Fairy Queen Fiction

18+ MDNI!!! 23 fanfic lover and writer open to dms and suggestions <3 Take care out there my loves~

[fairyqueenfiction]

Gonna start writing some fanfics, nsfw and sfw. Got some ideas for some long fics but gonna try my hand at some short fics, one shots, headcanons. I also share some fanfic stuff that interests me. I am also attempting to write a book! Wish me luck!

MDNI!!!!

[dirtyl0ver]

Sweet Tooth - Part 3 (Ticci Toby x F!Reader)

CW: Explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, pet play / puppy play kink, collar kink, rough sex, overstimulation, degradation, praise, violence, blood, physical fight, insults, petty crime, obsessive behavior, emotional distress, emotional manipulation, moral ambiguity, featuring appearances by Tim, Brian, Ben, Jeff, and Jack

Summary: After days of uneasy silence, Toby reappears. The pull between you only grows stronger, even as the dangers of his world loom larger than ever.

Wordcount: 14k

Part 1: HERE Part 2: HERE

The last three days had been a special kind of hell.

You hadn’t seen Toby since the night he left your house, the words “I kill people” still hanging in the air between you. You’d told him you needed time. That you couldn’t just… process something like that in one breath and move on. He’d nodded, and then disappeared.

No texts - you didn’t even have his number. No surprise visits to the gas station. Nothing but radio silence and the gnawing, contradictory ache in your chest that grew worse every hour. Part of you had been terrified his friends had finally scared him off for good. Another, quieter, more shameful part had almost hoped they had. Because if he stayed away, you wouldn’t have to decide what it said about you that you still wanted him.

You were still shaken from that night at the store. The way the dark-haired man had leaned over the counter, venom dripping from every word as he called you a whore. The cold disgust in the blond one’s eyes. The casual entitlement as they stole from you and spat on your floor like they owned the place - and owned Toby by extension. It had been disgusting. Infuriating.

And somehow, it had only made you miss your thief more.

You stood in front of your mirror, finishing up for your night shift. You’d brushed your hair until it fell in loose, shining waves, added a little extra mascara and gloss, just enough to feel like you had some control over something. Your work polo clung to your chest, the top two buttons undone against the stupid humidity. Denim shorts sat low on your hips, frayed hems brushing your thighs. When you turned slightly to check yourself, your eyes caught on the faint yellowish-green marks still blooming across your neck and collarbones.

Little reminders of Toby’s mouth. Of how desperately he’d sucked and bitten while he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin and stay there.

Your fingers traced one of the bruises. A slow, conflicted breath left you.

You missed him. God, you missed him. But every time the warmth flared in your chest, something colder followed right behind it - images of blood on his hands, of the casual way he’d admitted what he did, of the heavy weapons you now knew he carried. You’d asked for time. You’d meant it.

And yet… after meeting his so-called friends, that need for distance had started to feel thinner. More like a polite lie you were telling yourself because the truth - that you were already in too deep - scared you more than the blood ever could.

A sharp tink against the window made you jump.

Then another. And another.

Rocks. Definitely rocks.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you crossed to the window and peered out into the growing dusk. There, half-hidden by the treeline at the edge of your yard, stood Toby.

Same dark navy hoodie. Bandana pulled down around his neck. Messy brown hair sticking up in every direction. Even from here you could see that crooked, mischievous grin splitting his scarred face. He waved, quick, almost shy, like he hadn’t dropped a bomb on your life and then vanished for three days.

Your stomach flipped violently. Relief, sharp and stupid and dangerous, flooded through you so fast it made your eyes sting. He came back. He actually came back.

But right behind it came the colder wave: the knowledge of what he was. What he did. What those hatchets you hadn’t even seen yet had already done.

You bit down hard on the smile threatening to break across your face. You couldn’t quite kill it.

Toby’s head twitched sharply to the side with that familiar little crack, and his grin widened. He waved again, slower this time, like he was making sure you saw him.

You didn’t even think about it. You turned away from the window, heart hammering, and headed straight for the front door. Your feet padded quickly across the floorboards as you unlocked it and stepped out onto the porch, the warm evening air wrapping around your legs.

Toby straightened up from where he’d been leaning against a tree, shoulders rolling with a restless hitch. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, then pulled them out again, fingers twitching. Another sharp tic jerked his neck sideways as he took a few uneven steps closer, stopping at the edge of your yard like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome yet.

For a long second the two of you just stared at each other.

Then Toby’s scarred mouth curved into that sheepish, hopeful little smile that made your chest ache.

“H-hey,” he called, the stammer cutting through like always. “Missed you.”

You couldn’t hold it back.

The second your feet hit the porch steps, you were moving - half-running down them, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. Toby’s dark eyes widened the instant he realized you weren’t stopping. His scarred mouth parted in surprise, shoulders hitching sharply as you practically threw yourself at him.

Your arms looped around his neck, pulling him down as you buried your face against the warm skin of his throat. He smelled like pine, smoke, and that faint metallic edge that always seemed to cling to him. You breathed him in like you’d been drowning for three days.

Toby froze for half a second, completely caught off guard, like he’d shown up fully expecting you to slam the door in his face. Then his arms came around you - careful at first, almost hesitant - before they tightened. He lifted you just enough that your toes barely brushed the grass, scarred hands splaying wide across your lower back, pressing you flush against his hoodie.

“Fuck… I’m so happy to see you, Toby,” you muttered into his neck, voice cracking a little.

Toby let out a low, rough hum that vibrated against your cheek. His head twitched hard to the side with a soft crack, but he didn’t pull away. Instead he turned his face into your hair and breathed you in just as deeply, like he’d been starving for it too.

For a long moment neither of you moved. Just held on in the quiet dusk, his restless body twitching against yours every few seconds.

Eventually you forced yourself to loosen your grip, sliding back down until your feet touched the ground again. You kept one hand on his chest, reluctant to let go completely.

“Come inside,” you said softly.

Toby nodded, that crooked, boyish grin flickering back across his face as he followed you up the steps. But the second you turned toward the door, your eyes dropped - and that’s when you saw them.

Two twin hatchets hung from his belt, strapped securely to his hips. The blades were dark, well-worn, edges catching the fading light with a dull, wicked gleam. They looked heavy.

Your blood turned to ice in your veins. It felt surreal - seeing the actual weapons, the ones that had chopped a man to pieces right outside your store. You swallowed hard and kept walking, but your eyes kept flicking back to them, unable to look away for long.

Inside, you led him straight to the living room. The door clicked shut behind you, the sound loud in the quiet house. Toby hovered near the entrance for a second, hands twitching at his sides, before he stepped further in. His gaze was already dragging over you - taking in the tight polo, the short denim shorts, the faint hickeys still visible on your neck.

You couldn’t stop staring at the hatchets.

He finally noticed. His head gave a sharp, involuntary jerk to the left, neck cracking. He glanced down at his hips, then back up at you, something almost sheepish crossing his scarred features.

“…Got a j-job later,” he muttered. “Just… wanted to see y-you ffff-first.”

You nodded, trying your best to keep your face neutral even as your stomach twisted. “Okay.”

Toby took you in again - eyes roaming over your body, lingering on your thighs, your chest, the makeup you’d put on for work - before they settled on your face. He smiled a little, small and lost, like he still couldn’t quite believe you’d hugged him instead of screaming.

You shifted your weight, suddenly nervous again.

“I wanted to talk to you,” you said, chewing the inside of your cheek. “But I didn’t have your number or anything… I had no way to reach you.”

Toby’s brows furrowed slightly, another quick tic rolling through his shoulder. He tilted his head, waiting.

You took a breath.

“Do you… know what happened? At the store the other night?”

He looked genuinely confused. His dark eyes blinked once, then twice, head twitching to the side again with a soft crack.

“…What h-happened?” he asked, voice slow and uncertain. He had no idea.

Your stomach sank. Of course he didn’t.

Those assholes had gone behind Toby’s back, terrorized you at your job, and hadn’t even bothered to tell him. The realization burned hot in your chest as you stood there in your living room, staring at him.

You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Sit down, Toby.”

He blinked at you, dark eyes wide and uncertain, head jerking sharply to the side with a loud crack. For a second he just stood there, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then he obeyed, lowering himself onto the edge of your couch, shoulders hunched and restless. His hands immediately started fidgeting in his lap, fingers twisting together.

You sat down beside him, close enough that your bare thigh brushed his jeans. Your knee bounced with agitation as you turned to face him.

“Those two guys you were with the night you stole the Snickers… they showed up at the store a couple nights ago,” you started, voice tight. “While I was working alone.”

Toby’s shoulders hitched violently. His neck snapped to the left again, harder this time. “Wait–w-what? Did they–h-hurt you? Wha–”

You kept going, the words spilling out faster now.

“They just showed up. The dark-haired one - big guy, flannel - he started hitting on me in this really gross, sleazy way. Called me sweetheart, gorgeous… then it got nasty fast.” You looked down at your hands, sighing. “He threatened me. Told me to stay the fuck away from you. Called me a whore, said I was dragging you down, making you sloppy. The taller one - the blonde guy with the serious face - he didn’t say much at first, but then he called me a… a dog-fucking bitch. They stole cigarettes and liquor right in front of me, spat on the floor, and basically told me if I didn’t back off, things would get messy.”

You looked up at Toby.

His reaction was immediate.

The tics slammed into him like a storm. His head jerked hard to the side - crack - then again, shoulders rolling and hitching so aggressively his whole upper body twitched. His dark eyes went wide with disbelief, mouth opening and closing like he couldn’t find words fast enough.

“I–I didn’t–fuck,” he stammered, voice cracking. “I h-had no idea. None. I swear to fucking G-God I didn’t know they–shit–”

He buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his messy hair. Another violent full-body tic rolled through him, making his shoulders jerk upward hard enough that you heard his neck crack again.

“Those guys… that was T-Tim and Brian,” he muttered through his hands, voice muffled and raw. “They’re… they’re my friends. They were just l-looking out for m-me, but they had no right–no ffff-fucking right to do that t-t-to you.”

You swallowed, heart still racing.

“What even is the deal here, Toby?” you asked quietly. “Are you guys in a gang or something?”

Toby let out a loud, frustrated groan. He shoved himself up off the couch and started pacing, uneven steps carrying him back and forth across your living room. His hands flexed at his sides, opening and closing, the twin hatchets at his hips swaying with every restless movement.

“It’s… it’s c-complicated,” he muttered, head twitching sharply. “We’re not–I mean, it’s not l-like a gang gang, but… something like that, I g-guess. We do jobs. And we’ve buh-been doing t-them together for a l-l-long time. They think I’m g-gonna fuck everything up w-with you.”

He stopped pacing for a second, turning to look at you. His scarred face was twisted with guilt, eyes restless and bright with frustration.

“I’m so f-fucking sorry,” he said, voice rough and earnest. “I never wanted them a-a-a-anywhere near you. I told Tim to suh-stay out of it. I–I really like y-you. Like, a lot. More than I p-probably should. And they k-know that. That’s why they d-did it.”

He took a shaky step closer, shoulders hitching again as he looked down at you on the couch.

“I’ll t-talk to them. Make sure they never ffff-fucking bother you a-a-again. I promise.”

It was really starting to piss you off.

The way those two had strutted into your store like they owned Toby’s choices - owned you - like he was some dumb kid who needed to be kept on a leash. It made your blood boil. Toby wasn’t their property. He wasn’t a problem to be managed. He was… Toby. Restless and scarred and terrifyingly honest and yours, at least for right now.

You reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight between both of yours. His fingers twitched once, then curled around yours almost desperately, palm warm and rough.

“I hate how they talked to me,” you said, voice low but fierce. “Like they were so much better than you. Like they could just walk in, threaten me, and decide who you’re allowed to see. It was disgusting. Do they always act like that? Like they’re in charge of you?”

Toby looked down at your interlocked hands, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. His head gave a quick, sharp tic to the side before he shrugged, a little lost.

“They can be a lot,” he muttered. “But… we’ve buh-been through a lot t-together. They’ve got their reasons. Tim especially. It’s not–it’s not personal with you. They’re just…”

He trailed off, shoulders hitching hard.

You wanted to scream.

It was so obvious: Toby took it. He shut up, he let them scold him and boss him around because that’s what he was used to. And it made something protective and angry twist deep in your chest. He deserved better than being treated like the unstable attack dog of the group.

“God, I just want to slap Tim so fucking hard,” you burst out, the words tumbling faster. “Punch him right in his smug fucking face. Kick his ass. Tell him to mind his own goddamn business and stop treating you like a stupid kid who can’t make his own choices. I’m serious, Toby. The way he leaned over the counter and spat on my floor? I wanted to throw the register at his head.”

Toby stared at you for a second… then let out a short, surprised laugh. His shoulders shook with it, another violent tic jerking his neck sideways.

You weren’t done.

“And if I ever see him again, I’m borrowing these,” you said, reaching down and tapping one of the hatchet handles at his hip. “Just for a minute. I’ll be quick.”

Toby laughed harder - genuine, breathless laughter that made his whole body twitch. He collapsed back onto the couch beside you, leaning heavily over you as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His messy hair tickled your cheek, his breath warm against your skin, still shaking with quiet chuckles.

“F-fuck… you’re crazy,” he mumbled into your neck, voice muffled and warm. You could feel him smiling against you. “You’d actually try it, w-wouldn’t you?”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, hugging him close. One hand slid up to thread through his messy brown hair, holding him there. You laughed too, the sound mixing with his, but underneath it you still felt that heavy twist of frustration and worry.

“Yeah, well… someone has to stand up for you,” you said softly, pressing your cheek to the top of his head. “Since you won’t do it yourself.”

Toby’s arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap. He leaned further into you, scarred face hidden against your throat. You hugged him a little tighter, fingers tracing one of the scars at the back of his neck.

You kept one hand buried in his messy brown hair, petting him slowly, fingers dragging through the strands and scratching lightly at his scalp. Toby melted under the touch with a low, broken hum, pressing even closer. His shoulders hitched hard once, twice, but he stayed curled against you like he never wanted to move again.

Then his mouth found your throat.

Warm, scarred lips brushed over the fading hickeys he’d left days ago, followed by slow, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath catch. He worked his way lower, kissing and licking across your collarbones, sucking gently on the sensitive skin just above the neckline of your polo. Every press of his mouth sent little sparks racing down your spine.

You hummed softly, tilting your head to give him better access. When he lifted his face again, you caught his jaw in your hand and pulled him up into a proper kiss.

It started sweet - almost careful - but within seconds it turned hungry. Toby groaned into your mouth as your tongues slid together, his hands roaming greedily over your waist and hips. You made out like that on the couch for a long minute, slow and deep and messy, the wet sounds of lips and tongues filling the quiet living room.

You broke just enough to speak, still holding his jaw firmly in your palm, thumb stroking over the thick scar on his cheek.

“You’re strong,” you whispered against his lips. “You’re capable. You’re not gonna take shit from anyone anymore. Not Tim. Not Brian. Not anybody. Got it?”

Toby’s dark eyes were glassy, breathing ragged. He nodded fast, another sharp tic jerking his head to the side with a soft crack. His hands tightened on your waist, fingers digging into your sides, then sliding down to grip your bare thighs right under the hem of your denim shorts.

“Y-yeah,” he breathed. “I g-got it.”

He leaned in again, chasing your mouth desperately. You let him kiss you, deep and filthy, before pulling back once more. Your thumb traced his bottom lip as you looked him dead in the eyes.

“And no one is allowed to insult us like that again,” you said, voice low and serious. “No one calls me a whore. No one calls you a dog. Especially not them.”

Toby nodded again, almost frantically, eyes locked on yours with that intense, obsessive shine you were starting to crave.

“I k-know,” he rasped. “I won’t let them. Never a-again.”

He stayed like that for a second, before gently pushing you off his lap and slowly sliding down off the couch. He settled on his knees between your spread thighs, right in front of you, hands resting on your legs. The twin hatchets at his hips shifted with the movement, handles bumping against the couch.

Toby looked up at you through his messy bangs, almost shy for a moment, cheeks faintly flushed under the scars. His fingers moved to the button of your denim shorts, popping it open with careful hands. He dragged the zipper down slowly, eyes flicking back up to your face like he was waiting for permission.

Then, voice barely above a whisper and a little timid, he admitted:

“But just so y-you know– I d-don’t mind being your dog…”

The words hit you like a spark straight to your core.

Heat flooded between your thighs instantly. You felt yourself get wet - soaked, really - just from the shy, honest way he said it. Your breath hitched, thighs pressing together slightly around his shoulders as fresh arousal throbbed through you.

His dark eyes darkened further, a crooked little smile tugging at his scarred mouth as he watched your face. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts and panties, ready to pull them down, waiting for you to tell him what you wanted.

You couldn’t help the wicked little smile that spread across your face at his shy confession.

“Oh yeah?” you teased, voice low and sweet as you looked down at him kneeling between your thighs. “You wanna be my little puppy? My personal pet?”

Toby groaned loud and broken, the sound vibrating against your skin. His head jerked sharply to the side with a crack, and he nodded so frantically it looked like it hurt.

“F-fuck yes,” he rasped, fingers already yanking desperately at your denim shorts and panties. “Please–I wanna be yours. Your g-good boy. Your ffff-fucking pet–”

You lifted your hips just enough to help him, and he practically ripped the fabric down your legs in one rough tug, tossing your shorts and soaked panties somewhere behind him. The cool air hit your wet pussy and you shivered.

You threaded your fingers through his messy hair again, tugging lightly.

“Maybe I should get you a collar then,” you purred, watching his reaction. “A nice one. So everyone knows who you belong to.”

Toby actually shook. A full-body tremor rolled through him, shoulders hitching violently as another loud crack sounded from his neck. His dark eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing almost all the color.

“Yes–please,” he begged, voice wrecked. He spread your thighs wider with both scarred hands, pushing them apart until you were completely open for him. “Put me on a l-leash. I’m yours–I’m f-fucking yours–”

He leaned in immediately and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss right against your dripping pussy, like he couldn’t wait another second. His lips dragged slowly up your slick folds before he sucked gently on your clit, moaning loud and shameless into your cunt.

You moaned right back, back arching off the couch as you grabbed a tight fistful of his hair.

“Fuck–Toby,” you gasped, a breathless little giggle slipping out. “I will. I’ll collar you and leash you if you eat this pussy like a good boy.”

He whimpered against you, the sound muffled and desperate. One of his hands was already palming himself roughly through his jeans, grinding the heel of his palm against his obvious hard-on while his tongue licked a long, sloppy stripe from your entrance up to your clit.

Then he really went down on you.

Toby devoured you like a man starved. There was nothing shy or hesitant about it now. He buried his face between your thighs, nose pressing against your clit as his tongue shoved inside you, fucking in and out with wet, obscene sounds. He groaned and whimpered the whole time, the vibrations shooting straight through your core.

He licked broad and messy, dragging his tongue everywhere - lapping up every drop of your arousal. Then he focused on your clit, sucking it hard between his lips while his tongue flicked fast and relentless against the sensitive bud. Your hips jerked, but he held you down with those strong hands, fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he kept you spread open for him.

“F-fuuuck, you taste so good,” he slurred against your pussy, voice thick and muffled. “So fucking w-wet–all for me–”

He spit directly on your clit, watching it glisten for half a second before diving back in, sucking and licking with renewed hunger. His head twitched hard against your thigh and the tic made him grind his face harder into you, nose rubbing perfect circles on your swollen clit while his tongue pushed deep again.

You were soaking his chin, his mouth, dripping down onto the couch, but Toby didn’t care. He was lost in it - moaning, slurping, eating you out with filthy, eager sounds that filled the entire living room. Every few seconds his shoulders hitched or his neck jerked, but it only made him more frantic, like the tics fed into his desperation.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny and swollen, chin glistening with your slick.

“C-call me your good p-puppy again,” he begged hoarsely, voice cracking. “Please–”

You tightened your grip in his hair and yanked him back down.

“Good boy,” you moaned, thighs trembling around his head. “Such a good little puppy. Eating my pussy so fucking well–”

Toby whimpered loudly and doubled down, sucking your clit hard while two thick fingers suddenly pushed inside you, curling instantly against that perfect spot. He pumped them fast, fucking you with his fingers while his mouth worked your clit without mercy.

The wet squelching sounds were downright pornographic. Your hips bucked against his face, grinding shamelessly as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. He was palming himself harder now, hips twitching like he was barely holding it together, but he refused to stop until you came.

You were so close already - thighs shaking, stomach tightening, moans spilling louder and louder.

“Toby–fuck–don’t stop, I’m gonna–”

He moaned desperately into your cunt and sucked harder, fingers curling and thrusting perfectly, and that was it.

Your orgasm crashed over you hard. You cried out, back arching violently as your pussy clenched around his fingers, gushing against his tongue. Toby kept licking and sucking you through it, drinking down every drop like he was addicted, whimpering and groaning the whole time while his own hips jerked against his hand.

He didn’t stop even when you started twitching from overstimulation - only slowing his tongue into long, lazy licks to clean you up, savoring every last bit of you.

When you finally sagged back against the couch, panting and trembling, Toby rested his scarred cheek against your inner thigh, looking up at you with glassy, adoring eyes and a shiny, fucked-out grin.

His voice was hoarse, wrecked, and completely sincere when he whispered:

“…Can I a-actually have a c-collar?”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh, still catching your breath as you looked down at him kneeling there like the most eager puppy in the world.

“You’re serious?” you teased, grinning. “Alright, puppy. I’ll get you a collar. A nice one. Maybe even with your name on it.”

Toby’s whole face lit up, dark eyes sparkling with pure, unfiltered delight. He nodded fast, another sharp tic jerking his head to the side with a loud crack.

“Yes–fuck yes, puh-please,” he breathed.

You stroked his hair once more, then gently pushed at his shoulders.

“Sit on the couch, baby.”

He obeyed instantly. First he unclipped the twin hatchets from his belt and set them carefully on the floor with a heavy thunk, then dropped onto the couch, legs spread wide. His hands flexed restlessly on his thighs as he watched you stand up.

You moved between his knees and helped him shove his jeans and boxers down his hips. His thick cock sprang free, already rock-hard and flushed dark, curving slightly upward with a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. You wrapped your hand around him, giving a few slow, firm strokes while you leaned in and kissed him deeply.

Toby moaned into your mouth, hips twitching up into your fist. You spit directly onto his cock, letting the warm saliva drip down his length before you stroked it in, spreading it nice and slick. Your thumb swirled over the sensitive head on every upstroke, squeezing just how you knew he liked. All the while your tongues slid together, wet and hungry.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered against his lips, jerking him a little faster. “So hard for me already.”

He whimpered, scarred hands grabbing at your waist, pulling you closer.

You finally climbed onto his lap, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. You reached down, lined his cock up with your soaked entrance, and slowly sank down.

The stretch was overwhelming.

A broken moan tore from your throat as his thick length pushed inside you inch by inch, splitting you open so perfectly it made your eyes flutter. He was so deep like this - filling you completely, pressing right against that spot that made your eyes roll back. Your pussy fluttered and clenched around him, dripping down his shaft as you bottomed out with a shaky gasp.

“F-fuuuck–” Toby groaned, head falling back against the couch cushions. His neck cracked sharply to the side, but he didn’t seem to notice. His hands immediately grabbed two big handfuls of your ass, squeezing hard as he pulled you down even tighter against him. “So tight–so fucking wet, o-oh my God–”

You braced your hands on his chest and started riding him.

Slow at first, rolling your hips in deep, grinding circles so you could feel every thick inch of him dragging inside you. Your tits bounced under your polo with every movement. Toby’s eyes were glued to where your bodies joined, watching his cock disappear into your dripping pussy over and over with pure awe on his face.

Then you picked up the pace.

You bounced on his cock harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the living room. Every time you dropped down, his hips bucked up to meet you, driving himself even deeper.

“Fuck, Toby–you feel so good,” you moaned, nails digging into his scarred shoulders. “Such a big fucking dick. Stretching me so full–”

Toby let out a wrecked, stuttering moan, head lolling back against the cushions again. His mouth hung open, eyes half-lidded and glassy as he panted.

“Y-yours–it’s a-all yours,” he rasped, voice cracking. His hands gripped your ass tighter, fingers bruising as he started actively pulling you down onto him with every bounce. “Ride me–fuck, r-ride your puppy–please–”

You leaned forward, bracing one hand on the back of the couch so you could fuck him even harder. Your moans mixed with his, loud and desperate, absolutely filthy. Every slap of your ass against his thighs sent jolts of pleasure through you. His cock hit that perfect spot on every downstroke, making your eyes roll back.

“That’s it, puppy,” you panted, grinding down hard on his cock. “Take this pussy. You’re doing so good for me–such a good boy–”

Toby’s head snapped to the side with another violent tic, but his grip on your ass never loosened. He was thrusting up frantically now, meeting every bounce, chasing his pleasure with shameless desperation. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His moans were getting louder, more broken, the stammer falling apart completely.

“I– I’m gonna–fuck, I’m s-so close a-already–” he whined, sounding almost embarrassed at how fast he was losing it.

You rode him faster, clenching around his throbbing cock on every stroke.

“Cum for me, puppy,” you moaned right against his ear, biting his scarred neck. “Fill me up. Be a good boy and cum deep inside me–”

That did it.

Toby’s whole body seized. His head slammed back against the couch, neck cracking loudly as his hips stuttered up hard. A loud, shattered moan ripped out of him as he came - thick, hot ropes of cum flooding deep inside your pussy. Pulse after pulse, so much it immediately started leaking out around his cock, dripping down his balls and onto the couch. His hands kept your ass pinned down tight against him, holding you there while he emptied himself completely, twitching and groaning through every spurt.

“F-fuuuck–thank you–thank you–” he whimpered, voice hoarse and wrecked, still cumming.

You kept rolling your hips slowly, milking him through it until he was trembling and oversensitive beneath you, breathing hard against your neck.

You stayed like that for a long moment, still straddling his lap, his softening cock buried deep inside you as the aftershocks slowly faded. Your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.

Eventually you lifted yourself off him with a soft, wet sound. A thick gush of his cum followed, running down your inner thighs as you shifted to sit beside him on the couch. You leaned heavily against his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

Toby immediately threw his arm around you, pulling you closer. His chest was still heaving, breath ragged as he tried to come down. For a while you just sat there in comfortable silence, your hand gently petting his bare thigh, fingers tracing old scars and fresh bruises.

Then reality started creeping back in.

You tilted your head to look up at him. “What are you gonna do about Tim and Brian?”

Toby’s shoulders hitched hard. He stared at the ceiling for a second, neck cracking sharply to the side.

“I’m gonna t-talk to them,” he muttered. “As soon as I get h-home from this job tuh-tonight. They had n-no right to go a-a-a-after you like that. I’m done letting them p-pull that shit.”

You nodded slowly, still stroking his thigh. “You all live together?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly. His fingers twitched against your shoulder. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. “We do.”

You let it drop for now.

The silence stretched again. Your eyes drifted down to the twin hatchets lying on the floor. The reality of what he was about to go do - of what those weapons were for - hit you like a truck. Your stomach twisted with guilt and unease.

“…Who’s the job tonight?” you asked quietly, voice small. “Is it… someone innocent? I feel really fucked up about this, Toby. Knowing you’re gonna take a life.”

Toby squeezed your shoulder gently, thumb rubbing slow circles over your polo. He turned his head to look at you, dark eyes serious despite the post-sex haze.

“It’s not innocent,” he said. “My b-boss marks the targets. People who n-need to be e-eliminated. This guy… he deserves it. Trust me.”

It still felt so strange hearing him talk about it so casually - like murder was just another shift at the gas station. You swallowed hard and nodded, even though part of you still felt morally sick.

Curiosity got the better of you.

You leaned forward and reached down, carefully picking up one of the hatchets from the floor. It was surprisingly heavy in your hand, the wooden handle smooth from years of use, the blade dark and wickedly sharp. You slid it free from its holder, turning it slowly, feeling the weight and balance. The edge gleamed even in the low lamplight.

Toby watched you the entire time, one hand gently petting your hair, brushing it back from your face.

You ran your thumb carefully along the flat of the blade, careful not to cut yourself.

“…How does it feel?” you asked softly. “When you use it.”

Toby was quiet for a moment, head twitching once, twice. His scarred fingers kept stroking through your hair.

“It feels…” He exhaled slowly. “Like the m-most natural t-thing in the world.”

A shiver ran down your spine - cold and electric at the same time. The words should have terrified you. Instead, something darker, something thrilling twisted low in your belly. You stared at the hatchet in your hands, heart beating faster.

Toby’s arm tightened around you, pulling you closer again. His voice dropped, rough and honest.

“You don’t have t-to like it,” he murmured against your hair. “But it’s w-who I am.”

You set the hatchet back down carefully, the heavy thunk sounding final on the floorboards. Your hand returned to his thigh, but your mind was spinning - fear, arousal, affection, and that strange new thrill all tangled together.

You hummed softly, still leaning against him. “It’s… really hard to grasp all of this.”

Toby nodded, his head twitching sharply to the side with a quiet crack. “I know,” he murmured. “It’s a lot.”

You sat there for another moment, then sighed and slowly pushed yourself up off the couch. “I need to put on new panties. I’ll be right back.”

You hurried down the short hallway to your bedroom, thighs still slick with his cum. In the bathroom you quickly wiped yourself clean, tossed the messy tissue, and slipped on a fresh pair of panties. When you came back into the living room, Toby had already pulled his jeans and boxers back up. He was sitting on the couch again, absently toying with one of your throw pillows, flipping it over in his hands like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

His dark eyes immediately dropped to your bare legs as you walked in. He stared openly, hungrily, tracking every step until you bent down to grab your denim shorts from the floor. You shot him a little smile over your shoulder as you tugged them back on.

He smiled back - that crooked, scarred, boyish grin that made your chest feel warm.

You buttoned your shorts and laughed under your breath. “Okay, I have something to tell you.”

Toby tilted his head, still smiling. “What?”

You chewed your lip for a second, suddenly a little shy. “When Tim and Brian came into the store… I kind of freaked out and told them you were my boyfriend. I said we were together and happy and everything. It just kind of slipped out.”

Toby went completely still.

For a long second he just stared at you, dark eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like he couldn’t process what you’d said. His shoulders hitched hard once, twice. Then his whole face lit up with pure, stunned disbelief and joy.

“…You did?” he asked, voice cracking.

You nodded, grinning.

He stood up so fast it was almost comical, crossing the two steps between you in one restless stride. His hands grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Like… this m-means we’re boyfriend and g-girlfriend?” he asked, almost breathless, head twitching sharply to the side.

You giggled and gave his chest a light push, cheeks burning. “No. I mean, I don’t know… maybe? I was just pissed off at them and it came out.”

Toby didn’t care about the technicalities.

He grinned huge and wrapped his arms around you tightly, burying his face in your hair as he hugged you. His body was still twitching with restless energy, but he held you so close you could feel his heart hammering against your chest.

You laughed into his hoodie, wrapping your arms around his waist and squeezing him back just as hard. “I seriously need to get your number though. You’re out here calling yourself my boyfriend and I don’t even have you in my phone.”

Toby pulled back just enough to look at you, still smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. Fuck yeah.”

You both fished your phones out. He handed you his - an older cracked model with a completely shattered screen - and you saved your contact under:

“your owner 🖤”

When you handed it back, Toby’s face went bright red. He stared at the screen for a second, then let out a short, choppy laugh and immediately started typing in your phone. He saved himself under:

“boyfriend 🪓”

You burst out laughing when you saw it. “Cheesy.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he was grinning as he pulled you in again.

You kissed him - slow and sweet at first, then deeper, tongues brushing lazily. His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides while his shoulders hitched every few seconds. When you finally pulled back, you were both a little breathless again.

Toby rested his forehead against yours, still smiling like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.

He reluctantly pulled away from you, bending down to grab the twin hatchets from the floor. He clipped them back onto his belt with practiced, efficient movements, the heavy weapons settling against his hips like they belonged there. The sight still sent a strange little jolt through you - part fear, part that dark thrill you were starting to get used to.

Your phone pinged loudly in your hand.

You glanced at the screen. It was Andy, as usual:

yo u late asf got a surprise for u when u get here lol hurry up 

“Shit,” you muttered, shoving the phone into your back pocket. “I’m late for work.”

Toby straightened up, adjusting the hatchets one last time. A crooked little grin tugged at his scarred mouth.

“Same,” he said, voice low and amused, like the idea of his own “job” was just another casual errand.

You almost shuddered at the reminder - the casual way he was about to go out and kill someone - but you swallowed it down and forced a small smile instead. He didn’t need to see you freaking out right before he left.

He stepped close again, one hand cupping the side of your neck as he leaned in. The kiss was slow and deep, a little desperate at the edges, like he was trying to take as much of you with him as possible. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers gripping the front of his hoodie.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing a little heavier.

You walked him to the front door together, the warm night air brushing over your skin as you stepped outside. Toby lingered on the porch for a second, hands twitching at his sides, head giving a quick, sharp tic to the left with a soft crack.

“Be s-safe at work,” he muttered, eyes flicking over your face.

“You too,” you replied softly, even though the words felt heavy and wrong in your mouth.

He gave you one last crooked smile, then turned and disappeared into the treeline with that familiar uneven walk, shoulders hitching every few steps until the shadows swallowed him.

You stood on the porch for a moment longer, heart doing something complicated in your chest, before you locked the door and headed off toward the gas station.

You pushed open the door to the Stop & Gas, the little bell jingling above you. Andy was already slouched in the chair behind the counter, buzzcut freshly faded, tattoos shifting on his arms as he scrolled through his phone with one hand and casually hit his vape with the other. The “NO SMOKING” sign hanging right above his head looked almost comical.

You smirked, raising your eyebrows at him as you walked in. “Really, dude? With the security cameras rolling?”

Andy glanced up, that lazy, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. He took another slow drag and blew the sweet-smelling vapor toward the ceiling. “You’re never gonna believe what happened.”

You dropped your bag behind the counter and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Hit me.”

He sat up a little straighter, clearly excited to tell the story. “Management called me right before the shift. Said the cameras are completely dead again. Just pure static on every feed. They tried resetting them a bunch of times but nothing worked, so they finally came and took them all down. Apparently it’s happened before at a couple other stores around here too. Something about the woods being so close, interference or whatever.”

You raised your brows. “That’s… odd.”

Andy shrugged, taking another hit from his vape. “Probably some cheap-ass system. Good for me though. Side hustle just got a whole lot easier without Big Brother watching.” He winked.

You hummed, forcing a little chuckle. “Yeah, convenient.”

You shook it off and changed the subject. “So what’s this surprise you texted me about?”

Andy’s grin widened. He clapped his hands together once and reached under the counter, pulling out a greasy paper bag and two big Styrofoam cups. “I hoped you were hungry. Burgers and shakes, just like I promised.”

You actually squealed, eyes lighting up. “No way!”

You gave him a quick side hug, squeezing his shoulder as you snatched the bag. The smell of greasy fast food hit you and your stomach growled instantly. You ripped it open, unwrapping one of the burgers and taking a huge bite.

“Oh my God,” you moaned around the food, slapping the counter with your free hand. “This is so good.”

Andy laughed, already digging into his own burger. “Being an accessory to my business finally paying off, huh?”

“Best perk yet,” you mumbled through a mouthful of fries, wiggling your eyebrows.

The two of you leaned against the counter, eating like animals while the store stayed quiet around you. Andy launched into his usual small talk between bites.

“Got a date tomorrow night,” he said proudly, wiping sauce off his chin. “Some girl I met when I was DJing last weekend. She’s so bad, bro. Tatted, thick, just how I like ‘em.”

You snorted, dipping a fry into your shake. “Nice. Just don’t do that thing where you get too high and start telling conspiracy theories about the government putting trackers in vaccines again. Last date ended with her blocking you before dessert, remember?”

Andy groaned dramatically. “That was one time! I’m on my best behavior this go-around, swear.”

You grinned, licking ketchup off your thumb. “Mhm. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He took another massive bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully for a second before perking up. “Oh, speaking of DJing, I got another gig next weekend. It’s a bigger spot than usual, you should come through.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “For real? Yeah, I’m down.”

“Bet,” Andy said, looking genuinely pleased. “You can bring whoever. Or just come solo and I’ll buy you a drink after my set.”

You laughed softly. “Alright, text me the info and I’ll try to make it.”

“Sweet.” He bumped your shoulder with his own, grinning.

You kept shit-talking and teasing him while you both ate sloppily, grease and salt all over your fingers. At one point you leaned back against the counter, licking salt off your thumb, and smirked.

“God, this hits different after some good dick.”

Andy choked on his shake, eyes going wide. He let out a loud laugh, coughing a little. “No way–wait, for real?”

You just gave him a look, mouth still full of burger, eyebrows raised.

He gasped, pointing at you with a fry. “It’s the Tourette’s dude, isn’t it? Bandana guy? Fuck was his name again… Toby?”

You tried and failed to hide your grin, chewing slowly.

Andy threw his head back and laughed harder. “Holy shit, that explains why you were so fucking late tonight. You nasty little freak.”

You shoved his shoulder, laughing with him. “Shut up and eat your burger.”

But you couldn’t stop smiling. Even with everything else going on, sitting here with Andy, stuffing your face and talking shit, felt almost normal.

Almost.

Toby’s boots crunched heavily over the damp leaves and pine needles as he made his way back through the woods, twin hatchets dripping at his hips. The job had been clean. Too clean. The journalist barely had time to look up before the first hatchet buried itself in his skull. Middle-aged, nosy piece of shit who’d been digging into old disappearances and proxy activity. Easy target. Toby hadn’t even broken a sweat.

But now?

Now he was practically shaking.

His shoulders hitched violently with every other step, neck cracking sharply to the side again and again - crack, crack, crack - as rage boiled hotter in his chest. The walk back to the old house felt longer than usual, every rustle in the trees feeding the storm building inside him.

They’d gone to your fucking job.

Tim and Brian had walked into the Stop & Gas, leaned over the counter, and terrorized you. And they hadn’t said a single fucking word to him about it.

Not one.

He should’ve known. They’d gone behind his back. Again.

“F-fucking assholes,” Toby growled under his breath. His fingers flexed hard around the handles of the hatchets, knuckles white. Another full-body tic slammed through him so hard he nearly stumbled, head jerking violently to the left.

The more he pictured it - you standing behind that counter, alone, while those jerks crowded you and tried to scare you off - the worse it got. You’d hugged him tonight. Kissed him. Called him your boyfriend in front of them. Let him fuck you on your couch and promised him a collar.

And they tried to take that from him.

By the time the rundown house came into view through the trees, Toby was vibrating with fury. His breath came fast and uneven, scarred face twisted into something ugly. The porch light was on. The truck was parked out front.

They were home.

Good.

The front door slammed open with enough force to rattle the old windows in their frames.

Toby stormed inside, boots tracking dirt and a few specks of blood across the floor. The house was dead quiet - it was well past midnight, the kind of heavy silence that usually meant everyone had crashed after a long day. But Toby didn’t give a single fuck.

He marched straight into the living room, shoulders hitching violently, neck cracking hard to the left every few steps. The only light came from the low glow of the TV, which had long since gone to a screensaver. On the couch, Ben was curled up in a tight ball, messy blonde hair sticking up in every direction, one arm dangling off the edge with his laptop still open on the cushion beside him. He’d clearly fallen asleep mid-work, earbuds still half in his ears.

Toby didn’t even glance at him.

He walked right up to the staircase railing and started slamming his fist against the old wooden banister as hard as he could - BANG BANG BANG BANG - the sound echoing through the entire house like gunshots.

“TIM!” he roared, voice raw and furious. “BRIAN! Get the fuck down here! NOW!”

CRACK. His neck jerked violently to the side.

BANG BANG BANG.

“TIM! BRIAN!”

Ben jolted awake with a terrified gasp, nearly falling off the couch. His eyes flew open wide, one hand dramatically clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack.

“Dude–what the fuck?!” Ben wheezed, voice hoarse with sleep, scrambling to sit up. He yanked one earbud out, blinking rapidly as he tried to make sense of the chaos. “Toby, holy shit–are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?!”

Toby ignored him completely. He kept slamming his fist against the railing, the old wood groaning under the assault.

“TIM! Get your a-ass down here ruh-right fucking now!” His voice cracked with the volume, another violent tic making his whole upper body jerk. “B-BRIAN! BOTH OF YOU!”

Ben rubbed his eyes, looking equal parts annoyed and concerned. “Jesus Christ, man… what the hell is going on? Did someone die or–”

“TIM!” Toby bellowed again, louder this time, fist still hammering the banister. BANG BANG BANG. “BRIAN! I know you’re ffffff-fucking home!”

Heavy footsteps started thundering from upstairs. Doors creaked open. The house was no longer quiet.

Toby’s chest heaved, eyes burning with barely-contained rage.

Tim was the first one down the stairs.

He came stomping down in nothing but an old t-shirt and boxers, hair messy, eyes bleary and bloodshot. The sharp smell of whisky rolled off him in waves. He took one look at Toby standing there vibrating with rage, hatchets still at his hips, blood on his clothes, and lost it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Tim bellowed, voice hoarse from sleep and alcohol. “It’s the middle of the goddamn night–”

He didn’t even finish the sentence. As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs he shoved Toby hard in the chest with both hands.

Toby stumbled back a couple steps, then exploded.

He shoved Tim back just as violently, nearly knocking the bigger man off his feet. “You went to her fuh-fucking J-JOB!” Toby screamed, voice cracking and manic, spit flying. His head jerked sharply to the side - CRACK-CRACK - shoulders hitching so hard it looked painful. “You t-threatened her! Ttried to scare her off like I’m s-some fucking p-pet you c-can control!”

His tics were completely out of control now. Every other word was punctuated by a violent twitch or jerk, neck snapping, shoulders rolling, eyes wild.

Tim’s face twisted with anger. “She’s a goddamn liability–”

That was all it took.

Toby swung first.

His fist connected hard with Tim’s jaw, the crack echoing through the living room. Tim roared and tackled him, and just like that they were fighting - brutal, ugly, no-holds-barred. Fists flying, elbows, knees. Toby was smaller but faster and absolutely manic, landing punches with reckless speed.

Ben was wide awake now, curled up tight against the back of the couch, eyes huge.

“Dude– what the FUCK?!” Ben shouted, voice cracking with disbelief. “Are you two serious right now?! Stop!”

They didn’t stop.

Toby managed to duck under one of Tim’s haymakers, drove his shoulder into the bigger man’s gut, and took him down hard onto the floor. They crashed into the coffee table, sending empty beer bottles flying. Toby got on top, straddling Tim’s chest and raining down punches, screaming the whole time.

“You don’t f-fucking touch her! She’s muh-mine! You hear me?! MINE!”

Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs again.

Brian appeared at the bottom, shirt and boxers, holding a pistol in a tight grip. His eyes widened at the scene.

“Stop it! Both of you–NOW!” he yelled, voice cold and sharp.

They ignored him.

Brian moved forward, trying to grab Toby by the back of his hoodie to yank him off. In one lightning-fast, practiced motion, Toby twisted, snatched the gun right out of Brian’s hand, and– 

Tim grabbed Toby’s leg and yanked hard.

Toby lost his balance. The gun flew from his grip, skidding across the wooden floor with a loud scrape before sliding to a stop right beside the couch.

Ben’s eyes went comically wide. Without thinking, he lunged forward and snatched the pistol off the floor, holding it awkwardly with both hands like it might bite him.

“Jesus Christ–okay, everyone just chill the fuck out!” Ben shouted, voice pitching higher than usual as he pointed the gun vaguely in their direction. “I swear to God I will shoot someone if you don’t stop!”

Brian stood frozen a few feet away, empty hands raised slightly, staring at the absolute disaster his housemates had become.

Tim roared and flipped them, using his size and weight to slam Toby onto his back. He managed to get on top, straddling him, and started swinging with everything he had - heavy, brutal punches that cracked against Toby’s jaw, cheek, ribs. Each hit landed with a sickening thud.

“You stupid–little–fuck!” Tim snarled between punches, whisky breath hot and furious. “Always making shit worse!”

Toby thrashed underneath him, tics going completely haywire. His head snapped violently side to side - CRACK-CRACK-CRACK - shoulders jerking so hard it looked like he was seizing. Blood was already pouring from his split lip and a cut above his eye.

“Get the f-fuck off me!” Toby screamed. “She’s mine–you don’t fucking t-touch her–I’ll k-kill you–I’ll fucking kill you!”

Brian moved carefully toward the couch, one hand out. “Ben. Give me the gun. Now.”

Ben was curled against the back cushions, eyes huge, hands shaking as he clutched the pistol like it was a live grenade. “N-no! Fuck no, you’re all insane!”

“Give me the fucking gun, Ben!” Brian snapped, agitation bleeding into his voice.

“I’ll shoot! I swear I’ll shoot someone!” Ben’s voice cracked as he waved the gun nervously. Then, in pure panic, he started screaming at the top of his lungs. “JEFF! JEFF! Get down here! JEFF!!”

The fight on the floor only got uglier. Tim and Toby were screaming at each other between punches - raw insults, old grudges, and years of buried resentment exploding all at once.

“You think you can just have a normal life with that gas station slut?!” Tim roared, slamming his fist hard into Toby’s ribs.

“She’s not a s-slut–fuck you!” Toby howled, thrashing beneath him. “She’s better than all of us! And I’m not l-like you, Tim! I don’t destroy e-everything I fffff-fucking touch!”

The words hit Tim like a slap to the face, cracking something ugly and deeply buried inside him.

His face twisted with pure rage, eyes bloodshot and wild. “The fuck did you just say?!” he bellowed, voice cracking with fury. He swung harder, fists raining down heavier than before - brutal, uncontrolled punches that cracked against Toby’s jaw and cheek with sickening force. “I’ll fucking kill you, you ungrateful little shit!”

Toby snarled and bucked wildly, trying to throw him off as blood flew from his split lip.

Brian yelled again, louder this time, “Ben, just hand it over before someone actually dies!”

More heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs.

But before Jeff could even reach the bottom, Toby twisted with a feral, twitchy burst of strength. He got one arm free, yanked one of the hatchets from its holder at his hip in a lightning-fast motion, and–

THUNK.

The blade buried deep into the side of Tim’s thigh.

Tim’s scream ripped through the house,  raw and agonized. Blood immediately started squirting from the wound in thick, rhythmic pulses, soaking Toby’s hoodie and the floorboards beneath them.

“FUCK–YOU LITTLE PSYCHO!” Tim howled, clutching his leg.

Ben screamed at the top of his lungs, high-pitched and terrified, scrambling further back on the couch.

Jeff finally appeared at the bottom of the stairs, messy black hair loose, eyes wide with surprise. A slow, amused grin spread across his scarred face as he took in the absolute bloodbath unfolding in the living room.

“Well damn,” Jeff drawled, sounding way too entertained. “The fuck’s going on here?”

In the chaos, Brian lunged forward and ripped the gun out of Ben’s shaking hands. He spun, aimed at Toby’s shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space.

Toby jerked hard as the bullet slammed into his left shoulder, a spray of blood exploding outward. The impact knocked him off Tim and sent him sprawling sideways onto the floor with a choked grunt. His hatchet clattered beside him, still slick with Tim’s blood.

The living room fell into a stunned, ringing silence for half a second - broken only by Tim’s pained groaning and the wet sound of blood pooling on the floor.

Toby lay on his back, chest heaving, blood pouring steadily from the bullet wound in his shoulder and the gashes on his face. There was no pain - there never was - but his dark eyes still burned with raw fury as violent tics tore through him. His shoulders hitched sharply, neck cracking hard.

Brian just stood there, gun still raised, breathing hard.

Tim clutched his mangled thigh, cursing weakly through gritted teeth as blood kept pumping out between his fingers.

Jeff sauntered over to the couch like he was watching a mildly entertaining bar fight instead of a bloodbath in his own living room. He dropped down heavily beside Ben, slinging one arm around the smaller guy’s shoulders and giving the side of his head a couple of playful taps.

“Aww, you yelled for me like a little bitch,” Jeff teased, voice raspy with amusement. “That was cute, Ben. Real damsel-in-distress.”

Ben was trembling hard, eyes glued to the growing pool of blood spreading out from Tim’s thigh. He barely registered Jeff’s teasing, just shook harder and muttered, “There’s so much fucking blood, bro…”

Tim was still on the floor, face pale and shiny with sweat, hands clamped uselessly around the deep gash in his leg. Blood kept squirting between his fingers in weaker pulses now. “Brian!” he yelled, voice cracking. “Get the fuck over here and help me–I’m gonna bleed out, you asshole!”

Then he turned his glare on Toby, teeth bared. “And you–you fucking psycho! I should’ve put you down years ago!”

Toby just lay on his back a few feet away, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. Blood soaked his hoodie from the fresh bullet wound in his left shoulder and dripped from his busted face. His dark eyes stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. He didn’t say a word. His shoulders hitched violently every few seconds, neck cracking sharply, but otherwise he ignored everyone.

Brian stalked over to Toby, towering above him, face twisted with fury. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouted, voice loud and disrespectful, like a pissed-off older brother scolding a bratty kid. “You stab Tim in the fucking leg?! Over some random pussy?! You’ve lost your goddamn mind, Toby! I told you this bitch was trouble–”

Toby didn’t even look at him. Just kept breathing, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, eyes distant and burning.

