrupted?”
The question seemed oddly pointed considering the awkwardness of his wording, but you found yourself answering anyway.
“I grow my own stuff–tomatoes, carrots, easy stuff mostly. It's not the best place to catch anything here” you gestured towards the stream. The stranger simply tilted his head in response. “But uhm, no. If you go after animals it's not like another one is going to stop you from doing it or anything.”
He tensed–subtly, but surely.
Like something in your answer hadn’t aligned with what he expected. “I see. I mean, more so, have you ever been interrupted by people?”
That got a laugh out of you.
Not because it was funny–but because it wasn’t.
“Oh god no–I mean, not really.” You tried to recover, still on edge. “People, like, rarely come through here. Usually just hikers and stuff, so they don’t go off the trail.”
Your explanation seemed to please him this time, earning you an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, I’m glad I could help.” Your response carried more warmth than before, offering a small smile you hoped he returned beneath his mask.
“Yes.”
He turned to leave, taking a few steps before pausing.
Then–he turned back.
Not at your face, just at you.
“I’ll see you around…”
“I’ll–”
“I’m Jack.”
Taken aback by the awkward interruption, silence fell between you both for a few painful moments.
Then, your laughter broke the tension, easing him to relax his shoulders–just slightly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jack.”
He didn’t respond right away, he just stood there for a second longer than necessary.
Then, without another word, he left.
~~~~~
“Shit.”
You cursed under your breath, seeing that the pale thread had somehow–yet again–worked itself into a nasty knot. Reaching for your seam ripper you tore the string and pulled it from your shirt which, by now, had more holes then before in your repeated attempts to fix it. It seemed that sewing really, really wasn’t your strong suit.
It was early in the evening and although sunlight was fleeting there was very little you had to do outside, so you got some much needed chores out of the way instead. Getting up from your seat to grab a new sewing needle in hopes that would make up for your utter lack of raw skill. Just as you reached the small round table that had become an overgrown junk drawer, you noticed how dark it seemed. Gazing up at the orange glow of the setting sun from a window at the far end of your living room, you knew it should have been brighter outside. Looking to your left towards your front door you jumped for a moment, before sighing in dismay as you saw the culprit.
Jack stood on your porch, peering in through the front window and blocking out most of the light with his massive frame. Today he donned a navy pull over and a black canvas jacket rather than his usual ratty hoodie–he must have been feeling adventurous today.
Waving at your friend through the glass he stiffly returned the gesture, staring a moment too long before you opened the door to greet him.
“Can I help you?” You asked, a joking lilt in your voice. As odd as this was, you had come to learn this was simply how he behaved and you were admittedly glad he had stopped by regardless.
“No.” He deadpanned, closing the distance between you two and getting a bit close to the point where you had to crane your neck to maintain eye contact. Something about it brought a faint flush to your cheeks and suddenly shy, you cleared your throat to urge him on. “I needed to come by.”
“And you didn’t knock because…?”
“You were occupied.”
“Riiight…” You couldn’t help the sass that slipped into your voice, simply rolling your eyes at his peculiar formalities. “Well, if you’re going to watch me, why not just do it from inside the house next time?” You attempted to crack a joke, raising your eyebrows at him expectantly.
“Alright.”
Taking your sarcasm as instruction, he brushed past you with impressive ease and stepped into your living room.
He looked comical, trapped by low ceilings and smaller furniture made to accommodate one normal sized person. Rather than looking at the surroundings he walked to one side until his foot nudged a table, placing a hand on it and feeling the layout of the room's outer edge as he took even steps around the perimeter.
“...Jack?”
“I am mapping it.”
“...Mapping it?”
“Yes.”
Right. Of course he was.
In his exploration you noticed a faint trail of blood at his feet, causing you to lurch away from the door towards him until you realized it was just a rabbit clutched in his free hand.
Well, the remains of a rabbit.
It was very dead–hunted and cleaned, hanging limply in the man’s grasp.
There were no tears or evident damage to its flesh. No uneven edges. Just a clean, precise opening like someone had performed an operation rather than a hunt.
“I didn’t see you this morning.”
“Hm?” you asked, missing almost all of what he said as you focused back in.
“You weren’t by the stream earlier today.”
“Yeah, I–”
“You are there most mornings.”
The statement landed heavier than it should have.
Ah, right. Running into Jack by the river had become…routine. Not something you had planned, not something you had even acknowledged aloud, but something that happened all the same. You would check on your traps, and he would be there. Or he wouldn’t–and then he would be by the time you left.
“Right, sorry about that.” You said, a bit more carefully now. “I usually meet you after I see if I caught anything–”
“I know.”
Right.
You glanced at him, then away.
The obviousness of your explanation left you a bit embarrassed considering you usually passed him with blood stained pants and some collection of dead animals.
“Well, I don’t typically have any luck after it rains and since it did yesterday, I thought I would wait until tomorrow morning.”
“You were gone longer than usual.”
That…was not what you said.
You blinked, stunned for a second, before forcing a small laugh. “Yeah, well–I guess I got mixed up. The days sorta blend together, ya know?”
Your explanation seemed to satisfy him, prompting a small nod. Silence settled again–denser, this time.
Then he stepped forward, almost proudly brandishing the rabbit out to you.
“I brought you meat. I wasn’t sure if you would have anything to eat.”
The sentiment brought a smile to your face, and the realization that he was thinking about you, worrying–well it made your cheeks turn red all over again.
Man since when were you so easy?
Turning away you quickly composed yourself, taking a quick breath and clearing your now busy mind. “Thank you, Jack. That’s very sweet of you.”
He stilled.
Not just paused–stilled.
Like the word was unfamiliar and had caught somewhere it didn’t belong.
“Sweet,” he repeated, quieter now.
“...Yeah.”
Another pause.
Then he held the rabbit out further.
You took a step closer, now only a few inches from him. Your hand hovered for a moment–hesitation flickering–before something in you pushed forwards. Just for a second, you brushed your knuckles over his.
Cold.
Not freezing, not entirely unnatural.
Just cold.
His grip tightened–only slightly–and just for a moment.
But still, enough that you noticed.
You stilled now, and he didn’t let go right away.
Instead, his head dipped–just barely towards you–as if he were staring at the point of contact.
“It's still warm,” he murmured.
A shiver ran down your spine, your breath catching in your throat.
“Yeah.” you said quickly–maybe a bit too quickly–pulling your hand away as you took the rabbit from him. “That’s–uh, that’s kind of how it works.”
He released it immediately, but didn’t move away, simply lingering in silence.
“I’ll make it for dinner–beats having just vegetables and bread.” You turned slightly, trying to busy yourself, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up for no good reason. “You can stay–only if you want, of course…”
You hesitated, “you know, just like, a thank you.”
There it was, laid out plainly.
The want.
Your home had been empty for far too long.
“...Alright.” He replied simply.
But he didn’t move, not right away at least.
And when you glanced back at him, you realized he wasn’t looking at the rabbit.
He was looking at you.
~~~~~
The news was bullshit, meteorology was a lie, and your weather app clearly had a personal vendetta.
What was supposed to be a brisk fall day with “light showers in the afternoon” had quickly transformed into a torrential downpour early in the morning.
It was just your luck, however, that it had happened to start after you had left without anything to protect you from the elements.
Seriously, the converse you refused to let go of had seen better days and the thin, worn canvas had left you with wet socks and an annoying squish following every step.
The dense foliage above you did little to stop the rain, simply delaying the inevitable; fat droplets of water slipping down leaves and soaking through your clothes one patch at a time.
Once the storm had started, you considered turning back. If you had any animals they would surely still be stuck tomorrow, and any herbs or berries certainly weren’t going anywhere. And yet, you stayed.
Old sneakers sunk into the damp earth with every step, carrying you down a path your body knew better than your brain did. Each day, the same path, the same time, the same—
You slowed.
The same stream came into view through the trees. Its once steady trickle was now a roaring current, moving fast enough that it had consumed the surrounding bank. There were no fish in sight, not a single lingering tadpole, not even an earth worm or two seeking reprieve from the wet soil.
The woods felt…empty.
The only life there was you.
“You’re late.”
You froze.
Turning towards the source of the voice you were unsurprised to see Jack standing there.
He was, of course, eerily still and as tall as ever. His drab clothing—consisting of his usual black cargo pants, but a new dark rain jacket—blended in with the dark atmosphere. His mask which was no longer as disconcerting had become a smeared mess of black…well, whatever that crap was. If he had been more diverse in this choice of clothing, it most likely would have been a stained mess.
He didn’t move closer.
He didn’t wave.
He just watched.
“I—” you let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I wasn’t planning on coming, I thought about going back when the rain started,” you explained with a soft laugh.
“You always come.”
Well, he was being rather blunt.
He wasn’t accusatory, or upset, or even curious.
Just…certain, if you had to try and place it.
You swallowed.
“That’s not—” you started, then stopped, because arguing felt pointless for reasons you couldn’t quite explain. You weren’t even sure why you cared so much—or why he did either.
“It rained yesterday,” you tried instead. “I told you I don’t usually check traps after rain.”
“Yes.”
He said it immediately.
Of course he did, of course he remembered something so trivial.
You shifted your weight, shoes squelching slightly in the mud. “So… I’m not late, then…Technically.”
A pause, filled by the dull pitter patter of the rain.
Then—
“You are late.”
Again, he wasn’t arguing per se, just repeating his point. Firmly.
Something in your chest tightened.
“Jack—”
“You are later than usual.”
Ah.
There it was.
You huffed out a breath, shaking your head a little. “Sure…alright. I’ll meet you in the middle, I’m later than usual.”
“I am correct.”
That—unfortunately—made you laugh.
“Don’t test your luck!” You said, a giggle slipping out despite yourself, while he simply cocked his head in response.
“I’m not testing anything.”
Oh wow, had he never heard of sarcasm? Thinking back, you really didn’t think he had. You couldn’t remember a single time he had been sarcastic. Or joking. Or…wrong.
Maybe he was raised Amish or Mormon or something.
The thought of it made you laugh again, cutting through the damp chill settling into your bones. “You’re…you’re something else, Jack.”
He tilted his head and stared in your general direction.
You didn’t think he understood the tone—maybe even the phrase itself—or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.
Another beat passed, filled only by the sound of rain hitting water, slipping from the leaves above and pelting the fabric of both your clothes.
Neither of you moved.
“You’re going to get sick standing out here,” you said finally, gesturing toward him. “You’re soaked.” As if you were one to talk—at least he had on a jacket—but he had seemingly been out here much longer than you.
“No, I won’t.” He didn’t hesitate, but he wasn’t challenging you, he was just overly confident in his immune system.
“And why’s that?”
He paused, taking the time to think for once, “…I have a good diet. Lots of protein. Vitamin C…”
A dry chuckle forced itself past your lips, eyebrows raising in disbelief—obviously you had been mistaken, he did understand a joke.
“Right.”
“Right,” he echoed, slower now, mulling over your response. “You don’t believe me. You should. I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor of what, vitamin deficiencies?”
“No, but, I know I won’t get sick.”
“Uh-huh…” Losing interest in his antics you gazed around; the rain only seemed to be getting heavier. Your hoodie was losing the fight, the cold was settling in deeper now—sharp at your fingertips, creeping up steadily into your arms.
You rubbed at them absentmindedly, only to realize a moment later that Jack seemed to be watching you do so.
“We should move somewhere, get out of the rain…” You peered over your shoulder, briefly considering the walk back. The idea wasn’t particularly appealing—not with your socks soaked through and your shoes heavy with mud.
“Yes,” Jack agreed, offering nothing else.
“There’s a rock overhang, like a cliff thing a bit further up..” you said, nodding upstream, your arms crossed tight across your chest for warmth. “It’s not much, but it’s better than this.”
“Show me.”
He didn’t look where you pointed.
At his instruction you pivoted, making your way along the uneven edge of the stream. It was different then you remembered—the rain had chewed at the bank, reshaped it into something unfamiliar—and it took longer than it should have to find a place narrow enough to cross.
Even then, it was a stretch.
Athleticism failed you at the worst possible moment; your foot slipped on the slick edge, and you pitched forward, barely catching yourself before faceplanting into the mud.
“You tripped,” he dead panned.
“Yeah, well…yeah..” You mutter, pushing yourself up with a wince. The feeling of the mud made you cringe—it was smeared across your palms, your sleeves soaked through and clinging uncomfortably to your skin.
Before you could turn fully, a shadow fell over you.
“Jesus—”
The word caught as you looked up.
Jack was already there.
Too close.
You hadn’t heard him move.
Reaching down, he took your hand. Firm—yet careful. His grip was steady, almost deliberate, as if he’d done this before.
A gloved thumb pressed lightly against the inside of your wrist, lingering just a second too long over your pulse, before sliding down to cup your knuckles. He rotated your wrist slowly, testing the joint with quiet precision, pushing it gently in different directions.
“What are you doing, Jack?”
“Does it hurt?”
He ignored the question entirely, his other hand coming up to brace your forearm—fingers spanning it easily, thumb pressing into muscle like he was mapping something out.
The faint smell of iron flooded your senses which was odd, given that you weren’t bleeding. Jack didn’t seem to be either.
“No, it doesn’t,” you huffed, trying to pull away—
His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt, not in an attempt to pull you back. It was just strong. A warning.
“I told you,” he said evenly. “I’m a doctor.”
You weren’t quite sure how to respond, simply pulling your arm back again—this time he relented and let go. “I’m okay,” you said, brushing uselessly at your sleeves. “Thank you…”
The gratitude felt strange on your tongue.
He only hummed.
The rest of the walk seemed much longer than you remembered, almost painfully so. Maybe it was the slog through the mud.
Or the way you kept adjusting your pace without realizing it.
Or maybe it was him.
You weren’t quite sure what to call Jack.
That uncertainty didn’t help when he started trailing behind you—not beside you, not even a step back, but several paces removed.
Far enough that it didn’t feel like walking together.
Far enough that, if you didn’t know better, it would feel like being stalked, rather than followed.
And yet—
Close enough that you could feel him; his looming presence, his stare bearing into you.
Watching.
You couldn’t quite hear his footsteps, and yet you always knew when he stopped.
You turned, glancing back. “What’s up?”
“You slipped.”
Did you?
You frowned slightly, thinking back. The ground was slick, your shoes useless against the mud. “Uh…yeah, I guess?”
“You shifted your weight to avoid falling,” he said. “Your steps changed.”
“…I mean, yeah. That’s kind of how it works?”
Silence.
He just stood there, staring—not at your face, but lower, like he was watching the way you stood, the way your weight settled into the ground.
Waiting.
For what, you weren’t sure.
You exhaled, a little sharper this time. “Come on, Jack.”
The remainder of the walk was a silent slog, all to something that wasn’t quite worth it.
The overhang wasn’t much.
Just a jut of rock where the earth dipped slightly, enough to block the worst of the rain. You stepped beneath it with a sigh of relief, shaking out your hoodie a little and pushing damp hair from your face.
It took a second to realize he hadn’t followed.
You glanced back.
He stood just outside, letting the rain hit him.
“Jack?”
He just looked at you.
“You can come under here, you know,” you urged. “That was like, the whole point of us coming here.”
“No. I am fine.”
You stared at him for a second, shaking your head in dismay.
He was unbelievable.
Stepping forwards you grabbed his sleeve, “c’mon, get in here you idiot.”
You tugged and, surprisingly, he moved.
There was no resistance—or even allowance—just letting you.
The second he stepped under the overhang, the space shrank considerably; you hadn’t really accounted for how big he was.
Or how little space there was.
“Okay, wow,” you muttered, instinctively stepping back—only to hit the stone almost immediately. “That’s—great. Love that.”
He stood directly in front of you now—too close.
You could feel his breath, the warmth radiating off him, and hear the faint beating of his heart.
And yet, there was no point of contact between the two of you.
But close enough that you could see the individual drops of water clinging to his mask, gathering before falling down in heavy clumps.
And close enough that the faint metallic scent you’d noticed before was stronger now, mixing unpleasantly with wet earth and damp fabric.
Your breath hitched—just slightly.
“Jack, what is that—“
“You are cold.”
Again—not a question, just an observation.
“I’m wet,” you shot back. “That’s kind of how that works.”
There was a tense pause, and then his hand lifted. The movement was slow and deliberate, but still awkward like it had been before.
“May I?”
Your brain stalled and your body stalled.
“…What?”
But he was already closer now—if that was even possible—closing the last of the distance between you two. His chest brushed against yours, his hand hovering just short of your arm.
You could say no, you probably should.
Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke without really thinking.
“…Okay, sure.”
His fingers closed around your wrist–firm and still.
The same as before.
But now—without the muck of mud and the pelting of the storm–you could feel it properly.
No warmth, no give, no subtle pulse. Like a corpse.
He tilted his head, focusing on the contact.
“You are shaking.”
“I’m cold,” you repeated, quieter this time.
His other hand moved, settling—awkwardly, uncertainly—against your sleeve, like he wasn’t entirely sure where it was supposed to go; like he was trying to recreate something he’d seen before.
The space between you disappeared completely, lost to the mingling of your heated breaths and tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.
You could feel the shape of him now—solid, unmoving, too still to be natural.
“…Jack.”
“Yes.”
“You’re, uh—” you swallowed, heat creeping up your neck despite everything. “You’re kind of—close.”
“I know.”
That did not help.
At all.
You let out a small, strained laugh, trying to lean back again, still stuck by the unyielding stone behind you. “Right. Of course you do.”
He didn’t move away, didn’t loosen his grip; if anything, his fingers tightened—just slightly.
“Your pulse increased.”
Oh my god.
“Yeah, that tends to happen when people invade other people’s personal space.”
He thought for a moment, “I can let go.”
He was right. He could let go, you could ask him to stop, either of you could move away.
But you didn’t, and neither did he.
“...No.” You finally said softly.
That short answer seemed to appease him.
A heavy silence fell immediately, your gaze shying away from his.
His, however, stayed; unrelenting, just like his grasp.
The rain didn’t let up for a long time.
And–not even for a moment–neither of you moved.
~~~~~~
It had been days since you had last seen Jack.
Although there wasn’t any obligation to meet up, the fact that you saw one another everyday was an unsung ritual. Whenever you were late—let alone completely absent—Jack wouldn’t let you forget it. And then he had the nerve to stand you up for the last three days.
Not that you were counting.
But you kind of were.
At first you had thought maybe he did get sick from standing out in the rain like an idiot. The glory of “I told you so” lasted a mere 24 hours before you began to worry that he was avoiding you on purpose since that rainy morning you spent huddled together.
Then, since this morning, for your own wellbeing you had half convinced yourself that he was being held for ransom somewhere.
The other half was still toying with the much more realistic possibility that he no longer wanted to see you.
The weight of that hurt more than it should have for losing an…acquaintance wasn’t quite right. Neither was a friend or neighbor or anything else you could think of.
You made a habit of seeing each other every day. You worried for each other. You provided for one another.
Whatever the word for that was would be most fitting.
Disconcertingly, your uncertainty and grief had left you unable to sleep the last few nights.
Tonight, you found yourself on the porch of your cabin. A thick wool blanket was draped around your shoulders for warmth, countering your thin flannel shorts and baggy t-shirt. A long abandoned book lay open on your bare thighs—although you had quite enjoyed it the last few days, it was comparably much harder to read by moonlight than desk lamp.
Instead, you found yourself engrossed in the perplexity of the surrounding forest.
The silence had first set in three days ago. The woods around your cabin were usually a symphony of life—the chirping of crickets, the hoot of an owl, and the rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth. But, as of late, there had been nothing.