“Brian!” Tim shouted again, weaker this time, skin turning a sickly grey. “I’m serious–I’m gonna pass out, man–”

Brian dragged a hand down his face and let out a long, exhausted sigh. “Fuck. I’ll get Jack.” He yanked open the basement door and bellowed down the stairs, “Jack! Get up here! We need medical, now! Tim’s bleeding everywhere!”

Heavy footsteps started climbing from the basement.

Jeff leaned back against the couch, casually toying with his lighter, flicking it open and closed with a soft metallic click. He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and took a long drag, watching the mess on the floor with mild amusement.

His gaze drifted down to Tim’s leg, where blood was still pumping hot and dark between his fingers, soaking through his boxers and spreading fast across the old wood.

Jeff squinted at it like he was mildly impressed.

“Huh,” he said, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. “Looks like Twitch might’ve nicked an artery.”

Tim gave a harsh, pissed-off grunt, face pale and twisted with pain, like Jeff had just pointed out the sky was blue. “No fucking shit,” he snarled through gritted teeth, clamping both hands harder over the wound.

Jeff snorted.

Then he leaned slightly toward Ben, his voice dropping lower. “So,” he asked, eyes still glinting with amusement, “what the hell were they fighting about this time?”

Ben swallowed hard, still shaking, eyes flicking nervously between the gun in Brian’s hand and the chaos on the floor. “I-I don’t really know… Something about Toby having a girl. Tim did something behind his back. Called her names or whatever. Just your typical proxy bullshit, I guess.”

Jeff hummed, the corner of his scarred mouth twitching into a smirk as he took another drag. His eyes stayed locked on Tim’s paling face.

“Figures,” he muttered, flicking ash onto the floor. “Toby finally gets some pussy and the whole house tries to burn down.”

Tim let out another weak, pissed-off groan. Brian stood between them like a tired referee who’d already given up.

The basement door creaked wider as Jack emerged, carrying a large black emergency kit, moving with that same calm, clinical detachment he always had. His void-black eyes swept across the destroyed living room - blood everywhere, overturned furniture, Toby on the floor, Tim bleeding out, Brian standing there fuming, Ben curled up on the couch, and Jeff casually smoking.

Jack took it all in with mild, awkward politeness, as if he’d just walked into a slightly messy dinner party.

He crouched down beside Toby first, gloved hands already reaching for the bullet wound in his shoulder.

Tim immediately lost what little patience he had left. “Jack! What the fuck are you doing?! I’m the one bleeding out over here, you stupid fuck!”

Brian snapped right after him, voice sharp. “Toby’s not the emergency, Jack. Get over here!”

Jack paused, blinking slowly. He gave Toby’s arm a gentle, almost apologetic tap with two fingers.

“My apologies,” he said in that smooth, formal tone, clearly not very sorry at all. “I will return shortly.”

He moved over to Tim, opening the kit with practiced efficiency. He pressed a thick wad of gauze hard against the hatchet wound, trying to stem the arterial bleeding. Tim hissed and groaned through gritted teeth, face ghostly pale and slick with sweat. Jack packed more padding into the gash, working quickly and methodically.

“He is losing too much blood," Jack stated calmly, glancing up at Brian. “We need to get him downstairs to the infirmary. Now.”

Brian nodded, jaw tight. Together they hauled Tim up - one arm over each of their shoulders. Tim’s head lolled, legs dragging uselessly as they half-carried, half-dragged him toward the basement door, leaving a thick trail of blood across the floorboards. The sound of his weak cursing faded down the stairs.

Jeff stretched lazily on the couch, arms raised high above his head, then gave Ben a light shove with his shoulder.

“Welp. I need to run an errand,” he said casually, the smirk never leaving his face. “You need anything while I’m out?”

Ben let out a shaky, hysterical little laugh, still trembling. “Yeah. Everything. I need a new fucking life after this shit.”

Jeff barked out a raspy laugh and clapped Ben on the back as he stood up. “See ya later, drama queen.”

He paused near the door, glancing back at Toby still lying on the floor, bleeding from his shoulder and face, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “Hey, Tobes. Good job, man. Real nice swing on that hatchet.”

Toby didn’t respond. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Another violent tic jerked his neck to the side with a loud crack, but his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, dark and unfocused, blood slowly pooling beneath him.

Jeff just chuckled to himself and headed out, the front door slamming behind him.

The house fell into a strange, heavy quiet. Ben hugged his knees on the couch, still shaken. Toby remained on the floor, bleeding quietly, the rage from earlier slowly draining out of him and leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

You knelt on the scuffed tile floor, stacking cans of energy drinks into the cooler with slow, methodical movements. Your denim shorts had ridden up high on your thighs from the position, and your hair kept falling into your face no matter how many times you shoved it back. The leftover taste of burger and strawberry shake still lingered on your tongue, and for a little while, things had felt almost normal.

Andy was slouched behind the counter, legs kicked up on the register, casually vaping thick clouds of sweet-smelling vapor while he scrolled through his phone. Every now and then he’d chuckle at whatever video he was watching, the sound lazy and warm in the quiet store.

The meal had been great. The shift had been surprisingly chill so far. You felt full, a little greasy, and more satisfied than you had any right to be.

But you couldn’t stop worrying about Toby.

Your mind kept drifting back to him - the way he’d looked when he left your house, hatchets back on his hips, that restless fire in his eyes. Had he confronted Tim and Brian yet? Was he okay? Did it turn into a screaming match? A fight? Something worse?

You glanced at your phone for the hundredth time, screen lighting up your face. No new messages.

You sighed heavily, shoulders slumping as you shoved another four-pack of Monster into place with more force than necessary. The worry gnawed at the pit of your stomach. What if they’d hurt him? What if he’d hurt them? What if he was bleeding somewhere right now and you had no way to reach him?

“Everything good over there?” Andy called out, not even looking up from his phone. “You’ve been sighing like a Victorian widow for the last twenty minutes.”

You forced a small laugh, sitting back on your heels and wiping your hands on your shorts. “Yeah… just thinking.”

Andy finally glanced over, one eyebrow raised. “About Bandana Boy?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead you grabbed another case of drinks and started stacking again, the cans clinking together loudly in the quiet store. Your shorts rode even higher as you stretched, but you didn’t bother fixing them.

“I don’t know,” you muttered eventually. “I’m just… nervous.”

Andy took a long drag from his vape, then exhaled slowly. “Well, if he fucks up and ghosts you, at least you got some bomb dick out of it first, right?”

You snorted despite yourself, shaking your head. “Whatever, dude.”

But the worry didn’t leave. Not even a little.

The bell above the door jingled.

You were still on your knees, ass up, reaching deep into the bottom shelf to stack the last row of energy drinks when you felt the shift in the air. The store suddenly felt smaller.

You glanced over your shoulder and froze.

Holy shit.

The guy who just walked in was tall - stupidly tall, easily 6’4”, with a lean, wiry build that somehow looked both graceful and dangerous, like a coiled blade. Long, messy black hair cascaded past his shoulders, shiny and slightly tangled, half of it tucked lazily behind one ear. 

His face… God. Even with the scars, he was undeniably handsome. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, dark hooded eyes that seemed to drink in everything at once. The two thin, pale scars running from the corners of his mouth up toward his cheeks were clearly self-inflicted - precise lines he must have carved into himself a long time ago. Though fully healed, they were still visibly intentional. Pale skin, full lips, and that lazy, arrogant confidence radiating off him like heat.

He looked like trouble wrapped in pretty violence.

His eyes locked onto you immediately. You were still on all fours in those tiny denim shorts, thighs flexed, polo riding up your back. He didn’t even pretend to be polite - his gaze dragged slowly down your body, lingering on your ass, your legs, the curve of your waist, before sliding back up to your face. The corner of his scarred mouth twitched upward into a little crooked, predatory smirk.

Then he looked past you.

“Yo, Andy,” he greeted, voice low and raspy in that rough smoker’s drawl.

Andy looked up from his phone, vape still between his fingers. “Jeff, my guy. What’s good?”

You pushed yourself up from the floor, rising fully to your feet as you brushed the dust off your knees, heart beating a little faster than it should. So this was another one of Andy’s shady clients. Great.

Jeff leaned one elbow on the counter, long fingers drumming slowly.

“Need more than usual tonight, bro. Like… a lot more. That fire shit you hooked me up with last time? Gimme two of those and a couple eight-balls on top. I’m tryna stay faded for a minute.”

Andy nodded like it was the most normal request in the world. He took one last quick hit from his vape, blowing the sweet-smelling cloud toward the ceiling.

“Bet. Lemme run to the back real quick and grab it. Don’t touch the register, okay?” He shot you a quick wink as he stood up. “Back in a sec.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Now it was just you and Jeff.

The silence stretched, thick and electric. He stayed leaning against the counter, staring at you openly. His eyes traced every inch of you like he was already imagining what you’d look like bent over the counter.

You popped your gum loudly and narrowed your eyes at him.

“Staring is rude, Joker.”

The nickname slipped out before you could stop it.

Jeff let out a low, raspy chuckle that sent an unwilling shiver down your spine. He straightened up to his full intimidating height, rolling his shoulders back so the black hoodie pulled tight across his lean, toned chest. His smile widened, pulling the scars even tighter.

“Joker, huh?” he drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “Cute. Alright then… Harley. Looks like you’re already playing dress-up in those little shorts like you want someone to ruin that pretty outfit.”

You felt heat crawl up your neck, but you refused to look away. Instead you crossed your arms under your chest.

“Harley’s got a man, actually,” you said coolly. “So you can keep your eyes to yourself.”

Jeff’s grin only grew. He stepped around the end of the counter until he was close enough that you could smell faint cigarette smoke and something sharper, like metal and pine. He towered over you, looking down with dark, amused eyes.

“Yeah? And where the fuck is this man?” he asked, voice low. “Because if he had any sense, he wouldn’t let a girl like you work night shifts alone in a shithole like this, looking like a walking wet dream.” He licked his lips. “Bet he doesn’t even fuck you right.”

You tilted your chin up defiantly, refusing to step back even though your pulse was racing.

“He’s busy. And he fucks me just fine, thanks. Better than fine, actually.” Your voice dropped, sharp and sweet. “So stop imagining bending me over the counter, It’s not gonna happen dude.”

Jeff’s eyes darkened with interest. He let out a soft, dangerous laugh and leaned in closer, one hand bracing on the shelf beside your head.

“Damn. Feisty,” he murmured, gaze flicking down to your lips, then lower. “I like that. Bet you’re real loud when you’re pissed off too.” His mouth curved. “Tell you what, baby. I’d have you screaming my name so loud your little boyfriend would hear it from wherever the fuck he is. I don’t do that two-pump-chump shit. I’d ruin you for anyone else.”

The crude words should’ve disgusted you. Instead they hit somewhere low and warm, clashing violently with the fierce loyalty you felt toward Toby. You stepped forward, almost chest-to-chest with him, eyes narrowed.

“You’re wrong,” you said firmly. “My man’s obsessed with me. And he’s armed. So you can take your little fantasy and shove it.”

Jeff didn’t even flinch. The threat of an armed boyfriend barely seemed to register - if anything, it only made his dark eyes gleam with more amusement. For a second, something almost like respect flashed across his face. Then that wicked smirk returned, slower and sharper this time.

“Obsessed, huh?” He tilted his head, long black hair slipping over one shoulder. “Damn. Dangerous word. Guys like that tend to get real fuckin’ crazy when someone else wants what’s theirs.”

The back-room door swung open.

Andy strolled out with a small paper bag, immediately clocking the heavy tension between you two. His eyebrows shot up, grin widening.

“Alright, here we go,” he announced cheerfully, setting the bag on the counter. “That’ll be two-fifty.”

Jeff didn’t blink at the steep price. He looked at you for a moment longer, then casually walked back to the counter. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a fat roll of cash, thick enough to choke on. He peeled off several bills without counting and dropped them on the counter like it was nothing.

“Keep the change,” he muttered.

Andy quickly counted the money, then grinned. “My favorite kind of customer.”

The two of them fell into easy, lazy bro-talk while Andy double-bagged everything.

“Haven’t heard from Ben in a minute,” Andy said, leaning on the counter. “What’s up with him?”

Jeff shrugged, long black hair shifting over his shoulder. “Busy. You know how he is.”

Andy laughed, shaking his head. “Bro’s my best paying client and I’ve never even seen his face. That’s wild. You gotta drag him out here sometime, man.”

Jeff’s grin widened, the carved lines pulling tight across his cheeks. “Zero chance. Only way to get Ben outta the house is if there’s strippers and free weed involved. Good luck with that.”

Both of them cracked up, laughing in that slow, burnt-out way guys do when they’re talking shit. They bumped fists over the counter, exchanging the usual half-assed “stay safe” and “hit me up if you need more” lines.

Then Jeff turned toward the door.

Before he left, he pulled a crisp fifty from his thick roll, holding it up between two long fingers as he looked straight at you. That smirk spread across his face again, dark eyes dragging over your body one last time.

“You comin’?” he asked teasingly.

You snorted, crossing your arms under your chest and popping your gum loudly. “I don’t sell that kinda service in here. And even if I did? I’m not that cheap.”

Andy just shook his head, rolling his eyes with a helpless laugh like he couldn’t believe the two of you were doing this right in front of him.

Jeff only shrugged, completely unbothered.

“Offer still stands, baby.”

He gave you one final slow once-over - dark, hungry, and way too confident - then pushed the door open. The bell jingled as his tall frame disappeared into the dark parking lot.

The store fell quiet again.

Andy waited until the door fully shut before turning to you, still grinning like an idiot.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed, dragging a hand over his buzzcut. “What the fuck was that? You two were eye-fucking so hard I thought the shelves were gonna catch fire.”

You let out a shaky breath, cheeks still warm, pulse thrumming.

“Yeah… definitely not, dude.”

Andy barked out a loud laugh, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. “Bullshit. You were two seconds away from climbing him like a tree.”

“I was not!” you protested immediately, whirling on him. “I’m not interested. I have someone else. Someone I actually like.”

Andy just grinned wider, that shit-eating expression growing. “Mhm. Sure. You’re real popular lately, huh? Collecting men like Pokémon cards.”

You shoved his shoulder hard, laughing despite yourself. “Shut up. That was… I don’t even know what that was. How do you even know that guy?”

Andy shrugged, reaching for his vape again and taking a slow hit. Smoke curled around his face as he exhaled.

“Met his buddy Ben on some online game a while back. Dude orders a stupid amount of weed every week, like clockwork. Never shows his face, always pays through the app. Eventually Ben said his roommate Jeff needed the harder stuff, so I started hooking him up too.” Andy gestured vaguely toward the door. “Jeff’s an even bigger customer now. Pays crazy well, never causes problems, keeps it lowkey. I don’t ask questions.”

You snorted, stacking the last few cans with more force than necessary. “You’ve got some seriously strange connections, you know that?”

Andy grinned, unbothered. “Yeah, well… I’d rather not know what Jeff’s deal is. Dude looks like he skins people for fun on the weekends. As long as he keeps paying cash and not stabbing me, we’re good.”

You shook your head, a little laugh escaping despite the weird knot in your stomach. The way Jeff had looked at you - that smile, the way he’d leaned in and spoken so crudely but confidently - still lingered under your skin like static electricity.

Still… nothing compared to the way Toby looked at you. Nothing even came close.

You pulled out your phone again, checking for messages.

Still nothing.

Andy noticed. “No word from your boyfriend yet?”

You sighed and shoved the phone back into your pocket. “Nope.”

“He’ll text,” Andy said casually, already going back to scrolling on his phone. “Or show up awkward as fuck again. One of the two.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to organizing the shelves, but your mind kept drifting elsewhere.

This night was getting way too complicated.

Extra Scene

The infirmary in the basement was quiet except for the occasional drip of an IV bag.

Toby lay flat on his back on one of the metal cots, staring up at the cracked concrete ceiling. His left shoulder was tightly wrapped in clean white bandages, the fabric already starting to bloom with faint pink where the bullet had torn through. Jack had been thorough - cleaned, stitched, and dressed the wound with the same efficiency he always used. Another set of bandages circled Toby’s ribs and wrapped around his torso where Tim had landed the worst of his punches.

He couldn’t feel any of it.

No pain. Just a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion that made his limbs feel like they were made of wet cement. Every breath was slow. His body twitched randomly - shoulders hitching, neck cracking softly every few minutes - but even the tics felt sluggish tonight.

Across the small room, Tim was out cold on the other cot. His face was pale and slack, mouth slightly open. The thick wrapping around his thigh was already soaked through in places despite Jack’s best work. The hatchet had done real damage - deep muscle, nicked artery. Jack said the leg could be saved, but it was going to be ugly. Tim hadn’t woken up since they’d carried him down here hours ago.

Good, Toby thought bitterly.

Brian sat slumped in the old chair by Jack’s desk, arms crossed over his chest, head nodding forward every so often before he jerked awake again. He refused to leave the two of them alone. Every time Toby so much as shifted, Brian’s eyes would snap open, sharp and wary.

Toby hadn’t slept. Not for a single minute.

He kept replaying the fight on an endless loop in his head - the way Tim had shoved him, the things he’d said about you, the way Toby had finally snapped and buried the hatchet in his leg. The gunshot. The screaming. The blood.

His fingers twitched against the thin sheet covering him. Another violent tic rolled through his shoulders, making the cot creak.

She called me her boyfriend.

The thought cut through the exhaustion like a knife. You’d stood up for him. You’d told Tim and Brian he was yours. You’d let him fuck you on your couch, promised him a collar, kissed him like you meant it.

And they’d tried to take that away from him.

Toby’s dark eyes flicked toward Tim’s unconscious form. His jaw tightened, scarred cheek pulling.

If Tim ever tried that shit again…

He didn’t finish the thought. Instead he turned his head slightly, neck cracking loudly in the quiet room.

Toby lay there for what felt like forever, the weight of exhaustion pressing him into the thin mattress. Eventually, with a slow grunt, he turned his head toward the metal side table. His right arm still worked well enough. He reached over, fingers twitching hard, and grabbed his cracked phone.

The screen lit up his bloody, bandaged face in the dim infirmary light.

He typed slowly, thumbs clumsy and unsteady. The message came out short and sloppy.

to: your owner 🖤

hey i fought tim and brian got shot in the sholder hatchet in tims leg im okay tho miss you :) wish i was in yur bed

He opened the camera, held the phone up with a shaky hand, and snapped a blurry selfie. The flash lit up his swollen eye, split lip, and the thick white bandages covering most of his left shoulder and upper chest. Blood had already seeped through in a few places. He looked like absolute hell.

He hit send anyway.

Then he let the phone drop onto his stomach, staring at the ceiling again. He could almost feel your warmth beside him, your fingers in his hair, the way you’d called him your boyfriend like it was simple. The thought made something tight and aching settle in his chest.

Brian stirred in the chair across the room, eyes cracking open again. He rubbed a hand down his face, voice gravelly with exhaustion.

“Can’t sleep?”

Toby didn’t answer. He just kept staring upward, jaw tight.

Brian sighed heavily. “Why’d you do it, Toby? Seriously. Stabbing Tim in the fucking leg? You could’ve killed him.”

Silence stretched for a long minute, broken only by the soft beep of a monitor and Tim’s shallow breathing on the other cot.

Toby’s neck cracked sharply to the side. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, cold, and exhausted.

“I’ve had e-enough,” he muttered. “You t-two had no right to go a-after my girl.”

Brian let out a bitter, tired laugh and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Tim was just trying to look out for you. You know how you get when you fixate on something. We don’t want problems.”

Toby’s eyes flicked sideways, glaring at Tim’s unconscious body for a long second before rolling them hard.

He didn’t say anything else.

Brian eventually leaned back in the chair again, eyes heavy. “Get some sleep, Toby. You look like shit.”

Toby didn’t respond. He just turned his head slightly, staring at the faint grey light starting to creep through the small basement window.

Dawn was breaking.

And all he wanted was to be back in your house, curled up in your bed with your fingers in his hair, listening to you call him your good boy instead of lying here bleeding.

[dirtyl0ver]

Sweet Tooth - Part 2 (Ticci Toby x F!Reader)

CW: Explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, squirting, cum play, rough sex, bj, facesitting, hickeys, overstimulation, degradation, praise, violence, petty crime, obsessive behavior, weed, emotional distress, emotional manipulation, moral ambiguity, featuring appearances by Tim, Brian, Ben, Jeff, and Jack

Summary: Your thief returns, and you find yourself caught in a dangerously addictive, twisted attraction you can't seem to walk away from.

Wordcount: 17k

Part 1: HERE

The living room smelled like weed. The TV threw flickered blue light across the walls, the volume cranked just loud enough to drown out the creak of the old house settling around them.

Toby slouched deeper into the recliner, one leg hooked over the armrest, the other bouncing with that familiar restless rhythm he couldn’t kill even if he tried. His fingers drummed against his thigh in uneven bursts, shoulders giving the occasional sharp hitch that made the hood of his sweatshirt shift. He wasn’t really watching the screen. Jeff and Ben were deep in their usual bullshit - some loud, violent fighting game where pixels bled and cursed in pixelated rage.

Jeff leaned forward on the couch, white tank top showing the patchwork of old scars crawling over his lean, wiry arms. His long black hair was yanked back into a messy little ponytail that was already coming loose, strands sticking to the sweat on his neck. Grey sweats hung low on his hips, legs spread wide. He jammed the controller buttons with vicious little jabs, laughing that rasping laugh every time he landed a combo.

“Gotcha, you fuckin’ whore,” Jeff growled, the corner of his mouth twisting into a sneer.

Ben was practically vibrating next to him, swallowed up in an oversized Snoop Dogg t-shirt that made him look even smaller than he was. His messy blonde hair clung damply to his forehead, eyes narrowed in concentration as he mashed buttons like his life depended on it. “Eat shit, eat shit–YES!” He shot up off the couch the second the round ended, controller still clutched in both hands, bouncing once before flopping back down hard enough to make the cushions groan.

Jeff rolled his eyes and gave Ben a lazy shove with his shoulder. “Rematch, dipshit. I wasn’t even trying that round.”

Toby’s gaze drifted back to the TV without really seeing it. His mind kept looping somewhere else - back to that shitty gas station, the scuffed tile behind the counter, the way your thighs had trembled around his head. The taste of you still lingered like a ghost on his tongue, sweet and addictive, better than any melted Snickers. The memory of your fingers yanking his hair, the sharp little gasp you made when he finally got his mouth on you, the way you’d looked down at him with flushed cheeks and said “eat it” like you owned him… Fuck. It made something hot and restless coil low in his gut all over again.

He wondered if you’d heard about what had happened yet. If you’d seen the note.

A tiny, crooked smile tried to pull at the corner of his scarred mouth before another violent tic snapped his head to the side with a soft crack. He didn’t bother hiding it. Jeff and Ben had seen worse.

The game loaded up again, aggressive music blasting through the cheap speakers. Jeff glanced over at him mid-setup, that careless, lazy, slightly sleazy look sliding across his face like he could smell something off.

“Yo, Twitch. What the fuck’s gotten into you tonight?” Jeff asked, voice drawling, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve been zoning out like a stoned idiot. Somebody suck your dick or somethin’?”

Toby blinked once then shrugged, shoulders rolling hard with another hitch. “N-nothing. Just… thinking.”

Ben adjusted the front of his sweats, then shot Jeff a quick sideways smirk, the kind that said they were both in on the joke. He leaned back, controller loose in his hands for a second. “Yeah, sure. Tobes’ got that dreamy look. Bet he finally got laid and doesn’t know how to act normal about it.”

Jeff barked a short laugh and shoved Ben again, harder this time. “Nah, leave him alone. He’ll tell us when he feels like it… or he won’t.” He paused, then added with a mean little grin, “Either way, I’m sure she was real patient with him. You know… understanding about all the twitching and stuttering and shit.”

Ben grinned wider, clearly enjoying it. “Very understanding,” he echoed, already focused back on the game as the next round started.

Toby didn’t answer. Just let another sharp tic jerk his neck sideways, a soft bitten-off grunt slipping out as his shoulder hitched up toward his ear.

Let them joke. They had no fucking clue.

He could still taste you. Still feel the way your body had shaken against his tongue. Still see the dazed little laugh you’d given him when you handed him fresh Snickers like it was nothing.

And if you’d found his little message out in the lot… well.

He’d be back soon enough.

The loud slam of the front door cut through the chaotic game sounds like a gunshot.

Heavy boots thudded down the short hallway, loud and pissed off. Tim appeared in the living room doorway a second later, shoulders tense under his worn jacket, dark hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it too many times. He took in the scene with one slow sweep - Jeff and Ben still glued to the TV, controllers clicking furiously, the room reeking of smoke and stale junk food - before his eyes landed on Toby.

Toby stayed slouched in the recliner, one leg still hooked over the armrest, but his restless bouncing slowed just a fraction.

Tim held a folded newspaper in one hand, knuckles white around the edge. His face was tight, tired, the kind of disapproving exhaustion that said he’d already dealt with enough bullshit tonight.

“Where the fuck were you last night?” Tim asked, staring straight at Toby.

Toby shrugged, shoulders rolling hard with the motion, another involuntary hitch making his neck snap sideways. “D-don’t know,” he muttered, the stammer thicker than usual. “Out, I g-guess.”

Ben didn’t even glance away from the screen, but his mouth twisted in clear annoyance, fingers tightening on the controller like Tim’s presence was personally ruining his win streak. 

Jeff let out a loud, irritated groan and waved one arm in Tim’s direction without looking up. “Move, man. You’re blocking the fucking TV.”

Tim’s jaw flexed. He wasn’t budging. “Shut up.”

Jeff’s head snapped toward him, black hair slipping loose from the messy ponytail. He shook his head slowly, muttering something disgusted and low under his breath - probably calling Tim a controlling asshole or worse - but didn’t push it further. The controller kept clicking in his hands, aggressive and sharp.

Tim ignored him, eyes narrowing back on Toby. “No? You don’t know?” His tone dripped with disbelief, tired and edged with anger. “That’s cute.”

Without another word, he hurled the newspaper at Toby. It unfolded mid-air, pages flapping, and smacked Toby square in the chest before sliding down into his lap.

The headline was impossible to miss even in the flickering TV light:

LOCAL THIEF FOUND HATCHETED OUTSIDE STOP & GAS

“I WILL NOT STEAL AGAIN :)” NOTE LEFT AT SCENE

Toby stared down at the paper, fingers twitching against the newsprint. A slow, crooked smile started to pull at the corner of his mouth, the thick scar on his cheek tugging tight. Another violent tic jerked his shoulder upward, head snapping hard to the left with an audible crack.

The glow from the TV flickered across Tim’s tired face as he stood there, arms still crossed tight over his chest.

“Real interesting detail in the article,” Tim said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Guy got chopped up with hatchets.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing on Toby. “Hmm. Sounds real fuckin’ familiar, doesn’t it?”

Toby let out a low, choppy chuckle, the sound rough and broken. He stretched lazily in the recliner, arms lifting above his head, shoulders rolling with that restless energy that never quite settled. The newspaper stayed crumpled in his lap. He didn’t deny it, didn’t even try to explain. Just grinned that crooked, scarred half-smile and shrugged like it was nothing.

Jeff paused the game mid-fight, finally interested. “Hey, let me see that shit.” He leaned forward and snatched the newspaper out of Toby’s lap in one quick motion, black hair falling into his eyes as he scanned the headline. A low whistle escaped him. “Damn… Nice job, Tobes.” He laughed, that raspy sound, clearly impressed. “I like the little smiley face. Real classy touch.”

Ben didn’t even turn his head. He just kept staring straight at the paused game screen, jaw tight with irritation. Without a word, he dug into his pocket, pulled out his vape, and took a long, slow hit. Sweet-smelling vapor curled out of his mouth and drifted toward the ceiling as he exhaled, deliberately ignoring the entire scene like it was background noise.

Tim’s expression darkened, jaw clenching as he watched Jeff toss the newspaper back onto Toby’s chest.

“We were literally at that same fucking gas station a couple days ago,” Tim continued, voice rising with frustration. “You went back there, didn’t you? After we told you to lay low. This–” he jabbed a finger toward the paper, “–is reckless as hell. You’re bringing heat on all of us with this petty shit. One body with a cutesy note? People are gonna start paying attention. Cops. Locals. Fucking everybody.”

Toby stayed slouched in the recliner, leg still bouncing in that uneven rhythm. His dark eyes flicked up to Tim, restless and unreadable, but he didn’t say a word. Another violent tic snapped his neck sideways with a soft crack, followed by a small grunt that slipped out from between his lips. He just stared, waiting.

Tim exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly done with the silence.

“Get up,” he ordered. “Now. We need to talk. Privately.”

Toby lingered for another second, fingers twitching against the newspaper in his lap. Then, with a heavy sigh and a series of sharp hitching jerks rolling through his shoulders, he pushed himself out of the recliner. The newspaper fluttered to the floor, forgotten.

He shoved his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and followed Tim out of the living room without another glance at Jeff or Ben, his uneven walk and constant little tics making his steps sound restless even down the hallway.

Jeff just smirked and unpaused the game like nothing had happened. Ben took another long drag from his vape, eyes never leaving the screen, the cloud of vapor hanging thick in the stale air.

The screen door creaked loudly as Tim stepped out onto the old wooden porch, the night air cold and damp against his skin. He didn’t bother waiting for Toby to follow - he just lit up a cigarette, the flame from his lighter briefly lighting up the deep lines of exhaustion on his face. Toby shuffled out a moment later, shoulders already twitching with those familiar restless jerks, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets.

Tim took a long drag, exhaling smoke into the darkness before turning to face him.

“Explain yourself,” he said flatly, eyes hard.

Toby leaned against the porch railing, one leg bouncing unevenly. He shrugged, head giving a sharp snap to the left with a soft crack. “W-was nearby,” he muttered. “Saw s-some thief rrrr-running out of the store with shit in his jacket. Pissed m-me off.”

Tim stared at him for a long beat, cigarette glowing between his fingers. The silence stretched, thick and accusing.

“You pickpocket shit all the time, Toby,” Tim finally said, voice low and unimpressed. “Hell, you literally stole candy from that exact fucking store a few nights ago. Don’t give me that ‘it pissed me off’ bullshit.”

Toby’s scarred mouth twitched. He looked away, another violent tic rolling through his shoulder as he rolled it hard toward his ear.

Then something clicked behind Tim’s eyes. His gaze sharpened.

“This got anythin’ to do with that girl?” he asked slowly. “The one who came running out after you, yellin’ about the candy?”

Toby froze. For a split second his restless energy seemed to glitch - his dark eyes flicked to the side, guilty, before another tic jerked his head sideways. “N-no,” he stammered quickly, too quickly. “It’s n-not–I didn’t–”

Tim let out a tired, bitter laugh and took another drag of his cigarette. “Jesus Christ. It does.”

Toby shifted his weight, fingers twitching inside his pockets. He tried to play it cool, but the constant little hitches in his shoulders and the way his scarred cheek kept pulling tight gave him away. After a few more seconds of Tim just staring at him, waiting, Toby finally cracked.

“…Maybe I went b-back,” he admitted, voice rough and reluctant. “Had a little… chat.”

Tim dragged a hand down his face, sighing heavily through the smoke. “A chat. Right.” He flicked ash off the porch railing. “This is a bad fuckin’ idea, Toby. You know that, right? We don’t need complications. We don’t need you draggin’ some minimum-wage gas station girl into our shit just because she yelled at you and you thought it was hot.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping into that tired, lecturing tone.

“What, you tryna impress her? Show her you’ll hatchet every thief that walks into her store? That’s not how this works. You’re acting reckless, and it’s gonna bite us all in the ass. Stay away from that type of shit. Stay away from her.”

Toby didn’t answer right away. His head twitched again, a soft grunt slipping out as his neck cracked sideways. He just nodded once, jaw tight.

“I h-heard you,” he muttered finally, pushing off the railing.

He turned and walked back inside, shoulders hitching with every other step. Tim stayed on the porch a moment longer, smoke curling around his face. He exhaled slowly, muttering under his breath.

“…This ain’t gon’ be the end of it.”

He could already feel it in his gut. Toby had that look in his eyes - the restless, obsessive one. And once Toby got fixated on something… or someone… it was damn near impossible to pull him off it.

Especially when that someone had let him get on his knees behind the counter.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they always did, casting that same sickly yellow glow over the scuffed tile and faded shelves. After three long days of yellow police tape and awkward questioning, the Stop & Gas was finally cleared to reopen. Management decided it was “safest” to keep two employees on shift for a while, so tonight it was you and Andy.

You sat behind the counter on the wobbly stool, one elbow propped up, popping your gum loudly while flipping through your phone. Andy was a few feet away, half-heartedly sorting a shelf of snacks, his buzzcut looking even shorter than usual under the harsh lighting. The tattoos covering both his arms shifted with every movement - full sleeves of cartoonish mushrooms, old-school snakes, and blurry script that disappeared under the rolled-up cuffs of his work polo.

“–so this dumbass kid comes back the next day, right?” Andy was saying, voice casual as he stacked bags of chips. “Swears the molly I sold him was bunk because he didn’t feel shit. Turns out the little idiot took all eight hits at once thinking it’d hit harder. Ended up puking his guts out in my bathroom for six hours straight and crying about his mom. I told him that’s what he gets for being a greedy fuck.”

You laughed, the sound echoing a little in the quiet store. You blew a big pink bubble with your gum, letting it pop loudly before chewing again. “You attract the biggest idiots.”

Andy grinned, running a hand over his buzzcut as he squatted down to sort the lowest shelf. “What can I say? I’m a people person.”

A few minutes later the bell above the door jingled. A burly trucker stepped in, heading straight for the counter. You straightened up, ringing him up for two packs of Marlboros and a Monster.

“Rough night the other day, huh?” the trucker muttered as he counted out cash, clearly wanting to talk about it. “Heard some poor bastard got hacked up right outside.”

“Yeah…” you replied, sliding his smokes across the counter. “Pretty fucked up.”

Andy stood up from the shelf and wandered over, leaning one hip against the counter. His inked arms crossed over his chest, the movement making the snake on his left bicep look like it was slithering. “I was the one clocked in that night, man. Saw the whole damn thing. Dude came out with beer and jerky, next thing you know–hatchets flying. Blood everywhere. Crazy shit.”

The trucker shook his head, whistling low. “Glad it wasn’t me. Y’all be careful out here.”

You handed him his change. “Will do. Drive safe.”

He gave a lazy wave and headed back out into the night, the bell jingling behind him.

The store fell quiet again except for the constant rattle of the cooler. You turned back to Andy, popping another bubble with your gum.

Andy half-sat on the edge of the counter, arms crossed over his chest, that easy, bum-like grin still on his face. “Man, people are gonna be asking about that murder for weeks. Bet we’ll get a bunch of weirdos coming in just to stare at the parking lot.”

You snorted, leaning back on your stool. “Great. Just what I need–true crime tourists while I’m trying to stock the slushie machine.”

Andy laughed, the sound warm and lazy. He reached over and stole a piece of your gum from the pack sitting on the counter, the faded ink on his knuckles catching the light as he unwrapped it with one hand. “Could be worse. At least it’s not boring anymore. Though I still think you should’ve seen the way poor James dropped. Like a sack of potatoes with extra holes.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. Andy was a burnout, a part-time dealer, and kind of a mess… but he was friendly, funny, and made the long night shifts feel a lot less lonely. For the first time in days, the heavy knot of unease in your stomach loosened just a little.

The two of you kept the easy rhythm going for a while, trading lazy stories and roasting the occasional weird customer who wandered in. Andy was mid-sentence - something about a guy who tried to pay for a six-pack with a handful of Pokémon cards - when the bell jingled again.

A kid in his early twenties strolled in, baggy jeans sagging low, oversized hoodie, and a backward cap. He spotted Andy immediately and lifted his chin in that universal bro greeting.

“Yo, Andy, my guy,” he said, voice a little too loud for the quiet store. “You got my stuff?”

Andy grinned, already moving. “Yeah, man. Hold up.”

The kid’s eyes flicked over to you behind the counter for a second - quick, curious, a little appreciative as they dragged down your chest - before he wandered off toward the energy drink cooler.

You leaned back on your stool, popping your gum and watching the whole exchange with mild amusement. Andy’s “clients” always seemed to show up exactly when he was working. Never when he was off. Never when you were alone. Convenient as hell. You’d figured out his little side hustle months ago, but you never called him on it. As long as he didn’t get sloppy and get the store shut down, it wasn’t your problem. And honestly? It was kind of funny at this point.

Andy slipped behind the counter next to you, close enough that his arm brushed yours while he pretended to check the register. The kid came back with a Red Bull, set it on the counter, and pulled out a fifty.

“Keep the change, bro,” he said casually.

Andy rang up the drink like it was a totally normal $48 energy drink, then discreetly slid a small, tightly folded baggie across the counter along with the can. The exchange was smooth, practiced. The kid pocketed the baggie without even looking down, grabbed his Red Bull, and bumped fists with Andy over the counter.

“Appreciate you, man. Catch you later.”

“Stay safe out there,” Andy replied with an easy grin.

You gave the kid a little wave and a polite customer-service smile as he headed for the door. The bell jingled again, and he was gone.

The second the door shut, you turned to Andy with a smirk, popping your gum loudly.

“You know,” you said, dragging the words out, “I really should be getting a cut of this. I’m basically an accessory at this point.”

Andy barked out a laugh, leaning his hip against the counter beside you. “Damn, straight to business. Alright, next dinner’s on me. Burgers and shakes, my treat.”

You grinned, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Better be the good burgers, not that greasy shit from the truck stop.”

“Only the best for my favorite partner in crime,” he teased, winking before he wandered back over to the snack shelves to keep half-assedly organizing them.

The two of you fell back into easy shit-talking, voices low and casual under the humming lights, the outside world and its hatchet-wielding psychopaths feeling just a little further away.

At least for now.

Hours crawled by, and just when you’d convinced yourself the night would pass without incident, the bell above the door jingled again, sharp and cheerful as ever, and your stomach dropped.

Fuck.

He, your thief, stepped inside, hands already shoved deep into the pockets of a new dark navy hoodie that actually looked clean for once. Underneath it he wore a pair of old, beat-up jeans riddled with holes that definitely weren’t there for fashion - they looked like they’d been worn for years, frayed and thin at the knees. His messy brown hair still stuck out in those uneven self-cut chunks, but he seemed… more put together. Like he’d actually tried to look decent before coming here. The black bandana was still pulled tight over the lower half of his face, hiding that brutal scar and everything below his dark, restless eyes.

His gaze found you first and his eyes crinkled at the corners, clearly smiling underneath the fabric. Then his eyes slid over to Andy standing behind the counter beside you, and that smile instantly died. The happy glint vanished, replaced by something sharper, colder. His shoulders gave a quick, involuntary hitch.

You straightened up on the stool way too fast, heart suddenly hammering. Without thinking, you reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, smoothing down your messy ponytail like it mattered. You had no idea how the hell you were supposed to act right now.

He moved further into the store with that same awkward, uneven gait - long strides broken by those sharp little jerks. His eyes kept flicking between you and Andy, tense and uncertain.

Andy leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, one eyebrow raised in mild amusement as he openly stared at the bandana. “Well this is new,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You cleared your throat, forcing a bright, overly cheerful tone. “Hey.”

Your thief blinked at you, dark eyes locking onto yours for a second. “H-hey,” he replied, voice muffled and choppy under the bandana, the familiar stammer cutting through.

The silence that followed was painfully awkward. The fluorescent lights suddenly felt louder. You glanced at Andy, then back at him, then at Andy again, heat crawling up your neck.

“Oh, um… this is my friend, uh–” You froze, realizing with embarrassing clarity that you still didn’t know his name.

Your thief caught on immediately. He gave a small, sharp shrug, one shoulder rolling hard toward his ear as a quick tic made his head snap slightly to the side.

“Toby,” he supplied, voice low.

Andy’s eyebrows shot up, clearly entertained by the whole weird vibe. “Toby,” he repeated, dragging the name out like he was tasting it. “Nice bandana, man.”

Toby didn’t respond to Andy. His restless eyes stayed glued mostly on you, fingers twitching inside his hoodie pockets. Another small hitch rolled through his frame, followed by a soft, bitten-off grunt he tried to swallow.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

You tried to fill the heavy silence with something, anything.

“So… uh, new hoodie?” you asked, gesturing awkwardly at his chest.

Toby nodded once, shoulders hitching sharply. “Y-yeah.” His eyes crinkled again like he was smiling under the bandana, but he didn’t offer anything else. The conversation died instantly.

You shifted on the stool, chewing your gum a little faster. “Been busy lately?”

Another tic jerked his head to the side with a soft crack. “N-not really.”

God, this was painful. Every attempt at small talk landed like a dead fish on the counter. Andy watched the whole thing for a few more seconds, clearly biting back a smirk, before he finally took pity on you.

“Alright, I’m gonna step out for a smoke,” Andy announced, pushing off the counter. He gave you one last highly amused glance, eyebrows raised like he was saying good luck with whatever the fuck this is, before heading for the door. The bell jingled as he stepped outside.

Through the front glass, you could see him leaning against the wall near the ice machine, already lighting up.

The second the door closed, the tension in the store shifted. Toby seemed to relax - just a little - but there was still a restless edge to him. His dark eyes flicked back to you, more focused now that it was just the two of you again. He took a few slow, uneven steps closer to the counter, fingers twitching at his sides.

“Is that your b-boyfriend?” he asked, voice muffled under the bandana. There was something sharp hiding behind the question.

You let out a surprised laugh, shaking your head immediately. “What? No. God no. Andy’s just my coworker. He’s… Andy. Definitely not my boyfriend.”

Toby’s shoulders loosened visibly. He gave a small nod, the corner of his eyes crinkling again with clear relief. Another quick tic made his right shoulder roll hard toward his ear.

You swallowed and kept going, trying to sound casual. “We’ve gotta work in pairs for a while. Management’s paranoid after… what happened the other night.”

You watched his eyes carefully as you said it, searching for any flicker, any hint of recognition or guilt. But Toby gave you absolutely nothing. His gaze stayed steady on you, dark and restless.

“What h-happened?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. The stammer made the question sound almost innocent.

You hesitated for a second, then told him. Not every brutal detail, but enough - the thief getting hacked up right outside the store, the blood, the note left on the body. You kept your voice low, eyes never leaving his face.

Toby just hummed, a soft, neutral sound from behind the bandana. “Hm.”

That was it. No shock. No real reaction.

His eyes had already drifted lower, slowly dragging over the way your faded polo stretched across your chest, then further down to the curve of your hips and the tight fit of your jeans. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it. Another small hitch rolled through his frame as he stared, like he was remembering exactly what you looked like with those jeans around your ankles.

You felt heat creep up your neck again.

Maybe you really had been paranoid this whole time. Of course your twitchy, candy-stealing thief hadn’t murdered anyone. He was weird as hell, sure - restless, scarred, clearly a little unbalanced - but he wasn’t a psycho. He was just… Toby. The same guy who’d come back with melted Snickers and dropped to his knees like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You let out a small, nervous breath and popped your gum again, trying to push the uneasy feeling down.

Toby’s eyes finally dragged back up to your face. He rocked once on his heels, hands still buried in his pockets.

“I was h-hoping you’d give me some m-more to eat,” he said. The words were so blunt, so shamelessly straightforward, that it almost made you laugh.

The confession hung in the air between you - innocent on the surface, but loaded with the memory of him on his knees behind the counter, face buried between your thighs.

You bit your lip, trying to keep a straight face, and nodded once toward the new security camera mounted in the corner near the coolers. “Management put in some new precautions after what happened,” you said. “They’re watching everything now.”

Toby followed your gaze, dark eyes landing on the shiny new camera. When he looked back at you, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes was gone. Pure disappointment flashed across his face, followed by another sharp tic that snapped his head to the side with a soft crack.

You shrugged, giving him an apologetic look. “And my shift still has four more hours anyway.”

He stood there for a moment, fingers twitching inside his hoodie pockets while he thought it over. Then he gave a small, uneven shrug.

“I d-don’t mind,” he muttered. “I can w-wait.”

You raised your eyebrows at him, a surprised little smile tugging at your lips. “What, you’re just inviting yourself over to my place after work or something?”

Toby chuckled softly, the sound muffled and rough. He looked down at the floor awkwardly, fingers fidgeting, before giving another casual shrug like it was no big deal.

You shook your head, warmth blooming in your chest despite everything. “Well, if you don’t mind waiting around…”

“I’ll b-be here when you g-get off,” he answered immediately.

The giddy little rush came back full force. You couldn’t help smiling at him, cheeks feeling warm under the fluorescent lights.

Toby took a few uneven steps closer to the counter, then leaned over it quickly. In one smooth motion he tugged his bandana down, revealing the brutal scar cutting across his cheek and those full, slightly swollen lips. Before you could even think, he cupped the side of your neck with one hand and kissed you.

It was fast, hungry, and way too intense for something that only lasted a couple of seconds. The moment his mouth touched yours, heat shot straight through you. Then, just as quickly, he pulled back and yanked the bandana back up over his face.

He was definitely smiling under the fabric now. You could see it in his eyes.

“See ya l-later,” he mumbled, voice still a little breathless.

He turned and headed for the door just as Andy was stepping back inside. Toby nearly pushed past him without a word, shoulders hitching with every step as he disappeared into the night.

Andy paused in the doorway, watching Toby’s retreating back with raised eyebrows. “Nice meeting you too, dude,” he called out sarcastically. No reply.

The bell jingled as the door swung shut. Andy turned to you, that shit-eating grin already spreading across his face. He leaned against the counter, giving you a long, pointed look.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, laughing. “Who the fuck are you fucking nowadays?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands, elbows on the counter. A helpless little laugh bubbled out of you anyway. “Shut up, it’s not like that.”

It was exactly like that.

“Nah, seriously,” he teased, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “Bandana-wearing dudes with Tourette’s? That’s your type now? Jesus Christ, you work fast.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, still laughing despite the embarrassment burning across your face. “I said shut up.”

Andy just shook his head, still grinning as he went back to half-heartedly organizing the shelf. “This shift just got a lot more interesting.”

You didn’t answer. You just sat there on your wobbly stool, heart racing, already counting down the four hours until your shift ended.

Because Toby was going to be waiting.

And the thought made you stupidly, dangerously excited.

The last few hours of your shift dragged at a snail's pace. By the time you and Andy finally started closing up, you were both dead on your feet. You did a tired, lazy high-five over the counter, the slap echoing in the empty store.

“You want a ride home?” Andy asked, already pulling his keys out of his pocket.

“Nah, I’m good,” you said quickly, forcing a casual shrug. “I’ll just walk. Clears my head.”

Andy gave you a suspicious look but didn’t push it. “Alright. Don’t get murdered.” He shot you one last glance, clearly still thinking about the hatchet-swinging psycho, then headed out a few minutes before you.

You stayed behind for a couple of last-minute things - wiping down the counter, double-checking the register, locking the back room. When everything was finally done, you killed the lights, stepped outside, and locked the front door behind you.

The parking lot was quiet and dark, the new security camera staring blankly down at the pumps. You scanned the area, heart picking up speed with nervous anticipation.

No Toby.

You waited for a minute, then two, shifting your weight from foot to foot. The cold night air nipped at your skin. Disappointment settled heavy in your stomach. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe the whole thing had been some weird one-time adrenaline thing and he’d ghosted.

You muttered a quiet “fuck it” under your breath, slung your bag over your shoulder, and started walking toward your house.

The road was empty, lined with thick trees on both sides. Your sneakers crunched against the gravel shoulder as you walked, the distant hum of the highway barely audible. You tried not to feel stupid, tried not to let the disappointment sink in too deep, but it was hard.

“Never trust men,” you grumbled to yourself, kicking a rock. “They’re all trash. All the fucking same.”

You stopped for a second, dug a cigarette out of your purse, and lit it with slightly shaky hands. The first drag burned nicely as you kept walking, smoke curling into the cold air.

And then–

A pair of hands suddenly grabbed your waist from behind.

“BOO!”

You screamed, loud and sharp, heart slamming against your ribs as pure panic shot through you. You spun around fast, already swinging your purse like a weapon, ready to crack someone in the head.

It was Toby.

He was standing right there, bandana pulled down around his neck, messy brown hair wild, that brutal scar twisting with the huge grin on his face. His dark eyes were gleaming with pure mischievous delight as he laughed - a low, choppy, genuine laugh that made his shoulders hitch hard.

“You asshole!” you squealed, half laughing, half still terrified. You swung your purse at him again, this time lightly, smacking him in the arm. “You fucking scared the shit out of me!”

You barely managed to keep hold of your cigarette, ash tumbling off the end as your hand shook.

Toby didn’t even flinch at the purse hit. He just kept laughing, eyes locked on you like you were the best thing he’d seen all night. Another sharp tic jerked his head to the side with a soft crack, but it didn’t dim the bright, almost boyish grin on his scarred face.

“I t-told you I’d be w-waiting,” he said, voice playful, the stammer cutting through the words in that familiar way.

You stared at him, heart still racing from the scare, adrenaline mixing with that giddy rush that always seemed to hit whenever he showed up. The cigarette smoke curled between you as you tried to catch your breath, a reluctant smile breaking across your face despite yourself.

“You’re such a dick,” you muttered, but there was no heat in it.

Toby just shrugged, still grinning, one shoulder rolling hard toward his ear as another tic rolled through him. He looked stupidly pleased with himself.

And somehow, that made it even harder to stay mad.

You started walking side by side down the dark road, the gravel crunching under your shoes. The night was quiet except for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. Toby fell into step with you easily, shoulders hitching every few steps.