An absolute, unnerving quiet that pressed into your very bones, somehow making you feel so much smaller and yet infinitely exposed all at once. The air itself felt thick, charged with static energy that made your skin prickle,
The woods itself, and all of its inhabitants, seemed to be waiting with baited breath.
The immense weight of the change felt crushing, nearly unbearable, as some primal part of your mind urged you to flee back inside.
You didn’t listen.
Instead, you nursed your cup of tea that had long gone cold, examining the uneven treeline. The storm had been bad, leaving branches scattered and once tall oaks splintered in half as maws of pale, exposed wood.
It had been hell to navigate even sparse patches of forest.
Examining a particularly gnarly branch, something stirred in your peripheral vision. Off to the right, a blotch of inky black emerged from the dense wreckage of foliage.
Whatever it was walked with an odd gait, long uneven strides as it hunched over. The thing was tall, similar to a bear walking on its hind legs but too thin and coordinated to be so. It was impressively silent and balanced, maneuvering with ease at almost an alarming pace.
It approached you quickly—in fact it was making a b-line straight for you—fear set in momentarily until you saw a familiar glimpse of the navy.
Jack.
Your it was a he, and he had picked the worst possible time to show up at your doorstep.
You discarded your book alongside your tea and frustration, alarm setting in at his absence and sudden reappearance.
“Jack!” You took a few steps from your porch, meeting him.
You grabbed at his arms, panicking when you felt something wet as the overwhelming smell of something metallic filled your lungs.
Your fingers tightened, the thick, coppery tang of blood flooding your senses. His navy hoodie was drenched, the fabric heavy and clinging to his frame, but beneath the dampness, his skin burned like a furnace. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, each exhaling a ghost of steam in the cool night air.
He felt beyond feverish and was borderline boiling.
"Jack, what happened? Are you hurt?" Your voice trembled, but you forced yourself to meet his face—though there was nothing to see.
His eyes were empty voids, hollowed out and shadowed, yet somehow, you felt his gaze on you—intense and starving. His lips parted, but no words came, only a low, guttural sound vibrating from his chest.
His grip on your arms tightened, almost bruising, as if he were afraid you might vanish. He tried to choke something out, the beginning of what sounded like a no that was quickly interrupted by a guttural groan.
The silence stretched, thick with the weight of tension. You couldn't place it—there was something primal in the way he leaned into you, his body trembling not with pain, but with something else entirely. His fingers twitched against your skin, restless, desperate. Then, without warning, he yanked you closer, his face burying into the crook of your neck. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not biting, but teasing, testing.
A shiver wracked through you; half fear and half something dangerously close to anticipation.
"You're bleeding," you whispered, though the realization felt distant. Your mind was hazy, but somehow your instincts made it clear; he wasn’t the one in danger.
You were.
“It’s not mine,” he finally rasped. The explanation was minimal and no less troubling than your assumption.
He, however, didn’t seem to care in the slightest.
His hands roamed lower, mapping your waist, your hips, like he was trying to memorize all of you. The blanket around your shoulders slipped, pooling at your feet as he crowded you against the cabin door. The rough wood pressed into your back, his body flush against yours, leaving no space to breathe—or think. The metallic scent of blood mingled with something else; something darker, muskier, something that made your stomach twist and tighten all at once.
"I can smell you," he gasped, his voice raw, cracked. "All of you." His knee slid between your thighs, pressing up, and the friction sent a jolt through you. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he rocked forward, slow, deliberate. The movement was predatory, possessive, and yet, there was no malice—only need. Raw, insatiable need.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, your breath catching in your throat. You should have pushed him away, should have screamed, should have run—but you didn't.
Instead, your fingers tangled in his blood-soaked hoodie, pulling him closer. His name fell from your lips like a prayer. And when he finally crashed his mouth against yours, you met him halfway, tasting blood and something far more dangerous on his tongue.
His mouth was a maw of sharp, uneven teeth.
Despite his ferocity he didn’t kiss you just yet; he tasted as if you were his last meal. His tongue was a wet, hot invasion that scraped roughly over yours. It was wide, long and eager. In the mess of it all it felt overwhelming, until you realized he had not one but three, all of which seemed determined to map out the inside of your mouth. Some stranger's blood left a coppery tang behind, mixing bitterly with the lingering flavor of your tea.
His hands were everywhere, rough and calloused, gripping your waist with bruising intensity before sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He pulled away from your lips with a fervent gasp, tilting your head back and exposing the length of your throat. The sharp prick of his canines sent a thrill though you as they graced down your skin, stopping just above your collarbone
He didn't bite down hard enough to break the skin—not yet—but the promise of it was enough to make your knees weak.
Slowly, agonizingly, he broke the kiss. A line of saliva and blood connected your mouths for a split second before he pulled away. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen, and then his gaze dropped to your neck, his mouth twitching as he inhaled deeply.
"You smell like mine," he murmured, his voice low and rough. Though the words sounded like nonsense, you were too enthralled with him to care. He buried his face in your neck again, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collar and down to your chest.
His hands slipped under the hem of your t-shirt, palms rough and calloused, burning against your bare skin. He didn't try to rush. He took his time, mapping every inch of you with his tongue and his fingers, every movement slow and deliberate.
Eager fingers traced the line of your spine, sending jolts of electricity through you. Growing impatient with the amount of fabric between you two he pushed your shirt up, nearly moaning at the realization that your breasts were bare beneath.
He cupped your chest, thumbs pressing into sensitive peaks as he found your nipples. He rubbed the nubs between calloused fingers—his touch firm, but not gentle. It was rough but undercut by an unexplainable intensity and a careful awareness. Every ounce of his self control was being put into not ravishing you.
He wanted to go slow. He wanted you to enjoy this as much as him, but his patience was growing thin and if he couldn’t take his time, he would simply revere you instead.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. The word was barely audible over the rustling of the wind, and the mingling of your heated breaths. He finally looked up, staring at you as he caught his breath.
He pulled you closer, his mouth finding yours again—but this time it was different. It was less aggressive, less messy, but somehow more desperate, and just as insistent. His hands abandoned your breasts, one tracing the curves of your ribs while the other guided your leg around his waist, his strong hold supporting your thigh.
Rough denim bit into your exposed skin as his leg moved up. His knee pressed against the inside of your thigh, pushing higher, and you felt the heat of him radiating through his clothes, searing against your skin. Once he felt your own heat, the sure sign of your excitement as dampness on his thigh, he nearly lost it.
Nails dug into the fat of your leg, urging you forwards and back over and over as he set a sloppy rhythm. The hefty weight of his hard cock dug into your hip—long, thick, and warm. The length was intimidating, your stomach twisting as you fathomed how something that size would even fit inside you.
Between moans, he panted out “I need to be inside you. Please.” His hands were already fiddling with the button of your jeans without waiting for a response
The idea was, admittedly, equal parts terrifying and appealing. Despite your complex–yet heated–feelings for Jack, he was large and not to mention exceedingly eager as he moved down your body.
His intimidating frame melted into yours while you pondered the logistics of how you would survive someone of his size inside you without proper preparation, regardless of how embarrassingly wet you had become.
In the midst of it all you didn’t notice his rough hands tugging down your shorts until you felt cold air nipping at your exposed skin. By then you were spread bare before him, thighs parted as the warmth of his tongue met your exposed lips.
The feeling was oh so foreign.
Your time alone in the woods paired with how unnatural he was had you shuddering from mere licks.
You really were easy.
Self deprecation came naturally as something about his inhumanity stirred something deep in you. That excitement–prior to now–had been unbeknownst to you and now that it had been sparked, it quickly grew into a roaring flame.
Shaking hands found their way into dark curls, tugging and urging for something–you weren’t quite sure what.
However, Jack was.
One of his tongues–lengthy and feverishly warm–parted your folds, hungrily lapping up your slick.
“Shit!” You exclaimed, left breathless as the appendage slipped inside you, longer and thicker than you had expected, larger than you had even thought to be possible, too much to be human.
It was only dawning on you now–with his head nestled between your thighs, some stranger’s blood staining your legs from his cheeks–that Jack was something else.
You weren’t sure how you had overlooked the signs, or even failed to notice after seeing his lack of eyes and rows of jagged teeth.
Perhaps the isolation has rotted your brain.
Maybe it was something more taboo.
All of your aimless pondering came to an end as something else slipped inside you, all fruitless attempts to figure the enigmatic man out drowned out by the feeling of being absolutely and wonderfully full.
Two of his tongues were inside you now, burrowing deep enough that you swore he could taste your cervix.
Jack seemed unfathomably grateful for the meal, stretching you out and curling up until a shaky gasp escaped your lips.
“Jack!” Your plea rivaled reverence as your legs parted more, beckoning him in further to the sweet spot he had stumbled upon.
It was spongy to touch, somehow softer than the rest of your slick walls and every time he nudged it the pressure elicited a delighted squeal from you.
With a renewed vigor he continued the ministries, unrelenting in his attempts to make you squirm.
The pleasure had you struggling to see straight, heat quickly mounting in your abdomen as you tightened around him. It all felt like too much–his tongue's too thick, the escalation of events too quick, the lack of communication too daunting.
And yet, selfishly, needily you forgot all apprehension.
“Puh..Please don’t stop!”
Your whine was dulcet to Jack, the sweetest thing he had ever heard. It drew a deep growl from the depths of his chest, a subtle rumble that sent pleasant vibrations through your sex.
That was enough to push you over the edge, crying out as your vision became spotty.
Heat spread through your shuddering body, spine tensing and arching as you were eased through your orgasm.
Jack’s unrelenting ministrations drew out your pleasure, urging more from you–more moans, more cries, more cum.
Even as your shakes subsided and muscles went lax he didn’t stop. Instead his jaw opened, more than it should have been able to, and his third and final tongue found its way to your swelling clit.
It became too hard to see, too hard to comprehend. Your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering until they shut as his tongue splayed over the sensitive nub. He worked quickly, sloppy circles causing your thighs to shake.
Pressure began mounting again, a knot in your lower stomach starting to tighten as your legs finally snapped shut–or as close as they could get to it–over his pointed ears.
Another growl rumbled through Jack, two hands coming up between you both to force your hips open again. Calloused fingers dug into the plush of your inner thigh, pinning them in place.
His work had left you both a mess, blood and cum smeared across your legs and his cheeks, slick separating you both by a few glistening strands as he pulled away to speak.
“Don’t move.”
“Okay…” You whimpered before you knew what you were saying, arched your back without really meaning to, tugged at his hair absently in hopes you would return to your sex.
Of course, your wish was granted.
It felt right to have his tongues slip back inside you, in the brief moments without them you had felt empty.
The realization made your cheeks flush, parted lips coming together so you could gnaw on the bottom one.
A small part of you was ashamed for succumbing to your urges, for indulging so blatantly, for not questioning what Jack was or why this was happening.
You no longer cared that he had been gone, you didn’t mind the mess he had arrived in.
You were simply glad that he was back.
The realization, although late yet again, eased your pounding heart and foggy mind, allowing you to slip fully into the throes of pleasure being readily given to you.
Jack worked you through orgasm after orgasm, not giving you a moment of respite, eating you out like a man starved.
He only stopped when your clit had become so sensitive his breath made you twitch, and when the mess coming from you was more cum than slick.
As he pulled away your hands fell from his head, slipping down his neck and over broad shoulders to tug at his hoodie.
You wanted him closer, but you also wanted it off.
To compensate for him having to pull away you wrapped your now weak legs around him.
Your attempts were futile as Jack seemed to have other plans for you both.
He wrapped one arm around you, effortlessly holding you up as he pulled you away from the wall before beginning to set you on the ground.
In your haze it took you a moment to notice that this wasn’t a temporary resting place.
“Jack..!” You cried, half whine, half scold, as he pulled the soiled sweatshirt off of his head.
The sight left you breathless for a moment, his hair a mess from your tugging, his face and neck flushed. His bare chest was soft but noticeably strong with defined biceps covered in a thin layer of hair that was also prominent on his messy happy trail.
Although you were waiting for an answer, your only form of acknowledgement seemed to be him pausing, arms still stuck in his sweatshirt as it hung limply in front of him.
Right. He was still like that.
“We…we are not having sex on the floor.”
“Yes, we are.”
You were dumbfounded by his blatant refusal, your mouth hanging open dumbly for a moment. “No we are not!” You shot back.
He stopped this time, pondering your demand and surprisingly asked, “why not?”
Splinters? Shame? Discomfort? The front door being wide open?
You could think of a myriad of reasons why it was a bad idea, and yet worlds failed you, as all you could muster was a “because I said so.”
Another beat of silence, followed by a soft plop as he finished taking his top off, before he finally relented. “Alright.”
Jack seceded from impatience it seemed. He closed the distance between you both again, scooping you up as he pressed heated kisses down your neck, across your breasts, up your shoulders–wherever his mouth could reach.
Setting you down on the couch he settled on top of you, his legs hanging over the armrest due to his height. His free hand undid the button of his cargo pants before he shifted and kicked to get them off. He cursed under his breath as he struggled, the arm holding him up trembling–not from exertion but from desperation.
His face was a deep red, sweat beading on his forehead and collar, a soft whine escaping every time your body simply brushed his.
When his pants and boxers were finally off, the last of his control seemed to evaporate. A heady groan escaped his lips, hard cock now curling up towards his frame and resting on your lower stomach.
It was long and thick, something you would surely struggle to maneuver even with both hands. Your stomach fluttered, thighs squeezing together as you eyed the veins running from his swollen head down to the bulb situated at the base of his dick.
Before you could really think of what it was, restless hands pushed your legs apart and up to rest over his shoulders, granting him access to your sex. Guiding his length between your folds, precum dripped over your entrance before he pushed in.
With a few shallow thrusts he bottomed out, forcing the monstrous size into you so quickly you saw stars.
_____
The pain was sharp, a violent intrusion that stole the breath right out of your lungs, but it was swiftly swallowed by the overwhelming fullness. You clamped down around him instinctively, your nails digging into the soft skin of his shoulders as he held himself there, buried to the hilt inside you.
You screamed, a sound that tore itself from your throat before your brain could even process the sudden sensation. It wasn’t pain—not exactly—but the kind of stretch that threatened to ruin you, a bone-deep ache that radiated outward until you felt impossibly wide, impossibly full.
“Jack…!” The syllable was barely a breath and hardly a plea–you weren’t asking him to stop, you weren’t begging for him to move, you just wanted him.
He stilled above you, his body vibrating with the effort to remain steady, his hands planting on the cushion next to your head to anchor himself. He panted, his chest heaving against yours, the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
"You're so tight," he rasped out, his voice guttural and wrecked. "You're... so tight."
He didn't move immediately, just rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, hot pants that fogged the space between your faces. The sheer scale of him was staggering; he felt impossibly large, stretching you wide in ways that no human ever could. A heavy, musky scent—the same one that had filled the air earlier—wafted off him, thick and primal.
He leaned in, pressing a clumsy, desperate kiss to your mouth, tasting of blood and salt.
"Take it," he commanded, though the words were barely a whisper. "Take all of it."
Slowly, agonizingly, he began to pull back.
The friction was maddening, the drag of his length against your sensitive walls sending sparks of electricity shooting up your spine. When he bottomed out again with a deep thrust, your back arched off the couch, a loud moan tearing from your throat.
Each movement was deep, a heavy impact that rocked your body upwards. He was relentless, hips pistoning against yours with a brutal rhythm that had your head spinning, your vision blurring at the edges.
Your nails scraped down his back, leaving angry red trails against the soft skin of his lower back, the only mark you could leave on him.
"Oh god..." You gasped, your voice cracking, drowning in the sensation of him, stretched to the limit by his sheer size.
"Jack... please, don't stop," you whimpered, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
You didn't need to ask twice.
He set a brutal pace, pounding into you with a ferocity that bordered on animalistic. Each stroke was deep, claiming every inch of you, hitting that same spot inside you that made your vision blur and your toes curl. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingled with your moans and his guttural growls.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky rasp. "You're taking it so well. So tight."
He shifted, angling his hips to hit that sweet spot harder with every thrust. The pressure built rapidly, a knot tightening in your lower belly until you were gasping for breath, the pleasure becoming overwhelming.
"You're going to cum," he noted. "I can feel it. You're clenching around me." The bluntness of his words drastically opposed the quiver in his words and the heavy breath between each syllable.
His hand moved down to your clit, rubbing rough circles over the sensitive nub. The dual stimulation pushed you over the edge faster than you expected.
You cried out, your body seizing as a powerful orgasm rippled through you, your inner muscles clamping down so hard on his cock that he hissed.
"Just like that," Jack urged, his face twisting in pleasure. He spoke breathily, nails leaving angry red marks as he forced your hips closer, half bouncing you onto his cock as he continued moving; driving into you with deliberate precision, his pace increasing as he chased his own release.
"You're mine," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and heavy on your ear.
His knot began to swell, a thick, bulbous base that pulsed against your sensitive skin. It was an alien intrusion, a part of him that you were learning to accommodate–the friction creating a fire that burned in the very marrow of your bones.
"Jack, it's too big..." You whimpered, your hands grasping at his shoulders. You felt your stomach drop, sure that you wouldn’t be able to fit it–it was a miracle you had taken as much as you had already.
"Shut up and take it," he commanded softly, his voice laced with a dark, possessive need. "You can take it. You're doing so well." The praise was choppy, foreign coming from him, but well earned regardless.
He pushed forward, forcing the knot to expand, locking him inside you.
You cried out as your body was somehow stretched further, more than it had ever been before, the knot catching on your rim, and then sliding in with a pop. He was trapped inside you, a massive weight that filled you completely, leaving you no room to breathe, no room to think, only to feel the incredible pressure and the pulsing heat of him.
You gasped for air, your body trembling violently.
"Good girl," he purred, his voice low and soothing, a stark contrast to the roughness of his actions. "You took it all. You took all of me."
He rested there, his forehead resting against yours, the action oddly tender but far from unwelcome.
"You're so full," he continued, whispering in awe while his thumb stroked your cheek.
The sensation of his knot trapping you was intense, a feeling of being completely possessed, of being locked together.
"I'm full," you echoed, your voice barely a whisper, unable to process the magnitude of the experience.
"Good," he said, and his hips gave a small, experimental roll.
You jolted, the movement sending shockwaves through your body, the knot rubbing against your sensitive walls.
"Jack..."
He chuckled darkly, tentatively, his breath hitching his chest.
"Did you like it?"
You didn't answer, too overwhelmed by the sensation to form words. You could only arch your back, a silent plea for more, for everything.
He seemed to understand.
Jack started to move again, grinding his hips slowly and deliberately, the knot catching and releasing, sending you into a spiral of pleasure that made your head spin.
He seemed to be enjoying himself, his own release imminent, and the knowledge that he was trapped inside you– unable to pull out until he was ready–added to the immense heat and sheer alien nature of the creature you were sharing a moment with.
Your mind began to wander, twisting into a dark, erotic dreamland where you were nothing more than his vessel, his mate, his everything.
He was lost in the sensation too, his eyes fixated on where his cock was buried deep inside you.
He felt your walls clamp down on him, milking him for everything he had.
"I'm going to fill you up," he announced, as if to inform you.
His formality forced a dazed giggle from you.
His hips snapped forward one last time, and his cock throbbed violently.
A stream of hot cum flooded your insides, the sheer amount of it was staggering.
"Jack!" You screamed, your body tensing, your eyes rolling back.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire body as a stream of hot cum filled the emptiness of your womb.