Without asking, he reached over and plucked the cigarette from between your fingers. He took a deep, slow drag, the cherry glowing bright orange in the darkness, then passed it back to you. You accepted it, still a little dazed by how casually he did it.

The whole situation felt completely bizarre. This was the same guy who had walked into your store and stolen two Snickers like it was nothing. The same guy who brought the melted bars back the next day, dropped to his knees behind the counter, and ate you out like a starving man. And now here you were, casually walking him home like it was a normal Friday night.

You weren’t complaining, though. The dude was one hell of a pussy eater, and he seemed genuinely, almost obsessively into you. That part flattered you more than you wanted to admit.

Still… there was a weird energy rolling off him. Something just slightly off. Like the air around him was heavier than it should be. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up every now and then.

You forced the thought away. The poor guy had Tourette’s and a bad stammer. He’d probably just had a really tough life. That was all.

“So… what’d you do today?” you asked, trying to keep things light as you took another drag from the cigarette.

Toby thought about it for a second, head twitching sharply to the side with a soft crack. Then he answered, completely deadpan:

“Jerked o-off to you.”

You immediately choked on the smoke, coughing hard as your eyes started to water. A surprised laugh burst out of you between coughs. “Jesus Christ, Toby–”

He glanced at you, that sheepish little grin pulling at his scarred lips, making the thick line on his cheek twist. His dark eyes were shining with amusement, but he looked completely serious about the answer.

You wiped at your eyes, still laughing breathlessly. “Okay… and what else did you do? Besides that?”

He shrugged. “Helped muh-my friend f-fix something on h-his truck.”

You hummed, nodding as you passed the cigarette back to him. “Oh, nice. So you’re handy, then?”

Toby took the cigarette, but before bringing it to his lips, he shot you a look. The corner of his mouth twitched up into something almost mischievous.

“You’ll s-see how h-handy I am when we ffff-fuck.”

You burst out laughing again, louder this time, the sound echoing down the empty road. He was way too honest. No filter at all. It was ridiculous and strangely endearing at the same time.

“God, you really just say whatever’s in your head, huh?” you said, shaking your head.

Toby only grinned wider, another sharp hitch jerking his frame as he took another drag. He didn’t deny it.

The two of you kept walking through the darkness, the distant glow of streetlights up ahead barely cutting through the thick trees. Every now and then his shoulder would twitch or his head would snap to the side, but he stayed close to you.

And despite that strange, nagging feeling in the back of your mind… you couldn’t stop smiling.

You finally reached your small rental house at the end of the quiet street. The porch light was still on, casting a warm yellow circle on the front steps.

“This is it,” you said, digging through your bag for your keys. You unlocked the door and stepped inside, Toby following close behind you like a restless shadow.

You flipped on the living room light and gestured around with a small, slightly embarrassed smile. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

It wasn’t much - just a tiny one-bedroom place - but you’d done your best to make it cozy. Soft throw blankets on the couch, a few plants that were somehow still alive, fairy lights strung along the walls, and a couple of cheap but cute prints hanging up. It felt lived-in and warm.

Toby looked around slowly, his dark eyes scanning everything. “Nice,” he muttered, sounding like he actually meant it.

You set your purse down on the little table by the door and kicked off your shoes. “Want a tour?”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Only of your b-bedroom,” he said, voice rough under the remnants of that crooked grin.

You let out a surprised giggle, heat rushing to your face. This was actually insane. You’d known this guy for like three conversations and one very intense orgasm, and now he was standing in your house asking to see your bedroom.

Still, the giddy flutter in your stomach won out.

“Alright,” you said, biting back a smile. “Follow me.”

You led him down the short hallway, hyper-aware of him right behind you, his uneven steps and occasional quiet grunts filling the silence. When you pushed open the door to your bedroom, the soft glow of the string lights you’d left on this morning welcomed you both.

The bed was still unmade, sheets rumpled from where you’d rolled out of them earlier. A few stuffed animals were scattered near the pillows - a slightly embarrassing touch you hadn’t thought about until right now. Toby didn’t seem to care. His eyes moved over the room: the stuffed animals, the delicate string lights, your slightly messy closet, and then… back to you.

The eye contact was electric. Heavy. Both of you knew exactly what was about to happen.

You suddenly felt shy under the intensity of his stare. You reached up and tucked your hair behind your ear, trying to give yourself something to do with your hands.

“I… probably should shower first,” you said, voice a little breathy. “I had a long shift.”

Toby scratched at the side of his neck, fingers dragging over his skin. He shrugged, another sharp tic jerking his shoulder upward.

“You don’t nuhh-need to.”

You giggled nervously. “Um… really?”

He took a small step closer, dark eyes never leaving yours. His voice came out low, honest, and way too blunt:

“I p-prefer it. I wanna taste you… not soap.”

The rawness of his words hit you like a spark straight to your core. No filter or smooth lines, just pure, unfiltered want. You felt yourself get wet almost instantly, a rush of heat flooding between your thighs.

He took a few slow steps toward you, closing the distance until his tall frame was towering over yours. His hands slid under the hem of your faded “Stop & Gas” polo, rough palms settling warm and possessive against the bare skin of your waist. The simple touch sent a shiver racing up your spine.

You looked up at him, a teasing little smirk playing on your lips. “You’re a little nasty, huh?”

Toby nodded immediately, dark eyes half-lidded and hungry. “Mhm,” he hummed.

You reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down closer. He was so much taller than you that you had to stretch a little. “You’re that desperate for my pussy?” you whispered against his mouth, “that you won’t even let me shower first?”

His fingers dug tighter into your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise as he nodded again, eager and shameless. “Yeah… fuck yes.”

Then his lips crashed into yours.

The kiss started slow, almost exploratory - warm and a little clumsy at first, his full bottom lip sliding against yours while the thick scar on his cheek brushed your skin. But it didn’t stay gentle for long. Within seconds it turned hungry and desperate. His tongue pushed into your mouth, tasting you, and you moaned softly into the kiss, fingers threading through his messy brown hair.

He walked you backwards until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the bed. You stumbled slightly and he caught you, pressing his body flush against yours.

“I need y-you so ffff-fucking bad,” he muttered against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathed, pulling back just enough to look at him. “How bad, baby?”

The little nickname made something break in him. A low, broken groan rumbled in his chest, his hips twitching forward involuntarily.

“Show me,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

Toby’s hands were suddenly everywhere. He nearly ripped your polo up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him. With your help, he yanked your jeans open, fingers fumbling with the button and zipper in his haste before shoving the denim roughly down your legs. You kicked them off, leaving you standing there in just your plain bra and matching panties.

He didn’t waste a second.

His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking hard enough to leave dark marks as his hands grabbed two big handfuls of your ass, squeezing and kneading greedily. He was so eager it was almost overwhelming - grinding his clothed cock against your thigh while he kissed and bit down your throat.

With a quick, surprisingly skillful motion, he unhooked your bra and pulled it off, letting your tits spill free. He made a low, desperate sound at the sight before leaning down and taking one nipple into his hot mouth. He sucked hard, moaning loudly around your breast as his tongue swirled over the sensitive bud.

“Fuck–” you gasped, head falling back. “Yeah… just like that.”

He switched to the other tit, sucking and licking, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses and blooming hickies all over your chest. One of his hands stayed on your ass while the other palmed himself roughly through his jeans, stroking the obvious hard bulge as he devoured your tits.

Every moan and whispered “feels so good” that left your lips seemed to push him further. His hips kept twitching, tics rolling through his body, but he never stopped touching you.

You finally pushed him back just enough to sit on the edge of the bed, then lay back fully, spreading your legs for him. Your hand slid down your stomach and dipped between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your soaked panties. The fabric was already dark with arousal.

Toby dropped to his knees between your legs instantly, like gravity had no say in the matter. He kissed and licked his way down your belly, scarred hands gripping and groping your soft thighs, spreading them wider.

“You hungry?” you asked breathlessly, looking down at him.

He nodded so eagerly it was almost pathetic, eyes wild and dark. “So fuckin’ hungry.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and practically tore them down your legs, tossing the ruined fabric aside. The second he had you bare, he spit directly on your already dripping pussy, watching it glisten before diving in.

His mouth was relentless.

He licked broad, messy stripes from your entrance up to your swollen clit, then sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves between his lips, moaning loudly into your cunt like tasting you was the best thing he’d ever experienced. He was loud, sloppy, and completely lost in it - slurping, groaning, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with frantic flicks.

“Ffuuuck–” you moaned, back arching off the bed. He was so eager it almost made you cum on the spot.

After a few intense minutes, the pleasure became too much, too fast. You had to push his head away with a shaky hand, chest heaving.

“W-wait–fuck, Toby–”

He pulled back just enough, lips and chin shiny with your slick, looking up at you with dazed, hungry eyes. A string of spit connected his bottom lip to your pussy.

You tried to catch your breath. “Take off your clothes,” you told him, voice hoarse. “I want to see you.”

Toby froze for a second, like the request hadn’t even crossed his mind. His shoulders hitched violently, head snapping to the side with a sharp crack. For the first time all night, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face.

But after a moment, he swallowed hard, fingers moving to the hem of his hoodie.

You wondered why he'd seemed a little unsure, but as soon as he took off his hoodie, you understood.

He was covered in scars. A warzone of old wounds, faded bruises in sickly yellows and purples, and raised white lines that crisscrossed his lean torso like someone had used his body as a cutting board for years. Some looked surgical, jagged and uneven. Others were clearly from blades - deep gouges across his ribs, a nasty puckered one just under his collarbone. His arms were worse: track marks of what looked like self-inflicted cuts along the insides of his wrists and forearms, layered over older burns and what looked like cigarette scars. He was skinny but wired with tight, wiry muscle that flexed under the damage, shoulders and biceps corded from whatever brutal shit he did to stay alive. He looked like he could snap a man in half.

You froze for a second, eyes wide, taking it all in. Toby’s breathing was already ragged, chest rising and falling hard as he watched your face. Another violent tic jerked his head to the side with a soft crack, shoulders hitching hard.

He didn’t say anything. Just shoved his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion, kicking them away. His thighs were just as scarred - knife wounds, deep scrapes, old bullet graze marks. And between them…

His cock was big. Thick, flushed dark, rock-hard and curving slightly upward, the head already slick with pre-cum. He wrapped a scarred hand around it almost absentmindedly, stroking himself slow and tight as he stared at you spread open on the bed, your soaked pussy glistening from his earlier mouth-work.

You swallowed hard. A thousand questions slammed through your head - what the fuck happened to you, who did this, what the hell kind of life leaves a person looking like they lost a war every single day - but you bit them back. You didn’t want to kill the moment. Didn’t want to push too hard when he was already raw and exposed in front of you like this.

Instead, you just shifted your hips, spreading your legs a little wider in invitation, and crooked a finger at him.

Toby was on you instantly.

He crawled up the bed with that restless, twitchy energy, scarred hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks as he shoved them apart. His mouth crashed into yours again, messy and desperate, tongue pushing deep while his cock dragged hot and heavy against your slick folds. He ground against you, coating himself in your wetness, groaning brokenly into your mouth every time his hips twitched forward.

“F-fuck… you’re so wet,” he rasped against your lips, voice wrecked with that choppy stammer. Another sharp tic snapped his head to the side, but he didn’t stop, just kept rutting his thick length along your pussy, the head catching on your swollen clit over and over until you were whimpering.

You reached down between you, wrapping your fingers around his cock. You stroked him once, twice, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked in your grip.

Toby’s breath hitched hard. “P-put it in,” he begged, forehead pressed to yours. “Please–I n-need it. Need to f-feel you.”

You lined him up, rubbing his fat tip against your entrance, and he pushed forward the second he felt it. The stretch was intense, slow and burning and perfect, as he sank into you inch by thick inch. He moaned loud and broken, hips jerking with tics even as he tried to go slow for you.

“Shit–so tight,” he growled, voice cracking. His scarred arms braced on either side of your head, muscles trembling as he bottomed out, balls pressed flush against you. He stayed there for a second, buried to the hilt, breathing hard against your neck while his cock pulsed inside you.

Then he started moving.

It wasn’t gentle. Toby fucked like he did everything else - restless and hungry. Deep, punishing thrusts that made your tits bounce and the bed creak. Every slam of his hips was punctuated by little grunts and bitten-off curses, his tics making his rhythm stutter and jerk in the hottest way possible. One moment he was grinding deep and slow, the next he was pounding you so hard your headboard smacked the wall.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his scarred back. He fucked you harder for it, mouth latching onto your neck, sucking fresh marks while he railed you.

“F-feels so good,” he panted, voice muffled against your skin. “Better than I imagined–fuck, you’re s-squeezing me so t-tight–”

You moaned his name, rolling your hips up to meet every thrust, and something in him snapped. Toby sat back on his knees, dragging your ass up onto his thighs so he could watch his thick cock disappear into your dripping pussy over and over. One thumb found your clit, rubbing messy circles while he slammed into you.

You could feel it building fast - that terrifying, overwhelming pressure coiling tight in your core, hotter and sharper than anything you’d ever felt. Every brutal thrust of Toby’s thick cock dragged against that perfect spot inside you, stretching you open, making your walls flutter and clamp down around him. You were soaked, the wet sounds of him slamming into your dripping pussy filling the room, obscene and loud. Your clit throbbed from his earlier thumb-work, oversensitive and aching, every grind sending sparks shooting up your spine.

“Keep–keep going,” you moaned, voice breaking. “Fuck, Toby, feels so good– don’t stop, baby, please–”

Your words seemed to flip a switch in him. Toby growled low in his throat, hands gripping your waist tighter, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he pounded into you even harder. His hips snapped forward with that restless, twitchy rhythm - deep, punishing strokes that made your tits bounce wildly and the bedframe slam against the wall.

Then it hit you.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a freight train. Your back arched hard off the mattress, mouth falling open in a silent, broken moan as pleasure ripped through every nerve. Your pussy clenched violently around his cock, pulsing and gushing, soaking his balls and the sheets beneath you. Toby kept fucking you through it, groaning loud and wrecked, hips stuttering with his own tics but never slowing. The overstimulation made your thighs shake uncontrollably, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“F-fuuuck–that’s it,” he rasped, voice choppy and hoarse. “So good–c-cum on my d-dick–”

Before you could even come down, he yanked you up harshly by the waist, pulling you flush against his chest so you were sitting in his lap, chest to chest. His scarred arms banded around your back, holding you there as he kept thrusting up into you, deep and relentless. You could feel every inch of him, every vein, every twitch of his big cock buried inside your spasming cunt.

You kissed him desperately - messy, open-mouthed, tongues sliding and teeth clashing. He tasted like smoke and salt and pure need. You sucked on his neck, right over that thick scar on his collarbone, biting and licking while you bounced a little in his lap, meeting his upward thrusts. Toby moaned loud and broken, head tilting to the side to give you better access, his messy brown hair tickling your cheek.

“God–you’re fucking me so good,” you panted against his skin, lips brushing his ear. “Such a good boy, Toby… my good fucking boy–”

His response was immediate. He squeezed your ass hard with both hands, nails biting into the soft flesh as he nodded frantically against you, hips jerking up harder.

“Y-yeah–yeah I a-am,” he stuttered, voice wrecked and eager, another violent tic snapping his head to the side with a soft crack. “I’m your good b-boy–fuck, I’ll be s-so good for y-you– ”

You kissed him again, deep and filthy, swallowing his moans while he railed you from below. His stamina was insane - sweat slicking his scarred chest, muscles flexing under all those brutal marks, but he showed no sign of slowing down.

“I wanna ride you,” you gasped against his mouth, rolling your hips in a slow circle that made him groan. “Let me ride you, baby.”

Toby let out a broken, desperate sound and nodded so fast it looked like it hurt. He slipped out of you with a wet, filthy pop, his cock slapping wetly against his scarred abs, glistening with your cum. He fell back against the pillows and your scattered stuffed animals, hair wild and sticking to his forehead, lips swollen and shiny, chest heaving. He reached for you immediately, hands grabbing at your hips, pulling you toward him with pure desperation in his dark eyes.

You laughed breathlessly, still trembling from your orgasm. “So fucking eager,” you teased, climbing over him.

You straddled his narrow hips, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. Reaching down, you wrapped your fingers around his throbbing cock - still rock-hard, veiny, and dripping - and lined him up. You sank down slowly, inch by thick inch. The new angle was brutal. He was so deep it was almost painful, the fat head of his cock pressing right against your cervix with every tiny shift of your hips.

You breathed heavily, eyes fluttering shut as you tried to adjust, hands braced on his scarred chest. “Fuck… you’re so big,” you whimpered. “So fucking deep like this…”

Toby looked up at you with glassy, half-lidded eyes, cheeks actually flushing a little. “S-sorry,” he muttered sheepishly, but his hands were already gripping your hips hard, trying to pull you down further anyway. His cock twitched inside you, eager and impatient.

You started moving - slow rolls of your hips at first, then building into a steady bounce. Your tits bounced heavily with every drop down onto his cock, nipples hard and sensitive. Toby’s eyes were locked on them, then on your face, then on where your soaked pussy stretched around his thick length, swallowing him over and over.

“You look so pretty under me,” you moaned, leaning forward to suck on his neck again, licking over his scars and biting down gently. “Such a pretty, desperate boy… taking my pussy so well.”

Toby’s breath hitched hard. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, head tilting back into the pillows as a full-body tic rolled through him - shoulders hitching violently, neck cracking. His hands shook as he guided you down harder, thumbs digging into your hip bones.

“F-fuck–keep saying that,” he begged, voice cracking. “Please– I–I wanna buh-be good f-for you–”

You moaned into his ear, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every downstroke, the wet slap of skin on skin getting louder and filthier. His cock dragged perfectly against every sensitive spot inside you, the head kissing your cervix with every bounce, sending sparks of sharp pleasure-pain through your body.

You leaned forward, cupping one of your tits and guiding it to his mouth. “Here, baby.”

He latched on immediately, desperate and starving. His scarred lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking hard, tongue swirling and flicking as wet, obscene slurping sounds filled the room. He moaned loudly into your soft flesh, the vibration shooting straight to your core. His hands stayed glued to your ass, kneading and spreading your cheeks apart as he helped bounce you on his dick, fingers digging in hard enough to leave fresh bruises.

You could feel him tensing underneath you - his scarred abs tightening, thighs trembling, cock swelling even thicker inside your soaked pussy. His groans grew louder, more frantic, muffled by your tit in his mouth.

“You wanna cum?” you purred, voice breathy as you kept riding him. “You wanna fill me up, hm?”

Toby nodded pathetically, mouth still full, eyes glassy and pleading as he looked up at you. He sucked harder, almost whimpering around your nipple, hips jerking up to meet every bounce.

You smiled, wicked and sweet, and sped up. The wet slap of your ass meeting his scarred thighs grew louder, filthier - his heavy balls smacking against you with every rough drop. You rode him harder, faster, tits bouncing in his face as you fucked him straight toward the edge.

That was all it took.

Toby came with a shattered, stuttering moan that vibrated against your breast. His whole body seized up - back arching hard off the bed, shoulders hitching violently with a loud crack as his tics hit him mid-orgasm. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded your pussy, pulse after pulse, so much it immediately started leaking out around his cock. His face was pure blissed-out ruin: eyes rolled back, scarred cheeks flushed, mouth slack around your nipple as he shook and groaned through every spurt.

The sight of him like that - so wrecked, so pretty, so completely lost in you - almost pushed you right to the edge again. You moaned loud, grinding down on his pulsing cock to milk every drop.

You finally slowed, both of you panting and drenched in sweat, bodies trembling. Toby’s chest heaved under you, his cock still twitching inside your cum-filled cunt as he tried to catch his breath.

Then, voice hoarse and wrecked, he looked up at you with those dark, obsessive eyes and rasped:

“S-sit on my face.”

It sounded almost like begging.

You let out a soft, surprised giggle and carefully lifted off his cock. The second you did, a thick gush of his cum poured out of you, running down your thighs in messy white streaks. Toby’s eyes tracked it hungrily.

You pushed yourself forward and carefully swung a leg over and straddled his face, thighs framing his head, your dripping, cum-filled pussy hovering just above his mouth. “You’re so fucking filthy,” you laughed breathlessly, looking down at him between your legs.

Toby nodded fast, hands grabbing your ass and yanking you down hard onto his face before you could even finish teasing him.

“I n-need it,” he groaned, voice muffled instantly as he buried his face in your soaked folds. “Need your pussy in my m-mouth–fuck–”

You gasped as his tongue shoved straight into you, licking and sucking his own cum right out of your dripping hole with shameless hunger. He was forceful, almost aggressive - lapping up every drop of his load mixed with your juices, moaning loud and broken. His nose rubbed against your swollen clit while his tongue fucked deep, slurping obscenely, swallowing loudly.

You braced your hands on the headboard, thighs shaking. “Oh my God–Toby… you’re really eating your own cum out of me?” you asked, half-shocked, half-turned on beyond belief.

He made a low, ashamed little noise in the back of his throat, but didn’t stop. If anything, he pulled you down harder, nodding frantically against your pussy as his tongue worked even deeper. His fingers spread your ass open wider so he could devour you completely - sucking on your clit, licking stripes up your folds, pushing his cum back into you with his tongue only to suck it all out again.

He was completely lost in it. Groaning, whimpering, hips twitching uselessly beneath you as he ate you like a man starved. His messy hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, eyes half-lidded in pure bliss as he drowned in the taste of both of you. He alternated between long, messy licks from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit and harsh suction that made your thighs quake around his head.

You tried to tease him, wanted to call him filthy again, but the words died in your throat. It was too much. The overstimulation, the way his nose ground against your clit, the relentless way he sucked and licked and moaned into your dripping pussy - it all crashed together.

Your second orgasm slammed into you without warning.

“F-fuuuck–Toby!” you screamed, back arching hard as your vision whited out. You grabbed fistfuls of his messy brown hair, yanking him harder against your cunt as your pussy clenched violently around nothing, gushing fresh slick all over his face. Your legs shook uncontrollably, thighs clamping tight around his head while wave after wave ripped through you. For a second you almost blacked out - ears ringing, body seizing, a broken, high-pitched moan tearing out of you that didn’t even sound like your own voice.

Toby just kept going, groaning happily as he drank every drop, tongue working you through it until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess.

You stayed there for a long minute, slumped forward, hands braced on the headboard, chest heaving as you tried to remember how to breathe. Your thighs were still twitching, pussy pulsing with aftershocks. Slowly, carefully, you lifted off his face with a wet sound.

You sat back on your knees beside him, staring down at the absolute wreck you’d made of him.

Toby looked ruined in the best way possible. His face was shiny and slick from nose to chin with your cum and his own spit. His scarred lips were swollen and red, chest rising and falling rapidly, dark eyes glassy and dazed with lust. His messy hair was even wilder, sticking to his forehead with sweat. And when your gaze drifted lower…

He was rock hard again.

His thick cock stood flushed and angry against his scarred abs, twitching visibly, the head glistening with fresh pre-cum. He wrapped one scarred hand around it almost shyly, giving himself a slow, embarrassed stroke while he stared at your naked body like he couldn’t help it. A soft, needy little moan slipped out of him, another violent tic jerking his head to the side with a quiet crack.

Something possessive and filthy twisted in your chest.

“Let me return the favor,” you said, voice hoarse but determined.

You slid down between his spread legs, settling on your stomach. Toby’s breath hitched hard as you wrapped your fingers around his cock, giving it a firm squeeze. It throbbed hot and heavy in your grip.

“Th-thank you–fuck, thank you,” he immediately started babbling, voice wrecked and choppy. One scarred hand gently threaded into your hair, holding you there.

You didn’t tease this time. You leaned down and took him into your mouth in one smooth motion, sucking hard on the head before sinking lower. He was so thick your jaw ached instantly, but you pushed further, spit dripping down his shaft as you worked him deeper.

Toby moaned loud and broken, hips twitching up. “Your m-mouth feels so ffff-fucking good–”

You gave it everything. You bobbed your head fast, sucking noisily, tongue swirling around the thick vein on the underside. You pulled off just long enough to spit messily all over his cock, watching the strings of saliva drip down before you deepthroated him again, nose pressing against his pelvis as you swallowed around him. Your hand stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting on every upstroke while you hollowed your cheeks.

He was losing his mind above you.

“Shit–shit, you’re so puh-pretty like this,” he panted, voice cracking with every thrust into your throat. “Look so f-fucking good with my d-dick in your mouth–just like that–ahh–!”

You pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to his glistening cock, and dropped lower. You sucked one of his heavy balls into your mouth, tongue bathing it while your hand kept stroking his shaft fast and tight. You licked and sucked the other one too, humming around them, feeling them draw up tight.

That did it.

Toby’s whole body seized. His hips jerked, scarred thighs trembling violently as his tics hit him mid-orgasm.

“I’m cumming–f-fuck–!”

Hot, thick ropes of cum flooded your mouth in powerful spurts. You kept cupping his balls gently, stroking him through it as you swallowed every drop - greedy, wet gulps that made him whimper and shake. You took it all until he was twitching and oversensitive, soft broken moans falling from his lips.

You finally pulled off, licking your lips clean as you looked up at him.

Toby was staring down at you like you’d hung the moon, chest heaving, face flushed under all the scars, one hand still loosely tangled in your hair. Another soft tic jerked his shoulder upward as he tried to catch his breath.

“…You’re p-perfect,” he rasped, voice completely wrecked. “C-can we do that again s-sometime?”

You laughed softly, crawling back up his body to kiss him, letting him taste himself on your tongue.

You collapsed beside him, completely spent, limbs heavy and trembling with exhaustion. Your body felt used in the best way possible - thoroughly fucked, aching, and sticky with sweat and cum. You curled into Toby’s side without thinking, pressing your face against his scarred chest, one leg draping lazily over his. He let you. Without hesitation, he shifted and slid his arm under your head like a pillow, pulling you closer so you could settle against him properly. His skin was hot, damp with sweat, and you could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your cheek.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the occasional soft crack of one of his tics. You let your fingers wander mindlessly, tracing the raised edges of a particularly nasty scar along his ribs - long, jagged, like something had tried to carve him open once. Toby hummed low in his throat, a lazy, content sound, and didn’t pull away. If anything, he relaxed further into the mattress, letting you explore the brutal map of his body.

Both of you were covered in marks. Dark hickeys bloomed across his neck and collarbones, matching the ones you could already feel throbbing on your own throat, breasts, and inner thighs. Proof of how desperately you’d wanted each other.

Toby seemed lost in thought, dark eyes half-lidded and distant as he reached out with his free hand and grabbed one of your stuffed animals - a small, worn teddy bear. He turned it over slowly in his fingers, then gently bounced it on his chest. The sight of your twitch thief casually playing with your childhood teddy after railing you senseless almost made you laugh. Almost.

You gathered your courage, voice still hoarse. “Toby… why do you have so many scars?”

He went quiet. The teddy bear paused mid-bounce. For a long moment the only movement was the restless hitch of his shoulder and the soft crack of his neck jerking to the side. Then he spoke.

“I r-really like you,” he said simply. The words came out hesitant, almost shy. “It’s… h-hard for me to talk a-about myself. Most people don’t… s-stick around after they see a-all this.”

You nodded against his chest, still tracing lazy circles over an older burn mark. “I’m not going anywhere right now. You can tell me.”

He exhaled slowly. The teddy bear resumed its gentle bouncing on his sternum.

“I have a… kind of a w-weird job,” he muttered. “I do some s-shady shit… not e-exactly legal.”

You swallowed, glancing up at his face. “Like what?”

Toby thought about it, dark eyes flicking to the side. Another tic rolled through him, head snapping sharply. He bounced the teddy once more, then finally answered.

“Like the thing that h-h-happened at the s-store the other nuh-night.”

Your blood froze.

The lazy, post-sex warmth in your veins turned to ice in a single heartbeat. Your fingers stopped moving on his ribs. The room, which had felt so safe and intimate just seconds ago, suddenly felt too small, too quiet. The distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen seemed deafening.

Oh fuck.

You slowly pushed yourself up onto one elbow, staring down at him. Toby was still lying there, relaxed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still idly playing with the teddy bear like he hadn’t just admitted to hatcheting a man to death outside your workplace and leaving a smiley-face note.

He glanced at you, eyes half-lidded and almost soft, like he was waiting for you to process it. Another small hitch jerked his shoulder upward.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. Your mind was spinning - flashes of the blood in the parking lot, the newspaper headline, the way he’d shown up at the store again like nothing happened.

“You…” Your voice cracked. You swallowed hard and tried again. “You’re the one who… killed that guy?”

Toby didn’t deny it. He just shrugged, the motion sharp and restless, and looked back at the teddy bear in his hand.

“He was s-stealing from y-your store,” he said, like that explained everything. “Pissed m-me off. I left a note, felt… dunno, r-romantic.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Part of you wanted to scramble off the bed, grab your clothes, run. But another, much more fucked-up part of you stayed exactly where you were.

Toby turned his head to look at you fully, dark eyes searching your face. His voice dropped quieter, almost vulnerable under the stammer.

“I w-wasn’t gonna tell you yet. But… I r-r-really like you. Didn’t want t-to lie.”

He gave the teddy bear one last soft bounce on his chest, then set it gently on the pillow beside him, waiting for whatever you were going to do next.

You’d been right. That nagging unease you’d tried to ignore? It had been screaming at you the whole time.

And the worst part - Toby didn’t even seem to realize how completely fucked this was.

You pulled the sheet around your chest like it could protect you from the surreal horror of this conversation. Your voice came out shaky when you finally spoke.

“That was supposed to be romantic to you? Toby, you murdered a guy. You hacked him to death right outside where I work.”

He flinched at your tone. The soft, dazed look in his dark eyes cracked. His jaw tightened, scarred cheek twitching as he looked away, staring at the string lights on your wall instead of at you. His shoulders hitched hard with a violent tic.

You were shaking now, adrenaline and fear mixing with the leftover ache between your thighs. “What–what the fuck is your job, then? You some kinda hitman? Is this normal for you? You just… go around killing people?”

Toby stayed quiet for a long moment, fingers still loosely holding the little teddy bear. When he spoke, his voice was lower, rougher, the stammer thicker.

“…Something like that, I-I g-guess. I’m good at it.”

You huffed out a bitter, disbelieving laugh and scooted further away from him on the bed, clutching the sheet tighter. “I don’t want anything to do with this. Any of it. This is insane, Toby. You’re insane.”

That one clearly hurt.

His expression crumpled - just for a second - before his face went carefully blank. He sat up slowly, messy brown hair falling into his eyes, the hickeys you’d left all over his scarred neck and chest standing out like accusations in the soft light. He looked… vulnerable. Exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being naked.

“I really l-like you,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “I w-want to keep doing t-this. With y-you.”

You shook your head, throat tight. “I liked you too. A lot. Until… this.”

The silence stretched, heavy and painful. Toby’s restless leg started bouncing under the sheet, another tic snapping his neck sideways.

“You gonna c-call the cops?” he asked. His voice was flat, but you caught the flicker of real worry behind it.

You thought about it. Really thought about it. The phone was on the nightstand. You could reach for it right now. But something stopped you. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at you when he was buried inside you. Maybe it was the fact that, despite everything, he’d only ever been gentle with you. Rough, filthy… but never cruel toward you. And yeah - the sex had been mind-blowing.

Finally, you exhaled shakily. “No. I’m not calling the cops.”

Toby’s shoulders sagged with visible relief. A soft, broken breath left him, and he rubbed a scarred hand over his face.

“My f-friend warned me to s-stay away from you,” he admitted, voice low. “Said it was a buh-bad idea. That I’d b-bring heat on e-everyone. But I didn’t listen. I c-couldn’t.” He looked at you then, dark eyes intense and obsessive even through the hurt. “Is that w-what you want? For m-me to stay a-a-away?”

You had no idea how to answer that.

Part of you wanted to scream yes. Part of you was still stupidly, dangerously drawn to him - the same part that had let him eat his own cum out of you less than an hour ago.

“I… need time to think,” you said eventually, voice small. “This is a lot, Toby. Too much. It’d be best if you left for now.”

He stared at you for a long moment, jaw working. Another violent tic rolled through his shoulders. Then he nodded once, slow and reluctant.

Without another word, he got up. You watched him pull on his clothes - hoodie, jeans, the bandana going back over the lower half of his face. Every movement was sharp, restless, laced with those familiar little hitches and cracks. When he was dressed, he paused by the side of the bed, looking down at you like he was memorizing everything.

“I’ll g-give you time,” he muttered. “But I’m not g-good at staying a-away. Not fuh-from you.”

He leaned down, hesitated, then pressed a quick, rough kiss to your forehead through the bandana. The gesture was strangely tender given everything.

Then he was gone - uneven footsteps down the hall, the soft click of your front door shutting behind him.

You sat there in the quiet of your bedroom, sheets tangled around your naked body, still aching from him, still tasting him on your tongue. The little teddy bear lay abandoned on the pillow where he’d left it.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And deep down, you already knew this wasn’t really over.

Toby’s boots dragged heavy against the warped wooden porch steps, the sky just beginning to bleed a sickly grey over the treeline. Dawn. Barely past six. He’d walked for hours through the woods, boots crunching over damp leaves and old needles, mind looping the same reel on repeat: the way you’d looked riding him, the taste of your cum mixed with his own still ghosting his tongue, the way your face had twisted when he finally told you the truth.

He shoved the front door open with his shoulder. Voices drifted from the kitchen - low, exhausted murmurs.

Shit.

He tried to sneakily slip past the doorway, hood tugged low, bandana still pulled up over the worst of the marks on his throat.

“Toby.”

Brian’s voice cut through the air like a dull knife. Toby almost swore out loud.

He stopped, shoulders hitching hard once, twice, neck cracking sharply to the left with an audible pop. Slowly, he turned and stepped into the kitchen.

Tim was slumped in one of the rickety chairs, jacket off, sleeve rolled high. Fresh blood glistened along a nasty gash on his forearm while Jack leaned over him, black surgical thread and needle moving with precise, almost surgical calm. Brian stood by the counter in his hoodie, mask pushed up just enough to drink from a glass of water, eyes shadowed and tired. Both of them looked like they’d been through hell and back - clothes torn in places, dried blood crusted on fabric, postures heavy with exhaustion.

Toby kept his head angled, trying to keep the side of his neck hidden in shadow.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Brian asked, voice flat.

“Out,” Toby muttered, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets. Another violent tic jerked his shoulder upward.

Tim’s head snapped up immediately. His eyes - sharp even through the fatigue - zeroed straight in on the dark bruises blooming on Toby’s neck. The hickeys stood out like goddamn neon signs against pale skin.

“You went back to that gas station bitch, didn’t you?” Tim growled, already starting to push up from the chair.

Jack’s gloved hand clamped down on Tim’s wrist with surprising strength, keeping his arm steady. “Do not move,” Jack said evenly, voice calm and formal as always, though his void-black eyes flicked sideways toward Toby. He inhaled once, long and slow. “...Though the smell of intercourse and female saliva is rather difficult to ignore.”

Toby groaned, dragging a scarred hand down his face. “I didn’t–I f-fell. On my neck. Whatever.” The excuse sounded even stupider out loud. His head twitched sharply to the side again.

Tim stared at him, deadpan. “Jack. Medical opinion?”

Jack didn’t even pause his stitching. He glanced at Toby’s neck once more, clinical and detached. “Those are not impact bruises. They are suction marks–commonly referred to as hickeys–consistent with oral activity from a young woman. Judging by the residual scent profile, she is likely in her twenties. Healthy. Recently sexually active.” He tied off the thread with a neat knot. “Quite enthusiastically, I might add.”

Brian made a quiet sound of disgust and took another sip of water, turning slightly away like he didn’t want to look at Toby any longer than necessary.

Toby wanted to smack all three of them. Hard. His fists clenched inside his pockets, shoulders rolling with another restless hitch. “It’s my f-fucking life,” he snapped, voice choppy and rough. “You n-need to mind your own goddamn buh-business, Tim. All of you. Leave me a-alone.”

Tim’s jaw flexed, eyes narrowing dangerously, but Jack’s grip kept him pinned to the chair.

“You’re going to get us all in trouble chasing pussy,” Tim bit out. “Or worse - you’re gonna drag that girl into our shit and then have to clean up the mess when she inevitably freaks out.”

Toby’s head jerked hard to the left with a loud crack. He didn’t answer. Just turned on his heel, uneven gait carrying him out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

Behind him, he heard Tim mutter something low and pissed. Brian said nothing. Jack simply went back to stitching like nothing had happened.

Toby went upstairs and slammed his bedroom door behind him, leaning back against the wood as another full-body tic rolled through him - shoulders hitching, neck snapping, fingers twitching violently at his sides.

He could still smell you on his skin. Still feel the ghost of your hands in his hair.

And despite everything - despite Tim’s warnings, despite the look on your face when he left - he already knew he’d go back.

Soon.

Brian sat behind the wheel of the old, beat-up truck, engine idling low like a lazy growl. The gas station glowed under its sickly fluorescent lights a short distance away, the new security cameras glinting like accusatory little eyes. He had one gloved hand draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping a slow, irritated rhythm on his thigh.

He exhaled heavily through his nose. “This is a bad idea.”

Tim snorted from the passenger seat, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. The fresh stitches on his forearm pulled with the motion. “If Toby isn’t gonna behave himself,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion and frustration, “then we do it the hard way.”

Brian glanced sideways at him, skeptical eyes narrowing. “And what exactly is the plan here, Tim? Yeah, the kid hatcheting that idiot outside the store was sloppy as hell. We’re cleaning up after it. But let the guy have a goddamn life. You really think scaring off some gas station girl is gonna fix whatever the fuck is going on in his head?”

Tim stared straight ahead through the windshield, expression dark. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one,” he said quietly. “You know how Toby gets when he fixates. It’s not just pussy. It’s her. He’ll keep going back. Keep killing for her. Keep dragging all of us into the spotlight until the whole damn county’s looking for hatchet-wielding freaks.”

Brian shook his head slowly, gloved fingers tightening on the wheel. “And your brilliant solution is showing up at her job? That seems logical to you?”

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just unbuckled his seatbelt with a sharp click and shoved the truck door open. The night air rushed in.

“Just follow my lead,” he said flatly, stepping out.

Brian sat there for another long second, staring at the dashboard like it might offer him some divine wisdom. He rubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath, “We’re all going fuckin’ crazy… God help me.”

Then he killed the engine, climbed out, and slammed the door behind him. His boots crunched against the gravel as he fell into step beside Tim, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. The two of them crossed the lot toward the glowing Stop & Gas like a pair of shadows that had crawled out of the treeline - tired, pissed off, and radiating the kind of quiet menace that made normal people cross the street.

Tim’s eyes were already locked on the front doors.

Whatever he was planning, it was happening now.

You were supposed to be working this shift with Andy, but he’d run out for a “quick deal” and promised he’d be back in no time. So you were stuck alone behind the counter.

You sighed and leaned back on the wobbly stool, the cheap little plastic fan whirring noisily beside the register as it blew lukewarm air across your face. It was stupidly hot tonight, the kind of sticky humidity that made your polo cling to your skin and your shorts ride up your thighs no matter how many times you tugged them down. Your hair was down, messy waves sticking to the back of your neck, and you kept popping your gum out of nervous habit.

Your mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

Toby.

Murderer. Psycho. Hatchet-wielding freak who left smiley-face notes on corpses.

But also… Toby. The twitchy, scarred, shamelessly obsessed guy who’d eaten you out like a man starved, fucked you stupid, then ate his own cum out of you without hesitation. He matched your freak in the most dangerous, exhilarating way possible. No one had ever looked at you the way he did - like you were the only thing in the world worth fixating on.

You didn’t know how the hell you were supposed to feel about any of it.

The bell above the door jingled.

You automatically plastered on your customer-service smile, but it died the second you saw them.

Two men stepped inside. You recognized them immediately - the same ones who’d been waiting in the truck the night Toby stole the Snickers. The dark-haired one was bigger, built like a damn tank, broad shoulders straining against a worn flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Faded jeans, heavy boots, the kind of quiet confidence that screamed trouble. The taller one behind him had dark blonde hair, sharp features, and an expression so serious it looked like he’d never smiled in his life. His jacket and jeans were clean but clearly well-worn, and the way he carried himself made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

You straightened up fast, heart kicking up a notch. Your gum froze mid-chew.

The dark-haired guy let his eyes drag slowly over you. From your bare legs in those tiny shorts, up to the low collar of your polo, and straight to the cluster of hickeys you’d desperately tried to cover with makeup. A little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He sauntered up to the counter and leaned over it, forearms resting on the scratched surface, close enough that you caught the faint scent of cigarettes and pine.

“Well hey there, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice low and deliberately charming, eyes flicking back down to your neck for a second. “Lookin’ real good tonight.”

The taller one stayed a step behind, silent. His gaze was heavy, unrelenting. When you glanced at him, he didn’t look away. Just stared. Like he was trying to read every thought in your head.

You raised an eyebrow at the “sweetheart,” chewing your gum once before answering in a cool, even tone.

“Can I help you guys with something?”

The bigger guy’s smirk widened just a fraction, like your attitude amused him. He tilted his head slightly, still leaning in.

“Oh, I’m sure we can think of something,” he said smoothly. “We’re just… checking in.”

You nodded slowly, still chewing your gum with loud pops, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Yeah… checking in. That’s… nice of you, I guess. Everything’s all good here.”

His smirk stayed plastered on his face as he leaned further over the counter, eyes dipping down to your chest and the faint outline of hickeys you hadn’t quite managed to hide. “You sure about that, gorgeous? Working all alone in a shithole like this after what happened the other night… Gotta be scary. Who knows what kind of freaks might come wandering in.”

His tone was dripping with fake concern, the kind that felt way too sleazy. Like he thought flashing a smirk and calling you “gorgeous” would have you melting. You snorted, arms crossing under your chest as you held his gaze.

“Does that line usually work on girls?” you asked, voice flat and unimpressed. “Or do you just like hearing yourself talk?”

He blinked once, clearly caught off guard, but he recovered fast. The smirk sharpened. “Just looking out for a lady. Can’t be too careful these days.”

You gave him the most sarcastic nod you could muster. “Ooooookay, dude. Well, I’m good. Really. Don’t need anyone looking out for me.”

He glanced back at the tall blonde guy standing silently behind him. The other man simply shook his head once, slow and disapproving, eyes never leaving you. Then the dark-haired one turned back, tongue running over his teeth as he let out a low chuckle.

“Damn. You got a mouth on you, huh?” His voice dropped, gaze turning darker. “Wonder what else that pretty mouth can do.”

That was the final straw.

You stood up from the stool, planting both hands firmly on the counter and leaning forward to meet him head-on. “Look,” you said, tone sharp and final, “I’m not interested. At all. And honestly? Both of you look too old for me, so you can take that shit somewhere else.”

The blonde one actually blinked at your bluntness, like he hadn’t expected you to say it out loud.

The dark-haired one clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the charming mask cracking as clear irritation flashed across his face. His jaw flexed and the easy smirk faded into something colder.

He straightened up slowly, still staring you down like he was sizing up whether you were worth the trouble. The air between you suddenly felt a lot heavier. “You have no idea what the fuck is going on here,” he growled.

You let out a dry, humorless little chuckle and shrugged. “Well, I know you’re friends of Toby.”

Both of them went still. The surprise on their faces was almost satisfying.

The dark-haired one stared at you. “How the hell do you know that?”

You rolled your eyes, attitude flaring. “Do you think I’m stupid? Because all girls are, right?” You gestured toward the parking lot with your chin. “I literally saw you two sitting in the truck the night he stole the Snickers. I’m not blind.”

He hadn’t thought of that. You could see it in the way his jaw flexed.

The blonde one finally spoke, voice low and calm but edged with something colder. “How much do you know?”

You crossed your arms tighter, ignoring the way the other one was still staring at you like he wanted to reach across the counter. You huffed.

“What do you want me to say? That I know who chopped that guy up the other day?” Your tone made it crystal clear - you knew it was Toby. “I get it. You guys are in some kind of gang or whatever. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Just… leave.”

The words hung in the hot, stale air of the store. You were starting to piece it together now. Toby wasn’t just some lone weirdo with a hatchet problem. He was tangled up with these two creepy-ass dudes who clearly thought they could roll up in here, intimidate you, maybe even use you to get under his skin. It was disgusting.

And for the first time since Toby left your house, a small flicker of sympathy twisted in your chest. No wonder he was so restless, so fixated. Living with guys like this?

You just wanted them gone.

The dark-haired one’s eyes bored into you, the fake charm completely gone now. The tall blonde stayed quiet, watching you like he was trying to decide exactly how dangerous you were.

The fan kept whirring uselessly behind the counter. Your gum snapped loudly in the tense silence.

The dark-haired one planted both palms flat on the counter, leaning in so close you could see the faint scar on his jaw and the exhaustion lines carved deep around his eyes.

“We’re not leaving yet,” he said, voice low and edged with steel. “And you need to stay the fuck away from Toby. I mean it. End whatever the hell this is before it gets messy.”

You felt your spine straighten like someone had yanked a wire through it. A challenge. That’s exactly how it landed. No one - especially not some flannel-wearing control freak - got to tell you who you could fuck, date, or even look at.

You leaned forward too, meeting him halfway, gum snapping loud between your teeth. “You don’t get to tell me shit,” you said. “Not you. Not your silent buddy back there. Not anybody. I decide who I spend time with. And right now? I like Toby. A lot.”

His eyes darkened. His jaw flexed hard enough that the muscle jumped. The charming mask was long gone; what was left was raw, agitated aggression rolling off him in waves.

“You think this is a game?” His voice dropped even lower, rougher. “You have no fuckin’ idea what you’re playing with.”

He was getting louder. Meaner. You could see the veins standing out on his forearms where he gripped the counter. Your heart hammered against your ribs, adrenaline flooding your system, but you refused to back down. You stared him dead in the eyes, chin lifted, even as fear prickled cold down your spine.

He suddenly shoved forward, leaning so far over the counter that his face was inches from yours. His breath was hot against your skin.

“Listen here, you little whore,” he snarled, voice venomous and quiet. “You already spread your legs for that twitchy little fucker once. That’s enough. We don’t need some gas-station slut dragging him down, making him sloppy, getting him in trouble. You’ll get him caught - or worse, you’ll get all of us caught. So back the fuck off before I make you.”

For a split second you couldn’t decide whether to reach across the counter and smack him across his smug face or bolt for the back room and lock the door. Your cheeks burned with fury and humiliation. Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

Before you could react, a sharp whistle cut through the tension.

His head snapped toward the other man. The tall blonde hadn’t moved much, but he gave a single, meaningful tilt of his chin toward the shiny new security camera mounted in the corner near the coolers. Its red light blinked steadily. A silent warning: don’t do anything stupid, the cameras are on.

The dark-haired one exhaled hard through his nose, nostrils flaring. He slowly pulled back, but the rage still simmered just under his skin. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to rein it in.

You forced a shaky breath out and turned your gaze to the blonde one, eyebrows raised in mocking disbelief. “Wow. Is your friend always this charming? Or does he only pull out the ‘little whore’ routine for special occasions?”

He just stared at you. No expression, no words. Just those cold, unblinking eyes that made your stomach twist. Tough crowd.

You shook your head, letting out a dry, bitter laugh. “You guys aren’t very smart, you know that? Rolling up in here thinking you could intimidate me, maybe fuck me, get some leverage over Toby… Jesus Christ. Pathetic.”

The dark-haired one’s face twisted with barely-contained fury.

You leaned back against the stool, crossing your arms tight under your chest, heart still racing. Then you said it - the one thing you knew would get under their skin.

“Toby’s actually my boyfriend. We’re very happy together.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The dark-haired one's eyes widened for half a second before narrowing into dangerous slits. His hands clenched so hard on the counter you heard the wood creak.

“And he’s gonna hear all about this little visit,” you added, popping your gum once more for emphasis. “Every single word.”

That did it.

He looked ready to vault over the counter and throttle you. His whole body tensed, shoulders bunching under the flannel, breathing heavy and ragged. The charming, sleazy mask was completely shattered; what was left was pure, protective, territorial rage. He looked like he wanted to burn the whole place down.

That’s when the tall one finally moved. He stepped forward and clamped a firm hand on the other man’s shoulder, pushing him back from the counter with surprising strength. His voice was low, cold, and utterly disgusted.

“Stop wasting time on this dog-fucking bitch.”

The words hit you like a slap across the face. Dog-fucking bitch. Your vision tunneled with red-hot rage. The casual, venomous way he said it - like Toby was nothing more than a mangy stray humping anything that moved - made your stomach twist with pure disgust. These assholes had the nerve to come into your store, call you a whore, and then talk about Toby like he was some filthy animal?

You saw red.

The dark-haired one huffed sharply, rolling his shoulder to shrug the blonde one’s hand off like it was an annoying fly. The fake calm he forced over his features was terrifying in its own way. Without another word, he stepped around the end of the counter like he owned the place, boots heavy on the scuffed tile.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you thought it might crack something. Every instinct screamed at you to back up, to scream, to run - but you locked your knees and stared him down, jaw tight, refusing to flinch. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the cigarette smoke still clinging to his flannel. He held your gaze the entire time, dark eyes burning with barely-leashed fury. Then, slowly, he reached past you to the cigarette shelves. He snatched two packs of Marlboro Reds, never once looking away from your face. The plastic crinkled loudly in the tense silence.