He pumped his hips erratically, after every thrust, the room seemed to shrink, the world outside seemed to disappear, you were just two bodies locked together.
You, Jack, and what you had together was the only thing that mattered.
The flood continued for what felt like ages.
Eventually, he slowed, his breathing returning to a more normal–albeit heavy–pace.
The knot deflated slightly, but remained swollen, preventing him from pulling out.
He pulled his face from your neck, looking at you with adoration, but also a dark hunger.
"You're covered in me," he said, your body glistening with sweat and smelling strongly of him; your legs spread wide on the couch, your thighs sticky with a mixture of your own juices and his.
He lowered his head, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "You're mine now.”
He reached for his sweatshirt and wiped his face, removing the remnants of his earlier meals–a mixture of your fluids and foreign blood.
You had a clearer look at his face now.
He had a strong jaw, well defined cheek bones and traces of wispy stubble on his chin. Despite his lack of eyes you could feel the intensity of his gaze and the reverence which he had for you. The man was adoring, relishing in the sight of you laid bare before him, especially fond of the point where your bodies met.
“Thank you…” you muttered, breaking the silence, tugging softly at his neck to draw him closer.
Daryl Dixon x Female Reader • Prison Era • Fluff • Hurt Comfort • No smut but sexual innuendo • Established relationship • short fic •
Summary: Daryl gets hurt during gate duty, and is too stubborn to get checked. Reader offers to kiss it better.
Hershel sat on one of the cell block benches, carefully dabbing antiseptic over the scrapes on Carl's knees after the boy had taken a tumble in the yard.
Nearby, Daryl lingered against the railing, favoring his left arm as he watched the scene with growing indecisiveness, unsure if to go get his arm checked or just man it up and let it be.
Hershel was still recovering from the loss of his leg so Daryl believed that he didn't need another patient crowding him while he was tending someone already.
Out of habit, he reached for his cantee with his injured arm and winced, before giving up and grabbing it with his left hand.
That noise of discomfort was enough for her to drop her book and stand from her spot at the bottom of the metal steps to the top cells.
Before Daryl could leave the room, she stepped into his path. "You've been avoiding using that arm all day. I've noticed," she said, matter-of-factly.
He narrowed his eyes. "You spyin' on me, woman?"
She folded her arms. "When am I not?"
He scoffed, weirdly flattered. "It ain't worth botherin' him over it," he muttered, pointing his chin towards the cell where Hershel worked.
"So let me take a look intead."
"Ain't broke."
"No," she agreed, "but if you keep pretending it isn't injured, you might make it worse."
"An' since when're ya a doctor, sweetheart?"
"Since when are you this stubborn, Daryl? Just sit down."
He looked ready to argue, but instead he lowered his gaze, grumbled something under his breath, then took a seat at the nearest empty bench.
She gently turned his arm, careful not to jostle it, but still, he hissed. "Easy, yer handlin' a livin' person not a walker."
"Shh, just want to see how bad it is..."
Daryl huffed, feigning annoyance even as he let her fuss over him. He had to admit, he didn't mind it as much as he thought he would. Having her so close, tending to him with gentle hands, made something warm settle in his chest.
Her brows were knitted together in concentration, as though scowling at the bruising hard enough might shame it into healing faster, and, who knows, maybe it would.
He hissed through his teeth as she gently eased his arm into a folded position against his chest. Once it was settled, she tied the ends of the wrap into a secure knot over his shoulder, keeping his arm comfortably supported.
"There," she murmured. "It's just for a few days so don't take it off, unless you plan on showering, but that's just hope talking."
"Funny."
Daryl then immediately reached for the wrap.
She swatted him. "What did I just say?"
He lifted his free hand in surrender. "Alright, alright."
She inspected the arm sling one last time before tilting her head. "Does it hurt?"
"Nah."
"Oh?" She nodded thoughtfully. "Guess I don't have to kiss it better, then." She hummed to herself as she slowly turned on her heel, as if about to leave.
But then—
"...It does hurt."
She paused mid-step and glanced back over her shoulder, doing her best to keep her expression neutral. "Hmm?"
Daryl rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, cheeks warming beneath dirt. "Got confused with the heat an' all... Didn't hear ya right the first time."
A grin spread across her face. "So it does hurt? Awww."
His eyes widened at that patronizing sound. "Never mind, dammit!"
"Too damn late," she teased, reaching into her back pocket. She pulled out something that looked like a black bullet. After removing the cap and twisting the bottom, it revealed itself as red lipstick.
"This right here has healing properties," she said, twisting the lipstick up, "but only with multiple applications…so I will have to keep checking on you. Yep, Doctor's orders."
"Ya makin' fun of me?"
She applied her lipstick with practiced ease, a skill all on its own without a mirror, then pressed her lips together. "Never," she whispered. "Now hold still for me."
She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder right below the edge of his leather vest, lingering a moment longer than necessary.
His whole body went rigid, ears burning red as he fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, refusing to look at her. She continued her descent down his arm, unhurried, each kiss warm and soft, leaving behind a trail of lipstick marks that only made him more flustered.
When she reached his bicep, just above the edge of the wrap, she settled there, feeling the strength beneath her lips. She didn't move on right away this time, letting the moment stretch.
Then she looked up at him, and he finally flicked his gaze toward her from the corner of his eye, cautious, almost shy.
She gave his bicep one last kiss before resting her hand gently on the wrap. "Poor baby," she cooed. "You won't be able to use this arm for a while..."
Daryl forgot how to breathe, his face somehow turned even redder. Damn her
"...But I'll lend you a hand whenever you need it."
He groaned at the suggestion—because there was no way in hell she could look at him with those hooded eyes, like she wanted to be dragged back to their cell in the middle of the day, and not mean it any other way.
"Y/N—"
She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "You should let others take care of you more often," she whispered, her voice now gentle intead of teasing. "So don't hide when you're hurt, okay? Not from me."
He turned his head away. "Don' wanna be weak, is all..."
"You're not weak, Daryl." She cupped his cheek so he'd look at her. "But you are made of skin and bones and that has its disadvantages... You take care of me, and you don't think I'm weak, do you?"
He sighed, then kissed her palm. "Nah... Real pain in the ass, though." He muttered, pulling her in by the waist with his good hand until she was settled between his legs.
She giggled leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. Noses brushing, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Come on, let's take a nap."
His grip on her waist tightened. "Yes, ma'am."
Quick fic I wanted to write after I saw this silly picture on my feed:
That’s what you felt right now, sitting inside the contained area as your friends sat on the other side of the thick glass.
Each breath you took made your lungs burn, your whole body ached. You could barely move, even sitting up in bed like you were doing now was agony.
“How’re you feeling?” Cameron asked gently.
Looking to her, you gave her a grin smile.
“I... not... good...” you rasped out.
Your body wracked with coughs, each one filling you with agony. Eyes squeezed shut, you held back your tears, covering your mouth with your hand.
Once you stopped, you panted for air, pulling your palm away to reveal blood which you quickly hid, grabbed a tissue, wiped away and wiped your mouth.
“(Y/N), is everything okay?” Chase asked worried.
You just weakly nodded and turned back to them. Cameron, Chase and Foreman all stood there, looking worried and agitated that they couldn’t do more to help.
“We’ll figure this out, okay.” Foreman said, determination filled his words.
You just nodded again, and rested your head the pillows. It was a bit easier to breathe like this, but not much.
Their pagers went.
“We have to go, we’ll be back.” Cameron muttered.
They all seemed hesitant, but they left, and you picked up the bloody tissue. Reaching down the side of your bed, you dropped it into the bin with the rest.
They weren’t allowed to enter, Cuddy made that absolutely clear. Other doctors and nurses were, but no one from your team. Not even Wilson or House.
House...
You wondered if he cared, you hadn’t seen him once since you were in here. You tried calling him but he never picked up.
Maybe he didn’t want to see you, maybe he was busy. You didn’t know, but there was something you wanted to tell him.
Something you HAD to tell him, because with every hour that went by you got worse and worse. It had only been 16 hours, you kept track, but it was moving to fast, and they were running out of time.
You were running out of time...
Closing your eyes, you lightly groaned in pain, and shuffled a little.
You weren’t sure how long you had been laid like that for, but your body suddenly shot up, in a panic you reached down and grabbed he bun, bringing it up just in time to throw up into it.
Blood, that’s all it was. That was the second time you threw up blood. Your body was shutting down.
Taking ragged breaths, you set the bin back down. You lowered yourself once more and remained completely still, the only thing telling them you were alive was your chest, slowly heaving up and down, and your slow heartbeat on the monitor.
That’s when you heard it.
The steps on the floor, the unmistakable tap of his cane coming closer until it stopped.
“How are you holding up?” He asked.
You didn’t reply.
“You look horrible.” House commented.
Again, you said nothing, but you stiffly turnt you’re head to face him.
House sighed, and pressed his forehead to the glass, closing his eyes. You watched him, silently. He looked exhausted, he hadn’t slept, that was clear as day.
He looked like he was in pain too.
“I’m... tired...” You rasped.
House’s head snapped up, and you offered him a strained smile before it fell.
“No, no you’re not dying okay. Not today, not for a long time. Just hold on a little longer, we’re going to figure this out. We just need time.”
“I... don’t.. have... time...”
“I know!” He yelled, “I know you don’t have time! But we need more time!... please...” his voice grew softer, “just keep fighting, we’re nearly there.”
You two stared at each other, this was the first time you had seen him like this. The first time Gregory House had looked so desperate, worn and scared.
“House...” you breathed out.
“You can’t just give up, not yet.” She said sternly.
It went silent again, House reared hisbhead on the glass for a few more seconds before he started to leave.
House hadn’t noticed the rapid decline of your monitor, how could he with his back towards you?
“I... love... you...” you coughed with a smile.
House stopped, eyes wide. He opened his mouth to say something but the dreadful tone of your monitor cut him off, Doctors and nurses were rushing into your room, fully equipped.