He turned slightly, still staring, and grabbed a cheap plastic flask of whiskey from the liquor display. The message was crystal clear: We take what we want. And right now, we want you scared.

Your breath came shallow and fast, but you didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just burned holes into him with your eyes.

His mouth twitched into something ugly. He walked past you like you were nothing, heading for the exit. Right before he pushed the door open, he turned his head and spit hard onto the floor near your feet - a thick, contemptuous glob right on your clean tile.

The bell jingled as he stepped out into the night.

The tall blonde lingered for a second longer. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, like this whole thing bored him more than anything. Without looking at you, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled handful of bills, and tossed them onto the counter. They scattered like dirty leaves. Then he turned and followed the other man out.

The door swung shut behind them.

For a heartbeat, the store was deathly silent except for the useless whir of the fan.

Then the rage exploded.

You stormed out from behind the counter, heart hammering, and shoved the front door open. The humid night air slapped you in the face as you watched them climb into the same beat-up truck from before. You leaned out, spit as hard and aggressively as you could onto the pavement, and screamed at the top of your lungs:

“Go to hell!”

You slammed the door shut, twisted the lock with shaking fingers, and flipped the sign to CLOSED even though your shift wasn’t over. Your legs carried you back behind the counter on autopilot. The second you were out of sight from the windows, your knees buckled.

You sank down onto the stool, elbows on the counter, head in your hands, breathing fast and ragged - hyperventilating. The crumpled bills stared up at you like a sick joke. Two packs of stolen cigarettes. One stolen flask. Spit on your floor. Threats. Insults. The casual way they’d tried to terrorize you.

And the worst part?

It worked. You were terrified.

But underneath the fear, something else was crystallizing, sharp and undeniable.

Toby wasn’t the villain here.

Not really.

Those two - the dark-haired one especially - had walked in like they owned you, owned the store, owned Toby’s choices. They talked about him like he was a problem to be managed. A dog on a leash. They came here to intimidate you, to scare you off, to keep their little crew’s control intact. And they’d done it in the most disgusting, sleazy way possible.

You thought about Toby’s restless tics, the way he’d looked almost shy when he admitted he really liked you, the way he’d played with your stuffed bear after fucking you senseless. He was dangerous, yeah. A murderer. But compared to the cold, calculated cruelty you’d just seen from his so-called friends?

Toby suddenly seemed like the least terrifying thing in this whole fucked-up situation.

You didn’t know what the hell you were going to do.

But one thing was certain:

This wasn’t over.

And Toby was definitely going to hear about it.

[dirtyl0ver]

Sweet Tooth (Ticci Toby x F!Reader)

CW: Explicit sexual content, public sex, cunnilingus, squirting, fingering, masturbation, degradation, praise, violence, murder, obsessive behavior, petty theft, emotional distress, references to unsolved crimes, featuring appearances by Tim and Brian

Summary: Night shifts at a rundown gas station convenience store rarely go as planned - especially when a twitchy stranger starts stealing candy right in front of you… and refuses to stay away.

Wordcount: 8k

The fluorescent lights above the counter hummed like dying insects, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cramped aisles of the little gas station convenience store. This place hadn’t been updated since the late nineties, faded chip bags hanging in crooked rows, a rattling cooler that sounded like it was on its last legs, and a single dusty security camera mounted high in the corner that hadn’t recorded anything in years. You’d been stuck working here for almost eight months now, wearing the same faded navy polo with the cheap embroidered “Stop & Gas” logo peeling off the left breast. The pay was shit, the customers were worse, and management blamed you every single time inventory came up short.

You sat on the wobbly stool behind the register, one elbow propped on the scratched laminate counter, popping your gum loudly as you flipped through the local newspaper. The headline on page three still made your stomach twist even though the story was three years old now:

“Unsolved Blaze Destroys Local Bar - Three Years Later”

You skimmed the article with tired eyes. Some rundown dive bar on the edge of town had gone up in flames one night, spreading unnaturally fast. One body had been recovered from the wreckage, burned beyond recognition. The night-shift bartender was still listed as missing. Police had called it suspicious from the start, accelerant traces everywhere, but leads had dried up fast. No arrests. Just another cold case in a town that already had too many.

You snorted softly, snapping your gum again. “Figures.”

You folded the newspaper in half and tossed it onto the counter, leaning back until the stool creaked in protest.

Stealing was practically a local sport around here. Kids on bikes snatching energy drinks, truckers palming beef jerky, teenagers daring each other to stuff pockets full of candy. Every week the inventory logs came back short, and every week your manager chewed you out like it was your fault for not having eyes in the back of your head. “You gotta be more vigilant,” he’d say, like you weren’t already exhausted from twelve-hour shifts in this fluorescent coffin. You hated it. Hated the constant low-level paranoia, the way every customer felt like a potential thief, the way you always ended up taking the blame when the numbers didn’t add up.

Your shift had barely started and you were already counting down the hours. The clock above the door read 8:42 p.m. Outside, the lot was mostly empty except for one beat-up Chevy truck idling crookedly at the far pump, engine rumbling low. You watched the two men for a long moment through the glass.

One of them leaned against the truck with his arms crossed, a cigarette glowing between his lips. Dark hair, broad shoulders, a permanent scowl etched into his face as he stared out toward the treeline like he expected something to crawl out of the woods. The other one stood at the pump, lighter hair catching the harsh sodium lights, his expression cold and detached as he watched the numbers tick up on the gas display. There was something off about both of them - too still, too watchful. The kind of men who made the little hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You chewed your gum slower, eyes narrowing.

The bell above the door suddenly jingled, sharp and far too cheerful for the quiet night.

Your head snapped up.

He stepped inside like he owned the damn place.

Tall. Hood pulled low over messy brown hair that stuck out in uneven, self-cut chunks. A black bandana covered everything below his nose, pulled tight so only his dark, restless eyes showed. Scuffed black Converse, dark hoodie, shoulders already twitching with small, involuntary jerks. He moved with a strange, uneven gait - long strides broken by sharp hitches, like electricity was trapped under his skin and kept firing at random.

The second he crossed the threshold, his gaze locked onto you.

For one long, electric second your eyes met across the empty store. Something cold and dangerous crackled in the air between you - raw awareness mixed with the heavy knowledge that you were completely alone in here. Then he looked away first, almost guiltily, and shoved both hands deep into his jacket pockets.

You watched him drift toward the candy aisle, your gum forgotten mid-chew.

His right shoulder rolled hard toward his ear. A quick, violent snap of his head to the left. A soft, bitten-off grunt slipped out from under the bandana. Tourette’s, maybe. Whatever it was, the restless energy rolling off him made the air feel thicker.

He stopped in front of the Snickers bars.

Long, scarred fingers hovered. Another sharp tic jerked his neck sideways with an audible crack. He plucked two bars from the rack casually, and in one smooth motion slipped them into the deep pocket of his pants.

You saw it clear as day.

Your stomach tightened. Not again. Not fucking tonight.

He turned like nothing had happened and started heading for the door, shoulders hitching with every other step.

You stood up fast, the stool scraping loudly against the tile.

“Hey,” you called, voice cutting sharp through the fluorescent buzz. “Aren’t you gonna pay for those?”

He froze mid-step, one hand already pushing the door open. The bell gave a half-hearted jingle.

Slowly, he turned.

Dark eyes met yours from under the shadow of the hood. Confusion flickered there for a split second, then something sharper - amusement, maybe. Or challenge. His head twitched hard to the side, shoulder rolling up toward his ear as he shrugged, casual as hell.

“What?” The word came out muffled and choppy under the bandana, laced with a noticeable stammer. “I-I didn’t tuh-take anything.”

You crossed your arms, leaning one hip against the counter, the “Stop & Gas” logo stretching across your chest.

“I literally just watched you put two Snickers in your pocket. Pay for them or put them back.”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then his eyes dragged slowly down your body, over the faded polo that clung a little too tight after too many washes, down to the way your jeans sat on your hips. He wasn’t subtle about it.

A low, muffled sound, half laugh, half tic, slipped out from under the bandana. He patted the side of his pants where the rectangular bulges were clearly visible.

“You c-can check my pockets if y-you want,” he offered, voice low, almost playful.

The nerve of him made heat crawl up your neck.

“Dude, I can literally see them. You’re really gonna play dumb with the candy still in your pocket?” you shot back.

He tilted his head, another sharp tic jerking his shoulder. The corners of his eyes crinkled like he was smiling under the fabric.

“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You scoffed. “Take them out. Right now. Or I’m calling the cops.”

His eyes darkened. The playful edge vanished.

“Try a-and see w-what happens, bitch.”

The word hit like a slap. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, lingering on your thighs before sliding back up. He gave a short, choked laugh that sounded more like a tic than anything human, then turned and shoved through the door. The bell jingled mockingly as cold night air rushed in.

You stood there stunned for half a second before anger surged hot through your veins.

“Fucking asshole!”

You quickly stepped out from behind the counter, following him. You yanked the door open and stepped out into the biting cold, the fluorescent light spilling out behind you.

He was already halfway across the lot, long strides eating up the gravel. The Chevy truck’s headlights flared on suddenly. The dark-haired passenger flicked his cigarette away and narrowed his eyes at you through the rolled down windshield. The lighter-haired driver sat stone-faced behind the wheel.

The hooded guy, your thief, jogged the last few steps, yanked open the back door, and slid inside. The door slammed.

You shouted after him anyway, voice cracking across the empty lot.

“Hey! Get back here, you piece of shit! You don’t just walk out with my fucking candy!”

From inside the truck you heard that same choked laugh again. The passenger muttered something sharp–“Fucking idiot” and “Told you to behave”–before the driver shifted into gear. The truck rolled forward, gravel crunching.

The back window rolled down.

Your thief leaned out just enough for you to see the glint of his eyes under the hood. He lifted one scarred hand in a lazy wave, fingers twitching once.

Then he flipped you off, eyes crinkling with clear amusement under the bandana.

The truck sped up, taillights flaring red as it disappeared down the dark road toward the treeline.

You stood there in the cold, breath fogging, heart hammering with rage.

“Fucking idiot,” you hissed, flipping the empty road off with both hands before storming back inside.

You locked the door early that night.

Two Snickers. Two lousy bucks.

And you were already dreading the next shift.

The day after the thief stole those two Snickers, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

No matter how hard you tried to shove the memory down, it kept crawling back up. The sharp, involuntary hitch of his shoulders. The way his head snapped sideways with that soft, audible crack. The choppy stammer that made his words fight their way out from under the black bandana. And the absolute fucking nerve of him - walking into your store like he owned it, slipping candy into his pocket right in front of you, then flipping you off from the back of that truck like it was all some kind of game.

It was infuriating.

You hated how easily he’d gotten under your skin. Hated the way your stomach had twisted when he’d looked you up and down like he was already imagining peeling the “Stop & Gas” polo off your body. Hated that every time you closed your eyes, you saw those dark, restless eyes locking onto yours across the empty store.

But deep down, buried under layers of annoyance and the righteous anger you kept feeding yourself, you were curious.

What the hell was he hiding under that bandana? Was he ugly? Or was it just an intimidation tactic - some edgelord trick to make himself look more dangerous than he really was? And who were those other two men in the truck? The dark-haired one with the cigarette and the permanent scowl, and the lighter-haired driver with the cold, dead-eyed stare. Where had they gone after they peeled out into the woods? Were they locals? Drifters? Something worse?

The questions gnawed at you all shift, turning every slow hour into a loop of unwanted thoughts.

It was a strangely calm day at the store. Only a handful of customers had trickled in, mostly truckers grabbing coffee and lottery tickets, a couple of locals buying cigarettes. No one caused any trouble. No one tried to walk out with half the candy aisle. By the time evening rolled around and the sun started dipping behind the thick treeline, the store was dead quiet except for the constant low rattle of the cooler and the buzzing fluorescents overhead.

You needed something to do before you drove yourself crazy replaying that lazy middle finger in your head for the hundredth time.

Grabbing the mop and bucket from the back room, you filled it with soapy water and got to work on the scuffed tile floors. The rhythmic sloshing and the faint squeak of the mop head were almost meditative. You pulled your hair up into a messy ponytail to keep it out of your face, the strands still slightly damp from the morning’s shower. The faded navy polo clung to your back as you worked, the “Stop & Gas” logo stretching across your chest with every push of the mop.

You were halfway down the center aisle, hips swaying slightly with the motion, when the bell above the door suddenly jingled, sharp and bright in the quiet store.

You didn’t turn around right away, figuring it was just another trucker or local grabbing cigarettes on their way through. You gave the mop one last lazy push across the tile, the soapy water sloshing softly in the bucket.

Then you turned.

Your heart almost stopped.

It was him.

He stood just inside the doorway, the bell still swaying gently above his head. Same oversized dark hoodie, hood pushed back just enough to let messy brown hair spill out in chaotic, self-cut chunks. Same scuffed black pants. Same black bandana pulled tight across the lower half of his face, hiding everything but those dark, restless eyes. His shoulders were already twitching with that familiar restless energy - small, involuntary hitches that made his whole frame seem like it was wired wrong.

The second your eyes met, his gaze dropped. He scanned you openly, shamelessly, starting at your sneakers, dragging slowly up your legs, lingering on the way your jeans hugged your hips and the curve of your ass, then higher to where the faded “Stop & Gas” polo stretched across your chest. His eyes flicked back to your face, then down your body again like he couldn’t decide which part he wanted to look at more. There was something almost playful in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, like a smile was hiding under that damn bandana.

You wanted to slap him.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve coming back here,” you snapped, grip tightening on the mop handle until your knuckles went white.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, head tilting slightly to one side as a sharp tic jerked his shoulder upward. Another quick snap of his neck to the left, accompanied by a soft, bitten-off grunt that slipped out from under the fabric. His eyes stayed locked on you the whole time.

You shoved the mop into the bucket with more force than necessary, the water splashing loudly, and stalked behind the counter to put the solid laminate between you and him. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, glaring.

He stayed rooted near the door for another long second, then took a slow step forward.

“Hi,” he muttered, voice muffled under the bandana, that familiar stammer cutting through the single word.

You scoffed, loud and dry. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got? Are you back to steal some more, or did you just come here to stare at my ass again?”

Instead of answering, he started walking toward the counter.

His steps were uneven, shoulders hitching every few steps, head giving another sharp sideways twitch as he moved. He drifted closer with that same restless, predatory energy that made the air in the store feel thinner. His dark eyes never left yours, even as another tic made his right shoulder roll hard toward his ear.

You held your ground behind the counter, arms still crossed, heart hammering harder than you wanted to admit. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were laughing at you. And still he kept coming, until he was standing right on the other side of the register - close enough that you could smell the cold night air clinging to his hoodie mixed with faint pine and cigarette smoke.

He fidgeted a little, scarred fingers twitching against the edge of the counter as another sharp tic jerked his head to the side with a soft crack. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

You stared in confusion as he placed the two Snickers bars on the scratched counter in front of you. They were completely crushed and melted from being in his pocket for hours - wrappers crumpled and torn, chocolate smeared across the plastic like they’d been sitting in a hot car all day. It was ridiculous. The bars looked pathetic, like sad little casualties of whatever chaotic life this guy led.

You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

This had never happened before. Thieves didn’t just come back to return their stolen shit. Especially not after flipping you off and peeling out like it was all a joke. What the fuck?

He just nodded once, eyes crinkling at the corners again like he was smiling under the bandana. “Y-yeah,” he said, the stammer making the single word drag.

You stared at him, waiting for something to happen - anything. For him to laugh and snatch them back, or for his buddies to burst in and rob the place, or for the whole thing to turn into some kind of setup. But nope. He just stood there, shoulders hitching with those small, involuntary jerks, dark eyes watching you like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

So you pushed. “Why on earth are you doing this?”

He thought about it for a moment, head tilting slightly as another tic made his right shoulder roll hard toward his ear. A soft, bitten-off grunt slipped out. Then he shrugged.

“You l-looked very upset last night,” he muttered. After a little pause, he added, quieter, “And it d-didn’t feel good s-stealing from a pretty girl.”

You were completely caught off guard.

The words hit like a sucker punch - simple, blunt, and way too honest for a guy who’d just called you a bitch the night before. Heat rushed up your neck, and for a second you didn’t know whether to laugh, snap at him, or throw the melted candy right back in his face. Pretty girl? From the mouth of the same asshole who’d eyed you like meat and walked out with your inventory?

Your mouth opened, then closed again. Everything felt off-balance now.

As he just stood there, shoulders still twitching with those small, restless hitches, dark eyes never quite leaving yours, you couldn’t take the weird tension anymore. The melted Snickers sat between you like some ridiculous peace offering, and the way he was looking at you made the air feel too thick, too charged.

You crossed your arms tighter. “Well yeah, of course I was upset. We’ve got a huge problem with people stealing shit in this store. Management’s always riding my ass about inventory coming up short, like it’s my fault assholes can’t keep their hands to themselves.” You sighed, then continued. “Why did you even steal the candy in the first place?”

He shrugged, one sharp roll of his shoulder turning into another quick tic that snapped his head sideways with a soft crack. His gaze dragged slowly down your body again, over the faded polo, the curve of your hips, then back up to your face, before he answered.

“Got a s-sweet t-tooth,” he said simply, the stammer making it sound almost boyish despite the rough edge to his voice.

You huffed, a short, frustrated sound that did nothing to ease the heat crawling up your neck. The pressure of it all - the intense way he stared, the constant little jerks of his body, the subtle implication hanging in every glance - was getting too much. You didn’t know if you wanted to kick him out or keep him talking just to see what he’d say next.

So you simply pushed the two crushed bars back across the counter toward him.

“Dude, just keep ’em. It’s fine.”

He looked down at the ruined candy, then back up at you. Something flickered in his eyes - disappointment, maybe. The corners crinkled less, like the hidden smile had slipped.

Then he casually said, voice low and muffled under the bandana, “I’m c-craving something s-sweeter than that.”

You stared at him, blinking. “…Like what?”

A sharp tic jerked his right shoulder hard toward his ear, followed by a quick snap of his neck to the left. He let out a soft, bitten-off grunt before the words came out, rough and direct:

“Like y-you.”

Your face went red immediately, heat flooding your cheeks even though you tried your hardest not to react. You felt it burn all the way to your ears, your pulse kicking up so fast it was embarrassing. Pretty girl. Craving you. The nerve of this fucking guy - coming back here after stealing, after flipping you off, now dropping lines like that while his body twitched like it had a mind of its own.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, completely thrown.

He didn’t laugh or take it back. Just stood there watching you with those dark, restless eyes, waiting. Another small hitch rolled through his shoulders as he tilted his head slightly, like he was genuinely curious how you’d respond.

The store felt smaller than ever, the scuffed tile and faded aisles closing in while your heart hammered against your ribs.

Finally, you managed a shaky scoff, trying to play it cool even as your face betrayed you.

“You’re… actually insane.”

But your voice came out softer than you wanted, almost breathless, and the red in your cheeks wasn’t fading anytime soon.

He nodded at that, the movement sharp and uneven thanks to another quick tic that made his shoulder jerk upward.

“Yep,” he said simply, like he was just confirming the weather. No smirk, no defense, no trying to play it off. Just yep. Like being called insane was normal.

Jesus fucking Christ. What was this guy’s deal?

You swallowed thickly, the heat still burning across your face. Your fingers awkwardly adjusted your messy ponytail, tucking a stray strand behind your ear just to have something to do with your hands. You glanced around the empty store before your eyes flicked back to him.

“I don’t even know what’s under there,” you said, motioning vaguely toward the black bandana still covering the lower half of his face. “Like… what you look like.”

He blinked. Once. Slowly. Like the thought genuinely hadn’t occurred to him at all.

Then, after a beat, he asked, voice low and choppy through the fabric, “You w-wanna see?”

Your heart stuttered. You rubbed your arm, suddenly self-conscious under the sickly yellow fluorescent glow.

“Um… yeah. Sure.”

He hesitated for a moment. His restless eyes flicked down to the counter, then back to you. Another sharp tic jerked his head to the side with a soft crack, and his scarred fingers twitched against the edge of the bandana. For the first time since he’d walked in, he looked almost uncertain, like he was weighing whether this was a mistake.

Then he made up his mind.

With a quick, decisive tug, he pulled the black bandana down and let it hang loosely around his neck.

Holy shit.

The scar was huge. It stretched diagonally across his left cheek, brutal and badly healed, thick and raised like someone had dragged a jagged blade across his face and never bothered to stitch it properly. The skin around it pulled at the corner of his mouth, giving his lips a slight, permanent twist on that side. It looked painful even now, years later.

But aside from that… he was pretty.

He looked much younger than you expected. Messy brown hair fell into his dark eyes in uneven, self-cut chunks. His lips were full and slightly swollen, the bottom one especially plush despite the scar tugging at it. His jaw was sharp, almost delicate in its angles, and his skin was surprisingly soft-looking, pale with a faint scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose that you hadn’t noticed before. The contrast between the violent scar and the rest of his face was jarring - beautiful in a broken, almost haunting way.

You held your breath without realizing it, the air caught tight in your chest.

His eyes, those same restless, dark eyes, were locked on yours now, waiting. You could see the tension in them, the braced expectation. He was waiting for the rejection. For the flinch. For the disgust to flash across your face like it probably had a hundred times before. He seemed completely ready for you to tell him to get the fuck out.

Your pulse hammered loud in your ears.

You didn’t look away.

And then it happened.

You don’t know what on earth possessed you to do this - maybe the way he looked at you with those scarred, pretty features and those braced, waiting eyes, maybe the electric tension that had been crackling between you since the moment he walked back in, or maybe you’d just lost your goddamn mind after eight months of fluorescent-lit boredom - but the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I can give you something sweet to eat.”

The tics started immediately.

His head snapped hard to the left with an audible crack, shoulder jerking violently toward his ear. Another sharp twitch rolled through his frame, then another, faster, like his whole body was short-circuiting. He looked shocked, like you’d just shot him point-blank. His dark eyes went wide, the restless energy in them freezing for a split second.

“W-wait… wh-what?” he stammered aggressively, the words tumbling out choppy and broken under the fresh wave of tics. His scarred mouth twisted with the movement, the thick line on his cheek pulling tight. “You– you s-said–?”

No going back now.

Your hands shook slightly as you motioned with your chin toward the small space behind the counter. “Come here.”

He just kept staring, frozen, another violent hitch jerking his shoulders. So you did it.

Your fingers went to the button of your jeans. The faint metallic click of the button popping open sounded impossibly loud under the buzzing fluorescents. You dragged the zipper down. The waistband of your plain white panties peeked out, simple cotton, nothing special, but the sight of them made a low, choked sound rip out of his throat.

And then he was moving.

He came around the counter fast, uneven steps eating up the short distance, shoulders hitching with every step. He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his body and smell the faint pine and cigarette smoke still clinging to his hoodie. You turned slightly so you were facing him fully, heart slamming against your ribs so hard you felt dizzy.

This was pure insanity.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and pushed them down your hips, letting them slide to your ankles. You stepped out of them, kicking the faded denim aside. The cool air of the store hit your bare legs, raising goosebumps.

He was breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. His eyes raked over your panties, then flicked up to your face, then back down to the thin white fabric like he couldn’t decide where to look. Another tic made his head jerk sideways.

You touched the waistband of your panties with trembling fingers. Then, slowly, achingly slowly, you pulled them down too, letting them drop to the floor.

He gasped audibly, a raw, broken sound that cut through the constant hum of the lights.

And then he just… fell to his knees.

Right there on the scuffed tile behind the counter, like gravity had suddenly given up on him. His hands landed on your thighs for balance, scarred fingers gripping tight as another wave of tics rolled through him, shoulder snapping up, neck cracking to the side. But his eyes never left your now-bare pussy.

He was face to face with it, only inches away, dark gaze hungry and stunned all at once. The sight of him on his knees like that - messy brown hair wild, brutal scar pulling at his swollen lips - sent a hot, familiar rush pooling low in your belly. Heat throbbed between your legs, your clit already aching under the intensity of his stare.

His breath ghosted warm against your skin, shaky and uneven.

“F-fuck…” he whispered, voice wrecked, barely more than a rasp. Another violent tic jerked his head, but he fought to keep his face close, eyes fluttering like he was trying not to lose it right there. “You’re… so fucking p-pretty.”

His fingers flexed on your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just below where your hips met your legs. He leaned in a fraction closer, lips parted, the scar making the corner of his mouth twitch as another soft, involuntary grunt slipped out.

He was waiting again - waiting for you to stop him, to push him away, to come to your senses.

But you didn’t.

All you could feel was the wet heat building between your thighs and the desperate, trembling need in the man kneeling in front of you. Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. This was your thief - the same twitchy asshole who’d flipped you off and sped off into the night - now on his knees like this. It didn’t feel real.

You swallowed thickly, voice coming out quieter and a little shaky, a mix of nerves and want. “Eat it.”

He didn’t hesitate anymore.

His scarred hands slid up the backs of your thighs and grabbed your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he yanked you forward. The sudden pull made you stumble a half-step closer, your bare pussy right against his face. He buried his nose in you and just breathed you in - deep, greedy inhales like he was trying to memorize the scent. A low, broken moan tore out of his throat, vibrating straight against your folds.

“F-fuuuck…” he groaned, the word muffled and ragged. His shoulders hitched violently, but he didn’t pull away. He just pressed closer, nuzzling, inhaling again, another desperate moan spilling out as if the smell alone was enough to wreck him.

The whole thing was insane. The store was open - door unlocked, lights blazing, anyone could pull up to the pumps and walk in at any second. A trucker, a local, anyone. The thrill of it shot straight through you, hot and addictive, making your clit throb harder.

He spread your legs apart a little wider with his grip on your ass, thumbs spreading your cheeks just enough to open you up for him. Then his tongue was on you.

At first it was testing - slow, broad licks from your entrance up to your clit, like he was tasting something precious and trying not to devour it too fast. The wet heat of his mouth made your knees buckle. You slapped one hand against the wall behind you for support, the other flying down to grip his messy brown hair.

The second you pulled at his hair, something in him snapped.

His tongue turned eager, almost frantic. He licked you like he was starving - long, sloppy strokes that covered every inch of your pussy, then focused on your clit with tight, circling flicks. He was loud. Obscenely loud. Wet slurping sounds mixed with deep, guttural moans and broken groans that vibrated through your core. Every time his tongue dipped inside you, he groaned like he’d just tasted heaven.

Your whole body shook. Your legs felt wobbly, sweat already breaking out across your skin under the faded polo. You held on for dear life, fingers tightening in his hair as another wave of pleasure rolled through you.

“Taste good?” you managed to gasp out, voice shaky.

He groaned into your pussy, the sound raw and filthy, tongue never stopping. The vibration made your hips jerk.

“Yeah?” you pushed, breath hitching. “Better than candy?”

He made a noise that was half laugh, half desperate groan, choked and wrecked, then nodded frantically, his scarred cheek brushing your inner thigh. “Yes,” he moaned right against your clit, the word hot and wet and direct. “So m-much better–fuck, you taste so fucking g-good–”

The confession sent another rush of heat through you.

He threw your left leg over his shoulder without warning, opening you up even more. The new angle let him bury his face deeper, tongue working you harder - licking, sucking, flicking your swollen clit with relentless hunger. His scar pulled at his mouth with every movement, but he didn’t seem to care. He was lost in it.

You glanced down and saw his right hand palming himself desperately through his dark pants, rubbing the obvious bulge with quick, needy strokes.

The sight made something possessive flare in your chest.

You yanked his hair harder. “Did I tell you you could touch yourself, you fuckin’ thief?”

He whined - actually whined - into your pussy, the sound high and needy and so fucking hot it almost pushed you over the edge right there. His big, dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, wet and pleading, mouth shiny and dripping with your slick. The brutal scar twisted with his expression, swollen lips parted around another desperate sound.

“P-please,” he begged, voice muffled and broken against your folds. “Please– I’ll be a g-good boy for you, I swear–please let me–”

The sight of him on his knees, face buried between your legs, eyes begging while his tongue kept working you, nearly made you cum on the spot.

You nodded, breath ragged. “Go on then.”

He only stopped for a second, long enough to frantically shove his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was big. Thick and long, bigger than anything you’d ever had, the head already flushed dark and leaking. Veins stood out along the shaft as he wrapped his hand around it and started stroking himself fast and rough.

Then he was back on you, mouth even more eager now, sucking your clit between his lips while two fingers slid inside you, curling just right.

At one point his teeth grazed the inside of your thigh - biting down hard enough to make you gasp. You yanked his hair roughly in response, and the pain made him groan loudly into your pussy, his hand jerking his cock even faster, slick sounds filling the small space behind the counter.

He ate you like a man possessed - slurping, moaning, tongue and fingers working in perfect rhythm while he stroked himself frantically. His hips bucked into his own fist, desperate and uncoordinated because of the constant tics rolling through his body.

It didn’t take long.

His moans grew louder, more broken. His shoulders jerked violently. Then he came, hard, moaning deep into your pussy as thick ropes of cum spilled over his hand and splattered onto the scuffed tile floor. There was so much of it, pulsing out in heavy spurts while his tongue never stopped moving on you.

And still he kept going.

He ate you like nothing else mattered in the world, licking up every drop of your arousal mixed with his own ragged breathing, sucking on your clit with renewed hunger. His free hand gripped your ass tighter, holding you steady as your legs threatened to give out completely.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train.

You came harder than you ever had in your life - shaking violently, a loud, broken moan tearing from your throat as your head fell back against the wall. Your hips jerked against his face, thighs clamping around his head. You almost fell, vision whiting out, but he held you up with surprising strength, arms locked around your thighs like iron. His tongue kept working you through it, licking and sucking and drinking down every drop you gave him.

Some of it squirted, hot and sudden, splashing against his chin, his scarred cheek, and dripping onto the floor and his hoodie. He just moaned louder, slurping greedily, swallowing what he could and letting the rest coat him like he wanted to wear it.

Your body kept trembling long after the peak, little aftershocks making your legs twitch. He stayed on his knees, face still buried between your thighs, placing soft licks along your soaked folds as if he couldn’t bear to stop tasting you.

Your heart was hammering, sweat cooling on your skin. He looked up at you with dark, dazed eyes - mouth wet, chin dripping, scar glistening with your cum - and whispered, voice completely wrecked:

“Th-that was… so good.”

Then he licked his lips slowly, like he was savoring every last trace of you. His tongue dragged over the swollen bottom lip and along the edge of the thick scar, eyes half-lidded and dazed. After a beat, almost shyly, he added, “You’re… my d-dream girl.”

You could barely breathe. Your chest heaved, lungs burning as you tried to pull air back into your body. A shaky, breathy laugh escaped you - half disbelief, half pure adrenaline.

You carefully eased your weight back onto your own two feet, legs still trembling. One hand stayed braced against the wall for a second longer before you trusted yourself to stand. You reached under the counter, grabbed a handful of tissues, and wiped yourself quickly, cleaning up the mess between your thighs as best you could. He stayed on his knees the whole time, watching you with dark, hungry eyes that hadn’t lost any of their intensity.

You pulled your panties and jeans back up, buttoning and zipping with fingers that still felt clumsy. The fabric felt too warm against your sensitive skin. He observed every movement, quiet except for the occasional small hitch of his shoulders and the soft, involuntary grunt that slipped out when his head twitched sideways.

Finally, he pushed himself up off the tile, wiped his slick chin and mouth with the back of his hoodie sleeve, and tugged his pants and boxers back into place. The aftermath hit like a sudden drop in temperature - awkward, heavy, reality slamming back into the fluorescent-lit store. You were both just standing there behind the counter, breathing hard, the air thick with the scent of sex.

You tried to pull yourself together, smoothing down your messy ponytail and straightening your polo. Then your eyes met his again, and a small, helpless giggle bubbled out of you.

He smiled, actually smiled, this soft, dazed curve of his scarred lips that made the corner of his mouth twist a little more. It was boyish and almost sweet despite everything.

He wiped his chin one more time with his sleeve, then shoved both hands into his pockets and rocked a little on his heels, glancing over at the two crushed Snickers still sitting on the counter.

You sighed, a small laugh shaking your shoulders, and walked over to the candy aisle. You grabbed two fresh Snickers bars, brought them back, and held them out to him.

“Here,” you said, voice still a little hoarse. “They’re on me.”

His eyes lit up like you’d just handed him the winning lottery ticket. He beamed, wide and genuine, scar pulling tight, and took the bars, immediately stuffing them into his pocket.

“Thanks,” he muttered, that familiar stammer cutting through. “I, uh… I g-got my sweet fix already, but I’ll s-save these for later.”

You shook your head, still laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned again, rocking once more on his heels. “Gotta go,” he said after a moment, jerking his head toward the door. Another quick tic made his shoulder roll hard. “But… I’ll be b-back.”

You nodded, trying to sound casual even though your pulse was still racing. “Cool.”

He hesitated, dark eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing it. Then he stepped in quickly, cupped the side of your neck with one scarred hand, and pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to your lips. It was brief, warm, and a little clumsy, his scar brushing your skin, but it left you tingling all over again.

He pulled back, looking down almost shyly, then turned toward the door.

“B-bye,” he muttered as he shoved the door open. The bell jingled cheerfully.

“Bye,” you called back, watching him step out into the night.

The door swung shut behind him. You stood there for a long moment, heart still hammering, a dazed smile tugging at your lips as the faint scent of pine and cigarette smoke lingered in the air.

The soft glow of your bedside lamp cast a warm, cozy light across your bedroom, chasing away the shadows and making the rumpled sheets feel extra inviting. You were sprawled across your unmade bed in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties, legs tangled comfortably in the blankets, a half-eaten bowl of cereal balanced precariously on your stomach. Some mindless sitcom droned on from your laptop, but you weren’t really watching it. Your mind kept drifting back to three nights ago - behind the counter at Stop & Gas, the way his scarred mouth had felt between your thighs, the desperate, broken sounds he made while he devoured you like you were the only sweet thing he’d ever needed.

You still didn’t know his name. That fact made the whole thing feel even more ridiculous, like some fever dream you’d conjured up during one too many night shifts. But the memory had you grinning like an idiot into your pillow, stomach fluttering every time you replayed the way he’d looked up at you with those dark, dazed eyes, chin glistening, whispering “You’re my dream girl” like he actually meant it.

For the first time in your life, you were actually excited to go back to work tomorrow. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. But the giddy little rush in your chest wouldn’t quit.

Your phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand, jolting you out of your daydream. You glanced at the screen - Andy. Your coworker, the early-thirties burnout who always smelled faintly of weed and dealt on the side to anyone who asked. He usually only called when he wanted you to cover a shift. With a sigh, you paused the show and answered.

“Yeah?”

Andy’s voice came through shaky and raw, like he was still catching his breath and fighting the urge to puke. “Holy shit… you gotta hear this. I just watched someone get murdered right outside the store. I’m still shaking, man.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You sat up fast, the cereal bowl nearly spilling. “What? Andy, slow down–what happened?”

“I was working the night shift. Everything was dead quiet, like usual. Then James Miller comes in–that skinny fuck with the neck tattoos who’s been stealing from us forever. The one who got arrested last year. He does his usual bullshit: grabs a couple beers and some jerky, stuffs them in his jacket like I'm fucking stupid, and heads straight for the door. I yelled at him to pay up, but he just flipped me off and walked out laughing.”

Andy swallowed hard, voice dropping. “It was pitch black outside. You know how the lot lights barely reach the edge of the building. I followed him out anyway, pissed off, ready to get his plate or at least scream at him one more time. The second he stepped past the pumps, some guy came out of nowhere from the shadows near the treeline. Dark clothes, hood up, just–moving way too fast. He had hatchets–two of them, I think. It was too dark to see his face at all. He just… went at James like an animal.”

Andy’s breathing hitched. “James tried to run but the guy was on him instantly. Swinging those hatchets–chopping, hacking. Blood sprayed everywhere. James was screaming, then gurgling, then nothing. It was over in like a minute. I freaked out and ran back inside, locked the door. I watched the whole thing through the glass while I called the cops. The psycho just… finished and vanished. Ran off into the woods behind the pumps like he was never there.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “Jesus Christ…”

“The cops are here now. Whole place is taped off. James' body is still lying out there, completely mutilated. I told them it was James Miller, the repeat thief we’ve dealt with a dozen times. And listen to this–they found a note thrown on the ground right next to him. It said ‘I will not steal again :)’ with a stupid little smiley face. Fucking weird. Anyway, they’re asking me a million questions now. Feels unreal, man. It was… it was brutal.”

Your stomach twisted. James Miller. Just another local loser who’d pushed his luck one too many times.

Still, the note hit you like a slap.

“I will not steal again :)”

The words echoed in your head. A twisted little callback to the melted Snickers, to the playful way your thief had shrugged and said he didn’t take anything, to the lazy middle finger from the back of the truck.

It felt… personal. Like a message directed straight at you.

A chill crawled slowly up your spine.

No. That was insane. You were overthinking it. Had to be. Some sick coincidence. James probably had plenty of enemies - people he’d stolen from, people he’d pissed off. The woods were full of weird shit and weirder people. Andy hadn’t seen the attacker clearly. It could’ve been anyone.

“That’s… really fucked up, Andy. Are you okay? Do you need me to come down there?”

“Nah, they’re keeping me here answering questions. Manager’s gonna call you about the schedule. Store’s closed at least tomorrow, maybe longer. Just… be careful dude, alright? Whoever did this is still out there.”

“Yeah. Stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”

You hung up and sat there in the sudden quiet, heart hammering.

The laptop screen glowed mockingly. You stared at the wall, the giddy high you’d been riding for three days curdling into something cold and uneasy.

James Miller was dead. Brutally. With a note that felt like it was mocking the exact game you’d played with your thief.

“I will not steal again.”

It felt like a message. Directed at you.

You shook your head hard, trying to push the thought away. You were probably just paranoid from too many night shifts and one reckless, adrenaline-fueled night behind the counter. It was a coincidence. It had to be.

Still, the woods outside your window looked darker than usual.

And for the first time since that night, the thought of seeing your twitchy thief again didn’t fill you with pure fluttering excitement.

It made your stomach twist with something sharper. Colder.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?

[rainrot4me]

Seven Minutes in Heaven - Jeff the Killer

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

──────────────────────────── 7 minutes in heaven - fall out boy

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: (No correlation to other parts, only prologue) The bottle lands on Jeff.

✦ . Characters: Jeff the Killer x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Alcohol, weed, smoking, force feeding alcohol, flirting, dirty talk, forced proximity, making out, tongues and spit, teasing, groping, vaginal fingering, jerking off, mutual masterbation, whining, semi-public sex, risky sex, drunk sex

✦ . Words: 7.6k

✦ . Note: First part!!! I want to make it clear going forward that all of these parts are alternate endings to the same story! The prologue is the only “canon” thing, all these other parts are choose your own ending based (meaning nothing that happens in this part happens in the other parts)! Happy reading!!!

─────────────────────────────────────────────

It was agony, watching all this play out.

Everyone’s eyes were trained on the center of the coffee table, their pupils spinning in frantic circles to see where the tip would end up.

The bottle spun fast, the unopened beer sloshing around inside and making it spin faster. It wobbled, slowed, then came to a lazy stop with the neck pointing straight at…

Jeff.

The whole room snapped to attention.

Eyes darted between you and him frantically, trying to gauge reactions the best they could. Jeff’s wide, unblinking gaze locked onto you from his spot on the couch, that jagged smile lazy for half a second before it cracked into something bigger.

Ben punched his shoulder hard. “Ha!”

Jeff didn’t even flinch. Instead he looked straight over at Tim with the greediest, most cocky grin you’d ever seen on him. His mental instability was always lurking under that cocky front, but right now it was shining through bright and ugly, all sharp teeth and wild eyes and the ego of a much larger man.

“Ohhh, Timmy,” Jeff drawled, his voice wet with feigned sympathy. “Tough break, man. Maybe next round you can watch from the sidelines like a good cuck.”

Tim’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. Brian just exhaled through his nose, his arms still crossed.

Jeff pushed himself up with a dramatic stretch, his joints popping loud enough to hear over the low music. He snatched the half-empty vodka bottle he and Ben had been nursing earlier, took a quick swig, then tucked it under his arm.

“Alright, princess,” he grinned, turning that manic grin on you. “Up and at ‘em.”

He grabbed your wrist and hauled you up from your seat before you could protest. You stumbled into his chest for a second, the smell of cheap vodka and smoke hitting you all at once as Jeff wrapped his arm around your back and hauled you closer.

“Jeff—wait, hold on,” you started, trying to dig your heels in and push off his chest. “This is stupid. I’m not—”

“Really?” he laughed, already tugging you toward the hallway. “You gonna be a sore loser already?”

You bickered the whole way. “You’re such an asshole. Can you not be a cocky asshole one time?”

“Me? Never,” he shot back, still grinning like a lunatic. “You’re such a prude. C’mon, it’s just seven minutes. Don’t act like you’re scared of little old me.”

Some of the others were whooping and catcalling—Toby trying his best to whistle. But others stayed quiet. Tim’s glare was heavy enough to feel on the back of your neck. Brian watched with a tight jaw. The whole ordeal was uncomfortable.

Ben cranked the music up a notch, the gritty sound filling the living room again as Jeff dragged you down the short hallway toward the supply closet.

Jeff hauled you down the short hallway, his grip insistent around your wrist, his boots scuffing the old floorboards. The storage closet sat at the very end on the right, but it was nothing special, just a cramped little room the mansion had never bothered to clean out properly.

He yanked the door open without ceremony. Inside was pure darkness, coats hanging messily on the rod, stacks of dusty boxes, random junk piled on the floor that smelled like mothballs and mildew.

You hesitated at the threshold, your stomach twisting. “Jeff, wait—”

One firm shove between your shoulder blades sends you stumbling forward into the black. Your foot caught on something solid—a box, maybe—and you nearly pitched face-first before his hand shot out and grabbed your arm, hauling you upright with a rough laugh.

“Easy there.”

The door pulls shut behind him, cutting off the lights and the low chatter from the living room. Complete darkness swallowed everything. The music outside dulled to a distant, muffled thump, like it was happening in another house entirely. This tiny space suddenly felt like its own little world—hot, close, and way too quiet except for the sound of both of you breathing.

You couldn’t see a damn thing.

“Jeff,” you barked, your voice sharper than you meant. “Turn on the light. There’s a bulb in here, it’s above your head.”

He didn’t answer, he just stood there, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off of him.

You reached out blindly, your hands landing square on his chest. The fabric of his hoodie was warm and solid, your fingers landing on the zipper. Underneath, you felt the steady, fast thump of his heart.

Jeff let out a laugh before you. “Damn, eager already? We’ve only been in here ten seconds.”

Your face burned. You shoved him hard in the chest. “Shut up and turn the light on, asshole.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, still sounding way too pleased with himself. “You’re so touchy.”

You heard him reach up and fumble for the pull chain. A second later the single bare bulb clicked on overhead with a static buzz. Weak yellow light flooded the cramped closet, throwing long shadows across the hanging coats and stacked boxes.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to see.

You’d been seeing Jeff all night, but now in the close proximity, it was impossible not to notice all the distinct details about him.

Jeff stood barely a foot away, his longer black hair messy and sticking to his face in some places from sweat. The cut on his lip was still raw and glistening a little, but his grin was as wide and cocky as ever, the carved corners pulling tight around the dimples of his cheeks. His pale eyes were locked onto yours, those pupils bright with that wild, erratic energy that always seemed to simmer just under his skin and pop out at the worst moments. 

He was wearing his zip up hoodie, because when wasn’t he? The thing was littered with stains and tears in the sewing, but it fit him perfectly—in size and personality. What was new was the thick belt that hung low on his hip over his dark wash jeans, something you’d see in 2000’s emo culture and probably think was cool if this idiot wasn’t wearing it. But paired with his thick, black combat boots and black painted fingernails, Jeff looked just the part of some stupid emo boy with an ego much too big for his lean stature. 

The muffled music pulsed through the walls like a distant heartbeat. Outside, the others were probably already timing this, laughing or bickering or placing bets. In here, though, it felt strangely separate—like the rest of the mansion had faded away and it was just the two of you in this dusty, too-small space.

Jeff leaned one shoulder against the stack of boxes. He hauled the vodka bottle out from under his arm, brought it to his mouth, and took a quick, messy swallow. A drop escaped the corner of his split lip and slid down his chin before he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

He was trying so hard to look casual—his stature, his face, even the way he was trying to slow his breathing and even his tone—but you could see right through it. His fingers were gripping the bottle a little too tight, his breathing was just a touch too fast. The big, loud Jeff everyone knew was cranked up to eleven right now, all ego and swagger, because the second that mask slipped even an inch you’d see how nervous he actually was and he’d probably have to kill you for it.

He lowered the bottle and grinned at you.

“So,” he said, “we gonna stand here like idiots the whole time, or you finally gonna admit you’ve been waiting for a chance to get me alone?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “You rehearse that in the mirror?”

He laughed, but it came out a little too loud. “C’mon, don’t act all shy now. I saw the way you were looking at me earlier when you were playing nurse with that beer bottle. Bet you liked having your hands on me.”

“God, you’re full of shit,” you muttered, shifting your weight. The coats behind you brushed against your back. “You’re nervous as hell and it’s showing.”

Jeff’s grin faltered for half a second before he forced it wider. “Nervous? Please. You were about to break down on your way in here.” He took another swig from the bottle, then pointed it at you. “You’re the one who’s all stiff. What’s the matter? Scared I’m gonna do something you might actually like?”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a short laugh. “You know what’s funny? You talk so much shit, but the second the door closed you started chugging that vodka like it’s liquid courage. How many swigs is that now? Three?”

That one nicked him.

Jeff’s expression darkened fast. The cocky mask cracked, and the mean slipped out before he could stop it. “Fuck you,” he scowled. “At least I’m not some stuck-up little bitch pretending I’m too good for the rest of us. If you didn’t want to be in here you could’ve just started cleaning like the prude you are.”

The words hung heavy in the tight space.

You lifted your chin and looked him dead in the eye. “There it is. There’s the real Jeff. Can’t keep the asshole act up for more than two minutes without showing how insecure you are, huh?”

He just stared at you, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek with irritation.

You softened your tone just enough to tease. “It’s kinda cute, actually. Big bad Jeff Woods getting all nervous because he’s stuck in a closet with me.”

You really need to learn to not antagonize him.

Jeff shoved the vodka bottle onto a shelf beside him with a clatter and grabbed the front of your shirt, hauling you forward so suddenly you stumbled right into him. Your chest bumped his, your faces inches apart. You could smell the sharp bite of vodka on his breath.

“Try again,” he muttered, his eyes bright and wild as he huffed.

You didn’t pull away. Instead you wrinkled your nose and gave him a smile. “You reek.”

Jeff blinked a couple times. The mean edge melted off as quickly as it had come, replaced by that familiar smile. He held you there for a second longer, then reached past you with his free hand, grabbed the bottle, and took another long drink without breaking eye contact.

“Like I said—” you started, about to tear him up further.

But while he still had a fistful of your shirt, he tugged you forward just one more inch, close enough that your knees bumped his. Without warning, he lifted the bottle toward your lips.

You shook your head fast, wrinkling your nose. “No way. You and Ben probably pissed in that thing.”

Jeff’s grin sharpened. He let go of your shirt only to slide his hand up and grab your jaw instead, his fingers pressing into your cheeks with just enough force to force your mouth open. His grip was rough, his thumb digging into the soft spot under your chin and making you feel like a fish.

“Quit being a fucking baby,” he muttered, staring directly at your lips. “You’re way too anxious right now. This’ll loosen you up, make you all docile and sweet for me instead of this ego you’ve got going on.”

You stared straight into his pale eyes, trying to read for any ulterior motive or sick joke. For a second neither of you moved. Then you tilted your head back just slightly, giving in and letting your lips part wider.

Jeff’s smile widened with satisfaction. He tipped the bottle and poured the vodka straight into your mouth. The liquor was awful—burning hot and tasting like paint thinner and acid. It scorched down your throat in cheap, fiery gulps. His fingers stayed on your jaw the whole time, brushing along your skin as you swallowed, keeping your mouth open until he decided you’d had enough.

It took you hitting him on the chest before he snapped out of it.

When he finally pulled the bottle away, he was smiling—genuinely this time, the carved lines of his mouth pulling tight around gleaming teeth. He let go of your jaw and used the pad of his thumb to wipe the stray drops from your lower lip.

“There we go,” he murmured, mocking a pouty face. “Not so tense anymore, huh?”

The burn lingered in your chest and stomach, spreading warm and fuzzy through your limbs. The single bulb overhead made everything feel hazy and too bright at the same time. Jeff was still right there, inches away, one hand loosely resting on your shoulder now that he’d released your jaw. His breathing had evened out a little, but that nervous energy was still humming under his skin—you could feel it in the way his fingers flexed against you.

A small cough escaped you, eyes watering slightly as the heat spread through your chest and stomach through to your fingertips.

It hit you then—you hadn’t been keeping track of time at all. How long had you been in here? Three minutes? Four? Longer? The muffled music made it impossible to guess, and the warm buzz from the vodka that was starting in your head wasn’t helping.

While you were busy trying to calculate, Jeff’s thumb slowly swiped across the side of your neck, pressing lightly against your racing pulse. The touch snapped you back to the present. You locked eyes with him again.

He was staring at your neck, his gaze heavy and fixated, like he was listening to the blood rushing under your skin. The single bulb made the shadows under his eyes deeper, made his skin look even more rough, but you could still see the flush creeping up his pale cheeks. He felt warm too—too warm for it to just be the alcohol.