House stood, watching as they tried to start your heart again, again, and again.
5 failed attempts, his face fell. 5 failed attempts to start your heart, this would be the last one.
He heard the charging and the shock, then nothing.
“No.... come on...” he whispered under his breath.
That it started, it was weak. But it was there, that was all House needed to know. You’re alive, and he WAS going to save you. No matter what.
That’s what he did, he pouted everything into getting you diagnosed, and finally he had done it. After nearly 6 more hours, they finally knew how to treat you.
“She’ll take a while to fully recover.” House said as Cuddy and Wilson walked in.
“At least she’ll live.” Cuddy smiles gently, “all thanks to you.”
Cuddy left after that leaving it just House and Wilson, watching over your pale frame.
“She said she loved me.” House said, absentmindedly.
“What?!”
Wilson snapped his head towards House, trying to find some sort of indication of how he felt about that, but there was nothing.
“Do you love her?”
House stayed quiet, did he love you? He’d never really thought about it before, he’d never really thought about dating again, or love.
So, he stayed silent.
“House, do you love (Y/N)?”
Again, nothing. So, Wilson just left, leaving him alone.
House walked over to your bedside, and stared down at you. Then, making sure no one was looking, he bent down and pressed a kiss to your forehead and straightened up.
“A horrible choice, really, to love me. Bad idea.”
With that, a small smile on his lips, House headed back to his office
Greg house imagine where reader has depression and she's going through a really depressive episode and she's a pro at hiding it but House notices and then just fluff or something. (I don't know sorry I just feel it would help me haha sorry)
Gregory House X Reader – I See It
A/N – I went with a much more clinical definition of depression this time; I hope it works. Anon, if you’d like a different take on this, with more fluff or whatever, I’m willing to do a re-write, just message again and I’ll work it out.
“compulsion” - part 2 of PICK YOUR POISON - (a dads best friends love story)
first part here
pairing- (Shane x fem!reader)
warnings- nsfw, 18+, age gap, dads best friends, drinking, oral (r!recieving), fingering, jealous rick… 1.8k wc
You’d been a complete tease since that night in the garage. You knew it. They knew it. Apparently the only one who didn’t know it was your father. Such an oblivious man. Unable to see the way his friends undress you with their eyes anytime they get a glimpse of you. Or the way you purposely wear the shortest skirts you own whenever they’re around. And today was no exception. A neighbourhood barbecue that your parents are hosting. Mostly an attempt in upholding the outstanding community member facade they desperately cling to. And with all your fathers friends who were invited, you decide that for your own form of validation, to put on your shortest sundress. A pale yellow with a soft floral pattern, almost unnoticeable unless you were up close. It was so short that you have to pull the sides down anytime you get up from your seat.
“Where you goin’?” Rick asks as you tug on the skirt, heading for the door to your house. Your shoulder now a little cold without his arm wrapped around it. Something neither of your parents seemed to notice. Or if they did they certainly didn’t care. Too busy in conversation, welcoming some of the newest Alexandria recruits.
“Washroom.” You make a face at him. He seemed almost appalled that you’d be leaving his side. He probably was. Always trying to keep you close. Closest out of the three. And that was keeping him on edge. Trying to maintain your attention the most effectively, and keep it on the low. In fact, the secret was making him a little jumpy. The weeks of stolen kisses and touches catching up to him too. Very, very secret touches. Hiding what was becoming an exhilarating and extremely complicated relationship between three different guys, all old enough to be your father.
He watches your hips sway as you walk into the house, flashing him a cute smile before making your way down the hallway.
When the bathroom door opens, you’re pleasantly surprised to see Shane. With a flirty grin, your body moves quicker than your mind. Pushing the man back in as he tries to object, but you don’t let him. Pressing your lips to his and pulling him in by the back of his neck.
“What-”
“Mhpm.” You don’t even let him answer. Just continue kissing him all hot and needy, while you close the door behind you, pulling him close against you as you start to feel him relax. To accept that this was happening.
The entire day was torture. Each one of them very aware of your cries for attention, but not offering to do anything about them. When you tried to pull Rick upstairs to your bedroom he got all tight jawed and told you to cut it out. Pinching your ass as he led you towards the backyard. And Daryl, silently shook his head when you teased your fingernails up your thigh, lifting your skirt to show him the colour of the thong you were wearing. Ugh, they’re so boring. No fun at all.
It’s such a shame too. You want them so bad and they barely seem to acknowledge it. You woke up this morning all hot and needy, hand in your panties before your alarm even wrang. And seeing the men all perfect and groomed wasn’t helping. In their Sunday best button ups, with a spritz of cologne that made your head dizzy. It was intoxicating. The way you actually crave them. The way you feel like you need them. You’re already addicted and you’ve barely even had a taste.
“Would you believe me if I told you I’m a virgin?” You ask Shane in between messy kisses, hands already tugging at his belt, more than hinting at the real reason you decided to trap him in the costal themed bathroom.
He laughs against your lips. He tastes like beer. And you like it. A lot.
“Absolutely not.” He leans back. Tone more serious now. “Are you?”
An amused huff escapes your lips as you rest your head against the bathroom door. “No. But I wish I were.”
You pull him in again, tongue tracing his bottom lip as you kiss him. “Wish it coulda been you who popped my cherry,” his hand is under your dress, rubbing you through your panties. “Who fucked me and corrupted me,” you continue against his lips, the softest moan escaping your throat at his touch.
But he pauses. Trying to catch his breath, still rubbing soft circles on your clit.
“Ain’t too late for that second one.”
He’s right. It’s not.
“Probably woulda been better then some 16 year old jock on prom night. What’d he last, 30 seconds? Bet he couldn’t even make you come, huh?” He asks, fingers finding their way into your panties now, spreading your arousal onto your clit, and dipping inside.
“No- “ you gasp at the intrusion. “Was- was my high school gym teacher. Cheated on his wife with me in the girls locker room during lunch hour.”
Shane couldn’t help the laugh that left his mouth at your confession. Vibrating against your own lips. And you smile because he’s amused. But you aren’t joking. And it’s really not that funny. Truly wasn’t your proudest moment.
“Now that, I believe.”
You’re done talking, so you pull his smile against your own and whimper into his mouth. His fingers already pumping slowly inside of you. Finding your sweet spot with ease. Making your bare toes curl against the cool tile.
From the moment you woke up, you’ve needed this. Needed to come. All over his fingers. His cock would be ideal, but he told you no already. They all came to an agreement. Daryl, Rick and him. Said it was “crossing a line” or some bullshit. As if finger fucking your best friends daughter while he’s flipping burgers on the back deck isn’t.
“Please, Shane- need you so bad-” you whine against his lips. Hips involuntarily bucking into his hand.
“Fuck, baby-” you know he’s trying to hold back.
“Just-uh,” he groans, dropping to his knees in front of you, pulling your panties down in one swift motion. Taking your right thigh and pulling it over his shoulder.
Your hands tangle in his hair at the feeling of his mouth on your cunt. His hands are under your dress, nails digging into your ass and pulling you even closer. The warm slickness of his tongue moving up and down on your clit. Pleasure swirls in your stomach and silent whimpers escape your swollen lips.
“Taste so fucking good-” he groans against you, bringing two fingers up and teasing your entrance. Leaking with arousal and spit. Absolutely begging to be filled. To be fucked.
“Ohmygod,” you moan, pressure building in your core as he curls his fingers. Sucking and lapping at your clit, like he just can’t get enough.
“Gonna come, Shane-” you tell him, hands tightening their grip on his dark locks. Your left leg is starting to tremble, and you’re climax is approaching much quicker then you were hoping. Thanks to his tongue replicating what you can only assume feels just like heaven.
And right when that tight, hot band in your core feels like it’s about to snap, you feel the wood behind you move, and hear the door handle rattle. Someone trying to use the bathroom that had thankfully been locked in between frenzied kisses and grabby hands.
“Occupied!” You squeak, eyes widening at the interruption. Your heart practically skipping a beat at the prospect of being caught.
You feel Shane’s movements halt to a stop, big, brown eyes looking up at you from between your legs.
“Shit. sorry, sweets.” You’re father’s deep voice carries through the door, and a cheeky grin forms on Shane’s handsome face. Once the footsteps retreat down the hall, he puts his index finger to his lips and shushes you. Be quiet, baby.
“Keep going-” your voice is hushed and shaky. Desperately unashamed to be begging for his mouth. His fingers. His nose, and how amazing it feels grinding against your pulsing clit. And wether he heard your pleas or not, he obliged.
You raise you hand to your mouth and bite down on the fleshy side of your palm, silencing the sounds you both know you can’t contain. And you’re close again in a moments time. Eyes rolling back and hips jutting forward. Muscles aching already.
Oh my god.
“Don’t stop, please, please, please-” you beg him for your orgasm. And he gives it to you. Coaxing it out of you with his mouth and his fingers. Feeling a warm wave of pleasure erupt from your cunt, going up your stomach and down your things. And you bite your lip trying not to moan but it feels way too good and you can’t help it.
Not that Shane minded.
“Fuck.” You whisper, core twitching as he pulls his sopping digits out of you. Looking you right in the eye as he kisses your clit, one last torturous time, before he takes your panties, pulls them back up and fixes your dress. He washes his hands as you catch your breath, still leaning against the door. Face flushed when you see him smirking at you through the mirror.
“Think you can behave the rest of the night?”
You nod eagerly, “Yes.”
“Good. Now go back out there and pretend you didn’t just come all over my fingers, alright? Have a drink, eat some food. Be a good girl for us.”
You left the bathroom before him, checking that the coast was clear before slipping outside and eyeing the open spot still next to Rick. He notices you immediately and holds up a red solo cup, cold condensation already dripping down the plastic.