Your hand was still resting on his chest from earlier. Without thinking, you pushed him back just a little, enough to create a sliver of space between you.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice quieter than you expected.

Jeff didn’t move his hand. He just blinked slowly, that cocky mask flickering.

“Nothing,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Liar.”

He let out a short laugh. The mean edge from earlier was gone, replaced by something almost boyish and nervous underneath all the asshole. For a moment the two of you just looked at each other—really looked—his pale eyes locked on yours, his face an unfamiliar expression of calm.

“You’re being weird,” you finally said, the words coming out softer than they should have.

Jeff’s grin returned, small and crooked. “But you’re not stopping me.”

The air between you felt thicker now, warmer. Your gaze dropped to his mouth for a second, noting where his lips split off into jagged openings in his cheeks, before flicking back up to his eyes. He did the same, his eyes tracing your lips, then back to your eyes, then down again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

He leaned in just a fraction, not enough to close the distance, but enough that you could feel his breath against your skin when he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Tell me to stop then.”

You couldn’t.

Or maybe you just didn’t want to.

The distinction blurred somewhere between the burn of the cheap vodka and the way Jeff’s thumb kept stroking slow circles over your pulse like he was memorizing it.

Fuck it. It wasn’t the alcohol.

You were turned on as hell, heat pooling low in your stomach, making your breath come shorter and your awareness grow weaker.

Your fingers curled tight into the front of his hoodie, gripping the fabric to keep you steady. Jeff’s eyes flicked down to your mouth one last time. Then he reached over and set the vodka bottle on the shelf without ever taking his eyes off of yours.

For half a second you just looked at each other, finalizing your mind.

Then it snapped.

Jeff’s hands came up fast, one sliding to the back of your neck, the other wrapping around your waist. He pushed you back until your shoulders hit the wall behind you, the coats rustling loudly in the cramped space. The impact was urgent. His body followed immediately, pressing flush against yours.

His mouth found your neck first.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses dragged up the side of your throat, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. He sucked at your pulse, then higher, until his lips finally crashed into yours.

The kiss was hungry, messy, and desperate from the start.

Jeff kissed like he fought, all teeth and tongue and no holding back. His lips snagged hard against yours, his hand pushing your head further against his to kiss you deeper. You kissed him back just as hard, one hand still fisted in his hoodie while the other slid up to grip the back of his neck, your fingers threading into his messy black hair.

He made a low, hungry sound against your mouth, almost like laughing, like he couldn’t believe you were actually letting him do this. His hips pressed closer, pinning you more firmly to the wall as one of his hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, his palm flaring hot against the skin of your lower back.

Jeff pulled back just enough to grin against your mouth. “You’re a terrible kisser.”

You laughed into the next kiss, nipping at his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss. “Sorry. You’ve just got such a loud mouth, it’s hard to work with.”

He growled, but it turned into a low chuckle as he kissed you harder, his tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to shut you up. “Shut the hell up. It’s hard to kiss you if you keep bitchin’ at me.”

“Can’t help it,” you shot back, biting his lip again, “you’re so fucking annoying. It’s unfair.”

“Annoying? That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He laughed darkly, pressing you tighter to the wall, one hand sliding up your side. “Keep talking dirty to me.”

The hypocrisy hit you hard even as you kept kissing him—how the two of you spent half your time aggravating each other, throwing insults like punches, making everyone else roll their eyes… but the second the door closed and it was just the two of you, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. It was stupid. It was juvenile. And right now you didn’t care.

Jeff’s hand crept higher under your shirt, fingers brushing the edge of your bra, clearly trying to push further.

You shoved him back with both hands, laughing as he stumbled into the opposite wall of coats and boxes. He caught himself, panting, his chest heaving under that stained white hoodie.

You were laughing too now, a little more tipsy than before, the vodka making everything feel funnier than it really was. You covered your face with both hands, cringing at yourself. “Oh my god, what the fuck are we doing?”

Jeff didn’t let you hide for long.

He closed the space again in one step, peeling your hands away from your face. His grip was surprisingly careful as he looked you straight in the eyes, his wide-eyed gaze intense for how close you were. For a moment you just stared at each other.

Then he took your wrists and slowly guided your arms up, draping them around his shoulders. His hands dropped to your hips, his fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against him again.

“Stop thinking so much,” he murmured, his voice rough as he spoke, his forehead almost resting against yours. “We’ve got like three minutes left. Don’t waste ‘em.”

He leaned in slowly this time, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

You kissed him again. And again. Again. Your arms stayed looped around his neck, your fingers playing with the messy hair at his nape. Jeff’s hands rested heavy on your hips, his thumbs brushing lazy circles onto your hip bones.

But, with all the reassurance Jeff had just given you on time, came swooping away the minute you heard loud, sudden yelling from down the hall.

He always had been very unreliable.

“Time’s up, lovebirds!”

The door handle rattled violently. Before either of you could react properly, the closet door was yanked open, flooding the small space with brighter light from the hallway.

You and Jeff shoved apart at the same time, stumbling back into opposite walls in a scurry. Your face burned, so you knew Jeff was probably panicking himself.

Nina and Ben were crammed in the doorway and laughing their asses off.

“Oh my god!” Nina howled, doubling over. “Look at your faces!”

Ben was practically crying with laughter, one hand clutching the doorframe. “Holy shit, you two look like you just got caught stealing. Jeff’s all red—wait—Jeff’s embarrassed!”

Jeff snarled and lunged forward, shoving Ben hard enough to slam him into the opposite hallway wall. “Fuck off!”

Ben just cackled harder, bouncing back like it didn’t even hurt. Nina darted in and threw an arm around your shoulders, hugging you sideways while whooping right in your ear.

“Finally! I knew it! You’ve been flirting alllllll night.”

You were mortified, trying to shrug her off while your cheeks stayed on fire. “Nina—shut up—”

“No way! You’ve got lipstick—wait, no, your lips are just swollen. Even better!”

Jeff was still grumbling and shoving at Ben as the two of them half-wrestled down the hallway. Nina kept her arm locked around you, dragging you along while teasing nonstop.

“Bet you didn’t even make it the full seven minutes. Did he try the whole ‘I’m just gonna be really mean and hope you can tell I’m flirting’ thing?”

By the time you all spilled back into the living room, the embarrassment was in full bloom. The group had already moved on without you. Someone had cleared a decent patch of table space, and now they were all sitting in a loose circle playing cards. Nat was clearly winning—her pile of chips (or whatever random junk they were betting with) was massive, and she had the smuggest little smirk on her face, her legs lazily kicked over Toby’s lap.

Toby looked up first and let out a loud, stuttering laugh. “There th-they are! How was h-he-heaven?”

You cringed.

Tim and Brian both glanced over. Tim’s expression was unreadable. Brian just raised an eyebrow, but you could tell he was fighting a smile.

You dropped down into an open spot on the floor, trying to act normal. Jeff flung himself into the seat directly across from you, sprawling his legs out. He was still breathing a little hard, but the second he sat down his eyes locked onto you.

And he wouldn’t stop staring.

Every time you looked up from your cards that were shoved into your hand, his pale gaze was waiting. He kept licking the split in his lip like he could still taste you there. When Nina leaned over to whisper something filthy in your ear, Jeff’s grin only widened, like he knew exactly what she was saying.

The next round started almost immediately.

Someone slapped the (now empty) beer bottle back onto the coffee table. Toby gave it a lazy spin with two fingers. It twirled fast, then slowed, finally landing on Nina.

Toby’s head jerked up. “Oh hell—”

Nina let out a delighted squeal and grabbed his hand, already dragging him toward the hallway closet. “C’mon, pretty boy!”

The rest of the group whooped and catcalled as the closet door slammed shut behind them. Within seconds everyone had shifted back into the card game like nothing had happened, chips (and random stolen trinkets) clacking as Nat still smugly raked in her winnings.

You, however, were still riding the warm, fuzzy buzz from the vodka and everything moments ago. Your face felt too hot, your lips still tingled, and every time you glanced up, Jeff was staring at you from across the circle with that same hungry, cocky look.

You needed air. Or water. Or anything that wasn’t this room and all of these people who definitely looked like they knew exactly what happened.

You cleared your throat and stood up. “I’m gonna grab a snack real quick. Anyone want anything?”

A couple vague murmurs answered you, but no one really paid attention. You slipped out of the living room and hurried down the hall toward the kitchen, your heart still beating a little too fast.

The kitchen was quieter, the mess from earlier still everywhere but at least the lights were dimmer. You went straight to the sink, grabbed a clean-ish glass, and started filling it with water, trying to cool down.

Not even two minutes later, you heard the soft scuff of boots behind you.

Jeff slunk around the corner with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, that nasty crooked grin already in place. He leaned one hip against the island counter, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Well, well,” he drawled, keeping his voice low enough that the music from the other room drowned him out to anyone but you. “Escaping? Thought we were having fun back there.”

You kept your back to him for a second, taking a sip of water to steady yourself. The cheap vodka still burned pleasantly in your stomach, making everything feel loose and warm, but also clouding your judgement.

Jeff pushed off the counter and wandered closer, stopping just behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him again.

“You gonna pretend that didn’t happen?” he asked, tilting his head. His fingers brushed the small of your back, making your skin prickle pleasantly. “Because I sure as hell ain’t.”

He paused, then added with a chuckle, “Your lips are still red.”

You turned around to face him, arms crossing tight over your chest as you tried to look unimpressed.

“Shut up, Jeff.”

He didn’t. Because when does he ever?

He stepped closer, crowding you against the counter without actually touching you yet.

“Aww, c’mon. Don’t get all shy on me now,” he teased. “You were pretty eager earlier. Hell, you were gripping my hoodie so hard I thought you were gonna rip it off me.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to deflect even as your face heated up again. “It was the vodka.”

“Bullshit,” he shot back, leaning in so his face was only inches from yours. “Vodka didn’t make you shove your tongue down my throat. That was all you, sweetheart.”

He lifted one hand slowly, cupping the side of your jaw with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, and damn it—you melted. Your arms uncrossed on their own as you stared up at him, caught in those pale, wild eyes. The cocky mask was still there, but underneath it you could see the nervous flicker, the way he was trying so hard to keep control of this moment.

Jeff’s smile softened into something greedier. He tilted his head and started leaning in for another kiss.

You stopped him with a hand flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart under your palm.

“Not here,” you whispered.

He paused, his lips hovering just above yours. “Nobody’s gonna see,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “They’re all busy with their other shit. Toby and Nina are probably already going at it. No one’s paying attention.”

You glanced over his shoulder, checking the hallway. It was empty. The living room was completely out of view from this angle, but you could hear just muffled laughter and the occasional clack of cards drifting down the hall. No one was coming.

That was all the confirmation you needed.

You fisted the front of his hoodie and yanked him forward, crashing your mouth against his in a rough, hungry kiss. Jeff made a surprised sound that quickly turned into a groan as he kissed you back just as hard.

He pushed you backward until your lower back hit the edge of the counter. One of his hands braced on the countertop beside you while the other slid to your waist, gripping tight and pulling your hips flush against his. 

Jeff broke the kiss just long enough to mutter against your lips, “That’s more like it.”

Your fingers tangled tighter into his messy black hair, gripping the strands as you kissed him harder. Jeff made a low, appreciative sound against your mouth, but he clearly wasn’t satisfied with just kissing anymore.

His hands started roaming, sliding up your sides, mapping your waist, your ribs, your back. The touches made your head spin, heat rushing through you in waves, making you plain dizzy.

Then his hands settled on your ribs, his thumbs stroking upward.

…Until they brushed the underside of your chest.

You gasped sharply into his mouth.

Jeff froze, his breaths coming fast and hot against your lips. For a second you both stayed perfectly still, your hearts hammering in cadence.

Then, carefully, he swiped his thumbs again, higher this time.

A louder gasp slipped out of you.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his pale eyes dark and looming under the dim kitchen light. Your cheeks were burning red, and you could feel the flush spreading down your neck.

Jeff didn’t say anything. He just watched you for a heartbeat, then slowly slid his hands higher until he was palming your tits fully, his thumbs brushing over your nipples through your shirt.

You groaned, eyes squeezing shut from pure embarrassment even as your body arched into his touch.

“Fuck…” you breathed through with a shaky voice.

Jeff leaned in again, his lips finding the side of your neck. He kissed there first, then started sucking gently, his teeth nipping just enough to make you shiver. All the while his hands kept working, squeezing and palming your chest with that same hungry confidence, his thumbs circling slowly over your nipples.

His mouth moved higher, sucking a mark right below your ear as he pressed his body closer, his hips pinning you firmly against the counter.

You could feel him through his ugly jeans.

“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he muttered against your skin, voice all smug and giddy, but there was that nervous edge underneath it, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were letting him do this. “Look at you… you’re so red.”

His eyes roamed over you.

“And your neck too—all the way down.” He hooked a finger into the collar of your shirt and tugged it to the side, exposing more of your shoulder. “Shit, even your shoulders are flushed.”

He let out a chuckle, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

“I wonder how far down it goes…”

Before you could answer, Jeff shifted his weight and slid one leg between yours, pressing his thigh firmly up against your center. The sudden pressure made you hiss sharply, your hips twitching forward on instinct.

“Jeff—” you hissed, “be quiet—”

He smiled against your neck, that crooked grin pressed to your skin as he rocked his thigh slowly, giving you just enough friction to make your head spin.

“Why?” he whispered, clearly delighted with himself. “You embarrassed? Or are you just worried everyone’s gonna hear how pretty you sound when you’re turned on?”

You were aching now, heat pooling heavy between your legs, the cheap vodka and the adrenaline making everything feel too intense. Your fingers tightened in his hair as you tried to catch your breath.

“We should just go to my room,” you managed, your voice a lot shakier than you’d like. “Right now.”

Jeff pulled back slightly so he could look at you again, still grinding his thigh against you. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide.

“No can do, sweetheart,” he said. “To get to the stairs we’d have to walk right past the living room. They’d all see us. They’d know exactly where we’re going… and exactly what we’re about to do.”

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he added, almost sweetly,

“And I don’t think you want them hearing you when I finally get my hands on you, do you?”

His thigh pressed up harder and you had to sink your teeth into your lip to stop from whining.

You shook your head in response, your fingers gripping his arm tight and your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.

Jeff’s hands slid down your waist slowly until his fingers reached the button of your jeans. Your breath caught sharply as he popped it open with a bit of fiddling, then dragged the zipper down. The sound felt way too loud in the muffled thump of music only one room away.

“You’ll have to be quiet,” he murmured against your ear. “Think you can manage that?”

Your eyes kept darting between his gaze and his hand as it slipped inside your jeans. Your pulse was thudding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Every few seconds your gaze darted nervously toward the hallway, half-expecting someone to walk in any second.

Nobody came.

You looked back at him, your breath shaky. “Hurry up.”

He snapped your jeans open wider and shoved his hand straight into your panties. At the same time, he crowded you backward into the corner of the island, using his body to block any view from the hallway. His chest pressed against your shoulder, shielding you completely.

He kissed your cheek, almost sweetly, right as his fingers pushed past the fabric and slid between your ridiculously soaked folds.

You both groaned at the same time.

“Fuck…” Jeff breathed, his forehead dropping against your temple. His voice was strained, almost reverent. “You’re so fucking wet already.”

His fingers moved slowly at first, gliding through the slick heat, exploring this uncharted territory. Your legs spread wider on instinct to give him more room, one knee bumping the cabinet beside you. You gripped the front of his hoodie with both hands, white-knuckling it trying to stay upright as pleasure shot through you.

Jeff’s free hand came around your back, holding you steady against him while two fingers eventually found and circled your clit, then dipped lower, teasing your entrance before sliding back up again. He kept his face close to yours, occasionally pressing open-mouthed kisses to your cheek and jaw.

“Quiet,” he reminded you in a whisper, even though he was the one letting out soft, ragged sounds every time his fingers moved through your wetness. “Don’t want the whole house hearing how good I’m making you feel, do you? Especially not Timothy.”

You glared at him, which only received an amused smile in return.

His fingers pressed more firmly, rubbing slow, hard circles right where it made your eyes begin to roll, making your hips twitch forward into his touch.

You buried your face in his shoulder, biting down on the fabric of his hoodie to muffle the sounds threatening to spill out. 

“Shit… that’s it,” he whispered into your ear. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

His fingers slid away from your clit, trailing down until they pressed against your entrance. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

You gasped as he slowly pushed one finger inside you, the stretch sudden and foreign. Your eyes fluttered shut on instinct.

“Open them,” he murmured, almost anxiously. “Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his as he carefully added a second finger. The feeling made your breath hitch, your hips rolling forward into his hand.

Jeff started pumping them slowly at first, deep and slow, letting you feel every inch as he worked you open. The wet, slick sound of his fingers moving inside you was barely masked by the distant noise from the living room.

You could hear yelling and laughter echoing down the hall—probably Nina and Toby about to finish up their turn in the closet. Any minute now someone could come looking for snacks or wonder where the two of you had disappeared to. The thought sent a sharp thrill through you, making everything feel so risky.

But god, it felt so fucking good.

Jeff curled his fingers just right, pressing against your warm insides and making your knees weak and buckle in a little. You gasped sharply, and he immediately leaned in, licking into your mouth to swallow the whine that tried to escape. He kissed you quickly, drinking down every soft moan and broken sound as he fucked you with his fingers, the heel of his palm doing wonders as it pressed against your clit.

“You’re gonna have to tell me when you’re close,” he huffed, his fingers never slowing. “Because I’m not stopping until you’re cumming all over my fingers. Got it?”

You managed a shaky “Yeah,” barely more than a whisper.

Jeff’s lips curled into a grin against your cheek. “Good girl,” he murmured. “You’re so fucking wet… it’s dripping all over my hand.”

“It feels so good,” you breathed, your hips rolling into his hand before you could stop yourself. “We shouldn’t be doing this—”

“Then why aren’t you stopping me?” he shot back, but his fingers never lost their rhythm. He curled them again, pressing perfectly until your voice came out shrill and broken. He watched your face the whole time with his eyes narrowed and focused, reading every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your mouth, every sharp little inhale.

He was being such an ass with his words, but his hands were careful. Precise. He adjusted the angle slightly, slowing when you tensed, speeding up when your thighs started to tremble. He was completely tuned into you, hunting down every reaction like it was a game he refused to lose.

You always forget just how smart Jeff is. Not in academics or anything futile like that, hell no. But his ability to read and react to situations? That’s where he thrives.

You wanted to laugh at him, but he began to add another finger into the mix, pushing it up until his knuckle caught on your tight entrance, stretching you so good.

You couldn’t think straight anymore.

Your hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, until your fingers reached his belt. You worked it open with clumsy, hurried tugs. Only when the buckle rattled did Jeff notice.

“Fuck—” he swore under his breath, his head snapping toward the hallway for half a second. When no one appeared, he crowded you even tighter into the corner of the island until you nearly had to lean back onto it to keep your balance. His free hand quickly helped you, popping the button on his jeans and shoving the zipper down just enough.

You reached into his boxers and wrapped your fingers around him, pulling him out into the cool kitchen air. 

Jeff is so lanky, you should’ve guessed his dick would be the same. He was so hard already, twitching in your hand and sending shocks through you in time with his fingers. Precum dribbled at the tip, smearing down onto your knuckles as you slid your grip to his tip.

Jeff let out a groan, his forehead dropping against yours as your hand gave him one stroke over his flushed head.

“Shit… careful,” he hissed, but there was no real protest in it. “I don’t think I’m… I’m not gonna last…”

You smiled, “One pump chump—fuck—,” but your teasing was cut short by his quick fingers.

His breathing was ragged now, his hips twitching forward into your grip even as he tried to stay focused on you. He kissed you again, but it was more of the two of you panting against each other’s lips.

You pumped him faster, your hand sliding up and down his cock with shaky, unsure strokes. You weren’t even sure if you were doing it right, but Jeff didn’t seem to care. He buried his face into the crook of your neck with a moan, his hot breath fanning across your skin.

His free arm wrapped around your hips from behind, pulling you snug against him sideways so the flushed tip of his cock pressed right under your bellybutton, smearing pre-cum against your skin with every twitch of his hips.

You were both moving frantically now, your hand working him quickly while his fingers pumped deep inside you, curling against your gummy insides and pooling slick into your panties.

Then the yelling started from the living room.

“Nina! Toby! Time’s up, you horny fucks!”

Laughter erupted, followed by Nina’s loud, giggling protest and Toby’s stuttering laugh as they were dragged out of the closet.

The sound hit you both with sudden urgency.

You both groaned at the same time and sped up, causing you both to be even messier than before. Jeff’s fingers fucked into you faster, lewd wet sounds barely muffled by your bodies pressed together. Your hand stroked him harder, your thumb swiping over the slick head on every upstroke.

“Fuck, you’re so wet… you’re gripping me so tight, sweetheart. Gonna cum all over my hand while everyone’s twenty feet away? Want them all to hear how good you feel?”

You whined.

“Fuck— just imagine if it was my dick instead. Imagine how good it’d feel. How deep I could get.”

The words overwhelmed you. Your thighs started shaking.

“I’m— I’m gonna cum,” you whined louder.

“Yeah?” Jeff growled, his lips brushing your ear. “Come on, baby. I’ve got you, let me feel you..”

That was it.

Your eyes rolled back, a broken moan catching in your throat as your orgasm crashed through you. Your walls clenched tightly around his fingers, your walls pulsing rapidly around his knuckles and sucking him in impossibly deeper.

At the same moment your hand gripped his cock like a vice, stroking him through it.

“Fuck— fuck—” Jeff cursed sharply, his hips jerking forward frantically.

He came instantly, thick ropes of cum spilling over your fingers and onto your lower stomach in hot, roped pulses. He buried his face deeper into your neck to muffle the groan he couldn’t contain, his body shuddering against yours as he rode it out, grinding his cock into your hand while his fingers kept lazily pumping inside you, drawing out every last aftershock he could milk.

For a few long seconds you both just panted against each other, feeling how the other’s bodies trembled and hearts hammered.

For a few long seconds you both just panted against each other, bodies trembling, hearts hammering so hard you could feel his pulse where your chest pressed against his.

Then—rapid footsteps coming down the hallway.

Jeff reacted instantly. He yanked his hand out of your pants, shoved his hoodie down roughly to cover his still-open jeans, and spun around to step fully in front of you, using his body to block any view of your undone jeans and the cum streaking your lower stomach and shirt.

Ben turned the corner a second later, heading straight for the ashtray he’d left on the far counter earlier. He grabbed it, then glanced over at the two of you.

The kitchen went dead quiet.

“Jeff,” Ben said flatly, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

“Ben,” Jeff replied, his voice thrumming with that fake menace he always used when he was trying to look tough.

Ben’s gaze flicked between the two of you once more, then he gave a single, knowing nod and scurried back toward the living room without another word, weed ashtray clutched in his hands.

The second Ben disappeared around the corner, Jeff’s shoulders sagged just a fraction. Pure anxiety flashed across his face for a split second before he covered it up with a sharp, menacing scowl that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He turned back to you, looking you up and down slowly. A short laugh escaped him.

“Shit… you look like a fucking mess.”

You smacked his chest hard. “Asshole.”

Jeff just grinned wider, those split cheeks pulling tight. He reached over, grabbed a wad of paper towels from the roll on the counter, and started wiping you down. He cleaned the streaks of cum off your stomach and shirt first, then wiped his own mess from your fingers you had clutched behind your back from Ben. After that he quickly cleaned his own hand and tucked himself back into his boxers, fixing his belt and jeans with a few quick motions.

You were still buttoning your own jeans when he gave you one more slow once-over, satisfied with how disheveled he’d left you.

“I know a way up the tree out back,” he said casually, shrugging his shoulders. “Climbs straight to my window. I use it sometimes to sneak past Tim and Brian when they’re being assholes.”

You hit him again, harder this time. “You’re such an asshole. We could’ve gone up there this whole time?”

Jeff caught your wrist mid-swing. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” He leaned in closer, dropping his tone. “I liked sneaking around. Besides… it was hot as hell watching you try to act like you didn’t want me. Had to get you as soon as I could.”

He pressed one last quick, messy kiss to your lips, still tasting like smoke and vodka, before pulling back with a wink.

“C’mon. I wanna see what you can really do with those hands.”

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ prologue

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2026, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[mlemiie]

One Piece Men + reacting to messingup!reader sequel (short fics)

⤷ pt 1 જ⁀➴ ♡

- ❝ requested follow up to messingup!reader. I recommend reading part one (no seriously I do, it doesn't make sense otherwise). A direct follow up to their behaviour: After witnessing their cold, cruel side at the sight of your blunder; making another mistake is the last thing you ever want to do again. How will your s/o make it up to you now?❞

˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Some nasty angst (especially Doffy's) to happy ending; SFW. Reader is she/her.

𓂃۶ৎ tw: anxious reader, self destructive themes, Doffy's fic has violence and blood. 𓂃۶ৎ wc: 2.3k per seperate fic. Doffy's fic has 4k words. (i got carried away)

₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro, (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)

❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: guys… i did it. I somehow did it. It might be a bit chopped i’m not sure but I did it. Oh my god. I deserve a whole pint of ice cream😭 I didn’t like how I handled Doffy’s fic from part one so I rewrote it, I’m still a bit unsatisfied but oh well 😞 I hope you'll @traflawgarr enjoy this sweetie MWAH MWAH <𝟑 . ❞

Rob Lucci

After that time by the hospital—when he brought you back to your bed; he had tucked himself in with you.

Brought your face close to his, palm resting on your cheek.

It was dark, and all you could feel was his heat radiating into yours, and hear his soft slow breaths.

Your body was sore, tired—exhausted after all the tears you shed, all the destructive training you’ve done on yourself. The fire in you grows small, resting, and Rob has held you close since.

He had kissed you, caressed your cheek so tenderly, so dearly, you almost believed yourself fragile.

That night, he did not say much—but his soft lips on your neck was an apology for all else, and maybe, you should feel flattered. Truly. But, even as he poured his attention onto you; you feel nothing, but an aching void in your chest.

One derived from fear that this love will be short-lived.

So when his hands travelled further down—you pushed him off.

“I’m tired Rob, can we just sleep?”

His head was hovering above yours, eyes quiet. He nods, slowly.

“If that’s what you want.” He says, voice unusually quiet, almost a hush, a sweet one.

He kissed your temples and buried his face into your neck.

Resting himself there. Taking in your scent, your warmth.

He’s longed for it. Craved it. Not because he’s sweet, but because it’s a need, a primal one, a carnal one.

You cup his head, long dark hair slithering between your fingers with your other palm above his shoulder blade, as you stared up the ceiling.

Will this last even when you mess up again? Would he still share his warmth with you even when you slip and embarrass yourself again?

…

Probably not.

Your heart breaks a little at the thought of that.

Lately — you’ve noticed Rob moving slower with you, during briefings or missions, his knuckles would graze yours. Not much, not heavy. But his touch is there, faint, almost a bit ticklish.

And when you pass by the halls, Rob gives you a nod. For a man so against the idea of public affection—that was a kiss and a hug and a marriage proposal all in one in his book.

You should reply with a smile, should blush and hold in a giggle—but lately, there is an aching in your chest that does not leave you.

You cannot look at him without being reminded of his cold, jarring, silence.

The one that made you beg, that made you plead and cry.

Gods.

You didn’t know you could get that pathetic for a man before but here you are—feeling such immense sense of doom that you’ll have to break and shatter again for him to love you, care for you.

You’ll get hurt again, you’ll mess up again, and when that happens, will Rob scowl at you? Give you silence and distance once again? You don’t even want to imagine it; you don’t have the heart to.

And when your body finally healed and you are allowed back to your duties?—you turn frantic.

When Rob wasn’t looking you still vanish behind the training halls, you still skip your meals and rise two hours earlier just to train a little more. It was only the fourth day when he clasped over your wrist, pinning you down with one hard look.

“Hey.”

You stiffen.

“You just recovered. Discipline is an indisputable feat but you’re being just as reckless as before. Don’t be foolish.”

You don’t meet his gaze, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

Rob pulls his brows; do better? What. That’s not what he’s asking from you.

“That’s not what I meant. Don’t overwork yourself, you’ll be useless all torn up again—” The word useless makes your stomach sink, and you snatch your wrist back. Still not meeting his eyes.

“Right. Yes. Of course. Don’t worry, I won’t be a burden.”

A muscle of his face twitches. Tilting his head. “That’s not what I—”

“Hey, lovebirds!” Kaku calls from the distance and you snap your gaze to him. Rob never once stops looking at you, trying to find the hidden makings of your heart. To see what you feel, to hear what you think—but he finds nothing but a rigid smile and even stiffer eyes.

“Did you guys hear? Jabra managed to bribe Blueno to shave his moustache.” Kaku runs up to both of you and you immediately gorge your attention onto him. Wanting to get away from Rob’s confrontation ASAP.

“Really?” You start walking off with Kaku.

The chatter of your conversation fades away as Rob observes and scans your face of every single lie in your emotions and reactions.

Something is not right, and he can’t pinpoint what.

And Rob Lucci hates that you make him feel like a helpless schoolboy fretting over his crush about it.

You used to be so decisive, confident in your decisions but now…

You review your assigned documents over and over again, even when they hold no true value.

You jitter from place to place, taking up tasks that hardly is a one-man-job and yet, whenever your friends extend their help—you slap their hand away. And reassure you can do this yourself.

And what’s worse? As you spiral between despair and fear—Rob takes his distance.

Not silence, not absence but he only watches you. Observes your panic, your spiralling.

He should chase you, grab you by the shoulders and make you confess by lethal means and yet—you’re shaken. Your hands are trembling, your eyes are darting and your face grows bleaker, tenser.

A part of him repulses from it.

It’s imprudent, it’s pathetic—it’s weak.

And he hates that look on you.

You’re wise, accomplished—strong.

Not this. Not whatever that has possessed you and he can’t stand seeing it.

And you? You take his distance as rejection.

You’re doing it again, you’re messing up. So you put more effort, harder work and even lesser sleep. And at last when you start to avoid and move out his touch—Rob won’t stop and watch as you finally crack.

Not this time.

And not any time again.

Before you get the chance to leave for the training halls, he sits you down. And fixes coffee for you.

It’s quiet between you two. lately, you don’t really have much you want to say to him.

What if you say something that’ll make him get annoyed of you? You cringe. When did you get this anxious over such stupid things?

Your head is low, eyes set on the table and Rob slides your coffee cup in front of you.

You look up. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his tie loose and hat off.

His face is a myriad of secrets—silent, stoic. And when his eyes meets yours, you try a smile. However rigid.

“Thank you…”

Rob nods, sitting down. Forearm resting on the table. “It’s still hot.” Is all he says and you hum, bringing the coffee closer to your lips. Blowing the steam off.

For one passing score, it’s silent between you two. Awkwardly silent.

You start pressing your lips together. You should start a conversation. Probably.

“So, how was your day at work?” You say and Rob gives you a long, long look.

“We work together.” He says flat, giving you a brow.

You suck your lips in, “Right. Yes. Of course. What a silly thing to ask.”

You go to sip your coffee to avoid this awkward tension between you two but you catch your breath when Rob’s hand slides closer towards you on the table.

“You’re worried.”

You freeze, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“You haven’t been eating a lot, and you sneak away at night to train. You even ignore Hattori.” His hand eventually places over yours. Compared to yours, he’s large, calloused and this gesture of him is outmost foreign.

Rob is restrained, cold and indifferent and yet… his hand clasps over yours.

“You’re mine, and I don’t toss that title around like trash.” His hold tightens, not hard, not cruel but locked. Fixed. “So. Don’t treat yourself as such.”

You stare, and you stare, and you keep staring.

That was Rob’s version of ‘Please don’t hurt yourself; it’s breaking me to see you like this.’

Your mouth moves but nothing comes out.

What is there to say? What is there to point out? Rob is perfect—strong, disciplined and ruthless. He’s rational, logical whilst you’re a broken mess.

What makes you think you can even ask for more than just hope? More than just self-made facades and softer skin wearing falser armour?

But when you set the cup down, the weariness from the training, the grogginess from stolen sleep and fatigue of skipped meals, makes your hands shake. Trembling, jittery and everything a coward in hiding could possibly possess—making you accidentally knock your cup down, and you flinch.

The coffee spills across the table.

Deep, dark brown—staining the light ivory of his shirt.

Still hot, still burning and you fly up your seat.

Grasping towards the tissues as you lunge your hands towards him.

“Rob, nonono no,” Everything starts becoming blurry, your mind, your vision—even your voice grows disoriented. Nothing makes sense anymore. "No, I’m so sorry—"

All you can see, feel, are the tissues dabbing down his shirt. Panic and fear seizing you all at once and noise is starting to fill your mind—white, hot, spiralling and it only stops when Rob seizes your wrist.

Hard. Firm.

You catch your breath. Holding, even when your lungs begs for air.

He says your name, lowly, coolly. “That’s enough. That’s…” his hold on you becomes squeezing and you wince. His voice restrained, awfully so. As if it takes everything in him not to snap and shout at you to behave. To gather yourself and pick yourself up. And he would have, had it been anyone but you.

“Just… stop.”

And you cover your mouth with your hand.

He’ll discard you now.

This pathetic show of resolution, this sorry excuse of fixing your wrong.

It’s humiliating—you’re humiliating.

“Rob.” Your eyes stings, and your throat squeezes.

Your mind begs that you won’t show such weakness on open display, your heart denying any sense of reason and yet you grasp for it anyways. “Let me— let me fix this—”

“Fix what?” His tone is sharp, dominating and you become cold.

He's right. What is there to fix? You messed up and you don’t deserve second chances, or that is at least what you think he means.

He let’s go of your wrist, sighing inwardly.

“There’s nothing to fix. It’s just a shirt, so quit that annoying—” He bites down his tongue; He shouldn’t use that word, nor that tone on you, so he clicks his tongue. Starting over. “—I mean. Quit apologising.”

You blink, withdrawing your hand from his shirt. Your brows pull, breath shuddering.

You’re not anyone great or anyone special—you’re just… you.

That’s it. That’s all.

And it makes you feel misplaced.

Does someone like you even deserve to stand next to him?

You shift your head, “Do I not embarrass you? You can be honest. I can take it—”

“No.” His voice is flat. No question, no hesitation. “You don’t.”

“… Not even if I mess up again? And the papers makes jokes of my name?”

That’s when it clicks for him—the reason you’re fretting, stressing and quivering like prey; it’s because of him.

His reaction, his silence—his failure.

Rob Lucci is the World Government perfect killing machine—their best agent, most qualified assassin and Rob - doesn’t - fail. Not to anyone. Not even to that lousy Strawhat pirate (or so he would insist) and yet this…

Rob gets up and you straighten yourself as he grabs your face and smash his lips against you.

His kiss is claiming, pushing—leaving no room for doubt in his next coming words. “Never. I want you, I want this, so,” Rob looks down, his eyes not meeting yours.

Rob doesn’t let his guard down, never, and Rob doesn’t plead, ever, but this? This is close. Dangerously close. And the way his chest is twisting—it’s not controlled, it’s not pragmatic or precise and it’s certainly not something he can explain in his usual stoic and aloof manners that life spent prowling through glass corridors and shaped violence has given him. No.

This is unorganised, scattered, senseless—human.

And Rob is more frozen steel than warm flesh.

Or so others would insist but you’ll see something only you will ever be allowed to grace.

With you, he can allow himself to be more than just something that preys, hunts and kills.

His voice is strained, unsure—something you can only describe as vulnerable. Or at least his version of it.

“So stop this. No more doubts. I can’t stand watching it.” He grits his teeth, Rob doesn’t beg, he demands.

And that’s what he does when you still waver.

You protest and deny, he kisses you yet again.

You confess and you shake, he grips you somehow closer.

You sob and you cry, and he tugs you deeper into his hold, his kiss.

“Forgive me—” he says, low and quiet, breaking the kiss off. Nose grazing yours. “Forgive me.”

He cant say anything more. He can’t bring himself to even think clearly—all he does is hold your gaze, begging you with a frown, a scowl, sweat dripping down his cheek that this is enough.

For a machine like him; you’ve pushed him onto the edge of breaking, of malfunctioning.

When you don’t answer, when your voice gets stuck in your throat—he kisses you again. Lips smashing together, saliva and tears all mixed up as he goes deeper and deeper. Much like shattered armour—you fall. And for each possessive, bruising kiss, you let him catch you. Piece by single piece.

Summary: By that time, by those gestures—you come to realise there is nothing more to fear for. You’ve made an ice statue melt, you’ve made a machine somehow break and plead, at least, in the only language he knows. And that is enough to convince your heart that he remain true to his words. He’ll want you, even when your blunder is mentioned in the papers again. He’ll still care for you, even when you mess up and bring chaos to the mission. Still wipe your tears, still hold you close, still guide you home. That’s just the kind of cold love Rob Lucci has in store for you. And only you.

Sir Crocodile

Next day to come, you’ll find an aged bottle of wine on top of your office desk. The green bottle glistens under the draped sunlight. Luxury brand and quality beyond exquisite. With a golden ribbon wrapped on top of it.

There’s no question of who gifted you this—you’re even adorned in the new necklace he gave you; glistening pearls and a rarer diamond carved in the middle.

And you suppose, you should feel doted on, even daresay reassured. Sir Crocodile will never apologise, but this is the best apple he can give you.

Finer pearls, better wine and refilled perfume bottles and yet, even so…

You move away from his touch, avoid eye contact and bury yourself in paperwork. Your heels click between the halls as you dither from courier to courier—not stopping.

Not even for lunch, not even for rest.

You work, and you work, and you work.

Even more than your own lover.

You check the reports, only to see one number smudged by ink—and what do you do?

You redo the reports. All of them. Every paper, every line.

You double check the double check.

Your broody and gruff man looks you over one night, the tip of his hook removing a lock of hair from your cheek. “You seem anxious about something, dear.” He inclines his head, “Is everything as it should be?” His voice is rough, but there is a gentle, almost slow tone to it.

Back then—you had only given him a look, a rigid one. Lips parted but nothing but lies came out of your mouth.

You tell him you’re fine, you tell him there’s nothing to worry about and you kiss him on the lips for the sweet concern. Your voice was honey, and your touch was softer than any flower petal—so, can you blame him? For being such a puppet to your charms?

You pressed a palm on his cheek, and he takes you in.

Gentle gaze, kind eyes and softer lips.

Yes. You’re too beautiful for him to see your lies; your eyes brim with light and you’ve even started to eat again so surely, surely there is nothing more to worry about?

He hums, and leans into your touch. Believing you.

But truly, behind your sweeter words and softer tone, there is a wound festering. A nasty one, a horrible little thing. One that eats you at night, chest heavy, and eyes darting.

Nowadays you hesitate before answering him. Your hands tremble when you serve him tea, your stomach twist and sink into bottom despair before you hand him your reports and mails. A phantom has taken your being, warping you, moulding your confidence like clay—bent, wilted, toiled and broken. One that has made you flinch, jitter and stutter, forever more. It comes to break you.

The heels you’re wearing; you strut about them through the halls till your toes start to chafe and bleed, till your heel strains and aches—you flitter with your documents, stomping down the sharp pain like a puppet played on strings. There are no other choices here. You will endure—endure till you’ve been wilted down to nothing but a bleaker, duller version of yourself.

One that does not speak, or look or sway.

And every time you cross him—you don’t see your lover anymore.

Not gentle, caring and doting Crocodile but the cruel one. The cold, distrustful one. The one that flashed his hook at you and donned you disappointing, useless.

It gnaws at you, twists your gut and thus, every time he catches his gaze with yours; you look away. You avoid. You distance and you don’t speak unless spoken too.

It’s not done consciously but you’re aware of how he pulls his brows when you avoid eye contact, or how he tilts his head just a little bit higher when you move out of reach.

Call it what you want. Call it worry, affection, care and everything sweet and darling, but your heart is guarded, your walls are high and you can’t hear or see his heart bleeding for you.

You don’t see or notice how he speaks softer to you, slower tones and his smiles less sharp. You don’t know how he always wakes one hour earlier to do some work for you, you don’t see him browsing through high-end magazines so to find you better heels, ones that won’t stab you as you pace down the halls.

You don’t know any of that. No.

Because you’ve been distant lately, and you barely initiate a kiss or a hug anymore. For Sir Crocodile, it almost feels like a ghost of his lady is all that’s left. And whatever remains of that scarred, burnt heart of his—it aches. It makes him wince.

He tries to tug you back.

He’ll pull you by the waist from behind. Pecking your cheek.

“I’ve missed you.” He says, voice low, carrying a soft gravel from years of smoking. He pulls you closer by the waist, mouth near your cheek. “Let’s stay home today, just you and me, wine and candle lights—what do you say?” There is a hint of a smirk on his face and you force a smile.

You want to say yes. You do.

But will he keep doting on you, keep staying close to you—even when your work starts piling up? Even when letters and mails and received appointments are left unattended even for a day? What will he do, if you don’t make sure the numbers are correct and the calls are answered to?

Will he still be sweet to you then?

Your chin sinks. Grabbing his forearm.

Pulling away.

No. No he won’t.

You’ve seen it before after all. How quick his sweetness can run dry. Even for you.

“As much as I want to entertain your idea dear, I… I really don’t think we should procrastinate anything more.” You say, shrugging him off.

Like that, you keep pacing between halls, heels clicking, bandaged toenails soaking blood, hair going undone and the muscles of your face is tense; you’re either frowning or looking down.

Thinking, worrying, fretting.

You even stopped telling him about your day, your work, your thoughts and feelings.

You start becoming a shell of the woman you were.

Sure, he can play the fool and wonder what’s gotten into you—but Crocodile is not that dumb. Not even to your charms.

One evening, he’ll sit you down by the sofa. Your posture is rigid.

This time—he’s the one who prepared you both tea.

You always do that but now the roles are reversed, and though you should feel excited—you instead feel ashamed. Small, nasty little thoughts make it past your head — perhaps he doesn’t like the way you brew tea. Maybe you aren’t even good enough for that.

Stupid, stupid thinking. But one that makes you stare down at your thighs anyways.

He settles down next to you at last, sighing as he fixes a new cigar and twisting his hook off his arm.

And when his gaze meets yours at last, you flinch. Immediately straightening your back.

Shoulders stiff. Spine straight. Palms on your thighs.

His ringed fingers tapping against the table.

“You haven’t slept lately and you’ve been fidgety all week.” A statement, an observation. One that makes you advert your gaze. He takes a puff of smoke. “And you don’t speak to me anymore.”

Your neck goes cold.

He’s mad, isn’t he? He’ll leave you, discard you, just like before.

You clench your fists. Not being able to discern between truth and fear.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to… I-I’ll fix it.“ Your words leave your mouth in a hurry and Crocodile tilts his head. “Fix—?”

“My behaviour.” You fill in. Still not looking at him. Your face turns blanched, draining out of colour. “Just don’t be mad—”

That’s when his patience has met it’s end, and he snatches your jaw to make you look at him.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He tilts your head up. His gaze locked on yours. “You’re worrying that I'll send you away again, aren’t you?”

You can't answer. You can’t even look at him.

He clicks his tongue, “You’re tempting me into scolding you but,” He looks away, pulling his brows so hard it almost feel’s like a vein will pop. “But this is no one’s fault but mine.” He says, and you freeze. Looking up.

…

Huh?

Did you hear that correctly?

Is prideful, cocky, cruel Sir Crocodile… admitting fault?

… to you?

You flip your gaze to him ready to protest but he waves you off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry, love. I really am.”

You blink not once. But twice.

His voice low, quiet—but there’s a crack, a breaking; in his own gruff, raspy way.

“Darling, I—”

“I shouldn’t have treated you like a subordinate. I never should have.”

Slowly, he gets up from his seat, and when you think he’s going to leave—he instead kneels before you.

No hook, no cigar—as he takes your hand in his.

Bringing it to his lips but he does not kiss it. Only let it sit a breath away and you stare at the expression he’s making for you.

One depraved with longing and need; a dark one, a desperate one.

“What will you have me do, to bring my woman back to me huh? Do you want me to kneel, beg and plead?”

You want to gasp, blink, even chuckle. But all you can do is leave your jaw hanging open, as your lover kisses the ring on your finger.

“For I will. If that’s what you want.” He looks up to you from below, lips still sealed on your finger. “You want better stones? Finer pearls? Say the word, and I’ll fix it. You want me to beg, plead and cry for you? Fine, I’ll do it.” He starts pecking your hand, and your eyes just grow wider and wider—his slicked black hair going undone and a strand makes it to the front.

“Do you want me to go, leave? I’ll do it, only if you swear you’ll come back. Do you want to shout at me, scream at me? Fine, I’ll take it, break my heart, if you so must—just, just speak to me, talk to me. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

And at that, you let out a scoff. Withdrawing your hand.

Shoulders slumping as you see how both of you are being pathetic. Truly... what a foolish, foolish man you've entangled with. He can aim for ambitions towards kingdoms, set to rule and dominate through lethal means if it so meant victory. You know of his pride, his ruthlessness and still. He falls apart into pieces when you, his woman, avoids him for less than a month.

Tears you' have kept to yourself for the past running weeks; are already running down your cheek.

“You fool of a man.” You say, unable to keep yourself from slouching down your seat and grabbing hold of him in an embrace. Knees hitting the floor. Arms above his shoulders as you pull him closer. “You idiot, stupid, dumb, mean brute.”

“Yes, I'm an idiot. A brute. I’m everything you say, so please, come back.” He says, wincing as he tugs onto you.

The fear, the anxiety, the worry and the sheer dread that he’ll one day abandon you, like he once did—all of these feelings finally releases you by the throat.

And it’s like you can breathe again.

You tell him he was horrible. That he deserved a good hard slap across his face back then, and that he hurt you. made you cry. Made you overwork and skip your meals and sleep. And he’ll pull you closer. Humming. Agreeing. Even as you insult him, reprimand him; he’ll hold you anyways. Call him for what he is, a malicious cruel and distrustful man that failed you, hurt you — his hold on you will only grow tighter. Harder. As if to not see you leave, and discard him. And when the last word leaves you, and the final breath is made and there is no more spite and fear seizing you, only then do you push your face into his shoulder. Tugging him. Holding him. Needing him.

“Don’t be mad at me again. Not like that. Not ever like that.” You say it without shaking, without trembling. No, all you do, is take in his scent. His warmth. Clinging onto him with everything you got.

“I won’t. Not ever. Not even when you hate me, betray me.”

You fist his shirt so hard your knuckles strains.

“Promise me.”

“I promise you, my sweet, loving wife; I’ll never be mad at you ever again. I promise.” The last sentence was a whisper, a vow. One that makes you bury your face into him. Your heart is thumping with such force for all the neglected emotions, and abandoned confidence, you whine, squeezing out the last few tears made from your heart.

No hook, no frown. His knees on the floor and hair going undone. Nose buried in the crook of his lady’s neck, his larger frame slouching into yours. You hold him, take him—let him feel the heat of your skin, the scent of your perfume.

When you press your face to him; he’s a man no more but a buried one. By you, he’s forever undone. If anyone saw the formidable Sir Crocodile like this—no one would believe them.

No one but you.

His voice becomes unbearably soft. One that leaves a shudder across your skin. A secret so dear, so invaluable you wouldn’t trade the One Piece for it; it leaves his mouth like reverence. One that breaks you.

“Come back to me.”

Summary: Sir Crocodile is a man of ambition and luxury and when he holds you like this, kissing the side of your hair like you're his most beloved treasure, which you are, only then do you believe in his words to not ever break you. Abandon and shout at you. You're his to care for, his to beg for. And when he pulls away from the embrace, he'll lift you, carrying you like you weigh nothing even with just one hand. He'll bring you back to your bed. For a moment he'll look into your eyes. It's quiet between you two. Not awkward, not wrong but tense. Intimate. Until he at last leans in. Forehead pressing against yours. His breath warm, shuddering. "I love you."

Trafalgar D. Water Law

Your wounds were healing.

Law ensured of that.

In fact — he did it a little too well.

He monitored your eating, sleeping and drinking.

Took notes on your healing process and tapped his finger with a scowl every time he saw you carry something heavy. Snatching it from you or give Bepo the ‘don’t make me tell you what to do’-look and the poor polar bear immediately gets the gist.

Taking your cargo from your hands. Defeated.

He redid your bandages diligently, and always ensured you drank enough water and got just the right amount of sleep for recovery.

In other words… he was on your back.

His care did not leave you, not even for a second.

And sure. You feel cared for. You do.

But this would have never happened — did you not embarrass yourself twice.

First by messing up.

Second by having him catch your flimsy efforts in righting your wrongs. You were embarrassed. Extremely embarrassed.

Law can say it’s nothing and keep tending to your wounds but truly?

You cringe every time you remember that night, and at your blunder. You feel like a walking joke. A bothersome child. A sick patient that weighs everyone down and you hate it.

He always takes care of you — because you were a burden. A problem and an obstacle.

You don’t want to be that ever again.

Not to anyone, not to yourself, not even to him.

So...

Of course you do what is natural—as soon as you recover, no, even whilst you’re recovering, you held yourself out of everyone’s way.

It was harmless at first.

Ikkaku was spoonfeeding you soup, and she had blown on it. “Tell me if its too hot!” She inches near, and though your tongue burnt from the broth—you take it. You swallow it. Not a word to be said as the soup burns your mouth. “It’s perfect, thank you.” You say, tongue stinging.

Bepo redid your bandages. “If it’s too tight, hit me.” He says before tying the knot. And you grimace through your pain. The bandage squeezing your sinews together, a pain that can only be described as bruising, cruel—tight.

And when Law saw you lagging behind the crew during an outing, he had halted. Waiting for you to catch up as the rest of the Heart Pirates made their way along the path. You were having the worst migraine of your life — vision going slightly blurry.

“… you good? Are you in any pain?”

“—No.” You say, a little bit too fast. “I’m fine. Really. I’m fine.” You slip on a convincing smile, feeling your head almost tearing itself apart from the headache. Not to mention you got a pebble stuck somewhere between your sole.

But despite your charade, and falling for it; Law offers you his hand anyways.

“C’mere. Let’s not fall behind.”

And you’ll press down your lips. Taking his hand as he walks with you up the path.

It truly was harmless in the beginning.

All you ever really wanted, was not to be a burden. Not again. Not ever. But the line draws when it starts affecting your health, and your mind. Once you recovered—the crew had been staying at this spring island.

you started taking up chores and jobs from your friends. They didn’t ask for help, but you took it on your back anyways.

Ikkaku needed to run a few errands? You told her you’d do it.

Bepo needed an ingredient for an ointment he’s making? Yeah. You’re spending your mornings searching for a plant that doesn’t even grow on spring islands.

You heard Jean Bart mention how his back hurts from all his chores? You tell him to leave it to you.

Task after task after task.

Between all of it; you’ve lost the energy to take care of yourself but even then, you don’t allow yourself to be tired. You keep doing their chores, keep doing their tasks, keep staying up till tomorrow morning searching for an ingredient no one even knows if its exist.

And for each meaningless task, you repeat a mantra in your head.

‘You need to make up for it, fix your mistakes and not fall behind—not become dead weight.’

That’s what you tell yourself, even when Ikkaku tells you to get some rest. That’s what you tell yourself, even when Bepo tells you there’s no need for you to do all this. That’s what you tell yourself, even when Jean Bart finds you panicking for not doing a five star job on his chore.

At some point you break, not physically this time but tears stream down your face in front of your friends.

You spilled Shachi’s coffee on the floor. And your entire world starts crashing into pieces.

Everything goes black—your surroundings, your hands, even your friends. They all become a dark, meaningless blur. Their voices drones out and all you can see, is the spilled coffee and the fragments of porcelain trickled across the floor.

Your body rushes cold, your bones turn frozen and your breathing gets stuck in your throat.

And when Shachi gets to clean it, you immediately snatch the tissues from his hands. Getting to cleaning.

“Look, it’s no biggie, just coffee,” Shachi comes close and places a hand on your back. He says your name, “Don’t stress yourself over this—here,” He takes the tissues, “Get some rest, alright?”

“But it’s my fault—”

“Your fault?” Someone enters the room, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

You know that voice. Of course you do.

“Heya cap, how ya doing?” Shachi greets him and he gives both of you a brow. “Shachi-ya, what’s going on here?”

“Nah it’s nothing, just some coffee—”

“I did it.” You immediately say. “I spilled Shachi’s coffee.”

You don’t look at Law, you just keep cleaning.

Out of all the times he appears and it’s now — when you messed up again. You keep cleaning, keep scrubbing the floor, even when there is nothing left to tidy.

Ikkaku comes closer, “Hey girlie, what’s going on? Why are you being so harsh on yourself? Let us help—”

“No.” You hiss, hand landing on your forehead to rub a headache away. “I’ll do this, leave it to me.” You give them your most convincing smile, and no one falls for it.

Not with those eye bags. And especially not with how your hands are trembling.

And during all of this time — Law is scowling.

He’s a patient man but this? This just makes him annoyed.

And before you open your mouth to add anything more pathetic, Law comes close. Takes the tissues. Ignores your protests and tosses the tissues down the garbage and then looks to you. Pointed finger. Scowl etched on his face.

“You. Come. We need to talk.”

That’s how you ended up here. By the med bay.

The door locked and a silence stretches onto you two.

Law has his arms crossed, leaning against the operating table and you fiddle with your hands. Not sure where to place them. He’s drilling his gaze down on you. Hard. Heavy. Focused. He’s staring so hard you start becoming aware of your breathing and the muscles on your face.

It’s dreading.

At last, he sighs inwardly. Shoulders easing.

“You’re anxious.”

You look up and you see him tilting his head to the side.

“At first; I simply thought you were just a little nervous from what happened last time but this? This gotta be put to a stop.”

You press your lips into a fine line, the headache from before starting to pound. “I didn’t mean to be annoying, I only wanted to make it up to the others. To you.”

“But you’re not annoying.”

You blink. Chest empty. And Law unfolds his arms, striding over to you.

Each step is set, deliberate, for each one forward you start to feel smaller and smaller—until, until he takes your hands ans looks them over. His hands are cold, slender but kind. A touch tender. His expression is quiet. He nudges your fingers, rubbing them, and his thumb circles your palms. The torn skin has faded and they’re healed now—but he never wants to see you destroy yourself like that ever again.

He wants to take care of you. Not as a patient—but as his girl. As his lover.

That’s all he ever truly wanted with you.

“I’ll take care of you, y’know?” He says at last and you look at him.

“And yes, back then, I couldn’t stand what happened but that still doesn’t give you the right to neglect yourself like this.” He keeps circling your palms, slow, steady motions, eyes still on your hands. He gives them a squeeze. Finally meeting your gaze.

“Burden me.”

“What?”

He leans in, voice hot on your cheek. “I said: Burden me. Be weak on me. Be stupid and foolish and put your weight on me—I don’t care.”

He leans back, bringing your hands to his face. Giving the side of your palm a kiss. Lips still lingering as he looks up to you from under his lashes. “I want you. All of you. Got that? Even when you’re in the way, as you put it, even when you’re being annoying and stupid—I want it. I want you. So... stop this. Please.” His voice breaks at the end and you flinch at that.

Law is controlled, rational, pragmatic—not vulnerable, emotional and submissive but for you? He falls and bends and weakens. And you scoff in disbelief at the very sight of it. With those words, with those eyes—you’re released. Shoulders dropping, brows softening and it’s like you can breathe again.

“Do you really mean that, Law?”

“Yes.” He does not even hesitate. “Always.”

You stagger closer, trying to hold back a whine; and Law brings you into an embrace.

You clutch onto him, and he does too. Holding you. Keeping you.

It’s warm. It’s soft.

It’s safe.

Law always ensured of that.

Summary: You don’t have to be strong around him. Or weak. Or smart or stupid. That’s not what he wants. He wants you. Only you. So—when the day comes; burden him, toil him, push him onto the edge and he’ll still keep you. Close and dearly.

Donquixote Doflamingo

(sat up for three weeks thinking about the outline of his fic: how do you make a horrible partner redeemable? I came to one answer. You don't. You just become as bad as them.)

You rushed up from your bed—heaving, panting, hands going to your throat.

Another nightmare.

Of when he strangled you that is.

You nudge your neck—not swollen. Not bruised.

You let out a whine, and in the dark of the night; you bring your face to your palms. Shuddering, breathing, trying to hold yourself still.

You loved Doffy. You did. But these days, it’s hard to look at him without remembering how he treated you. A voice, almost a whisper makes it to your head.

‘Is that really love?’

You ignore it.

You ignore it like how you ignore the trembles rising up your skin when he grins at the pain of others.

You ignore it like how you ignore the nausea, the shivers when his hand lands on the small of your back. Kissing you softly, promising you everything and more.

You ignore and ignore and ignore and ignore; ignore till it drives you sick.

Nowadays, you’ve asked to sleep separately. Just for the time being, you told him. He had made a face, the face of a boy. One who felt his chest twist, his heart sting. But he had complied, obeyed.

And you’d ignore that too. In fact; you hoped it hurt.

You hoped it hurt him good.

You fret down the halls, keeping to your work—working and working and working till it’s night again. And when morning comes, you’ll work once more. Not once stopping, not even to eat, not even to rest.

If you stayed still for too long, if you didn’t keep your mind occupied at all times — your thoughts would drift. Drift to him. His violence. His splendour. His ruthlessness and anger.

You shove all those thoughts behind your mind, burying them under piles and piles of weathered documents and old schedules and unorganised papers.

Between hands trembling and working; gifts upon gifts starts piling up your room. Ever since that day—Doflamingo has not once stopped gorging your wants. Spoiling you, giving you, doting you. He takes you out to dinner, he brings you to social events; dolls you up and speaks to you in a much softer tone.

Making it up to you.

But deep down your heart; you hate him for what he did.

And you know he's been drinking himself stupid ever since you've grown more distant. More quiet. But honestly? You did not care, he can remain drunk for all you care. In fact, when you see him try to remain sober; you'd lean in, the only short, lasting moments you were ever affectionate towards him was when you poured him some wine. "Here, try this, it's my favourite." You'd say, voice saccharine sweet and he'd blink. You never talk to him nowadays, at least you won't initiate it so when you push the goblet towards him. Eye lashes batting and smile all too charming; he can't help but fall for it.

Whenever he was sober, he was more difficult to manage. Always playing games to tug onto your heartstrings, and sometimes you'd bend. And that too, makes you hate him.

That evening, when he pleaded and begged you — you remember it clear as day. How he fondled your face, kissing your cheeks, temples and nose. And between each kiss came an apology, a sorry.

But as he kissed you, doted on you—all you can truly remember are the strings writhing across your neck. Tight. Sawing. Suffocating.

Your lip jerk. He’s trying his best. He’s making up for it. He seems truly sorry for what he did, and yes, he’s scum, what else did you expect dating someone like that? When your most wretched hours come again, you feel like the one true fool here —and still.

You can't stand the fact that you love him still. You hate it, you hate it enough that you can't even bring yourself to look at him.

At some point — headaches are forming. Sleepless nights, waking up in cold sweat and a migraine threatening to cleave you in two. And you keep burying yourself in work. Not once letting yourself slack. You can’t afford to, lest you get choked again.

And by dinner; Doffy will reach a hand out to catch your wrist — but when you flinch; he stops himself.

His blood rushing, not anger, not fury—but something dangerously close to shame. Shame. Donquixote Doflamingo doesn’t feel shame but now? With this? What else could it possibly be but shame of how he treated you? His favourite pet? His favourite person? You shouldn’t be flinching or scared of him, he wants you to trust him, love and never abandon him, but now?

He expresses that shame in the shape of the tiniest scoffs. He ignores it; trying for a gentle approach, his tone turning lilt.

"You haven’t eaten anything lately; are you feeling unwell?”

You don't even look his way. “I eat. You just haven’t been looking.” You say, cutting your steak and forcing yourself to chew it.

"Is that so now? Then why is there less of you for each passing week.”

You blink. Looking to him.

No grin, no scowl — just worry.

And you hate it.

He has no right to act worried over you, after all it’s his fau—you stop yourself from going any further with that. Wincing.

"You must be imagining it because I’m fine.” You drop your fork, bored of this conversation. “I’ll be going back to work—”

"Darling.”

You freeze. His tone is low, hand clasped on yours. “There’s no point overworking yourself—you’re the future queen of Dressrosa; don’t be too harsh on yourself. Have some rest.”

You open your mouth to protest but Doflamingo beats you to it.

“ —that’s a request from your lover.” He takes your hand, giving your knuckle a kiss. “Won’t you spoil me and follow it through?”

Lover he says — but the power difference is obvious, so how could you ever really decline him?

“Yeah. My lover.” You bite out, a scowl coming on your face. Snatching your wrist. “I’ll do anything you say.”

And at that, Doflamingo flies up his seat—gritting his teeth.

“Must you really do that? I’ve been nothing but gentle with you and patient. But clearly that does not satisfy you, so tell me, what will you have me do?” He leans in, grabbing your arms. “Want me to beg again? I’ll do it. I’ll get on my knees if I so must, just—” his grip on you goes from hard to soft. Releasing you. His hand going to your jaw. Sliding your face to meet his. He removes a lock of hair away from your cheek. And still. You don’t meet his gaze. “—just please. Look at me. Look at me.” His voice breaks, just a little.

You've been ignoring him lately, giving him the cold shoulder and empty looks. You don’t even say his name anymore. And truth is, a part of you still wants to please him. Still want to have him — but when you finally meet his gaze, his face lights up.

His smile isn’t wicked or cruel—it’s innocent. Boyish. Hopeful.

One that makes you clench your fist.

He leans in. “Do you want more jewels? Or perhaps more time? I’ll give you it, just tell me—I’ll even fix a ship for one of your friends to—”

“No.” You shrug him off. “I just need some more time. That’s all.”

His smile falters a little at that; for him, it feels like his strings on you are searing apart, and he can’t do anything but watch as you grow more and more distant by each passing day. He wants to tug you back, and he will—by force if he must.

“I see.” He leans back, straightening his posture. Giving your cheek on last rub with his thumb. “… take all the time you need. I’ll be patient for you.”

And he will. Even if you do not want him anymore, even if you decide to pack your bags and try to leave—he’ll be patient. He’ll keep watching and observe and see what you need; to bring you back to him, under his grip, his presence. That’s what he wants and needs from you.

He can’t stand the idea of you leaving him, he doesn’t even entertain that thought train, or so he likes to flatter himself. Since you’re both sleeping separately for the time being—you don’t hear or see how he suddenly jerks himself up at night, heaving, panting; not an uncommon behaviour from his part. His past ghosts still haunts him, but these days—those dreams do not take the shape of burning fires, a crying brother and a dying mother—nah. The dreams are soft. Light and everything sweet and dear in this world. They’re you.

They’re you, always you—you who places her hands on his face, bringing him close, kissing him, wanting him even in his most wretched, hateful state until at last, the dream ends. And it always ends in the same way. Your face twisting, turning blurry. Fading into the dark. Leaving him stuck in the mud. And even when he calls out your name, you don’t glance behind or look back. The warmth you once offered, gone. Just like that. And for each time, he’ll cling onto you but like smoke, you leave, vanish.

For every night terror, he flinches himself up. Hand latching onto the sheets, searching for you in bed, only to remember — you two are sleeping separately.

He did not want to obey, he wanted you by his side at all times—but you needed this, needed space and dammit; he hates this whole ‘being a healthy and understanding boyfriend’-thing it makes him physically ill to not just snatch you back.

And as time passes, the sleepless nights are starting to catch up to the both of you.

Dark figures starting to appear in the corner of your eye. Accompanied with movements in the room that aren’t truly there. You tremble more nowadays. Can’t breathe properly without feeling something heavy, something burdening on your chest.

It’s sickening. Maddening. You feel yourself starting to spiral and no matter how much you bury yourself in work — the migraines, the headaches, the anxiety and the pain and the shifting shadows won’t go away.

And one night — you cannot take it anymore.

You’re clutching onto your chest; the pain building up your throat; not being able to breathe.

Sweat starts piling up your spine and whilst you’re breaking; Doflamingo flies up his own bed. Lately, he hasn’t eaten much either, just drinking till he’s numb and stupid, and tonight, he snatches another wine bottle. Gulping down every last drop just so he can sleep again.

But even as he closes his eyes and press a palm to his head — rest does not seek him. Sleep is on a path long gone and thus his eyes drift to your side of the bed. His hand reaching out as if to expect your warmth to still linger, fingers clutching and digging into the sheets as if it will conjure your presence and bring you close and near again, but all he feels is the cold, bare fabric with no sight of your shape.

He rubs the bridge of his nose — letting out a groan.

What the hell is he doing? What the hell has he done? For all his life, everyone has always been so easy to please; gifts, money, bargains, deals and borrowed affection—one snap of his fingers and it all just fell into place, but now? With you? He’s heard you cry, seen you break and work till you tire; and no matter how much he offered and pampered you; you’re still bleeding. Why? And why are all his efforts useless?

His head is tearing itself apart with all these thoughts and you, the sole remedy for his rancid sentiments, is nowhere to be found, and who’s fault is that? Who’s fault but his? His jaw tenses and teeth are gritting as he tries to reason with his ego but it all comes at a fail.

He’s the one who snapped. He’s the one who lost control. He’s the one who choked. He did, and it’s unravelling all of his pride, arrogance and gold-structured gratification of all that he’s ever achieved.

And now, what wall of difference is there between him and his father?

Doflamingo’s hand flexes, sweat piling down his face. What little remains of that heart of his—twists, turns and goes undone. Once he would have scoffed at the idea of a possible equal other than his own shadow but now? With all that is his; blood, money, status and privilege but what is that, without you by his side? And he doesn’t want the hollow version; the one who does not look at him, speak or talk to him—but the one who’s bold and cheeky, carefree as the wind itself; not the dull, empty version that moves out his reach and fades out from his dreams.

He wants you.

He wants you more than anything else in this world and before he knows it, his heart clings onto you like helpless dog does their owner. And it makes him scoff in disbelief—truly, who’s the real pet and master here? He finishes the wine bottle before smashing it against the floor; staggering himself across the room—and for once in his life, it’s not control, precision and deliberate reverence that gravitates him towards your quarters; but need. A disgusting, depraved and drunk desire of something that he can’t describe as anything but want.

Of his person, of his heart.

And when he at last finds himself in front of you door—he’s heaving, trying to breathe as slow as possible before latching a hand on your door knob. Knocking.

“Hey, so…” His tongue ties. What is this? Why can’t he formulate anything witty or self-assured? His jaw clenches, and he bangs his forehead against your door. “I know you don’t want me here but… please.” his voice is rough, rugged.

Moments goes, and you still don’t answer.

He bangs his head against the door again to regain senses, frowning; what would interest you enough to speak to him nowadays? A corner of his lip curves up. “I need to talk to you about something — work related, y’know, about the harbour incident, well I just received word of—”

Your door creaks open, only by an inch, and your little face peaks through. However sullen and bleak you may look; eye bags and everything—he’ still smiles at the sight of you. Pleasingly

He cannot stop his fingers making it in between the gap, just so he can see more of you but your grip remains firm on the door.

“What is it, Doflamingo.” Your voice is flat, and the way you said his name sounded like a dagger to his throat but still. You said his name—he wants to hear you say it again, and again and again and again. However cold you may do it.

“There you are, sweetheart, mind if you let me in? This door between’ us does little for chatter.”

Slowly, your eyes travel up to his—and he tenses. Your eyes are narrowed, brows furrowed but you hum. And when he thinks you’re going to step aside and let him in — you slam the door in his face. Sparing his fingers by a second.

“I know your games Doflamingo—how stupid do you take me for!? Conversations of work? Really? At three A.M? Am I fuckin’ idiot in your eyes!?” You scream at him from the other side, “Just go! Leave!”

“Don’t be like that sweetheart, I truly need to talk to you about it—”

You try to resist rolling your eyes, “Oh god, spare me, I can’t deal with your lies any longer—”

At that, he snaps. Once and for all. “Lies? We really wanna talk about lies, darling?” He pulls on the door knob but your hold on it is hard, secure, and he seethes. “Let’s talk about your well being, go on, I’m interested! Tell me how you skip your meals, how you toss and’ turn at night, not catching a moment of sleep as you bury yourself in your precious, adoring work—oh yes, tell me all about how well you’re doing—”

“And who’s fault is that?” You cut him off, heart beating so fast and tenacious you think its going to pop at any moment.

“Let me… let me fix it then, let me in and we can talk about it; yeah? What do you say—”

“No. Now leave.”

He bangs his fist against the door. “Dammit woman, don’t you hear yourself? You’re breaking yourself apart and you just want me to watch you burn? What is this, a new torture method you’ve invented cause’ pray tell it’s working wonders—”

“You don’t know anything of what I’m feeling and doing so don’t even start—now leave! Go! I don’t want you here.”

He grits his teeth, slamming his fist against the door. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do so—”

“Then why did you respond to me at all?” He snaps and you flinch. Tears welling in your eyes. “tell me that, darling.”

You cover your mouth with a hand, not wanting him to hear your whines; but he does have a point.

Why did you answer him?

Back then you were clutching your chest, trying your best to hold back the panic attack that was soon to come until you heard him knock on your door. You could have just ignored him, pretended to be asleep—but between the sleep deprivation and night terrors—you’ve grown desperate, the most desperate person of them all and you long for comfort, any comfort there is; you’d take it. You wanted any comfort at all, wanted it so bad it made you sick in the stomach.

When you don’t respond, Doflamingo continues, voice strained and rigid. As if he too, during all the time spent apart, has become desperate.

“You’re in no mood for games, well neither am I so I’ll say it outright; I do not know what could possibly interest you to cling onto a man as despicable as me. Honestly if you can love someone like me, I suppose you can love just about anybody but whatever that is tethering you to me; I worship it. I indulge it, I am a slave to it, so—if you wanted only money and fame; I’d have given you all and more—if you wanted glory and power, one word and it sits upon your head. You want me to carve out my heart? Serve it on a plate and eat it before you? I’ll do it. I’ll do it, as long…” his voice breaks, swallows, tries again, “as long as you’ll look at me whilst doing it. Talk to me whilst doing it. I can't take your silence. I cannot bear your avoidance, gods dammit all; you want me to cry? I’ll cry, if it so pleases you. Just.. Please. Open this door. Let me see you. That’s all. That’s all.”

And you blink. Breath caught in your throat.

Head falling as your spine hunch, trying to recover whatever ground and sense but as your lips start to quiver—all you can find is the forlorn yearning in his pleading. His voice is raw, unfiltered and unpoised. For once — there is no act, no ulterior motive or a wrapped, worm eaten lie. Just him. Him and his desperation taking the form of something that cannot be anything, but begging.

And like a curse, it possesses you. Unlocking the door.

For a moment—none of you say anything, or do anything. He does not walk through, or open the door by an inch. A stiff, almost stale silence sits between you two. And when his steps trudges, you’ll blink, swallowing down your pride when he at least walks in.

“Darlin’, sweetheart, are you… are you cryin’?” His voice snaps you back to your senses. Wiping your eyes. “Go away.”

“Darling—”

“I’m not your darling, now — get away. It was a mistake. I don’t want to see you tonight, leave me alone, go, leave like I told you—” And now, when you start to feel it getting way too much, you bury your face in your hands. Why did you open the damn door? Why did you betray yourself like this? You must truly be the most desperate fool there is, for as he reaches his hands out to you; you snap.

“Don’t touch me—I’ve given you enough of my time—” you hit him, push him off of you, striding across the room and he follows. “I said leave, go!” You throw pillows at him, papers, ledgers, tea sets and even the pair of heels he gifted you. And he dodges none of them. Some fly past his shoulders, some landing by his feet—others crash into his torso, elbow and cheek. And he’ll take it without so much a flinch.

You yell at him, berate him, call him horrible and cruel and everything wrong in this world. Splintered glass, shattered wine bottles, crinkled documents spread across the floor like wild fire, and only when the last packaged gift, pearled necklaces and dresses still wearing their tags are thrown, only then does he move towards you.

You reach towards a vase, crashing it against his feet, a splinter sliding it’s way towards you and you snatch it, and your heart has finally seized you. Not by fear, or sadness or anger but fury.

Unfiltered and raw. One that makes you hate. White noise drilling down your ear as it takes you whole. Such anger of all the things he's done.

Fury for what he did to you that day. Fury for hurting you, confining you—choking you.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you and I hate you—” And when he comes all to close, with the sharp object in hand—you stab him right below the side of his hip line and he halts. Scowl etching onto his face but you don't care as you finally whip your gaze to him. Pushing the blade deeper into his abdomen. Blood squelching out his flesh.

“Does it hurt? I sure hope it does.” Tears flush down your face, and the edge of the shard digs into your palm. Stinging. And that is when you’ll snap out of it. Freezing. Eyes going wide as reason finally meets you.

You stare into the porcelain you’ve stuck in him. Blood seeping his clothes, gurgling out it’s wound and you stop breathing. Tears you’ve so desperately wished to hide, streams down your face. Realisation dawning on you.

You stabbed him.

You did.

Your eyes travel slowly up.

You’ve stabbed him and he’s going to hurt you just like before.

And when you finally meet his gaze — you expect that surging violence, that constrained ruthlessness you always found him keeping, only… only this time, you feel hands reaching for your head. At first you think he’s going to twist your neck, claw your face open but instead—by the cup of your head—he brings you close.

You do not process it, not fully, but he leans into you, nose landing into your hair. His touch softer than ever. As if touching something holy, sacred—and by all rights, divine.

You blink. Chest empty.

Hands trembling. Jaw jittering.

“Y-you’re hurt, I… I’m sorry, I—”

“Shhh… you think you can harm me? Cute.”

You try and push him off. “This isn’t the time for your jokes—”

“But It’s not.” He cuts you off, voice low and warm. “You can’t hurt me, not like this, at least.

“…” You hold and tug onto his shirt. Brows furrowing and knuckles straining. “But I...” Your voice cracks and he only hums. Pulling you closer.

“It's just a porcelain shard.”

“But you… why didn't you use haki? You could have dodged. Could have stopped me, I don't understand—”

"Yes, I could have, but I didn't." He shifts his head, "Want to do it again? Might make you feel better." He chuckles at that and you clutch onto his back when you feel him sinking his weight into you. Your heel digging into the floor so to retain footing.

“I might, if you keep pushing me." You seethe, only to return back into pleading, "please, let's bring you to a doctor, I—”

“No.” You feel his mouth in your hair, kissing you, taking your scent. “Just you, only you, that’s all I need righ’now.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Voice becoming needy. “Doffy…”

And he winces at you saying his name. “Say that again.”

You shift your head, eyes stinging and swollen. “Doffy?”

“Yes. Keep going. With that tone.” And you shake your head, burying your face into his shoulder. “Absolute maniac.” You mumble. You both can’t bring yourself to stand upright any longer. Knees buckling into the floor.

And when he feels you at last easing, shoulders relaxing, only then does he shift his head, face going into your neck. Faint marks still remain where he choked you, fading but present, and you’ll feel his lips place above them. Gentle and lingering. “I’m sorry.”

You flinch at those words.

His voice cannot be his—it’s too soft, too gentle, too much of a whimper. “I am truly sorry. So please, do not discard me. Leave me.”

Your eyes going wide, a chuckle bubbling up your throat. One made of disbelief.

Donquixote Doflamingo doesn’t get on his knees and beg, not for anyone — but for you? That’s a whole another story.

Summary: You’re both desperate. Desperate for comfort, warmth and dependence. Doflamingo does not demand perfection or precision, but he does seek you. And in every life and time, he’ll cling onto you like a dog. Even if he has to bite into your flesh so to keep you. He’s spent too much of his life guarding his heart, ever since Corazon, he has lost any semblance of it and even now, as you pluck out the shards from his abdomen and he wraps bandages over your wounded palm—his heart has become a rancid, worm eaten, scabrous little thing. One that’s held together by constrained strings and wilted fury—but one that is yours. However putrid and selfish it is—it was yours before he even knew it. And yours it will be. A silence will come between you as you clean his wound, and whilst he stitch it together with strings. At the final end, you still cannot bring yourself to meet his gaze, but he’ll cup your cheeks. Gentle hands, warmer touch and make you meet him in the eye. He’ll rub your cheeks with his thumb, his motion slow and steady. Taking in your features. How is it, that you still want someone so terrifingly wretched? For you, he truly must be, the most desperate fool there is. He leans in, nose grazing yours, not once breaking eye contact. “I love you.”

Roronoa Zoro

That time, when he brought you back to the ship to tend to your hands—he touched you like you were a flower. Rough, calloused hands that spent years of training by the sword, turned soft, gentle—faint. Wrapping bandages that only promise you safety, security. One that you would put your trust in.

But… when he lifted your chin and kissed you tenderly, you feel yourself freeze.

“Zoro,” You hum, taking his palm away from your face.

“Hm?”

“Would you still want me, even if I mess up again?”

He furrows his brows, “What kind of question is that. of course, I would. Aren’t I showing you that now?” He leans in, kissing you by the cheek and though you should feel flattered, all you truly can feel is the deep, sinking feeling down your stomach.

He may say what he wants — but your heart is too faint to see you embarrass yourself like that ever again. You cringe every time you remember how you were knelt before the whole crew. Scolding you about your blunder. It was humiliating, you were humiliating.

That moment — they saw you in the full light. Someone weak, someone who got in the way and put a burden on everyone.

So when he buries himself in your neck, nibbling and licking, hand goes to stroke you, kissing you yet again; you move away.

“Zoro. I’m tired. Can we just sleep?”

“Of course, pretty girl,” he hums, hot breath withdrawing from your neck. Hand wiping a lock of hair away from your face. “Lemme’ carry you to bed, here, hold’on to me.”

And you do. You hold on to him so tight, it’s almost as if to not let him go—perhaps, in hopes that this night won’t come to its bitter end. So you can bury it into your memory when you eventually, inevitably mess up and he snaps at you once more. You’ll reminisce, and feel his warmth sink you into his bliss yet again.

As the days start to pass, you’ll notice him being more attentive towards you. Offering you his rice bowls, blowing your soup, tying your shoe laces and even go as far as carry you across a puddle. The crew laughing and poking at you both at his sudden display of affection and though it should reassure you, you only feel more embarrassed.

He would never be this soft for you, gentle and caring, had you never messed up in the first place. You feel like a patient, one who weighs him down—a burden he has to carry and take care of. And would he still be this patient with you if he saw you for what you really are? A burden? A weakling, even in mind and heart? Would he still claim to need you, want you, even then?

You’ll clutch onto your chest, feeling it throb—fiddling with your collar.

No. He probably wouldn’t.

The thought of that frightens you, frightens you so bad you stagger back and do what is only natural; you get out of everyone’s way.

It was harmless at first, nothing straining. Nothing noticeable.

You pick up chores, work, and errands like you don’t have your own life to attend to. You’ll nag to Zoro to take some off his load; cleaning his blades, stitch his haramaki, fix up his gym. Anything and everything. And like that isn’t enough, you go out of your way to help your friends — telling Usopp to leave his chore on maintaining the deck to you. You even tell Chopper to leave it to you with with the resupply.

And doing so — you fill yourself with a false sense of comfort. Of reassurance.

Your friends they need you now, and you, you finally have some semblance of value and worth. One made with trembling hands, indecisive thoughts and fretting worry.

Errands are made, chores are done and supplies are constantly in stock—and you believe yourself great. Even when Zoro gives you a weird look for having done all the requests in one single day. He didn’t even get to have his second nap before he finds his swords in pristine condition, sharpened, cleaned and oiled. Haramaki washed, dried, stitched and even has a lavender scent clinging to it. You believe yourself accomplished, even when Usopp places a hand on your shoulder, telling you to stop scrubbing over a splattered spot he caused a mess on. But you don’t hear him. You keep cleaning, even when your palms starts cracking dry from constantly lathering your hands in soap and water. You don’t stop scrubbing, polishing, maintaining the deck even when you don’t need to.

And you like to tell yourself that this is how it should be.

You don’t want to be in anyone’s way ever again. You don’t want others to pick up after you, you don’t want to be treated like you’re wounded. You’re not a patient, and you’re certainly not a burden. And you seek to prove that. Even when your eyes start growing heavier and your chatter starts to pale.

It was supposed to be harmless, nothing straining or noticeable — or so you told yourself, even when your friends are begging you to just get a moments of rest, hands on your shoulder, eyes glazing worry; but their pleads fall on deaf ears. For when you look to Zoro; sitting with Franky and Chopper in some casual chatter, your gaze grows heavy.

Zoro is strong, dependable and firm. A pillar of trust amongst your crew. Something you are not.

You clutch onto your collar, feeling something strange rise up your chest. An aching, a shallow one. He catches your gaze and you flinch, immediately moving somewhere else, feeling how his stare follows you.

His jaw is clenched. He must be imagining it — surely, he must. But it can’t be a coincidence that you sit next to anyone but him. Pick conversation with anyone that’s not him. What could you possibly avoid him for this time?

He’ll stalk after you down the halls, seizing your wrist. Dragging you to a secluded room.

“H-hey, what are you doing—” you don’t finish when you see the expression on his face.

Brows pulled, face hard.

… he is angry? Annoyed? Like the time you got scolded on deck?

Why? How? Did you mess up yet again? Your mind starts racing after the most ridiculous conclusions, ones that you fully believe yourself. Did he not like how you maintained the deck? Or did you miss something from the shopping? Maybe the supplies you fixed couriers for were wrong? You brace yourself for what’s to come when his mouth opens.

“Oi. Whats going on. Why are you avoiding me yet again?”

You blink. “… Sorry?”

“You’re avoiding me. Why. Did I say something stupid again—”

“No.” You say, a little bit too fast. “Not at all. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I’m avoiding you, I’ll do better.” You slip on a fake smile. One that is awfully stiff.

“… you’re hiding something.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you take me for an idiot, anyone can tell you’re lying straight to my face—” As he speaks, his grip keeps growing tighter, harder and you wince. Snatching it back.

“It’s nothing. I promise. I just—” You click your tongue, adjust your hair, pretend to see something by the corner of your eye to buy yourself time to come up with a lie. “I’m just helping them out, is that a crime or what.”

“If by helping, then why is Usopp tellin’ me how worried he is over you?” He looks to your hands. Grabbing them again, this time, more gently. He looks back at you. His gaze growing soft. “What’s going on? Tell me, I’m here, you know—”

You snap. Pulling and turning away. “Honestly Zoro, we both know how Usopp can be. He worries over everything, he should learn to mind his own business—” It wasn’t meant to come out condescending or mean, but your insecurity has gripped you by the reign; and it has festered you. Not just by wearing down your body, but your heart and mind, becoming its victim as well.

And just as you were about to add something worse — a very loud sneeze is heard from behind the sofa.

Both you and Zoro freeze.

You blink, finding a very, very, familiar long nose peak from behind the cushions.

Your whole body goes cold. Terribly cold.

“Usopp?”

He emerges from his hiding spot. Face guilty. “Erm… Hey?”

“Usopp. I… I didn’t mean it like that, I was just, you know, I—” You press a hand over your chest, panic piling up as you blurb out excuses that hold no real meaning. You like to flatter yourself to be convincing at deceiving, an astonishing actor — but when your audience is a five-star liar and the most stoic, straightforward man in the whole of the world; your charade falls apart. And they see you for what you truly are; afraid. Anxious. Pathetically so.

Usopp says your name, cutting you off. And you flinch at his sudden serious tone. “I know you didn’t mean it, I know, but you should start being more honest with yourself—we’re your friends, you don’t need to impress us. We’ll like you anyways. So,” He clears his throat, “I’ll let you two talk it out. AHEM.” Like that, he’s out. Abandoning you with a swordsman glaring down your back.

Slowly, motorically, you meet his stare.

His arms are crossed, giving you an unamused brow.

“I…”

“Go on. Make another excuse, I’m interested to hear it.”

Your chin lowers, eyes drifting to the floor. Fingers pulling on the hem of your sleeves. Theres no point in pretending anymore, is there? Your hands start trembling, grimacing and you finally have to face your false pretense of confidence.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been acting stupid, I just didn’t want it to end.”

Zoro unfolds his arms, lifting his jaw. “To end?”

“On being good. On not being in anyone's way. On not being treated like a burden.” You look away. Brows furrowing. “It’s not that I wanted to impress you Zoro, I just wanted you to need me.”

The confession leaves something hard, something heavy and real hanging in the air. One that makes you feel so impossibly vulnerable.

“You’ve been nothing but caring since that day, and I’ve grown spoiled. I didn’t want you to think me incapable, so that’s why I…” you trail off. Gods. When did you get so pathetic over a man? It’s almost embarrassing. You don’t look at him as you speak. You’re too much of a coward. “That’s why I avoided you. I’m afraid that one day you’ll see me for what I really am. And toss me to the side.”

For a moment, there is a pause between you two. A tense, unbearable silence that mortifies you. You squeeze your eyes shut, not because of tears, but because you’re so humiliated you can’t bear to witness it. And when you think he’s going to laugh or leave or call you stupid—hands, warm, kind hands, reaches for your head. Pulling you into an embrace.

And you open your eyes. Feeling him press you closer, harder. Face leaning into the crook of your neck. Strong palms placing over your back.

“I wouldn’t.”

Three words. Three. And it unravels you completely.

You feel his breath shaking against your throat. “I want you because you’re, you. Capable or incapable—I don’t care. I will always want you. Need you. Got that?”

And your shoulders drop.

Pushing your face into his chest. Hands that were hovering in the air comes to grab onto him. The once shallow aching you felt just a few moments ago dissipates and all you can truly feel is him. His warmth, his scent, his love. How he holds you, even when you’re pathetic. How he embraces you, even when he can just give up and dump a wreck like yourself. How he kisses the side of your hair, even when he feels you slightly tremble.

Your fingers clutches onto his shirt.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You press down a smile. “Idiot.”

“Maybe. But you chose this idiot, like I’ve chosen you. So don’t doubt me, or yourself anymore, got that?”

You nod. Cheeks bristling as you shift your head. Still pressed into his sturdy embrace.

“Got it.”

He presses you closer. Harder. Holding you so dear, you almost believe he’ll crush you.

“Atta’ girl.”

Summary: Zoro means it. He does. And he won’t treat your vulnerability like baggage, won’t see you as a patient but as a pillar. One that he’ll take care of so you won’t crack and bend. One that he’ll lean onto when his eyes grow heavy, one that he’ll need when inevitably, inescapably reaches to the top — and become the greatest swordsman. And when he does, he’ll want you there, need you there. So burden him, compromise his days and make his life a living hell, he does not care. Instead he challenges you for it. For both you and Luffy, he’ll after all; have to become the King of Hell.

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[quinloki]

sooo…....doffy fucking you with his gun 👀

-💧

(He will always be referred to as doffy cause I’m not typing all that)

I remember something in Bible Black about this not going well XD

but that said, yeah, that'd be up Doffy's alley alright.

He loves you, you love him right? You TRUST him right? It's his pistol, nothing would dare disobey him. It's smaller than him, look at it fit right in there.

Isn't it more exciting this way? You're trembling and dripping and he's never seen you so wet. Does the risk excite you? Will you cum first, or will he grow bored and pull the trigger?

Oh don't scream, he loves you, he's not going to let you go that easily. Here, he'll hold it still, and now you fuck it. Ride his pistol like a good little caged bird, there you go. Cry, sob, and beg for him to not kill you, he loves how disgusting you look right now.

You're so beautiful like this, terrified of him and turned on at the same time. His thumb on your clit is a mercy and you're going to - ah, there you go, yes, shudder against his gun just like that, your eyes rolling back - goodness you're squirting, how unsightly.

Or maybe you just pissed yourself from fear.

It doesn't matter either way as he throws you to the ground and undoes his belt. He's going to fuck you with something far more dangerous. You're never going to doubt how much he loves you again, even if he splits you in half.

Crying again? Well, you are beautiful like that. Worry not, little caged bird, he'll stitch you back together even if he does break you.

He's not going to let you go that easy.

[dirtyl0ver]

Deer Season - Finale (Tim Wright/Masky x F!Reader)

CW: Sexual content, rough sex, overstimulation, semi-public setting, predator/prey dynamics, bj, manhandling, degradation, psychological tension, trauma, power imbalance, scars, emotional manipulation, alcoholism, codependency, intense grief, guilt, violence, blood, Operator sickness, longing, hope, masturbation, isolation, depression, major character death, featuring appearances by Brian, Ben, Toby, Jeff, Smile, Jack

Summary: Time drags on. I hate him for the time he’s gone. I’ve been here for weeks. I’ve been here for years. I’ve been here too long.

Wordcount: 29k

Part 1: HERE Part 2: HERE Part 3: HERE Part 4: HERE Part 5: HERE Part 6: HERE Part 7: HERE Part 8: HERE Part 9: HERE

You. 

It had been three months. Three months of pure, grinding agony in that godforsaken cabin.

At first you thought the evil would finish what it started - would kill you the way it had forced you to kill. The headaches were blinding, white-hot spikes behind your eyes that made you vomit until your stomach cramped and your throat burned raw. You’d curl on the cold floorboards, sweating, shaking, convinced each wave would be the last. Whatever had rooted itself inside you - the same thing that had swung the bat, turned your hands into weapons - seemed determined to claw its way back out, tearing you apart in the process.

Then, slowly, it receded.

One morning you woke up and the static was gone. The nausea had dulled to a faint ache. The headaches were just echoes. You lay there staring at the ceiling beams, waiting for the next assault, but it never came. You felt… clean. Hollowed out. A shell wearing your skin.

The cabin itself was miserable. Barely any signal - your phone stuttered and died half the time you tried to use it. The food was bland, repetitive, survival rations. The cold seeped through the walls no matter how much wood you fed the stove. But they kept their word. Every few weeks a package appeared on the porch, like it had dropped from the sky. Your old clothes. Snacks. A cheap laptop. A Ziploc bag stuffed with perfectly rolled joints, no note, but you knew who they were from. Ben.

He’d texted you relentlessly that first month, messages piling up like unanswered prayers. 

You never replied. Every word on the screen was a knife twisting. Every “hey” reminded you of Tim’s voice, low and rough against your ear. You couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear anything that pulled you back to him.

Tim. Tim. Tim.

You dreamed of him every night - good dreams where his hands were gentle, wet dreams where his mouth was on you, nightmares where his fingers tightened around your throat until the world grayed out and you woke gasping, drenched in sweat, aching between your legs and in your chest. You hated him. You missed him so much it felt like a physical wound. You regretted ever looking at him, ever letting him in.

The first month was the worst - endless crying, screaming into pillows, punching walls until your knuckles bled. Then, reluctantly, survival instinct kicked in. You couldn’t live like this forever. So two months in, you finally used the car.

Drove until the pines thinned and a tiny town appeared - three streets, one stoplight, a grocery store. You parked, walked inside on shaking legs, bought a pack of smokes with cash from the drawer. People moved around you, normal and oblivious, and the sight of them almost broke you. You bought bread, milk, a cheap bottle of wine. Drove back. Cried the whole way.

There were deer everywhere out here. You’d started noticing them more after the sickness lifted - graceful shapes slipping between trees at dusk. One evening a tiny fawn appeared near the cabin, spindly legs and wide eyes, so small it looked like it might blow away in the wind. It reminded you of yourself - lost, alone, trying not to die.

For a stupid second you thought about killing it. Skinning it. Eating it. Proving something to yourself about survival.

Instead you put out a shallow bowl of oats and apple slices on the porch.

The next morning the bowl was empty. You didn’t know if it had been the fawn or some raccoon or the wind, but you kept doing it. Every evening, a little offering. Oats, carrots, whatever scraps you could spare.

One twilight you saw it, standing at the edge of the clearing, ears flicking, nose twitching. It stepped forward, hesitant, then lowered its head and ate. You watched from the window, breath fogging the glass, heart aching in a way that wasn’t quite pain anymore. Just loneliness.

Just you, and the deer, and the slow turning of seasons in a cabin that was starting to feel less like a prison and more like a place you might survive.

You sat on the porch steps, wrapped in the oversized cardigan you’d found in one of the early drops, faded gray wool that still smelled faintly of laundry detergent. It was around four in the morning, the sky still ink-black except for a thin bruise of gray creeping along the eastern tree line. The air was sharp, cold enough to sting your lungs with every inhale.

You held a cigarette between your fingers, the cherry glowing soft orange each time you drew. You weren’t a smoker before Tim. Now the ritual felt like communion: the scratch of the lighter, the first bitter drag, the way the smoke curled into your throat and sat heavy on your tongue. It was one of the only things left that still carried his ghost. You bought the same brand he always smoked, Marlboro Reds, the red pack with the white chevron, because when the smoke filled your mouth you could almost pretend he was standing behind you, close enough to feel the heat off his jacket, close enough to smell him again.

Your free hand drifted up, fingertips brushing the pale circle scar on your collarbone. The burn mark he’d left there that night - cigarette pressed hard while he fucked you slow and possessive - had faded to a faint, shiny coin of skin. You touched it when the anxiety clawed too deep, when the silence of the cabin pressed in until you couldn’t breathe. A reminder. Proof he’d been real.

You exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the bowl of oats and apple slices you’d set out on the porch rail the night before. Still full. The fawn hadn’t come yet tonight.

Then headlights cut through the dark.

You froze mid-drag.

That goddamn truck. It rolled to a stop in the dirt clearing, engine idling low and familiar, exhaust curling white in the cold. The same truck that had carried you here three months ago, the same one that had driven away while you screamed his name until your voice gave out.

Brian sat alone in the driver’s seat, silhouette unmistakable: broad shoulders, hair pushed back, face half-lit by the dashboard glow. He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the cabin like he was arguing with himself about whether to get out at all.

This was the first time you’d actually seen one of the drops happen. Until now the packages had simply appeared, quiet, ghostly, left on the porch while you slept or showered or stared at nothing.

Brian finally cut the engine. The silence rushed in louder than before. He stepped out, boots crunching gravel, opened the back hatch, and pulled out a plain cardboard box sealed with duct tape. He carried it one-handed, the other loose at his side, posture stiff like he was walking into enemy territory.

He climbed the steps without looking up at first. Set the box down a careful three feet from where you sat. Only then did he glance your way.

You refused to meet his eyes. Kept staring at the empty food bowl on the porch rail, cigarette burning down between your fingers. Ash trembled, ready to fall. You took another slow drag and let the smoke roll out through your nose like you hadn’t noticed him at all.

It was awkward. Brian stood there a long second. The night wind moved his jacket open, revealing the faint outline of the Glock tucked against his ribs. Finally he spoke, voice flat and toneless, stripped of any warmth or care. “Didn’t think you’d be up.”

He shifted his weight once. Glanced at the bowl, then back at you, taking in the way the cardigan hung looser now on your smaller frame, the hollows under your eyes, the emptiness that had settled behind them like frost on glass.

“Picked out some books,” he continued, nodding toward the box at his feet. “Ben sent the usual.”

You flicked the cigarette over the rail without looking where it landed. The ember sparked once against the dirt and died.

Then, in a voice so cold and distant it barely sounded like yours, you spoke. “You don’t need to keep bringing packages anymore. Or check in.” A beat. “I just want to be left alone.”

Brian didn’t answer right away. He stared at you, long enough that the silence turned thick, heavy with everything neither of you would ever say. You kept your gaze locked on the bowl, refusing to give him your eyes.

He exhaled once through his nose, short, almost resigned. “Always so fuckin’ stubborn, huh?”

You finally tilted your head just enough for your voice to carry without turning toward him. “Go to hell.” The words came out low and cold, stripped of heat or volume, spoken like you were stating a simple fact rather than throwing an insult.

Brian went still. You didn’t have to look to know his expression had changed slightly - his eyes narrowing just a fraction, jaw tightening the way it always did when he was deciding whether to argue or let something drop. For a moment he didn’t say anything at all. The night pressed in around the cabin, the forest whispering softly through the branches.

Then he muttered, voice quieter now, rough in a way that sounded almost tired. “Trust me.” A small pause followed, barely longer than a breath. “I’m already there.”

He turned without another word, boots crunching slow across the porch, down the steps, back to the truck. Door opened. Closed. Engine growled awake. Headlights snapped on - harsh white sweeping across the clearing, catching your face for half a second in unforgiving light - then the truck reversed, swung around, and disappeared down the dirt track. Taillights bled red into the dark.

You sat there until the sound was gone. Until the cold sank bone-deep. Until the scar on your collarbone ached like it remembered Tim’s touch.

Then you stood up. Kicked the box hard enough that it skidded across the porch boards with a dull scrape, contents rattling inside like loose bones. The cardboard caught on a warped plank, tipped, and settled crooked against the rail. You didn’t look back at it. Just went back inside, not bothering to lock the door. 

Tim. 

Tim woke to the familiar hammer in his skull - hungover again, the kind that made every heartbeat feel like a fist against bone. The room was dim, blinds half-cracked, late-afternoon light bleeding orange across the unmade bed. His phone alarm had been screaming for God knows how long. He slapped it silent without looking. Stared at the cracked screen instead. 6:17 p.m.

Another day swallowed whole. Drink until blackout. Pass out in yesterday’s clothes. Wake up when the sun was already dying. Repeat.

He lay there a second longer, chest tight, trying not to think about you. About the way your thighs had trembled around his hips on that infirmary cot. About the soft, broken sounds you made when he kissed your neck. About the way you’d clung to him like he was still worth holding onto - even after his fingers had started to squeeze.

No. He shoved the memory down hard, like forcing a lid on something feral.

The alcohol helped. It blurred the edges of that night - erased, for a few blessed hours, the exact pressure of his hand around your throat, the way your pulse had fluttered frantically under his palm while he was still buried inside you. Erased the colder image too: Brian’s Glock in his grip outside the cabin, finger hovering near the trigger, weighing whether one clean shot through the back of your head would’ve been kinder than leaving you to rot alone.

He groaned and rolled off the mattress. The room tilted once, then steadied. He reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. Took a long pull straight from the neck, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He got dressed in the same clothes from yesterday. Grabbed the mask from the dresser, the one that made him nobody, and pulled it over his head. Adjusted the straps until it sat snug. Picked up the axe leaning against the wall and slung it over his shoulder. Left the bedroom.

Ben was sprawled on the couch in the living room, controller in his lap. He looked up when Tim passed, eyes narrowing, mouth half-open like he wanted to say something. Didn’t. Just stared, full of judgment.

Tim ignored him. Kept walking.

Outside, the air hit cold and pine-sharp. Dusk had already settled heavy over the yard, trees black silhouettes against a bruised sky. Brian and Toby waited near the tree line, both already masked up, geared for whatever wetwork waited deeper in the woods.