“Made you a drink,” he hands it to you as you sit next to him, the side of your thigh flush with his, keeping him extra close. And before his arm can make its way back around your shoulder, his eyebrows pinch together in a confused scowl.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, inspecting your dopey expression.
“Hm?” You look at him as innocently. Clearly still little dazed from your trip to the washroom.
Rick’s face twitches when he notices. Your thighs are actually trembling. Already sore from keeping yourself standing on one foot, while coming hard on another man’s face only moments earlier.
Rick’s palm flattens on your thigh, pushing it into the seat and halting it’s shakiness.
“Really?”
“What?” You ask, voice sweet as honey.
“You know what.”
“I- I tried to take you upstairs n’ you got all grumpy-” you stutter, trying to defend your sinful actions.
“I said later.”
You open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out. And you’re a little surprised to feel a jolt between your legs at his jealousy. How hot it is that he’s a little mad. A little… possessive.
“M’ sorry,” you whisper in his ear, tucking yourself in closer to his side, sipping the drink he made you. “Can make it up to you. Promise.”
He rolls his eyes. Annoyed and jealous and irritated that it wasn’t him who had his way with you in the bathroom, so well that it made your legs shake. But regardless of his hostility, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in against his warm body. And you notice that his grip tightens when Shane walks by, giving you a charming smile and a flirty nod.
Annoyed and defeated, Rick sighs and leans in. Close enough that his lips brush your ear.
“Alright. Upstairs. Now.”
part 3
-
(Daryl’s part will be next… hope you all enjoyed💗)
How would you fell about writing something about stepdad!shane and somno (consensual of course) like he can’t help himself
cw- somnophilia, unprotected p in v, stepdad! trope, not proofread, 1.7k wc
note- starts out as somno but then gets kinda sweet and intimate … reader is over 18, consent is implied as well as an established (secret) relationship. Please let me know what u think! your feedback means a lot to me <3
2:22
He can’t help it. Middle of the night. Tossing and turning and overwhelmed by the unfulfilling warmth of the boring woman next to him. Having to get up for a glass of water and a breath of fresh air. A quick smoke to clear his mind. It doesn’t work. It never does.
It doesn’t stop him from doing a double take on his way back to bed, captured by the sight of you sprawled out on your bed. Door open. Covers thrown off with a fan pointing towards you at the end of your bed. Pretty, cotton panties hugging your ass while you sleep on your stomach.
Shane looks down at his pyjama pants, already half chubbed up just from the sight of you. His stepdaughter. And if that wasn’t bad enough; his practically naked, sleeping, stepdaughter. Turned towards the wall where you can’t see the way he’s looking at you. Undressing you with his eyes. Running a hand over his face and sighing up at the ceiling. As if physical attraction weren’t enough, there’s the overwhelming fact that you’re the sweetest forbidden fruit he’s ever tasted. And he’s never really been good with temptation.
He can’t tear his eyes away. Not with the show he’s getting. Your ass practically spread right open. Smooth, soft legs inviting you into the cool room. Smelling of linen and vanilla and very poor decisions.
He shouldn’t. He should continue walking his bare feet across the hardwood and get back into the bed he shares with your mother.
But your panties say ‘eat me’ and there’s no way he’s falling asleep now that that seed is planted in his mind.
He knows you won’t care. If you were awake you’d invite him on in. He’ll just walk over, touch you a little, and then leave. You probably won’t even stir.
He walks in, closing the door behind him, not enough to latch, but just enough for no one to see. Not that anyone would. It’s the middle of the night. Everyone’s asleep.
Especially you.
“Fuck, baby.” He whispers to himself more than anything. Reaching your bed and carefully sitting down. You don’t even move. Perfect.
He reaches a hand out to touch your leg. Running it up your thigh, slowly and gently. Fuck, you’re so soft. He can’t see your face, half smushed into the pillow and facing the wall. But he can see your ribs rising and falling with every breath. Slow and sweet. You don’t seem to be waking so he moves his hand up further. Brushing your inner thigh. Dangerously close to your panty line.
He was going to stop there. He really was. It wasn’t his intention to make you come.
But when he kept going and he noticed a wet patch forming on your cheeky little panties, he couldn’t even help himself. He couldn’t leave you there all hot and bothered. Starting to stir in the sheets as desperate little whimpers start to leave your lips.
Gosh, you aren’t even awake and you’re already begging for it.
His thumb brushes your clit and you stir again.
“W-Shane?” Your voice is a grumbly whisper.
“Just me, princess.” His voice is quiet and calm and you relax immediately at the sound of it. Still teetering on the edge of consciousness. A little confused but more so taken over by this fuzzy feeling building in the pit of your stomach. An impulse. A need.
“Mphm,” you make another noise. Softer this time.
Shane has to take a moment. Close his eyes and take a deep breath. He leans down to kiss the backs of your thighs. Kissing up until he gets to the edge of your panties. You’ve opened your legs up for him. Instinctively.
Over your panties, he presses a hot open mouthed kiss to your cunt. He starts to lick you from behind. You moan in your sleepy daze, not entirely sure what’s happening but loving the way it feels too much to question anything.
“Shhh,” he whispers into your skin, peeling your panties to the side and kissing your clit. His nose nudges your drooling cunt. Fuck, you’re wet. And you taste immaculate.
“Oh,” your ass is pushing back on his face now. Chasing the friction of his tongue against your clit.
“Shane…” your voice is a mere whisper. Begging your stepdad to make you come.
“I know, baby. Just close your eyes.” You feel him insert a couple fingers. Gliding in with ease as your walls pull him in. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. Daddy’s gonna make it all better, I promise.”
The only response he’s able to pull out of you is another moan, smushing your face even further into the pillow as he starts to curl his fingers. Kneading your bum with his other hand while he finger fucks you. Biting at the flesh of your ass, gentle enough to not leave any marks. But hard enough to earn a whine.
You’re dripping onto the sheets. His fingers sticky and coated with a white creamy slick when he pulls them out to taste. A little whine leaves you at the loss of contact, but he replaces his fingers soon enough. He leans over you, pushing down his pyjamas enough to access the swollen erection he’s been fighting off all evening, and slides in painfully slow. Stretching your wet cunt out for him to use. To fuck you stupid while you’re half asleep.
At the sound of a wet gasp leaving your mouth, Shane leans down to cover your mouth. Gently, of course. But also adamantly needing to shut you the hell up. You often tend to forget that you mother’s right down the hall. Too enraptured by whatever sick filth is being done to you by your big, burly stepdad. Warm and strong and pinning you to the mattress. Chest flush with your shoulder blades as he slides in and out of you. Slowly dragging it out for both of you. So he covers your mouth, trapping all of those sinful sounds from escaping and making their way down the hall. But he knows you don’t never to. It just feels so damn good.
“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So fucking wet for me.” His lips brush your ear in between kisses down your neck.
He can hear it. How wet you are. Slick, creamy squelching with every thrust. And fuck is it ever hot. Knowing how much you love this. How much you love when you’re stepdad sneaks into your room, late at night to touch you all over.
You’re awake now. Tired and hazy but definitely awake. Desperate to find some relief from the knot forming in your stomach. Feeling warm and suffocated, all trapped between Shane’s body and the mattress. You need to grab something. Settling on the comforter at your side. The hand covering your mouth leaves to grab your hand instead, interlocking your fingers as he starts to pound into you harder and faster. Knowing now that you’re awake, you’ll do what you can to try and keep quiet. Bite your lip and muffle your choked little sobs into the pillow.
“That’s it. Such a good girl for me. Bein’ so quiet. Takin’ me so well. Fuck, baby.” He’s close. Trying not to come because he knows you need a little longer. He reaches below you, snaking his hand under your belly and starts to rub messy circles onto your clit. Continuing his harsh pace, the room fills with the echo of skin slapping and the creaking of your bed frame. Though you’re both too absorbed in your building orgasms to really care about the threat of being caught. You’d never been caught before. Never even had a close call. And unfortunately, that history has developed a false sense of security for both of you.
But tonight, it isn’t a concern. You’re close anyway. And you make sure to let him know.
“Shane…” it’s only his name. But it’s the whiny way you moan it that tells him you’re there. That tells him to keep going. To fuck you through it, nice and hard.
Your toes curl and you squeeze his hand so hard that he winces. But he doesn’t mind. The fact that he can get this kind of reaction out of you, that’s all that matters. Writhing and gasping underneath him at the warm pleasure spreading throughout your body. The whisper of his name while you come, so quiet that you definitely never thought he would hear, that’s what tips him over the edge. Pulling out and finishing himself off with his hand, shooting hot ropes of white onto your back. His own core twitching as he tugs every last drop from his cock.
You’re looking back at him with sleepy, hazy eyes. Catching your breath, you rest your cheek on the pillow and relax back into the comforter. He gently lets go of your hand, only to fall down right next to you. Adjusting himself back into his pants, and reaching around the bed for a throw blanket. Using it to clean you off, as he watches your eyelids grow heavy. Smile still sweet and angelic as you bask in his touch. In his gentle attention.
“Sleepover?” You ask him when he runs his hand through your hair. Brushing a few strands from your face.
He smirks down at you, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. Kissing you for a moment while he goes internally fights with his morals.
“Probably shouldn’t.” He admits.
“Please?”
He can’t say no. Not to you.
“I can stay for a little while. Til you fall asleep.”
“Mmm,” you take the win. Though it’s not what you asked for, it’ll do for now. You throw your leg over his and start to get comfy. Pressing your ear to his heart and your hand on his chest. Instinctively, his arm wraps around you and pulls you in. Helping shape you to his body. Sink into his hold.
You know he won’t stay long. And you’ve learned to be okay with that. You’re confident he would stay with you all night long if it would still keep your little love affair a well kept secret.
But for now, you’ll take the few tender moments of him holding you to his chest, his fingers tracing up and down your back as his the feeling lulls you to sleep. Kissing your forehead before he forces himself to leave the comfort of your bed. The comfort of your warmth. All so that he can wake up in the morning and eye you from across the breakfast table, reliving the last night's events in his head while your mother politely asks how you slept. There’s a warning tease in the way he glances over while you answer, telling her how amazing it was and how well rested you feel.
“Gosh, I just wish I could sleep like that every night.”
Your words make their way right to his dick and he can’t help but think about how he’s going to make sure that last nights events become extremely routine.
NOTES: well well well, here we are again. based on this ask
TW: no walkers au, no smut but suggestive themes, younger!reader (over 18, but no age stated), Shane is your moms boyfriend and you live with your mom, kind of girly!reader but not too bad, that’s all I think, this is pretty tame but yummy don’t worry
MASTERLIST
You love your mom in the same way you love rainstorms. Both are loud, familiar, occasionally a little destructive, but still part of the landscape of your life. You do not, however, love her taste in romantic partners. She means well. She always does. Her problem is that she falls in love fast with men who take up too much space and give nothing back. Men who needed managing. Men who treated you like an unwanted accessory to the relationship instead of a person who existed independently of it.
There had been Chris who played Xbox at least 6 hours a day. Then there was Milo who tried to convince your mom to kick you out during the first week of their relationship. And then there were the two Scotts back to back, both equally awful. Next was Phil- or had it been Frank? Maybe Fred?? Whatever his name was, he had perpetually smelled like pepperoni. And that was just this year.
So when Shane moved in, you braced yourself for another round of your least favorite game: dodging the new boyfriend.
All this meant another loud voice in the house. Another man with unwarranted opinions. Another temporary fixture.
Except Shane didn’t feel temporary at all.
He didn’t arrive with declarations or empty promises. He just… folded himself into the rhythm of the place. Mornings smelled like strong coffee and toast. Evenings came with quiet routines—greasing squeaky hinges, changing lightbulbs, tightening screws on things that rattled. He didn’t ask for praise. He didn’t even announce what he was doing, he just noticed what needed doing and handled it.
And then there was the way he treated you.
Not like a kid. Not like an obligation. He remembered the little things—the way you hated the radio talk show host on the local channel, the way you liked your eggs for breakfast, that sometimes you just needed a minute to get things off your chest when you got home from a bad day.
When your mom would snap too sharply or come home looking to pick a fight, Shane would intervene with a steady voice and an even expression, “hey, cmon now, y’know that ain’t fair.” As if defending you was instinctive.
That alone would’ve been enough to soften you.
Unfortunately, he was also devastatingly handsome in a way that snuck up on you. Nothing flashy. Not even polished. Just broad shoulders and rough, capable hands and a smile that felt earned instead of practiced. His voice—low, drawling, unhurried—had a way of wrapping around words like he was taking care with them, like he knew the effect they had.
From the very beginning, there had been a current between you. Not sparks. Not fireworks. Something slower and more dangerous. A gravity you couldn’t quite explain. Glances that lingered a fraction longer than they should. The way his attention found you in a room without any effort. Inside jokes meant just for you two. A sense that he was always very… aware of you.
And you were aware of him right back.
Which was why you’d done the sensible thing and started dating a man who was aggressively unremarkable.
Evan was… fine. Evan was harmless. Evan was what you were supposed to want. He texted you good morning and good night every day. He showed up when he said he would. He thought romance was consistency and sex was something you completed rather than participated in. His idea of being spontaneous was getting Panda Express last Friday instead of the usual pizza.
You told yourself that was enough. You told yourself that passion had to settle down eventually. This was just part of growing up and you’d get over it.
But there were only so many nights you could lay there staring at the ceiling, your body pursed for a release with nowhere for it to go. Only so many you could sit awake at night thinking about how you felt so lonely despite the man sharing your bed.
That was when you decided to end it. Well, to make him end it. You hated breaking up with people. You hated how the guy would always make you out to be some kind of evil psychopath, all the while leaving out the many ways he fell short leading up to the split. So you’d put that burden on Evan, it was the least he could do.
It didn’t need to be dramatic or cruel, you just wanted him to lose interest. Simple enough, right?
So you built a plan.
Step one: stop being appealing.
No more effort.
No more flirting.
No more carefully chosen little sets with meticulously paired accessories. Oh no, Evan was getting loooooow maintenance. Messy, even.
The main issue you’re facing now is that you don’t own a single thing that would fit that category. This is glaringly clear as your hot-pink tracksuit clad reflection stares back at you from your full body mirror and, damn, does it fit you well. You almost hate to push your fashion sense aside, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
This was how you end up standing outside your mom and Shane’s bedroom. The door was ajar and there sat Shane, folding your mom’s laundry, because of course he was folding her laundry. He’s perfect. You bit the inside of your cheek as you knocked on the door frame.
His eyes lifted to meet yours almost immediately, brow lifting in mild surprise. “Hey, darlin’. Everything alright?”
“Oh yeah, toooootally great,” you said brightly, forcing a reassuring smile to your lips. “I just need to ask an itty bitty favor. Can I borrow something?”
He set the sweater in his hands down on the comforter, standing from the bed. “‘Course you can. Whatcha need?”
“One of your sweatshirts.”
The pause was subtle—but it was there.
“…Mine? You sure you don’t want one of your mom’s cardigans or something?”
“Noooo, I definitely think I need yours,” you nodded. “The biggest one you have, if possible. Something that looks like it’s been through a war. OH- that police academy one you wore the other day, maybe? With the stains?” You tried to tamp down on the giddiness you were feeling at the thought of how frumpy you’re going look. This was going to be great.
Shane laughed under his breath. “That thing’s gonna swallow you, darlin’.”
“I know, it’s perfect.”
He disappeared into the closet and came back with a hoodie that looked soft and worn and unmistakably his. When he handed it over, your fingers brushed the soft, piling material. He cleared his throat.
“I hate to break it to ya, kid, but that things nowhere near fitting you.” He was clearly very amused with this whole occurrence.
“Exactly, that’s the point.” You tugged it on right there, fabric sliding down your arms, sleeves hiding your hands, hem grazing the hem of your shorts on your thighs. It felt absurd and comfortable and, strangely, a little intimate.
Shane stared.
Not rudely, but openly. Just long enough to tell you something wasn’t lining up in his head.
“And you’re plannin’ on wearin’ that out the house?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Shane knew you well enough by now to have picked up on the fact that you never left the house looking short of perfect.
“Sure am,” you chirped excitedly, unable to help yourself from primping in the mirror against the far wall.
“…Why? You going to some kind of themed party?”
And, for some reason, you didn’t lie.
You laughed first—too fast, too light—like maybe if you said it casually enough it wouldn’t sound insane. “Okay, well—this is going to sound terrible, but I’m kind of trying to get my boyfriend to break up with me.”
That earned you a real laugh—startled, loud, completely unguarded.
“You’re kiddin’.”
“I wish,” you blurted, and then it was like the dam broke and you couldn’t stop the words pouring from your mouth. “He’s just—Shane, he’s so boring. And I feel awful saying that, because he’s technically nice, but it’s the kind of nice where there’s nothing underneath it? Like beige walls. Or unseasoned chicken. And every time we hang out I feel like I’m doing homework instead of… I don’t know, living my life?”
You waved a hand, already spiraling. “And I keep telling myself that this is what being an adult is supposed to be like, right? Stable, predictable, whatever—but I’m just sitting there thinking, is this it? Is this what I’m signing up for forever? Because that feels like a trap.”
You sucked in a breath, face warm now.
“And—oh god—this is where it gets really tragic,” you rushed on. “He’s terrible in bed. Like not even awkward-because-he-cares terrible. Just… bad. Like he thinks effort is optional. Like he pats my hip after like he’s done a good job and I’m lying there staring at the ceiling wondering if I’ll have to fake a headache for the rest of my life.”
Shane turned his head away, coughing into his hand to cover the laugh that bubbled up.
“Alright,” he said, laughing harder despite himself. “That’s enough. Way more than I needed.”
You clamped your mouth shut, mortified, tugging the sweatshirt sleeves over your hands. “Sorry—sorry. I don’t know why I’m talking so much. I’m just so tired of feeling like I’m silly for wanting more.”
“So anyway,” you continued, lighter and matter-of-fact, “I figured if I stopped dressing like myself, he’d finally lose interest and break up with me.”
Shane leaned back against the wall, arms folding, gaze drifting over you again. Slower this time. Warmer. Locked in fully on you.
“Sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head, “that ain’t how men work.”
Your eyebrows furrowed together, “it’s not?”
“Nope.” His mouth tilted into a half-smile. “A man loves seein’ his woman in his clothes.”
Your stomach flipped, sharp and sudden.
“And,” he added, casual as could be, “he really hates seein’ her in someone else’s. Makes him territorial.”
“Oh,” you said slowly, glancing down at the sleeves pooling over your hands, “territorial is bad?”
Shane huffed a quiet laugh, eyes still on you. “Sweetheart,” he said, “wearing another man’s clothes doesn’t make you less appealing. It makes a man notice you more.”
You looked back up at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he replied, voice easy but unmistakably warm, “it makes a guy picture things. Wonder things. Start thinkin’ about you wearin’ his stuff instead. Maybe even start imaging you with nothing on at all.”
Your breath caught—just a little.
“Oh,” you said again, trying for casual and not quite landing it. “So this isn’t reading as ‘unattractive.’”
“No, ma’am,” he said softly. “Not even close.”
You tugged at the cuff again, suddenly very aware of how familiar the fabric felt. “Guess I picked the wrong strategy.”
Shane’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Guess you did.”
“Okay, well, I’ll… rethink things, I guess.” You backed away before either of you could say something worse, smile soft but pulse skittering. “Mind if I keep the sweatshirt for the day anyway?”
Shane didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. “Be my guest, darlin’.”
Something warm flickered low in your chest. You turned and walked down the hall.
Behind you, Shane exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, voice barely audible—
“Lord help me.”
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