Brian glanced at his watch, then at Tim. “You’re late. Again.”

Tim didn’t answer. Just fell into step behind them as they started into the trees. Toby glanced back once, eyes catching the porch light for a second, then muttered, “Y-you r-reek, man. Like a distillery f-fell on you.”

Tim’s grip tightened on the axe handle. For half a heartbeat he pictured swinging it - clean arc, satisfying crack against bone. Instead he let out a low grunt, shoulders rolling once like he was shaking off the urge. “Shut up, Toby.”

They walked deeper into the woods, pine needles crunching soft under boots, the last gray light bleeding out of the sky until everything was shadow and shape. Toby moved ahead with long strides, hoodie up, tics flickering every few steps like faulty wiring. Brian slowed deliberately, matching Tim’s heavier pace until they were side by side, Toby pulling farther into the dark ahead.

Brian’s voice came low, muffled slightly by the mask. “Dropped another package this morning.”

Tim kept his eyes on the path, axe handle resting easy against his shoulder.

Brian continued anyway, tone flat. “She was up. Sitting on the porch. Told me not to bring any more. Said she wants to be left alone.”

Tim’s grip tightened once on the axe, barely noticeable. He forced his voice even, casual, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere important. “Didn’t ask.”

Brian’s red-eyed mask turned just enough to catch the faint moonlight. The painted frown looked almost amused. “Yeah. Well. Thought you’d wanna know.”

Tim stayed silent for three more steps. The mask hid the way his jaw clenched, the way his throat worked once. Thank fuck for the blank white face staring back at Brian, no one could see the flicker behind his eyes.

“What’d she look like?” he asked finally. Almost careless.

Brian huffed, short and dry, not quite a laugh. “Like shit,” he said. “Thinner, I guess. Eyes like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Smoking your brand, though. Reds.”

Tim kept walking. The axe felt heavier suddenly. Then, quieter: “She’s gonna keep getting packages. Whether she likes it or not.”

Brian sighed, longer this time, the sound of someone who’d already had this argument in his head. “If she doesn’t want help, that’s on her, Tim.”

Tim cut him off, sharp and final. “I said she’s gonna keep getting them.”

Brian shut up. Another huff, annoyed. But he didn’t argue. Just lengthened his stride, pulling ahead until he walked level with Toby again.

Tim fell back a half-step. He stared at their backs while the woods closed in tighter around them. The axe stayed steady on his shoulder. But under the mask, his face twisted, just for a second, into something raw and unguarded. Then it smoothed over, and he kept walking. Like nothing had changed.

You.

Another three months dragged by - six whole months locked inside this fucking cabin, the walls closing tighter every day like they were trying to crush what little was left of you.

The packages kept coming relentlessly. Every few weeks a new cardboard box appeared on the porch - unmarked, unasked for, full of things you didn’t want: clothes, books, snacks, more of Ben’s perfectly rolled joints. You never touched them. Never even opened one. Just let them stack up, pile after pile, until the porch became a maze of cardboard you had to squeeze sideways through every time you stepped outside. A wall of refusal. A monument to everything you were trying to starve out of your life.

One gray morning you found the fawn.

It lay near the tree line, small body torn open, insides dragged out in wet, glistening ropes, eyes already clouded. Coyotes, probably. You stood over it for a long time, breath fogging in the cold, staring at the tiny ribcage split wide like a broken cage. Then you got the shovel from the shed, dug a shallow grave in the soft dirt behind the cabin. Buried it with shaking hands. Said nothing, no prayer, no words, just stood there until the earth was patted flat and the bowl of oats you’d left out every night felt suddenly obscene.

That was the day something snapped clean inside you.

You went into the tiny bathroom, stood in front of the cracked mirror, and cut your hair. Long, uneven snips with the kitchen scissors, chunks falling into the sink like dead leaves. When you were done it hung ragged around your jaw, messy, alive in a way the rest of you wasn’t. You showered until the water ran cold, dressed in the least-worn clothes from your own closet, and got in the car.

Drove to the tiny town.

The bar was the only one - a sagging building with a flickering neon sign that read “Rusty Nail” in half-dead letters. Inside it smelled like old beer, cigarette smoke that had soaked into the wood years ago, and despair. Empty except for the bartender - an older man, gray hair thinning, eyes tired and bored behind wire-frame glasses. He was wiping the same spot on the scarred bar top when you walked in.

You went straight to him. “You hiring?”

He laughed dryly, like you’d told a bad joke. Then he looked up, and the laugh died when he saw you weren’t smiling. “A girl like you?” he said, eyebrows lifting. “In a place like this?”

“I’m a bartender,” you said, voice flat. “A damn good one. I want the job.”

He studied you, taking in the choppy haircut, the determined look. Sighed. “Pay’s shit. Tips are worse. This town’s dying, young lady. You sure?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said. “I just need something to do.”

He stared at you another long second. Then shrugged. “Alright. Come in tomorrow. Six to close. Don’t be late.”

You nodded once. Turned and walked out before he could change his mind. The door banged shut behind you.

For the first time in six months, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like breathing.

Ben.

Ben hadn’t heard from you in six months. Six fucking months.

At this point you felt like a half-remembered dream, fuzzy around the edges, colors bleeding out, but he still saw you clear as day when he closed his eyes. Your face when you laughed at one of his dumb jokes. The way your arms had wrapped around him that last time in his room, quick and real and warm in a house that never felt warm. The hug had lasted maybe five seconds, but it stuck with him like a brand.

He missed having a friend like you. It had been… refreshing. A reminder that not everything in this life had to be dread and fear and screaming. You’d made him remember what normal felt like, even if it was only for a little while.

He hoped you’d smoked the joints he’d sent. Hoped at least one of those Ziplocs had made it into your hands, that maybe one night you’d lit up on that porch and thought of him without hating the memory. He’d rolled them perfectly, the way he knew you liked.

But he’d overheard Brian and Toby in the kitchen two nights ago, low voices, cabinet doors clicking shut.

“She hasn’t touched a single package in months,” Brian had said, flat as ever. “Just lets them stack up.”

Toby’s stutter had cracked the quiet. “What if… w-what if she’s d-dead?”

“She’s not. We’re not that lucky.”

Ben had stood frozen in the hallway, chest tight like someone had wrapped a cord around his ribs and pulled.

You never replied to any of his messages. Not one. The texts had started desperate and then tapered into quieter, sadder ones. But no replies. It stung. Of course it fucking stung. But he didn’t blame you.

You’d wanted out. Away from Tim. Away from the house. Away from the blood and the static and the way everything here eventually turned rotten. If cutting him off was part of that escape, he got it. He hated it, but he got it. Still hurt like hell.

A small, petty part of him took vicious satisfaction in watching Tim fall apart.

Tim pretended he didn’t care - same old mask, same late-night missions, but Ben saw it. The way Tim drank himself stupid every night, bottles piling up faster than the packages on your porch. The way he’d stare at nothing for minutes at a time, mask off, eyes hollow. The way he’d snap at anyone who even breathed near him.

Someone who didn’t care didn’t drown themselves in whiskey until they couldn’t stand.

Ben leaned back in his gaming chair now, controller idle in his lap. The screen glowed bright, some mindless game paused mid-run, but he wasn’t playing.

He opened his phone. Scrolled to the last message he’d sent you, four months ago. He stared at it a long time. Then locked the screen. Set the phone face-down on the desk.

And went back to the game. Pretending it didn’t still ache. Pretending he didn’t still hope, somewhere stupid and stubborn, that one day you’d text back. Just one word. Anything.

You. 

Another two whole months slipped by like water through cracked fingers, slow at first, then faster, easier.

The Rusty Nail became your second skin. You worked five nights a week, sometimes six if the old bartender wanted a break. The crowd never grew much: a handful of loggers who tipped in quarters and grunted thanks, the occasional trucker passing through, the same three old men who played cribbage at the corner table and argued about hockey scores from 1997. But you made it matter. You learned their drinks by heart. You started a small chalkboard behind the bar with terrible puns about beer. You made a playlist that you put on every night.

People noticed. The loggers started smiling when they walked in. The old men tipped better. One night a woman in her forties told you the bar felt “alive again” and bought you a shot of Jameson. You poured it, clinked glasses, and felt something warm bloom behind your ribs that wasn’t whiskey.

You weren’t hiding anymore. The news cycle had chewed up the bar fire and spat it out months ago, it was a cold case with no leads, a small-town tragedy filed under “shit happens.” This place was hours from your old life, tucked so far into the pines that even Google Maps gave up halfway. No one here knew your face from a wanted poster. No one asked questions.

You let yourself breathe.

And after a while, you even started putting in effort into making the cabin feel more like a home. You bought string lights and draped them along the walls. A small woven rug for the living room. A cheap ceramic mug with a tiny painted deer on it. A kettle. Little things. Proof you still knew how to want.

But the nights… The nights were brutal.

Closing shift ended around midnight. You’d lock up, count the till, wipe down the bar one last time, then drive the dark road back to the cabin with the windows cracked so the cold kept you awake. Radio off. Just engine hum and your own breathing.

Inside the cabin, the string lights glowed soft and golden, but the silence pressed in like damp wool. You’d shower, hot water until it ran cold, pull on a big sweater, crawl under the quilt, and stare at the ceiling until your eyes burned. No static or headaches anymore. Just you. And the loneliness that sat on your chest like a second skeleton.

You’d told your family you were okay. One carefully worded text six months ago: “I’m safe. I need space. Don’t look for me. Don’t call the police. I love you.” Then you’d powered the phone off and buried it in a drawer under socks. They hadn’t tried to find you. Or if they had, they’d respected the boundary. Either way, the line stayed dead.

No friends left. The people from your old life had faded into ghosts the moment the bar burned. And here? You smiled at customers. You made small talk. But no one stayed after last call.

So you started rereading the thread with Ben. Every night. You’d unlock your phone, signal spotty but enough, and scroll back through months of messages. His stupid memes. His late-night rants. The way he’d spam heart emojis when you sent him a selfie. The way he’d typed “i miss u” once. You always smiled, small and aching, despite yourself. He’d been kind when kindness felt like a foreign language.

One night, three weeks ago, you’d almost typed back. Fingers hovering. Heart hammering. Then you’d deleted the draft and gone to bed with wet eyes.

Tonight was different. Closing shift had been quiet. Only two customers after midnight. You’d locked up, driven home under a sky thick with stars, parked, walked inside, kicked off your boots, and sat on the edge of the bed still wearing your bar apron.

Phone in hand. Thread open. You stared at his last message from six months ago: hope the joints helped. miss your dumb laugh. be safe.

Your thumbs trembled. Then, before you could overthink it, you typed.

sorry i ghosted you.

Sent. You dropped the phone like it burned. Stared at it on the quilt. Waited for the world to end. It took forty-seven seconds.

The screen lit up. Then lit up again. And again. And again. A flood.

IT Support:

holy shit oh my god oh my god r u ok?? like actualu ok?? just fuck im shaking rn im literally shaking r u hurt?? do u need anything?? just talk to me pls

You stared at the screen through blurry eyes. Your chest cracked open, painful, bright, and alive. Your thumbs hovered, then you typed one word.

hey :)

The typing bubble appeared instantly. He was already replying. And for the first time in eight months, the cabin didn’t feel quite so empty.

Ben. 

Ben was hyperventilating. Full-on, chest-heaving, vision-sparkling hyperventilation.

He’d bolted from the bed the second your message lit up his screen, knocked over an empty Monster can, sent it rolling under the desk, and slammed his bedroom door so hard the RGB strips flickered. Now he was pacing the narrow strip of carpet between bed and gaming rig, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hair a static disaster from raking his hands through it repeatedly.

His phone was clutched in both hands like it might explode. He kept rereading your last text, the one that had come after his flood of panic:

hey :) i’m okay. really. got a job bartending at this little dive. it’s quiet but it’s… nice. i feel like i’m finally doing something again. just lonely sometimes. like really lonely. the cabin’s too quiet, especially at night.

He’d stared at those words until they blurred. Lonely. You were lonely. And you’d told him. Not anyone else. Him.

His thumbs were shaking so badly the first reply came out as gibberish: are u srsly ok?? like actuallu?? He deleted it. Tried again: holy shit i’m so glad ur alive i mean i knew but i didn’t KNOW yk?? Better. Still terrible. He deleted that too.

His heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again, the one that made his palms sweat and his thumbs feel too big for the screen. He’d typed and deleted so many versions already that he started to feel dizzy.

He took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly. Then he hit the call button before he could talk himself out of it.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. He almost hung up.

Then– “Hello?” Your voice. Soft. A little rough around the edges like you hadn’t used it much today. Beautiful in a way that punched the air straight out of his lungs.

Ben froze mid-pace, one foot still lifted like he’d been caught stepping on a landmine. “Hey,” he croaked. Then immediately winced. “Uh. Hi. It’s–Ben. Obviously. Shit, sorry, I just–”

A small, surprised laugh from your end. The sound was so familiar it hurt. “I know it’s you, dummy.”

He exhaled hard enough that it crackled through the speaker. “Right. Right. Sorry. I’m–uh–kinda freakin’ out right now.”

Another quiet laugh. Warmer this time. “Yeah. I can hear that.”

He started pacing again, faster. The RGB lights cycled purple-blue-purple like they were trying to keep up with his heartbeat. “So… you’re really okay?” he asked, voice cracking on the last word. “Like… actually?”

A pause. Not long. Just long enough for him to picture you sitting on that sagging couch in the cabin, knees drawn up.

“I’m… getting there,” you said finally. “It’s been a long eight months. But yeah. I think I’m okay.”

He stopped pacing. Dropped onto the edge of the bed so hard the springs groaned. “Jesus. Eight months. I thought–” He cut himself off. Swallowed. “I thought maybe you hated me or something. For not… I dunno. Doin’ more.”

“No,” you said quickly. “God, no. I just… needed to disappear for a while. From everything. Including texts. I’m sorry I ghosted you. That wasn’t fair.”

He laughed once, short and shaky. “Yeah, well. I’m not exactly known for my emotional stability either, so… we’re even.”

Silence stretched for a second. Comfortable, though. Not the kind that made you want to fill it with noise.

“So,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably, “bartending again, huh? At a dive bar? That’s… badass.”

You huffed a small laugh. “It’s literally the most nothing place you can imagine. But… I like it. I like having something to do. Somewhere to go. People who don’t know my name or my history.”

He could hear the small smile in your voice. “That sounds… nice,” he said softly. “Normal.”

“Yeah. Normal’s weirdly addictive once you get a taste.”

He flopped backward onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling where one of his lights had started flickering like it was dying.

“What about you?” you asked. “How’s… everything?”

He groaned dramatically. “Same as always. I was promised ‘less work’ from Brian but obviously that never happened, he keeps riding my ass. Jack’s on a new cleaning kick–disinfects the entire infirmary every single week now. The whole house smells like bleach for days. Everyone’s pissed. Jeff says it’s ‘chemical warfare.’ I’m pretty sure he’s not wrong.”

You laughed. “God, I can picture it. The bleach smell must be brutal.”

“It’s apocalyptic. I’ve been sleeping with my hoodie over my face like a gas mask.”

Another laugh. Softer.

Neither of you said Tim’s name.

He thought about it multiple times. The question hovered right there on his tongue: Have you heard from him? Seen him? Does he know you’re okay? But every time he opened his mouth to ask, something stopped him. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of how wrecked Tim had been after dropping you off. Maybe just not wanting to break whatever fragile thing was happening right now.

So he didn’t. Instead he asked, “You gonna keep texting me? Like… regularly?”

You were quiet for a second, long enough that his stomach dropped, then answered, soft but sure. “Yeah. I promise. I’m not… I’m not ghosting again. I missed you, Ben. More than I knew how to say.”

His eyes stung. He blinked hard, laughed once to cover it. “Cool. Cool cool cool. That’s–yeah. Good. Great. I missed you too. Like, embarrassingly bad.”

You both laughed, small, relieved.

Eventually the call had to end. You said you had a shift tomorrow. He said he had to pretend to sleep before Brian came looking for him.

“Okay,” you said. “Talk soon?”

“Soon,” he promised. “Like, tomorrow soon. Don’t make me wait months again or I’ll drive up there and camp on your porch.”

“Deal.”

The line went quiet. Then you whispered, almost too soft to hear: “Thanks for calling.”

He swallowed. “Thanks for picking up.”

Click.

Ben stared at the ceiling for a full ten seconds after the call ended. Then he exploded.

He threw the phone onto the bed, leapt up, did a ridiculous, flailing spin-jump that nearly knocked over his monitor, and let out the loudest, most undignified “FUCK YES” of his life, muffled immediately by shoving his face into a pillow so no one downstairs heard.

He flopped back onto the mattress, arms spread wide, grinning so hard his cheeks ached. “She’s okay,” he whispered to the ceiling. “She’s okay. And she called me. And she laughed. And she promised.”

He rolled onto his stomach, buried his face in the pillow again, and let out a muffled, giddy scream.

Then he grabbed his phone, opened your contact, and changed your name from the sad little “ghosted 🥲“ he’d set six months ago to: bartender queen aka best friend ❤️🍺

His chest felt too small to hold it all. He needed to tell someone or he was going to combust. He bolted out of his room without thinking, feet slapping the hallway floorboards, hoodie flapping open. Jeff’s door was cracked, light spilling out in a thin yellow stripe, and Ben just shoved it wide and stepped inside. The room smelled like sweat, cheap body spray, and wet dog.

Jeff was mid-pull-up on the makeshift bar he’d bolted into the ceiling beams months ago, shirtless, lean muscle flexing under scarred skin, sweat gleaming down his back and ribs. His black hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes. He didn’t stop when Ben entered, just kept going, slow and controlled, breath steady through his nose.

Smile was sprawled across the foot of the unmade bed, thick fur rising and falling with deep, oblivious sleep. One paw twitched like he was chasing something in his dreams.

Ben eased the door shut behind him. The latch clicked softly. His voice came out small and rushed. “Dude. You know you’re not allowed to have animals in the house. Tim’s gonna freak if he finds out.”

Jeff released the bar with a soft grunt, dropped lightly to the floor, and turned. Sweat slid down the center of his chest. He wiped his face with the discarded shirt hanging off the bar, then tossed it aside. “Tim can suck my fuckin' dick,” he said, mildly amused.

Smile woke at the sound, head lifting, ears perking. The second he saw Ben his tail started thumping against the mattress like a bass drum. Before Ben could react the dog launched off the bed in one fluid bound, paws hitting the floor, and barreled straight for him.

Ben yelped, high and panicked, stumbling back until his shoulders hit the door. “Hey–Smile–hey, buddy–easy–”

Smile planted both front paws on Ben’s thighs, nose shoving into his stomach, tail whipping so hard it blurred. Ben froze, half-terrified, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know whether to pet or push. Through gritted teeth, barely above a whisper: “Get this fuckin’ dog off me, man.”

Jeff laughed and dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Smile. C’mere.”

The husky obeyed instantly, trotting back, tongue lolling, and sat between Jeff’s knees like a soldier at attention. Jeff buried scarred fingers in the thick ruff, scratching hard behind the ears until Smile’s eyes half-closed in bliss.

Ben exhaled shakily, still pressed against the door like he might bolt.

Jeff tilted his head, smirking. “You look like you just snorted a line. What’s up, dude?”

Ben clapped his hands together. “Guess who I just talked to!”

Jeff pretended to think about it for a second, then smirked. “Hm… you finally paid a fortune to talk to your favorite cam girl again?”

Ben groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Nah. Shut up. It was–” He dropped his hands, eyes wide and bright. “It was her. Y/N. I just talked to her. On the phone. Like, actually talked.”

Jeff’s smirk froze for half a second. Then it stretched wider, slow and amused. “No shit.”

Ben started pacing again, three steps one way, three steps back, like he couldn’t contain the energy. “Yeah. She texted me back. Finally. After months of fucking radio silence. And then she answered when I called. Dude. She laughed. She laughed at my stupid jokes. She told me about the bar she’s working at, some dive in the middle of nowhere. Said it’s quiet but nice. Said she’s lonely sometimes. She promised to keep in touch. She said she missed me.”

Jeff leaned back on his hands, legs spread wide, Smile leaning heavy against his thigh. He scratched the dog’s neck absently while he listened, pale eyes glinting. “Damn,” he drawled. “Little bartender finally crawled out of her hole. You think she’s still as sexy?”

Ben shot him a look. “Don’t be a dick. She’s doing good, okay? She sounded… normal. Like she’s actually breathing again.”

Jeff chuckled, then flopped fully onto his back across the bed, arms flung out. Smile immediately climbed half on top of him, head resting on Jeff’s stomach like a living weighted blanket. Jeff kept petting, fingers dragging lazy through the thick fur.

He tilted his head toward Ben. “She say anything about gettin’ properly dicked down out there in the woods? Eight months is a long time to go without. Bet that pussy’s starving.”

Ben groaned louder this time, stepping forward to smack Jeff on the shoulder, hard enough to make the bed bounce. “Jesus, dude. Can you not?”

Jeff laughed again, rolling onto his side so Smile had to readjust with an annoyed huff. “What? I’m askin’ a legitimate question. Girl spends that much time in a cabin with nothing but canned soup and her right hand. You think she’s not climbin’ the walls?”

“I mean, I guess.” A pause. “Anyway… she didn’t mention Tim,” Ben said quietly. “Not once. Neither did I.”

Jeff’s smirk softened just a fraction. He stared at the ceiling for a second, fingers still moving through Smile’s fur. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Probably smart.”

Ben sank onto the foot of the bed, careful not to crush the dog’s tail, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. “I hope he never sees her again,” he said. “I hope he stays the fuck away. She’s finally… I dunno. Starting to sound like herself.”

Jeff hummed, thoughtful. Then the smirk crept back. “If Tim ever does roll up on her again, he’s not gonna be gentle about it. And she’s probably so dick-starved she’ll let him do whatever he wants anyway. Maybe we should make a road trip. Me, you, Smile. Help the poor girl out.”

Ben pinched his leg, fighting back a grin. "You’re such a sleazeball.”

Jeff cackled, rolling away and dragging Smile with him. The dog grumbled but didn’t move far.

They sat in comfortable quiet for a minute, Smile’s tail thumping lazily against the mattress, Jeff scratching behind his ears, Ben staring at his phone like it might light up again any second.

Eventually Jeff yawned, long, jaw-cracking. “Alright, loverboy. Go jerk off to the memory of her voice or whatever you do when you’re giddy. I need beauty sleep.”

Ben snorted. Stood up. “Yeah. Night, asshole.”

Jeff lifted two fingers in lazy salute without looking.

Ben slipped out, closed the door softly behind him.

Back in his room he locked it, flopped onto his bed face-first, and let out a long, muffled groan into the pillow. Then he rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and grinned so wide it hurt.

He replayed every word of the call in his head, your soft “hello,” the way you’d fondly called him “dummy,” the tiny laugh. He thought about your voice, rough around the edges but still so fucking you, and felt something warm and stupid bloom in his chest.

He didn’t fall asleep for a long time. Kept picking up his phone, rereading the texts, smiling like an idiot at the new contact name.

You.

For the first time in a long, long time…you felt lighter. Not healed, not whole. But lighter.

You had your friend back. Ben.

Texts started the very next day. Silly ones at first - memes, selfies of him making faces in his gaming chair, complaints about Brian’s latest rant. You answered. Every time. Just quick replies, stupid emojis, the occasional photo of your outfit or the chalkboard pun you’d written at the bar that night.

You never mentioned Tim. He never brought him up. It was an unspoken agreement.

Things at the Rusty Nail kept getting better. The old bartender started trusting you with more shifts. The loggers started calling you by name. One night the three cribbage guys left you a twenty-dollar tip and a scrawled note on a napkin: Keep the puns coming, kid. You taped it behind the bar like a medal.

You bought more string lights, warm white ones for the bedroom this time. You started leaving out birdseed on the porch. A family of chickadees started showing up every morning, tiny black-capped heads bobbing at the feeder you’d hung from the eaves.

Soon enough, a whole year had passed.

One morning, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days since Tim’s taillights disappeared down that dirt track, you woke up, stretched under the quilt, and realized something quiet and startling: You felt free.

You could breathe without the weight on your chest. You could laugh at Ben’s dumb texts without guilt. You could touch the scar on your collarbone without flinching. You could look out the window at the pines and not feel hunted. You weren’t running anymore. You were just… living. And for the first time in forever, that felt like enough.

Tim.

The mission had gone sideways from the jump.

What was supposed to be a clean in-and-out, a quiet house on the edge of nowhere, one target, no witnesses, had turned into a slaughterhouse. The guy hadn’t been alone. Hadn’t even been asleep. He’d come at Tim with a kitchen knife and a scream that woke the whole goddamn neighborhood. Tim had put three rounds through his chest before the first one even hit the floor, but the noise brought the wife running. Then the neighbor with a shotgun. It stopped being clean. It became survival. Blood on the walls, blood on the stairs, blood on the rifle barrel still warm against his shoulder.

Now the town was empty.

Midnight had come and gone; the streets were dead except for the occasional porch light flickering like it was on its last breath. Tim walked slowly, boots scuffing cracked sidewalk, the hunting rifle slung across his back like an old friend. The same rifle he’d bought brand-new at a pawn shop just to convince you he really was a hunter, told you it was for deer season, watched your eyes light up when he talked about tracking through the woods like some romantic bullshit. The same one he’d fucked you with - cold metal pressed inside you while you came shaking in his arms. The same one he’d used to crack Toby’s face open the night everything went to shit.

He didn’t use the axe as much anymore. The rifle felt better in his hands now. Personal.

He wiped the drying blood off his knuckles onto the thigh of his jeans, dark streaks already blending into the dark denim, and flicked the spent cigarette to the ground. The ember sparked once against the pavement and died.

He couldn't stop thinking about the cabin - your cabin. It was close. Too close. Fifteen, maybe twenty miles north through backroads he'd driven blind drunk more times than he cared to count. He could be there in half an hour if he found a car worth stealing. Could park at the tree line, kill the engine, sit in the dark and watch the porch light flicker through the pines.

He’d had the urge to do that for a whole year. Just to see you. Just to be near you again. But tonight the pull was vicious. Bone-deep. Like something under his ribs had teeth and they were sinking in deeper with every step.

He needed a drink.

Needed to drown the static in his head, the loop of your voice saying Tim–please–don't leave me while his taillights shrank in the rearview and you screamed his name until the woods ate the sound.

A bar sign glowed ahead: Rusty Nail. Flickering neon. One letter burned out so it read Rusty Na l. Looked like every other shithole he'd ever drowned in.

Good enough.

He pushed through the door. Bell above the frame jangled once. Inside: dim. Warm. Three stools at the bar, all empty. And behind the bar–

You.

What the actual fuck.

You stood there, wiping down the scarred wood with a rag that had seen better decades. Denim shorts. Oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. Hair shorter now, choppy, jagged around your jaw like you'd cut it yourself with kitchen scissors in a fit of something. The string lights you'd probably hung yourself cast soft gold across your profile when you turned at the sound of the bell.

Your eyes met his. The rag slipped from your fingers. Landed on the bar with a soft wet slap.

Tim didn't move. The rifle felt suddenly obscene slung across his back, like a confession he hadn't meant to bring inside. Blood still tacky on his hands. Smoke and gunpowder clinging to his jacket. Exhaustion carved so deep into his face he looked ten years older than the last time you'd seen him.

You stared. He stared back.

You.

You stared at him and felt your whole world crumbling.

The bell’s jangle still hung in the air like an aftershock. Tim stood framed in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space, rifle slung low across his back like it belonged there, dark streaks smeared across the denim of his jeans. The same jacket. The same flannel underneath, unbuttoned at the throat, collar stained rusty-brown. The same goddamn hunting rifle.

Déjà vu hit you like a truck. The first time you’d ever met him it was exactly like this: near closing, him stumbling through the door bloody and quiet, asking for a drink in that low, smoke-rough voice. You’d poured him a beer. You’d let him fuck you right there.

And now he was here.

A million things crashed through you at once: scream, cry, laugh, lunge across the bar and claw his eyes out, grab the rifle and blow a hole through his chest so wide he’d never walk away again.

Instead you just stared. Tim stared back.

His face, still handsome in that brutal, tired way, was carved with lines that hadn’t been there a year ago. Shadows under his eyes so dark they looked bruised. Jaw unshaven. Lips chapped. Hair longer, messier, falling into his face like he’d stopped caring enough to push it back. The exhaustion rolling off him wasn’t just from whatever hell he’d crawled out of tonight.

You spoke first, colder than you expected. “Get out.”

Tim’s throat worked. He didn’t move. “I just want a drink,” he said, hoarse, almost polite. Like this was still the version of him who pretended to be normal.

You felt something snap behind your ribs. “Get out,” you said again, louder this time, voice cracking on the second word.

He lifted one blood-streaked hand slowly, palm out. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Get the fuck out!” The shout tore out of you before you could stop it. You slammed both palms on the bar so hard the bottles rattled. “What are you doing here? Why are you back? Huh? You think you can just walk in like nothing happened? Get. The fuck. Out.”

Tim flinched visibly. His hand dropped. His eyes, dark, hungry, always so fucking hungry, flickered with something raw: confusion, anger, panic, grief, all at once. He looked like a man watching his own execution and still not understanding why the bullet was coming.

“I swear,” he rasped. “I didn’t know. I was close. Needed a drink. That’s it.” He sounded like he was telling the truth. You hated that most of all.

You kept staring at each other across the bar top, across a year of silence, across every broken promise and every night you’d cried yourself hollow.

Then he said it. “You look… beautiful.”

The words punched the air out of your lungs. You blinked, caught completely off guard.

Beautiful. After everything. After the blood, the fire, the goodbye in the dirt, he looked at you like you were still the most precious thing.

You didn’t let it show. Didn’t let your lip tremble. Didn’t let your eyes burn. You just stared at him, and said, “Leave.”

He didn’t. He took one careful step forward. “Just one beer,” he said, pleading in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Then I’ll go. I swear.”

You wanted to say no. Wanted to scream until the windows shattered. Instead - against every screaming instinct in your body - you exhaled through your nose, turned, and pulled a bottle of Bud from the cooler. The glass was ice-cold against your palm. You cracked the cap with a bottle opener, set it on the bar between you with a clink, and stepped back. “Drink it and get out.”

Tim crossed the room slowly, boots heavy, rifle swaying slightly with each step, until he reached the bar. He stood there, staring at the bottle like it might bite. Then he pulled out a stool. The legs scraped loud against the floor. He sat.

You stayed behind the bar, arms crossed tight over your chest, nails digging into your biceps hard enough to leave marks.

He wrapped one hand around the bottle. Didn’t drink yet, just looked at it. Then looked at you.

You couldn’t help it. You took him in too. The lines around his eyes were deeper than they used to be. His mouth was tighter. His shoulders, broad, strong, always so fucking strong, slumped just enough to notice. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept right in a year.

He lifted the bottle finally. Took one long, slow pull. Swallowed. Set it back down. The clink was too loud in the silence. 

You locked eyes, and for one endless, agonizing second, it felt like nothing had changed. Like you were still that girl who’d laughed when he flirted. Like he was still the man who’d promised to keep you safe.

Then you remembered the way his hand had tightened around your throat. The way his eyes had gone distant. The way his taillights had disappeared. And the illusion shattered. You looked away first. Picked up the rag. Started wiping the bar again in slow, mechanical circles over wood that was already clean.

Tim watched you. He took another sip, and said, quiet, barely audible–

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t dare look up, just kept wiping. Because if you stopped, if you looked at him, if you let yourself feel anything at all, you weren’t sure you’d survive it. So you wiped, and he drank. And the silence between you stretched, painful and endless, alive with everything neither of you could say.

But you couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of your eye as he drank.

He didn’t gulp it down like he used to, no long, desperate pulls that emptied the bottle in three swallows. He took slow sips instead, like he was trying to make the beer last, like he knew the second it was gone he’d have to leave. Every time he lifted the bottle, the faint metallic scent of whatever nightmare he’d walked out of tonight drifted across the bar toward you.

You hated that you noticed. Hated that you still knew exactly how many swallows it took him to finish one.

The bottle was almost empty now, condensation sliding down the glass in slow, lazy trails. You knew he wouldn’t ask for another.

So when the last swallow went down and he set the empty bottle on the wood with a soft clink, you reached into the cooler without a word. Pulled out another Bud, cracked the cap and set it in front of him.

His eyes flicked up, surprised, grateful, something softer and more dangerous flickering behind the exhaustion. He nodded once, small and careful, and wrapped his hand around the new bottle.

The silence stretched again.

He took a sip. Swallowed. Then, voice low, rough from smoke and whatever else he’d been swallowing lately, he asked, “What are you doin’ here?”

You considered ignoring him. Considered turning your back, walking into the back room, locking the door until he left. Instead you answered, like the words didn’t cost you anything. “Got bored in the cabin. Needed something to do.”

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense. Like he understood the slow rot of isolation better than anyone. “Fair,” he murmured. Another sip. “You like it here?”

You looked around the Rusty Nail, the chipped bar top, the flickering neon, the empty stools. Then back at him. “Yeah,” you said. Almost a whisper. “I do.”

He held your gaze for a long second. Then looked down at the bottle. Took another drink. The silence came back heavier.

He rolled the bottle between his palms, thoughtful, then carefully asked, like he was stepping onto thin ice,

“You fucked anyone since me?”

The question landed like a slap. You stared at him. Blinked once.

Of course he’d asked that. Of course.

Annoyance flared hot and fast behind your ribs, sharp enough to cut through the ache. “Are you serious?” you asked.

He shrugged - one shoulder lifting, casual, like he was asking about the weather. “Just a question.”

You felt your jaw tighten. “So what if I have?”

His mouth curved, just a little. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one. “Sounds like you haven’t,” he said softly.

Then, darker, almost tender in the most fucked-up way–

“If you have… he won’t be alive much longer.”

The words hung there. Heavy, and possessive, and terrifying, and beautiful.

You felt butterflies erupt in your stomach, traitorous and unwanted. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. Once. Twice. You hated it. Hated him. Hated yourself for still feeling anything at all when he said shit like that.

“You should leave now.”

He didn’t argue. Just lifted the bottle again and drank the rest in three slow pulls.

He set the empty down and reached into his jacket pocket - pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. Twenties, tens, a few ones. Dropped them on the bar without counting. “Keep the change.”

He stood, and looked at you. A long, slow, aching look - like he was trying to burn every inch of you into his memory before the door closed behind him. His eyes lingered on your face. Your hair. The scar peeking above your sweater collar. The way your hands shook just slightly where they gripped the edge of the bar.

Then he nodded once and turned.

You watched him walk out. The bell jangled and the door swung shut. Silence rushed back in.

You stood there, frozen, chest heaving. Once. Twice. Then the sob ripped out of you, quiet at first, choked, then louder. You pressed both hands to your mouth, trying to trap the sound, but it kept coming anyway. Tears burned hot down your cheeks. Your knees buckled.

You caught yourself on the bar, fingers curling tight around the edge, head dropping forward until your forehead rested against the cool wood.

You’d seen Tim again. After a whole year. After everything. And he still looked at you like you were his. Still spoke to you like you were his. Still threatened murder over you like you were his. And you still felt it - the pull, the ache, the stupid, traitorous butterflies that should have died months ago.

You stayed like that, shaking, crying quietly into your palms, until the tears slowed. Until your breathing evened out. Until the bar felt empty again. And you whispered to the empty bar, to the night, to the ghost of him still lingering in the air–

“Fuck you, Tim.”

But even as you said it, your voice cracked. Because part of you, the stupid, broken, still-in-love part, didn’t mean it. Not even a little.

You managed to pull yourself together eventually. The tears slowed to a trickle, then dried on your cheeks in salty tracks. You wiped your face roughly with your sweater until the fabric felt damp and gritty. Your hands still shook, small, fine tremors you couldn’t quite stop, but you forced them to move anyway. You picked up the two empty bottles. Rinsed them in the sink behind the bar. Dropped them into the recycling bin with a soft clink that sounded too loud in the empty room. Counted the drawer even though you already knew the night’s take by heart. Locked the register. Turned off the neon sign. Flipped the “Closed” placard in the window.

Every motion mechanical. You couldn’t let yourself fall apart again.

You pulled your phone from your apron pocket with numb fingers. The screen lit up, 1:47 a.m. You opened your messages. Ben’s thread was already open from earlier that day, some stupid gif he’d sent. Your thumb hovered over the call button for three long seconds.

Then you pressed it.

He answered after the second ring.

“Hey!” His voice came through bright, warm, already halfway into a ramble. “Dude, you will not believe what just happened in chat–some guy tried to speedrun Mario 64 with a dance pad and–”

“I just saw Tim.”

Ben went silent instantly. The background noise cut off like someone had yanked the cord.

Then the panic started. “What the fuck,” he breathed. “What do you mean? Like–like saw him saw him? Where? When? Did he–did he do anything?”

You leaned your forehead against the cool metal of the walk-in cooler door and closed your eyes. “I was closing up,” you said. Voice steady even though your pulse hammered in your throat. “He walked in all bloody. Asked for a drink. I told him to get out. He didn’t. I gave him two beers anyway. He drank. He left.”

A long beat of silence. Then Ben’s voice, smaller, careful. “Did he… say anything?”

You swallowed. “Said I looked beautiful.”

Another silence, this one heavier. “Jesus,” Ben whispered.

You pushed off the cooler door. Started pacing the narrow space behind the bar with slow, measured steps. “Ben,” you said. “Did you tell him I was working here?”

Instant denial - sharp, almost offended. “No. Fuck no. I’d never snitch. Not even to save my own ass.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I figured.”

Ben exhaled. “Tim had a mission near that town,” he said quietly. “Brian mentioned it last week. Some cleanup job a couple hours south. He probably just… stumbled in. Wrong place, wrong time. Bad fucking luck.”

You felt bile rise in the back of your throat. 

Was this fate?

The thought hit you pathetically. You almost laughed at yourself. Almost slapped yourself for even thinking it.

Instead you just kept pacing. “Nothing really happened,” you said. “He drank. He left. That’s it.”

Ben was quiet for a long moment. “How do you feel about seeing him again?”

You stopped walking. Stared at the bar top, still damp from where you’d wiped it earlier. You thought about lying. About brushing it off with something casual, something easy. But the truth clawed its way up anyway. “I don’t know,” you whispered.

A beat. “Nothing’s gonna happen. This was just a one-time thing.”

Ben didn’t push. Just let the silence sit there patiently. After a while he asked, barely above a breath. “Do you… want to get back together with him?”

The question landed like a punch to the solar plexus. You felt your throat close. Felt your eyes burn again. You sighed, long and ragged. “I gotta go, Ben,” you said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

You hung up before he could answer. Before he could hear the way your voice cracked on the last word.

You locked up and drove home in silence.

The cabin was dark when you pulled up. You sat in the car for a long minute, engine ticking as it cooled, staring at the porch light you’d left on.

Then you went inside. Kicked off your boots. Stripped out of your clothes right there in the living room and left them in a heap on the floor like shed skin. Walked straight into the bathroom. Turned the shower on as hot as it would go. Stepped under the spray. Let the water scald your shoulders, your back, your face.

You stood there until your skin turned pink, then red. Until the heat made your head swim. Then you shut the water off. Toweled dry. Pulled on the big cream sweater and a pair of soft sleep shorts. Crawled under the quilt. Curled onto your side. Stared at the wall, desperate for sleep.

But every time you closed your eyes you saw him - dark eyes, tired lines, blood on his gloves, that quiet, broken “I’m sorry” he’d left on the bar like loose change.

You tried counting backward from one hundred. Tried focusing on your breathing - slow in, slow out. Tried picturing the ocean, the bar, Ben’s stupid memes, anything safe. But nothing worked. 

Tim kept rising behind your eyes like smoke you couldn’t wave away. The way he’d stood in the doorway, broad, blood-streaked, rifle slung low like it was part of him. The way his gaze had dragged over you, possessive and starving, like no time had passed at all. Like you were still his.

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily. Heat bloomed low in your belly, a traitorous thing.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling beams. Tried to will it away. It only got worse.

You remembered the infirmary cot, his big hands pinning your wrists above your head, hips rolling deep and slow while he kissed the cigarette scar on your collarbone like it was holy. You remembered the way he’d growled “mine” against your throat while he fucked you raw and desperate. You remembered the stretch of him inside you, thick and unrelenting, the way he’d made you cum so hard you’d seen stars behind your eyelids.

Your hand drifted down before you could stop it. It slid under the waistband of your sleep shorts and found slick heat already waiting.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and let two fingers slip inside. A soft, broken sound escaped you.

You pictured him above you, sweat-slick chest pressed to yours, breath hot against your ear, that low, wrecked voice murmuring “that’s it, baby, take it all.”

You curled your fingers, crooked them the way he used to, pressed against the spot that made your hips jerk off the mattress.

Your other hand slid up under the sweater, cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked hard and aching. You imagined his mouth there instead, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, sucking until you were whimpering his name.

“Tim–” The whisper slipped out, shameful. You didn’t care.

You pumped your fingers faster, wet, obscene sounds filling the quiet cabin. Your thumb found your clit and circled slow at first, then harder, matching the rhythm of your hips grinding against your own hand.

You pictured him flipping you onto your stomach, big palm between your shoulder blades, holding you down while he sank in from behind, deep and punishing. Pictured his other hand wrapping around your throat, just enough to feel your pulse flutter under his thumb while he fucked you senseless. Pictured him growling “cum for me, sweetheart–let me feel it” right before you shattered.

Your back arched. Breath hitched. Thighs trembled. The orgasm hit like a freight train, sudden and blinding.

You cried out his name again as your walls clenched around your fingers, slick gushing over your hand, soaking the sheets beneath you. Waves rolled through you, long, shuddering, almost painful in their intensity.

When it finally ebbed you collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp, legs shaking.

Tears pricked your eyes again - not from sadness this time. From release. From the cruel, beautiful truth that even after everything, your body still remembered him. Still wanted him. Still came hardest when you pictured his hands, his voice, his cock splitting you open.

You pulled your fingers free, slick and trembling, and wiped them on the sheet. Rolled onto your side. Curled into yourself. Exhaustion crashed over you like a tide, finally. Your eyes fluttered closed and for the first time in a year, sleep came fast and dreamless.

No nightmares, or static, or taillights disappearing into the dark. Just the quiet afterglow of your own body finally giving you what it had denied for so long.

Toby. 

Toby couldn’t sleep.

He never really could, not all the way. His brain was restless most nights: twitching, sparking, looping the same three thoughts until they wore grooves into his skull. Tonight was worse. The house felt too quiet, too empty. Brian was gone, some long-haul recon job up north. Tim was still out. Jeff was probably passed out somewhere. The rest of the place just… slept. Or pretended to.

Toby lay on his back for what felt like hours, staring at the water-stained ceiling, shoulder jerking every few minutes like someone kept yanking an invisible string. Neck cracking sideways. Fingers drumming restless patterns against the sheet. Eventually he gave up and rolled out of bed.

He shuffled downstairs. Kitchen light hurt his eyes when he flicked it on. He squinted, opened the cabinet, pulled out the half-empty box of off-brand cinnamon cereal. Poured a mountain of it into a chipped ceramic bowl. Added milk. Spoon clinked against the side as he carried it to the living room.

He dropped onto the sagging couch and clicked the TV on low. Some late-night cartoon flickered to life - bright colors, dumb sound effects, characters screaming at each other in exaggerated voices. He didn’t care what it was. Just needed noise. Something to drown out the static in his head.

He ate slowly. Slurped milk off the spoon. Chewed mechanically. Stared at the screen without really seeing it. A tic snapped his head sideways, hard enough the cereal almost spilled. He muttered a soft curse under his breath, readjusted the bowl, kept eating.

The front door opened. Toby leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked over the backrest.

It was Tim, who looked like death warmed over. Jacket hanging open, flannel underneath dark with sweat and something worse. Hunting rifle slung low across his back like it weighed a thousand pounds. Face pale under the porch light that spilled in behind him, eyes sunken, mouth a tight line.

He stepped inside. Shut the door with his boot. Tossed the rifle onto the floor near the coat rack, metal clattering against wood, loud in the quiet house. Then he crossed to the armchair and dropped into it like his strings had been cut.

A low, gravelly “Hey” rumbled out of him.

Toby swallowed the mouthful of cereal. Slurped milk off the spoon again. “Hey,” he rasped back. “Mission go o-okay?”

Tim leaned back. Reclined the chair until the footrest popped up. Boots thudded onto it. He rubbed a gloved hand over his face. “Went bad,” he muttered. “Handled it.”

Toby nodded once. Took another bite. Chewed. Stared at the cartoon dog chasing its own tail in frantic circles.

Tim watched him for a minute. Toby’s shoulder jerked again. Spoon clinked against the bowl. Hair a mess, sticking up in every direction. Eyes tired but alert, flicking over the screen like the dumb cartoon was the most fascinating thing he’d seen all week.

Tim’s throat worked once. He thought about not saying it. Thought about letting the silence sit. Then he said it anyway. “I saw Y/n.”

Toby froze mid-chew. He furrowed his brows in confusion, then slowly turned his head to look at Tim. Spoon hovered near his mouth, milk dripping back into the bowl. “Where?” he asked.

Tim exhaled through his nose. Stared at the ceiling. “Bar. Little shithole called the Rusty Nail. Walked in for a drink, didn’t know she was there.”

Toby set the bowl on the coffee table and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You t-talk to her?”

Tim’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Toby’s neck cracked sideways in a sharp tic. He rubbed at it absently.

“You know she’s workin’ there?” Tim asked.

Toby shook his head quickly. “No. Didn’t k-know.” He paused. “Brian hasn’t e-even checked on her in like… over a muh-month. Stopped l-leaving packages too. Said s-she just lets ’em rot on the porch. Figured she d-didn’t want a-anything from us anymore.”

Tim nodded once, like the information settled somewhere heavy inside him.

Toby watched him, eyes searching Tim’s face. The exhaustion there. The way his hands flexed and unflexed like he still felt the rifle’s weight. “So…” he said quietly. “How’d it go?”

Tim stared at the cartoon flickering across the screen. Then he exhaled like the air had been trapped in his lungs for days. “It went like you imagined it’d go,” he muttered. “She wanted me to leave. Told me to get the fuck out more than once.”

Toby nodded once. He leaned back into the couch cushions, shoulder jerking once, neck cracking sideways in a quick, involuntary tic.

He thought about you. How pretty you’d always been - even when you were shaking, even when you were covered in blood. How you’d hugged him on the porch like he mattered - like he was safe, like he was good.

He was happy you’d made it. Happy you were working again. Doing something. Standing behind a bar like you belonged there. He’d always known you would. Known you were stronger than the house, stronger than the sickness, stronger than whatever poison Tim carried under his skin.

He stared at the cartoon, bright colors flickering across his face, the characters yelling nonsense he wasn’t really hearing. Then he hummed and asked, “You p-p-planning on doing suh-something?”

Tim sighed. The recliner creaked as he shifted. “I left for a reason, Tobes.”

Toby didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to bridge the gap between what Tim had done and what he clearly still felt.

Tim kept going, voice low, almost confessional. “I would’ve killed her sooner or later. I just know it.”

Toby thought about it. Tim wasn’t bragging, wasn’t deflecting, wasn’t hiding behind the mask or the rifle or the anger. He was saying it plain - like a fact he’d finally accepted. Like a wound he’d finally stopped pretending wasn’t bleeding.

And that did something to Toby. In a way, Tim had a point. Toby had always known Tim was bad, at least bad for a girl. He’d been the one to warn you, after all. Back when you still looked at Tim like he hung the moon. Toby had seen the way Tim’s hands got too tight sometimes. Seen the way his eyes went distant.

But hearing him say it like this, raw and, stripped-down, no excuses, it was different.

Tim was taking accountability. For maybe the first time in his life. And more importantly - he was putting your life above his own selfish needs. Above his want. Above the hunger that lived under his skin.

That was… special.

You were special.

Toby thought about it, then carefully asked, “You don’t think g-guys like us can ever be in a h-healthy relationship?”

Tim went still. Thought about it for a long moment, eyes on the cartoon, but not seeing it. Then he huffed, a small, bitter sound. “Buddy… I don’t even know what a healthy relationship is.”

Toby chuckled softly.

Tim kept going, voice quieter now. “I was really happy with her. While it lasted. Happier than I’ve ever been. But with men like us…” He shook his head once. “It can never really work out. You know that, Tobes.”

Toby nodded. But then he shifted. Turned his head just enough to look at Tim, eyes searching. “I don’t really buh-believe t-that,” he said quietly.

Tim raised a brow, surprised, almost amused.

Toby kept going awkwardly, stumbling over the words a little. “I think… if you have y-your heart in the rrrr-right place… a-anything’s possible.”

He looked away again, back to the TV, shoulder jerking once. “I wasn’t s-sure you had your heart in the rrrr-right p-place. Not with her. Not a-at first. But…” He swallowed. “I’m starting to see t-that you do.”

A beat. Then, gentler–

“She’s not a-alive because you left her. She’s alive buh-because you really do care a-about her.”

Tim stared at him.

For a second Toby thought he’d crossed a line - said too much, pushed too far. Then Tim leaned forward, reached over the armrest, and ruffled Toby’s messy hair.

Toby smiled. Tim’s mouth curved too, just a little. “You’re getting all sappy on me, Toby.”

Toby groaned, a little embarrassed, and swatted Tim’s hand away half-heartedly. “I was j-just trying to be helpful, a-a-a-asshole.”

Tim laughed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You were.”

He leaned back again. Reclined the chair farther. Closed his eyes.

Toby picked up the bowl again. Took another slow bite.

The cartoon kept playing. And for once, for just a little while, the silence between them didn’t feel heavy.

Tim.

Days bled into each other after that night on the couch.

Tim didn’t talk about it again, not to Toby, not to anyone. He kept the conversation locked behind his teeth. But it stayed with him. Every quiet moment - driving backroads at 3 a.m., cleaning the rifle in the shed, lying awake staring at the cracked ceiling - the words Toby had said looped through his head like a bad song he couldn’t shake.

“She’s alive because you really do care about her.”

He hated how much those words hurt. Hated how much truth was in them.

He drank less that week, not because he wanted to, but because the whiskey didn’t drown the ache anymore. It just made the memories sharper. Your face in the bar that night. The way your hand had trembled when you set the second beer down. The way you’d looked at him like you were still waiting for the man he used to pretend to be.

He caught himself staring at the map on the kitchen wall more than once, tracing the route from the house to that nowhere town with his thumb, memorizing every turn even though he already knew it by heart.

He told himself he wouldn’t go. Told himself it was better this way. Told himself you were safer without him breathing the same air.

But the pull never stopped. It just got louder.

One Tuesday evening, nothing special about the day, nothing special about the sky, he grabbed the keys to the truck without thinking too hard. Told himself he was just going for a drive. Told himself he’d turn around before he got too far.

He didn’t turn around.

The drive took three hours and change. Long enough for the sun to sink, long enough for the pines to thicken, long enough for the static in his head to settle into something quieter, heavier. He smoked half a pack of Marlboro Reds on the way.

When he pulled into the gravel lot behind the Rusty Nail the neon sign was already flickering - Rusty Na l glowing sickly yellow against the black sky. Same busted letter. Same everything.

He killed the engine. Sat there for a full minute with his hands still on the wheel, heart thudding too hard. Then he got out.

Boots crunched gravel. Jacket zipped against the night chill. No rifle this time, he’d left it in the truck bed under a tarp. No gloves. Just him - clean jeans, hair pushed back, face unshaven but not bloody. He looked almost normal.

Almost.

He pushed through the door and the bell jangled once. Inside: warm dim light, low hum of conversation, jukebox playing something old and twangy in the corner. A handful of regulars at the bar - two loggers nursing beers, the old cribbage guy with his newspaper, a trucker scrolling his phone.

And behind the bar–

You.

You looked beautiful. You were wearing a pretty dress - dark green, soft cotton, the kind that skimmed your thighs and made your legs look longer. White apron tied around your waist, strings knotted in a neat bow at the small of your back. Hair still choppy, but softer tonight - tucked behind one ear, a few strands falling loose against your cheek. String lights glowed behind you, casting warm gold across your collarbone, catching the faint scar he’d left there like a signature.

You were laughing at something one of the loggers said, the sound hitting Tim like a fist to the sternum.

Then you looked up and saw him. Froze. The laugh died on your lips.

Your eyes widened just a fraction before you schooled your expression. Polite. Professional. The bartender smile you gave everyone. But he saw it anyway, the flicker of shock, the quick inhale, the way your fingers tightened around the rag you were holding.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He gave you the smallest nod and walked past the bar to the back corner table. The one half-hidden in shadow, far enough from the others. He sat, elbows on the table, and watched you.

You turned back to the tap. Poured a beer without looking at him again, head down, movements careful. The loggers kept talking. You nodded along. Smiled when you were supposed to. But every few seconds your eyes flicked to the corner table. To him. He didn’t look away.

You finished pouring. Set the glass on a tray with a coaster. Wiped your hands on your apron. Then, slowly, like you were walking into a storm, you carried it over. The floorboards creaked under your sneakers.

You stopped in front of his table. Set the beer down in front of him with a soft clink.

He looked up at you. “Thanks,” he said.

You tried for a polite smile. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re welcome.”

He watched you walk back to the bar, hips swaying slightly under the dress, apron strings swinging, hair catching the light every time you moved. He took a slow pull from the beer. Set it down. Leaned back in the chair. And kept watching.

You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Every pour. Every wipe of the bar. Every forced laugh at the loggers’ jokes. Every time you bent to grab a bottle from the cooler. Every time you tucked your hair behind your ear. You felt it like a physical touch.

You kept sneaking glances at him. Couldn’t help it.

One by one the regulars trickled out. The cribbage guy first - tipped his hat, left a folded twenty under his glass. The trucker next - muttered something about hitting the road, dropped a five. The loggers stayed longest - laughing, arguing, finally stumbling out around midnight with promises to “see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You locked the front door behind them. Flipped the neon sign to OFF. Tim was the only customer left. Still sitting there.

You wiped your hands on your apron one last time, and walked over, stopping a few feet from his table. You crossed your arms and looked at him.

He looked back. The silence stretched, thick and electric, full of everything neither of you had said last time.

Finally you spoke. “You gonna drink that all night or are you actually gonna say something?”

Tim’s mouth curved, just the smallest hint of a smile. He lifted the bottle in a small toast. Then set it down. And said–

“I missed you.”

You didn’t know how to reply. So you just stared at him, arms still crossed tight over your chest like they could hold your heart in place. Your pulse was a war drum in your throat, loud enough you were sure he could hear it. He stared back, dark eyes steady, unguarded for once.

Finally you exhaled, too loud in the empty bar. “Why did you think coming back here was a good idea?”

He lifted one shoulder in that slow, careless shrug that used to drive you insane. “Dunno. You look beautiful in that dress.”

Heat flooded your cheeks before you could stop it. You bit the inside of your lip, trying to keep your face neutral, trying to keep the butterflies in your stomach from rioting.

You uncrossed your arms, forcing yourself to look serious instead of sheepish. “Tim, please,” you said quietly. “For once in your life, be serious.”

You hesitated, only a second, then dragged the other stool around and sat across from him. Close enough that your knees almost brushed his under the table. Close enough that you could smell the road and smoke still clinging to his jacket.

He held your gaze. The half-smile faded. “Alright. I can do that.”

You folded your hands on the table. Knuckles white. “I’m only saying this once,” you started, voice low but steady. “It’s not a good idea for you to come back here. Not tonight. Not ever. I finally got out. I finally stopped waking up every morning waiting for the static and the sickness. I built something here. And every time you walk through that door, you drag the dark back in with you.”

Tim didn’t flinch. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing something sharp.

You kept going, because if you stopped you might not start again. “I’m not saying I hate you. I’m not even saying I want you gone forever. I’m saying… I’m finally breathing again. And I don’t know if I can survive going under a second time.”

Silence stretched between you, long enough that you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

Then Tim spoke. “The past year has been torture.” He didn’t look down. Didn’t hide behind the beer bottle or the shadows. Just held your gaze.

“I tried to drown it. Alcohol. Work. Missions. Didn’t matter. Every time I closed my eyes I saw you screaming my name while I drove away. Every time I woke up I reached for you and you weren’t there. I told myself I was doing the right thing–keeping you safe, keeping the rot away from you. But it wasn’t noble. It was just being a coward. Because the second I let myself feel how much I needed you, I knew I’d never be able to walk away again.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was forcing the next words out. “I finally realized how much you mean to me. You’re the only thing that ever felt real. And I spent a whole year trying to pretend I could live without that. I can’t.”

Your chest ached, sharp and sweet at once. You could feel the stupid, traitorous hope trying to claw its way back up your throat. You hated how much you wanted to believe him. Hated how much his voice still unraveled you.

You looked down at your hands. Watched your own fingers tremble just slightly. “I’m happy you’re saying this,” you whispered. “But I’m also terrified. Because I escaped the darkness once. I clawed my way out. And if I let you back in, even just a little, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do it again.”

Tim nodded once, resigned. His shoulders dropped like he’d already accepted the rejection before you finished speaking.

He started to pull his hand back.

You caught it.

Your fingers closed around his, quick, almost desperate. His hand was warm, callused, familiar in a way that made your throat close. You held on. Didn’t let go.

“But… I’ve missed you too,” you said, so soft it barely carried. “Every stupid day. I missed you so much it felt like missing a limb.”

Tim went very still. You lifted your eyes to his.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his hand in yours until your palms met. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, light enough to raise goosebumps. Then he lifted your hand. Pressed his lips to your knuckles and kissed them, soft and lingering.

You hesitated, only a heartbeat. Then you lifted your free hand. Cupped the side of his face. Your thumb brushed the rough stubble along his jaw, traced the faint scar there. His eyes fluttered closed for a second at the touch.

You couldn’t resist it, you leaned in. He met you halfway.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, almost careful. Lips brushing. Breathing each other in. Then it deepened. His mouth opened under yours, tasting like beer and smoke and something achingly familiar. Your fingers slid into his hair. His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw.

It felt like everything. Like the year of silence collapsing in on itself. Like all the nights you’d cried yourself hollow and all the mornings you’d forced yourself to keep going crashing into this single, trembling moment.

The kiss turned hungry fast. Teeth grazing. Tongues sliding. Small, desperate sounds neither of you could hold back.

You both stood at the same time - chairs scraping back, forgotten.

He backed you against the table without breaking the kiss. Your hands fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. His palms slid to your hips, bunching the soft green cotton of your dress, thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above your waistband.

You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you just enough to set you on the edge of the table. Your legs parted on instinct; he stepped between them, hips slotting against yours, the hard line of him pressing right where you ached.

His mouth left yours, trailing hot, open kisses down your throat, teeth grazing the faint scar on your collarbone.

You tipped your head back and whimpered his name. He groaned against your skin like the sound of it undid him.

Your fingers tugged at his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. And the kiss picked up again, filthy and desperate, like neither of you could get close enough.

After a few moments, the kiss broke only for a second - long enough for Tim to pull back, forehead pressed to yours, breaths ragged and hot against your mouth. “Tell me you want this,” he rasped, eyes dark and desperate, searching your face. “Tell me right now or I’ll stop. I swear I will.”

You nodded so fast it made your head spin. “Yes,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair. “God, yes–Tim, please–”

That was all he needed.

A low, broken sound tore out of his throat and he shoved his jeans and boxers down in one rough yank, just far enough for his cock to spring free, thick, already rock-hard and flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out along the shaft. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed the sheer size of him, the way it curved just slightly, the heavy weight of it in your hand. Your mouth watered instantly.

You dropped to your knees before he could stop you.

“Fuck–sweetheart–” Tim groaned, one hand flying to the edge of the table for balance.

You leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right to the head, tasting the salty bead of precum already leaking there. “I missed this,” you whispered against his skin, voice trembling with need. “Missed your dick so fucking much, Tim. Missed how thick it is… how it stretches me…”

You dragged your tongue up the underside in one long, wet stripe, then took the head into your mouth, sucking gently at first, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip while your hand wrapped around the base and stroked what you couldn’t fit.

“Shit–baby–” Tim’s hips jerked forward involuntarily. “You’re gonna kill me. That mouth–fuck, I missed that pretty mouth sucking me off.”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs shake. You pulled off just long enough to duck lower, pressing soft kisses to his balls, licking, sucking one into your mouth while your hand kept pumping his shaft in slow, tight strokes.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, fingers threading into your hair. “Look at you… on your knees for me again.”

You switched to the other ball, humming happily, then licked a wet stripe all the way back up and took him deep again, deeper this time, until the head nudged the back of your throat. You gagged softly but didn’t stop, eyes watering as you bobbed, spit dripping down your chin, the filthy wet sounds echoing in the empty bar.

Tim’s breathing was ragged, chest heaving. “Enough–fuck, enough or I’m gonna cum down your throat and I want to be inside you when I do.”

He dragged you up with strong hands under your arms. The second you were on your feet he shoved your dress up around your waist, and yanked your panties down in one brutal tug. They fell at your feet and you kicked them away. His fingers slid between your legs immediately, two thick digits parting your soaked folds.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groaned, voice dark with satisfaction. “Soaking wet for me already. This pussy missed me, huh?”

You whimpered, hips pushing back into his hand. “Mhm, yes–Tim, please, I need you–”

He didn’t make you beg twice. In one smooth motion he lifted you, hands under your ass, biceps flexing, and you wrapped your legs tight around his waist like muscle memory. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, hot and blunt and perfect. He guided himself in with one hand, the other arm locked around your back, and then–

He sank you down. Inch by thick inch until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt, stretching you so wide it burned in the best way.

“Oh my God–” you gasped, head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket.

Tim’s forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “Fuck… fuck, baby. So tight. So fucking tight after a whole year.”

He started moving, slow, deep thrusts at first, using his strength to lift and drop you onto his cock again and again. Every time he bottomed out you felt it in your stomach, the blunt head kissing your cervix, the thick base grinding against your clit. You held onto him for dear life as he fucked you harder, hips snapping up, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the bar.

“Missed you on my dick,” he growled against your neck. “Missed hearing those little sounds you make when I’m balls-deep. Missed filling you up–”

You moaned loud, shameless, legs locked tighter around him. “Harder–Tim, please–fuck me hard–”

He snarled and gave you exactly what you asked for - pounding up into you, relentless. Your dress was bunched uselessly at your waist, apron strings dangling. You were soaking his cock, slick dripping down his balls with every plunge.

After long, brutal minutes he slowed just enough to carry you the two steps to the table. He laid you back on the scarred wood, still buried inside you, and hooked your legs over his elbows, spreading you wide. “Look at me,” he ordered, voice rough.

You did. Eyes locked as he started fucking you again, deep, grinding strokes that dragged his cock against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he panted, hips snapping harder. “Let it out.”

The orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and blinding. Your back arched off the table, walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, slick gushing around his cock. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes from the intensity.

Tim fucked you through it, slow, deep, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive, then his rhythm stuttered.

“Fuck–baby–I’m gonna–gonna cum–” He slammed in one last time, hips flush to yours, and came with a broken groan. Thick, hot pulses flooded you, rope after rope, so much it overflowed immediately, dripping down your ass and onto the table. He stayed buried deep, grinding slow while he trembled above you.

For a long minute neither of you moved. Just heavy breathing, foreheads pressed together, his cock still twitching inside you.

Tim kissed you, soft this time, then whispered against your lips, voice hoarse and raw. “Never letting you go again. Never. You’re mine. This pussy, this heart–everything. I missed you too fucking much to survive it a second time.”

You just held onto him tighter, legs still wrapped around his waist, heart hammering against his chest.

After a long stretch of stillness, bodies still joined, breaths slowing together, his forehead resting heavy against yours, Tim eased out with careful gentleness. He helped you sit up on the edge of the table, dress still rucked around your hips, thighs slick and trembling. He tugged your panties back into place with almost gentle hands, then pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like he could shield you from whatever came next.

You rested your cheek over his heartbeat, listening to it steady itself, strong and real beneath the worn jacket. His fingers carded slowly through your hair, thumb tracing the shell of your ear in lazy, soothing circles.

For the first time in a year the ache in your chest didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like breathing, shallow still, careful, but possible. You closed your eyes and let yourself lean into him fully, let the warmth of his body and the quiet promise in his touch settle something deep inside you.

Maybe it wouldn’t last. Maybe the darkness would come creeping back. But right now, in this stolen pocket of time with his arms around you and the taste of him still on your lips, you felt something fragile and bright flicker awake again. Hope. And for tonight, that was enough.

You.

The days that followed were quiet. Almost too quiet.

You went back to the Rusty Nail day after day, poured beers, wiped down the bar, smiled at the same loggers and the same old cribbage players. You fed the chickadees on the porch each morning, hung a new bird feeder you’d picked up at the store, started reading a new book. Life moved forward in small, ordinary increments.

Eventually, you texted Ben and told him Tim had shown up at the bar. Told him what happened after closing.

Ben’s response came in a frantic rush of messages that you could practically hear him typing at lightning speed. He freaked out - exactly the way you’d expected. Panicked questions about whether Tim had hurt you, whether he’d threatened you, whether he’d forced anything, whether you were safe. You had to talk him down over a twenty-minute phone call, voice steady even though your own hands were shaking.

You told him it meant nothing. That it was probably just a one-time thing. A moment of weakness. A relapse.

Ben listened, quiet after the initial explosion, but you could hear the doubt in his silence. You could hear him wanting to believe you and not quite managing it. You both knew it was a lie, thin as paper, but neither of you called it out loud.

After that, you asked him, almost casually, to keep an eye on Tim back at the house. Just to let you know if anything seemed… off. Ben agreed without hesitation.

Over the next few days he sent occasional updates, small observations dropped into otherwise normal conversations.

Apparently, Tim was… different. Not drinking himself stupid every night anymore. Not slamming doors or snarling at everyone who breathed too loud. He was quieter. More present. Actually ate meals with the others again. Even helped Toby patch a hole in the roof one afternoon without being asked twice.

Ben said he even caught Tim smiling once, at nothing in particular. The sight of it had unnerved Ben in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

You listened to every word and felt something fragile start to bloom behind your ribs. Hope. Small and dangerous.

Then, one gray morning exactly a week after that night, you stepped outside to refill the bird feeder and froze. On the top porch step, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a simple length of twine, sat a bouquet of roses. Deep red. Velvet-soft petals still dewed from the early chill.

You stared at them for a long time, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Then you knelt slowly and lifted them with careful fingers. You pressed them to your face and inhaled. And something inside you cracked wide open. 

For the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt whole. Like the jagged pieces of yourself you’d spent a year trying to glue back together had finally clicked into place. Like the universe, that had once been so cruel and indifferent, had looked down at the wreckage of your heart and decided, against all odds, to give you a second chance.

With the love of your life. With the man who’d once broken you so completely you weren’t sure you’d ever breathe right again. With Tim.

You carried the roses inside. Found an old mason jar under the sink and filled it with water. Arranged the stems carefully, spreading them out so every bloom could be seen. Set the jar on the windowsill above the kitchen sink where the morning light would hit them. Then you stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the petals catch the sun.

You felt hopeful. Truly, stupidly, terrifyingly hopeful. That maybe it could all work out. That maybe broken things could mend. That maybe love - real, ugly, brutal love - could still be worth fighting for.

Tim.

Tim felt lighter. Like a weight he’d carried so long he’d forgotten what it was like to stand straight had finally shifted, eased, started to lift off his shoulders inch by slow inch.

He had you back. You were his again.

Not in the brutal, possessive way he used to claim, like a thing he could break and remake in his image, but in something quieter, something fragile and terrifyingly real. He knew it wasn’t perfect. Knew the road ahead was long and jagged, full of nights where you might wake up screaming his name in fear instead of want, full of days where the silence between you would feel heavier than any fight. He knew trust didn’t regrow overnight, that scars didn’t fade just because someone said “I’m sorry” and meant it.

But it was a start. A real one. And for the first time in longer than he cared to count, Tim felt something dangerously close to hope.

He’d just come back from a mission. The kind of job that used to leave him hollowed out and reaching for the bottle before he even peeled off his gloves. Tonight he felt… steady. Almost calm.

He sat at the kitchen table alone, the house unusually quiet around him. Brian was out again. Toby had disappeared upstairs hours ago. Jeff and Ben were probably gaming in Ben’s room. 

Tim finished the last bite of whatever cold leftovers he’d thrown together - didn’t even taste it, just ate because his body needed fuel - and pushed the plate away. He leaned back in the chair, rubbed a hand over his jaw, felt the rasp of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.

He thought about driving to you. Right now. Middle of the night, no warning, just showing up on your porch with his hands in his pockets and that small, crooked smile you used to like. He pictured the way your face would change when you opened the door - surprise, wariness, maybe the tiniest flicker of warmth before you could hide it.

The thought made his chest ache in a good way.

But first - shower. Fresh clothes. He smelled like blood and sweat, and he needed to wash it off before he came anywhere near you. He stood, stretched until his spine popped, and headed upstairs.

His bedroom door creaked when he pushed it open. The lamp on the nightstand was already on, the way he always left it. Brian must have been here earlier; there were new documents laid out neatly on the quilt on the bed. Manila folder, crisp edges, the Operator’s seal stamped in the corner like always. New missions. New targets.

Tim sighed through his nose and dropped onto the edge of the mattress. Grabbed the stack lazily, flipped it open, started skimming.

Photos clipped to the top pages: grainy surveillance shots, names typed in stark black font, short descriptions underneath. Routine stuff. A nosy journalist who’d gotten too close. An old acquaintance who’d started talking. A civilian who’d seen something they shouldn’t have.

He flipped through them mechanically, eyes scanning, brain already half-checked out, already thinking about the hot water waiting for him, about the drive to your cabin, about how your hair smelled after a shower.

Then he turned to the last page. And froze.

Your face stared up at him.

It was an old picture of you sitting on the porch steps of your old house, knees drawn up, smiling at something off-camera, sunlight catching in your hair.

Underneath it, in the same cold, formal typeface as the others:

Target: Y/n Threat Assessment: High. Subject has caused significant internal division among proxies. Emotional attachment has compromised operational security and judgment of assigned proxy (Masky). Continued association risks exposure of the Operator’s network. Subject represents a distraction and potential liability. Priority: Immediate neutralization required to restore stability. Assigned Proxy: Masky (Tim Wright)

Tim read it again. And again. The words didn’t change. Your name stayed the same. The description stayed the same - too clean, too clinical, like you were just another loose end to tie off. Assigned proxy: him.

His blood went cold, slow at first, then all at once, like ice water poured straight into his veins. His fingers tightened around the edges of the paper until it crinkled. The room tilted. The lamp’s warm glow suddenly looked wrong, sickly and mocking.

He stared at your picture. At the way you were smiling in it. At the way someone had taken that moment from him and turned it into evidence against you. Against both of you.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. He felt sick. Felt rage. Felt something colder and sharper underneath it all: fear.

Tim put the documents away. Carefully. Too carefully. Like if he moved too fast the pages might cut him. He slid the folder shut, edges aligning with a soft rasp, then placed it back on the quilt exactly where Brian had left it. As if nothing had changed. As if the last page didn’t exist.

But it did. Your name burned behind his eyes like a brand.

He knew. He knew if he refused, if he even hesitated, someone else would be assigned. Brian wouldn’t blink. Toby would stutter through the guilt but do it anyway. Jeff would probably laugh while he did it.

Loyalty to the Operator came first. Always had. Always would. They were tools. Extensions. Not people. And Tim had forgotten, for one stupid, beautiful night, that he was still one of them.

He’d thought a year was long enough. Thought distance, time, silence had dulled the Operator’s interest in you. Thought showing up on your porch with roses and a quiet “I’m not leaving again” was safe now.

But clearly–

Clearly–

Returning to you had been the biggest mistake of his life. The realization hit like a blade between the ribs.

He muttered one word, barely audible. “No.” Then he buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp hard enough to hurt. Breath coming in short, ragged bursts through the gaps between his fingers.

The static started then. Low at first, like distant radio hiss. Then louder. Closer. Crawling inside his skull, pressing against the backs of his eyes, filling every empty space until there was no room left for thought.

He dropped. Knees hit the floorboards, jarring, pain flashing up his legs but he barely felt it. “Please,” he rasped. Voice breaking. “Not her. Please.”

The voice answered inside his skull.

Loyalty. You are no longer a person. You are a servant. You have no choice.

The words were carved directly into the folds of his brain like a hot iron. The static swelled, deafening now, white noise so loud it drowned out his own heartbeat, his own breathing, his own sobbing.

He curled forward, forehead pressing to the cold wood, shoulders shaking. “Please,” he whispered again. “Not her.”

The voice didn’t answer this time. It had already won.

Tim stayed like that, knees on the floor, face in his hands, body trembling, until the static became everything. Until it swallowed the room. Until it swallowed him. His vision grayed at the edges. Then black.

He collapsed sideways, boneless, cheek pressed to the rough floorboards, arms still curled around his head like he could shield himself from what was coming. He passed out like that, curled on the ground, completely crushed under the impossible, unbearable weight of what he had to do.

You.

It was a beautiful day.

The kind of afternoon that felt like a stolen gift, sun high and warm, sky a perfect, cloudless blue, the pines around the cabin whispering softly in a light breeze that carried the clean scent of thawing earth and new needles. Your day off stretched out lazy and golden in front of you.

You’d woken up slow, no alarm, just sunlight spilling across the quilt. Made pancakes - thick, fluffy ones with real maple syrup you’d splurged on at the tiny grocery in town. Ate them standing at the counter, licking syrup off your thumb while you scrolled through funny videos on your phone. Laughed out loud at a dumb cat compilation until your cheeks hurt.

Then you curled up in bed with the book you’d been meaning to finish for days - something soft and hopeful, full of second chances - and lost yourself in it for hours. Texted Ben in between chapters. Light, easy messages at first, then something deeper.

You told him you’d been thinking about finally meeting up again. He’d replied almost instantly.

holy shit yes pls ive been dyin to see u ill ask jeff for a ride he owes me anyway we can hang out like old times after a whole fuckin year

It sounded fantastic. You grinned at your phone like an idiot, heart doing a little flip at the thought of Ben showing up on your porch with a bag of snacks and that same excited energy he’d always had. You missed him. Missed the normalcy he brought, the way he made everything feel less heavy.

You were so excited you almost didn’t hear the crunch of gravel outside.

Almost.

But the sound of an engine cut through the quiet.

You set the book down on the nightstand and walked to the window. You saw the truck.

Tim stepped out. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept at all last night. Dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped under the weight of his jacket, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. But when he looked up and saw you in the window, something in his face softened. Just a little.

You smiled anyway. Couldn’t help it.

You opened the door before he reached the porch steps.

He climbed them slowly, boots heavy on the wood, and when he got close enough you stepped forward without thinking and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He froze for half a heartbeat - surprised, maybe - then his arms came around you. Tight.

You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, breathed in smoke and pine and him. “Hey,” you whispered against his jacket.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Thank you for the roses.”

His mouth curved, small and tired.

You took his hand, threaded your fingers through his, and led him inside.

The cabin smelled like maple syrup and coffee and the faint lemon of the pitcher you’d made yesterday. You pointed to the kitchen windowsill where the roses sat in the mason jar, deep red petals catching the afternoon sun, looking almost too vivid against the simple wood.

“Look,” you said softly. “They’re still perfect.”

Tim stopped in the doorway, eyes on the flowers. “I’m glad you like them, baby.” His throat worked once. “Pretty like you.”

You smiled shyly and gestured to the kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll get you something.”

He obeyed and dropped into one of the mismatched chairs like his body was too heavy to argue. You went to the fridge, pulled out the glass pitcher of lemonade you’d squeezed fresh yesterday, poured him a tall glass. Added ice. Set it in front of him.

Then you sat next to him, right beside him, knee brushing his under the table. You looked at him, the exhaustion carved deep around his eyes, the faint tremor in the hand that lifted the glass, the way he held it without taking a sip.

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. “How are you?”

He stared into the lemonade for a long second, like the answer was floating somewhere in the ice. “Been better.” A beat. “But I’m here.”

You squeezed his arm gently. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You are.”

He finally took a slow sip of the lemonade, ice clinking softly against the glass. You watched the way his throat worked, the faint bob of his Adam’s apple, the way his shoulders eased just a fraction as the cold hit his tongue.

You tilted your head a little. “Like it?”

He lowered the glass, looked at you, and nodded once. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s good, sweetheart.”

You smiled, pleased, and let the quiet settle for a moment. The sun streamed through the window, catching the roses in the mason jar, turning the red petals almost translucent. You traced the rim of your own untouched glass with your fingertip, gathering your courage.

Then you decided to just say it. “I’ve… been texting with Ben a little,” you admitted. “He wants to come see me again. Finally hang out.”

You braced yourself. Waited for the flare of jealousy, the tight jaw, the low growl of possession that used to rise so easily in him whenever Ben’s name came up.

It didn’t come. Tim just looked at you and nodded again. “That sounds like a good idea,” he said simply. Then quieter: “I know he’s missed you.”

You blinked, surprised. The breath you’d been holding slipped out in a soft exhale. You hadn’t expected… acceptance. Not so easily. “Thank you,” you whispered.

He gave a faint nod, almost absent, then looked down at the lemonade again. His thumb traced slow circles over the condensation on the glass. His expression had shifted. Distant. Like something was pressing down on him from the inside.

“Hey,” you said softly. “What’s wrong? I can see you’re thinking about something.”

He cleared his throat. “Job’s… taking a toll,” he said. “Got assigned something difficult.”

You went still. He’d never talked about his work like this. Not openly. Not to you.

You knew what he did - what they all did. You’d tasted the edge of that darkness yourself - the static, the violence, the way it twisted people until they weren’t people anymore. But hearing him say it so openly was new.

You swallowed. “Do you… have no choice?” you asked. “No say in what you have to do?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You waited.

He looked up at you then. “If I don’t do it,” he muttered, “someone else will.”

The words hung there.

Loyalty. You could hear it in his voice - the weight of that word for them. The way it wasn’t just duty. It was chains. It was identity. 

You nodded slowly. Hummed in understanding. Then you said the only thing you could think to say. “Well… whatever it is,” you murmured, “I’m sure you have enough strength to do it.”

You had no idea what the job was. No idea how dark, how brutal, how impossible. You just knew he looked like he was drowning. And you wanted to throw him a rope. Even if it was only words.

He stared at you for a long second, something raw flickering behind his eyes. Then he nodded, grateful.

Abruptly he changed the subject. “You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks. You smiled and reached out, fingers brushing his cheek, the rough stubble, the warm skin. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Then you slid your hand down, found his, laced your fingers through his. “I can make you feel better,” you said softly. “If you want.”

His eyes darkened, just a fraction. He nodded. You stood. Tugged gently. He followed.

You led him into the bedroom, the afternoon sun painting long golden bars across the quilt. The door clicked shut behind you and for a moment you both just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same air. Tim looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

You stepped closer. He met you halfway.

Your mouths found each other, slow, searching, almost careful at first. No desperation like in the bar. Just lips brushing, parting, tasting. His hands settled on your waist, big and warm, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the cotton of your shirt. Yours slid up his chest, under his shirt, finding skin, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palms.

The kiss deepened gradually. Tongues met tentative, then bolder. He tilted his head, changed the angle, sucked gently on your bottom lip until you sighed into his mouth. One of his hands drifted up your back, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

You tugged at the hem of his jacket. He broke the kiss long enough to shrug it off. Then the T-shirt underneath. You dragged it up slowly, savoring the reveal of scarred skin, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband, the way his stomach flexed when your knuckles grazed him. He stood still while you looked. Let you trace the old scars with your fingertips.

Then his hands found the bottom of your shirt. He lifted it inch by inch, slow enough that cool air kissed your skin before his mouth did. He kissed the newly bared skin as he went: the dip of your collarbone, the faint scar he’d left there, the soft swell of your breast. When the shirt cleared your head he tossed it aside and cupped your face again, kissing you deeper, hungrier, while his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts. You arched into him, needy sound caught in your throat.

He guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sank down, and he followed - kneeling between your legs, never breaking the kiss.

His hands roamed, palms sliding over your ribs, thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts, then finally cupping them fully. He groaned low against your mouth when he felt how hard your nipples already were. Rolled them gently between thumb and forefinger until you whimpered, hips lifting off the bed in a helpless little jerk.

You reached down and fumbled with his belt. He helped, then shoved jeans and boxers down just enough. His cock sprang free, heavy.

You wrapped your hand around him and gave him a few slow strokes, feeling him pulse against your palm. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck–baby–”

You smiled and reached down to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your soft shorts and panties at the same time. You lifted your hips just enough to drag both down together in one smooth motion, shimmying them past your thighs and kicking them off the edge of the bed so they landed somewhere on the floorboards in a crumpled heap.

His eyes never left you as he lowered himself carefully onto his back. The mattress dipped under his weight, the quilt bunching softly beneath him, and he settled against the pillows, palms open, waiting.

You climbed over him - straddling his hips, knees sinking into the quilt on either side. “I’ll make you feel so good, Tim.”

You leaned down to kiss him again, tongues sliding, breaths mingling. His hands returned to your tits, cupping, kneading, thumbs circling your nipples in lazy spirals that made your thighs tremble.

You rocked against him, sliding your slick folds along the underside of his cock, coating him, teasing the head against your clit until you both moaned into each other’s mouths.

When you couldn’t wait anymore, you lifted your hips and guided him to your entrance. Sank down slowly, inch by torturous inch.

His head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, low groan rumbling from his chest.

You felt every ridge, every vein, the thick stretch of him filling you until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt. For a long moment you both just breathed.

Then you started to move. Slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding more than riding, feeling him press against every sensitive spot inside you. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, helping you find a rhythm.

You leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, riding him deeper, harder, but still unhurried.

His eyes opened, locked on yours. Full of something raw and aching. He reached up and cupped your face, fingers squeezing your cheeks together as you moaned helplessly. 

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Now you were chest to chest, your arms around his neck, his around your back, moving together in slow, deep rocks.

“You look so pretty like this,” he muttered against your mouth. “All mine…”

He kissed you, messy and open-mouthed, while you ground down on him, clit rubbing against his pelvis with every roll. 

The angle shifted, him hitting deeper, harder. You gasped against his lips and he swallowed the sound.

Then - without warning - he flipped you.

One smooth motion and your back hit the mattress, legs still wrapped around his waist. He settled between your thighs in deep missionary, hips flush to yours.

He moved in long drags out, almost all the way, then deep, rolling thrusts back in that made your eyes roll back and your breath hitch. His forearms bracketed your head. Eyes never left yours. You stared back, wide-eyed and trembling, lost in the intensity of it.

He kissed you softly, then deeper, tongues sliding, breaths shared. “I love you, you hear me?”

You could only nod and moan in response, too lost to form any coherent response.

One hand slipped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles in time with his thrusts.

The pleasure built - slow, relentless, almost painful in its intensity. Your orgasm crept up on you, quiet at first, then shattering.

You arched, back bowing off the bed, walls fluttering hard around him, slick gushing, soaking the sheets beneath you.

He groaned and kept moving through it, drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive, shaking.

Then he kept going, more intense. Eyes locked. Kissing you between thrusts - soft, desperate, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into your mouth.

Tears started slipping from the corners of your eyes. You didn’t know why. They just came, hot, silent, running down your temples into your hair.

Tim noticed immediately. His rhythm faltered, just for a second.

He leaned down - kissed the tears away - soft presses of his lips to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corners of your eyes. “Why you cryin', baby? Hm?” he whispered against your skin. “It’s all gonna be okay, I promise.”

Another kiss, right over the wet track on your cheek. “I love you,” he breathed. “So fucking much.”

The words cracked something open inside you. The dread you’d been ignoring, the cold, nameless thing that had been sitting in your chest since he walked through the door, surged for a moment, sharp and terrifying. But you shoved it down. Hard.

Focused on him - on the way he was looking at you. On the way he felt inside you, thick, and hot, and perfect. On the way his thumb kept rubbing slow circles over your clit until the coil snapped again.

You came a second time, harder this time, tears still slipping free. Walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves.

He groaned, hips stuttering once, twice, then buried himself as deep as he could and followed. Hot pulses filled you, spilling out around where you were stretched tight around him.

He collapsed over you, careful not to crush you, forehead pressed to yours, breaths ragged, shared. You stayed like that, tangled and trembling, kissing slow and lazy. Until the aftershocks faded and your heartbeats slowed.

Eventually he eased out and rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest.

You watched as he reached for the nightstand and fished out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. He lit one - slow drag, cherry glowing bright in the dim room. Exhaled toward the ceiling, a long, gray plume curling lazy in the sunlight.

You curled tighter against him, head on his shoulder, leg draped over his thigh. His heartbeat was steady and strong under your head.

He took another drag. Offered you the cigarette. You shook your head with a small smile. He kissed the top of your head instead.

And for that quiet, sunlit moment, the dread stayed buried. The tears dried. And all you felt was him.

After a while, the quiet between you felt full rather than empty. You shifted against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the warmth of his skin still pressed to yours. The sunlight had shifted across the quilt, turning the room softer, lazier.

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Hey,” you murmured. “Want to step outside for a bit? Enjoy the afternoon sun?”

Tim’s eyes, still heavy-lidded from everything, met yours. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

You both moved slowly, almost reluctantly, like neither of you wanted to break the spell of lying tangled together. He sat up first, running a hand through his messy hair. You slid off the bed, legs still a little shaky, and reached for the clothes you’d discarded earlier. He watched you as you pulled on the soft T-shirt and the shorts.

He tugged his jeans back up, buttoned them, shrugged his jacket on but left it unzipped. You padded across the floorboards and he followed close behind, hand brushing the small of your back like he needed the contact.

Outside, the air was crisp but kind, sun warm on your skin, breeze carrying the clean scent of pine and thawing earth. The porch steps creaked under your weight as you both settled onto the top one, side by side, thighs touching.

The truck sat in the dirt yard, sun glinting off the matte red paint. Beyond it, the trees stood tall and still, needles catching gold light. Somewhere a chickadee chattered. Otherwise, perfect quiet.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. He exhaled long and slow, like something tight inside him had finally loosened. “Wish I could stay like this forever,” he said.

You hummed in agreement. “Me too.”

The words felt dangerous in their simplicity.

You sat like that for a long minute, sun on your face, his arm slowly sliding around your waist, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip through the fabric. Peaceful. Almost painfully peaceful.

Then - movement at the tree line.

A deer stepped out. Slender legs, soft brown coat, wide dark eyes fixed directly on you. It moved slowly, gracefully, hooves silent on the pine needles. It paused halfway across the clearing, ears flicking, nostrils flaring, but it didn’t bolt.

It just… stared. Wide-eyed and unblinking.

For a moment you wondered, half-serious, if it was trying to tell you something.

You smiled despite yourself. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

Tim followed your gaze.

The deer took another careful step forward, then another, until it stood about fifteen feet from the porch, close enough you could see the fine whiskers around its muzzle, the gentle rise and fall of its sides.

You tilted your head against Tim’s shoulder. “Deer always reminded me of you,” you said quietly. “You remember that stupid hunter excuse you told me the first time we met? At the old bar?”

He huffed a small, rough laugh, almost fond. “Yeah,” he murmured. “One hell of a lie.”

You chuckled softly. “I really thought you were a hunter.”

Another quiet huff from him. He looked at the deer again.

You watched his profile, the way the sunlight caught the faint scar on his jaw, the tired lines around his eyes, the way his mouth softened just looking at the animal.

You asked, half-teasing, half-curious, “Do you think I should try approaching it?”

Tim considered it for a second. Then nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “You do that, sweetheart. I’ll just go grab something from the truck real quick.”

“Okay.”

He squeezed your waist once then stood.

You watched him walk down the steps, boots crunching soft on the dirt, broad shoulders moving easy under the jacket.

You turned your attention to the deer. It hadn’t moved. Still staring - those huge, liquid eyes locked on you like it knew something you didn’t.

You rose slowly, careful not to startle it, feet silent on the porch boards. Took one step down. Then another.

The deer’s ears flicked forward.

You held out your hand - palm up, fingers loose - smiling softly. “Hey,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

Another step. The deer stayed eerily still.

You kept talking, gentle and soothing. “You’re so pretty,” you murmured. “Never seen one come this close before.”

Another step. Fifteen feet became twelve. Then ten. The deer’s nostrils flared, scenting you, but it didn’t run.

You stopped, about eight feet away now, hand still outstretched. Smiling.

Heart beating a little faster, not from fear. From wonder. From the strange, quiet magic of the moment.

The deer tilted its head, just slightly.

And then everything went black.

Tim.

He watched you walk down the porch steps, shorts riding up just a little with each careful movement, hand outstretched like you were offering peace to something that had never known it. The deer stood frozen in the clearing, wide eyes locked on you, ears forward, body statue-still. Sunlight caught the fine hairs along its flank, turned them gold. You were smiling, small, gentle, the same smile you’d given him that first night at the old bar when he’d fed you the hunter lie and you’d believed it because you wanted to.

He felt it then.  The moment the switch flipped.

He turned away from you mechanically and opened the passenger door of the truck. Reached under the seat. Fingers closed around the familiar weight of the hunting rifle. He pulled it free. Slung the strap over his shoulder.

He reached into the glove compartment for his mask. The moment he slipped it on, the world narrowed. Sounds muffled, colors bled. Static rose - low at first, then roaring, filling every empty space in his skull until there was no room left for Tim.

Only Masky.

And Masky had a job to finish.

He stepped around the side of the truck, silent, boots barely disturbing the pine needles.

You were maybe ten feet from the deer now. Hand still out. Voice soft, murmuring something gentle he couldn’t quite hear over the static.

The deer hadn’t moved. It stared at you like it knew, like it understood.

Masky lifted the rifle. Stock to shoulder. Cheek welded to the comb. Sight picture perfect. Your back was to him - shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly as you spoke to the animal.

One clean shot to the back of the head, just above the nape. No suffering. No warning.

The crack split the afternoon open, sharp and final, echoing off the pines.

Your body jerked once, forward, like someone had shoved you, then folded. Knees buckled. Arms dropped. You hit the ground face-down in the pine needles with a soft thud, limbs loose, hair fanning out around your head like spilled ink.

The deer exploded into motion, white tail flashing, hooves churning dirt, gone in three frantic bounds back into the trees.

Silence rushed back in, thicker now, heavier.

Masky lowered the rifle.

Stared as the small dark pool began to spread beneath your head, slow, black in the bright sunlight.

Then something cracked. Something inside of him.

He walked forward slowly, boots crunching, rifle hanging loose at his side. Reached you. Dropped to his knees beside your body.

The mask felt suffocating suddenly, plastic and porcelain pressing against his skin like a second skull. He tore it off and threw it. It skidded across the dirt, came to rest against a root.

Tim stared down at you. At the hole in the back of your head. At the way your hand was still half-outstretched, like you’d been reaching for something gentle right up until the end.

He made a sound, something between a sob and a scream. Then he collapsed forward. Forehead pressed to your back. Shoulders shaking.

Tears came fast, silent at first, then wrenching sobs that tore out of him like something physical. He wrapped his arms around you - around your waist, around your shoulders - crushing your limp body to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Over and over. Into your hair, iInto your skin, into the quiet that would never answer back.

The sun kept shining. The pines kept whispering. The chickadees kept chattering somewhere distant. And Tim cried, holding the only thing he’d ever truly loved while the blood soaked slowly into the pine needles beneath them both.

Everything was black. And it would stay that way.

Toby.

Toby hadn’t seen Tim in three days.

At first Toby told himself it was just a long job. Tim had disappeared for days once before, came back with a thousand-yard stare that lasted a week. Missions happened. That was life here.

But then Brian started acting… odd.

It started small. Brian pacing the kitchen at odd hours, cigarette after cigarette, muttering under his breath about “that selfish motherfucker” and “stole my goddamn truck.” Brian never raised his voice. The flat, clipped way he said things made them land harder. When Jeff cracked a lazy joke about Tim probably finally getting laid somewhere, Brian didn’t even look at him - just snarled “fuck off, you filthy motherfucker” so low and cold that Jeff actually shut his mouth for once and left the room.

Even Jack got it. Poor Jack, who was usually the one person Brian treated like he was still worth something. Jack had been walking past the couch carrying a tray of clean surgical tools when Brian, without looking up, shoved him hard enough in the shoulder that the tray rattled and a scalpel clattered to the floor. Jack just froze, stared at Brian for a long second with those hollow black sockets, then bent silently to pick it up and kept walking like nothing happened.

Ben was worse.

Ben was twitchy. Constantly checking his phone under the table, in the hallway, even when he was supposed to be running diagnostics on the security cams. He’d stare at the screen like it might bite him, thumb hovering, then lock it again and shove it in his pocket. Toby caught him doing it four times in one afternoon. When Toby finally asked “Y-you okay, man?” Ben just gave him a tight, fake smile and said “Yeah, just waiting on a text,” and changed the subject so fast Toby’s neck cracked sideways from the whiplash of it.

Toby tried asking Brian once. They were in the garage, Brian hunched over the empty spot where his truck should’ve been, arms crossed, staring at the oil stain on the concrete.

“Brian,” Toby started. “W-where’s Tim? He–he took your truck and… didn’t come back. Is–is the mission that long?”

Brian didn’t turn around. “Drop it.”

Toby blinked. “But… what–”

“I said drop it, Toby.” The tone was final.

Toby dropped it.

Three nights later, 3:07 a.m. on the cracked digital clock on his nightstand, Toby’s bedroom door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Brian stood in the frame, already dressed: jacket, boots, Glock tucked in his waistband. Face blank except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Get up,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

Toby sat up fast. “Wh-what? It’s–it’s three in the guh-goddamn morning–”

“I know what time it is. Get dressed. Now.”

Toby’s shoulder jerked. “G-go where? You–you didn’t even say–”

Brian cut him off sharply. “Toby. Move.”

Something in Brian’s voice made Toby’s stomach drop. He didn’t argue again.

He scrambled out of bed, yanked on yesterday’s sweatpants, the same hoodie he’d slept in, shoved his feet into unlaced boots. Grabbed the hatchets leaning against the wall out of pure habit. Brian was already turning down the hall.

They walked through the woods for almost forty minutes. Toby’s breath fogged in front of him. His tics were worse when he didn’t get any sleep; neck snapping sideways every few steps, shoulder hitching hard enough it made it wince.

Finally they hit the edge of the county - two lanes of cracked blacktop, no streetlights, just the occasional porch light glowing half a mile away like a dying star.

Brian crouched behind a rusted mailbox, eyes scanning the empty road. “We’re borrowing a car,” he said flatly.

Toby blinked. “B-borrowing.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Brian… wh-where are we going?”

Brian didn’t answer. Just kept watching the road.

Headlights appeared first - faint, then brighter. An old Ford pickup, primer gray, rattling like it had emphysema. Brian stood. Stepped into the middle of the lane. Arms out like he was flagging down a neighbor.

The truck slowed. Stopped. Window rolled down. Older guy - fifties maybe, flannel, baseball cap, cigarette dangling. “You okay, son?”

Brian smiled, southern manners on full display. “Yeah, sorry to bother you this late. Our truck broke down about a mile back. Mind if I use your phone to call a tow?”

The driver hesitated. Looked at Brian. Looked at Toby standing a few feet behind him, hood up, hatchet handles peeking out from under the hem. Brian’s smile didn’t waver.

The driver sighed. “Sure. Hang on.” He leaned over to grab his phone from the cup holder.

Brian moved, fast. One hand on the door handle, other yanking the guy halfway out the open window by his collar. The cigarette fell. The man yelped, more surprised than scared at first. Brian drove an elbow into the side of his head, clean, precise, not enough to kill but enough to drop him limp across the seat.

Toby simply watched the scene unfold.

Brian dragged the unconscious man the rest of the way out, dumped him in the ditch like a sack of feed. Didn’t even check if he was breathing. Just climbed in, slid behind the wheel, and looked at Toby. “Get in.”

Toby got in.

The cab smelled like shit. Brian adjusted the seat back - way too far forward for his legs - muttered “Goddamn it” under his breath, then cranked the engine. It coughed, sputtered, caught.

They pulled onto the road. Brian drove with both hands tight on the wheel, jaw locked. After five minutes of silence he spoke, voice toneless, the way he got when he was furious and trying not to show it.

“This piece of shit handles like a shopping cart with three wheels. And why the fuck is the radio stuck on some gospel station? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Smells like someone died in here.”

Toby stared straight ahead. “Y-you really miss your truck, huh.”

Brian huffed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really fuckin’ do.”

They drove for another hour. Two-lane blacktop turned to narrower county roads, then dirt. Pines got thicker. Moonlight barely reached the ground. The Ford’s shocks groaned every time they hit a pothole. Brian kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift like he needed something to hold onto.

Toby finally asked. “Is… is Tim okay?”

Brian’s knuckles whitened. He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, quieter than Toby had ever heard him speak: “I don’t know.”

Toby kept asking. The words spilled out in bursts between the Ford’s rattling engine noise and the crunch of gravel under tires. “Wh-where are we going, Brian? Brian–c-come on, just tell me. What’s–what’s happening? Is–is Tim hurt? Did–did something go w-wrong on the job? Buh-Brian–”

Brian’s grip on the wheel tightened until the cracked vinyl creaked. He stared straight ahead, jaw working like he was chewing on glass.

Toby’s shoulder jerked hard enough to knock his hatchet against the door panel. “Pl-please. You’re–you’re scaring me, man. Just–just s-say it.”

Another mile of dark road passed. Brian exhaled through his nose. “We’re goin’ to the cabin,” he said finally, like the words tasted bad coming out.

Toby’s stomach flipped so violently he tasted bile. “Why?” His voice cracked on the word. “Wh-what’s at the cabin?”

Brian didn’t answer right away. The dashboard lights painted his face in sickly green. He flexed his fingers on the wheel once, twice. “Tim got a mission.”

Toby waited. Waited for the rest. Waited for Brian to say it was some random target, some journalist, some loose end. Anything.

Brian’s voice stayed even. Too even. “Target was Y/n.”

The world tilted. Toby felt it physically, like someone had yanked the seat out from under him. His vision tunneled. The dashboard lights smeared into streaks. His neck snapped sideways so hard it made a sound. A tic ripped through his shoulder, then another, fast and violent.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. Then a small, strangled sound, like air leaking from a punctured tire. “Wha–why?”

Brian kept his eyes on the road. “Boss deemed it necessary. Said she was a distraction. Caused too much internal ruckus. Compromised judgment. Threat to operational security.” He recited it like he was reading from the same cold manila folder Tim must have seen. “Standard language. You know how it goes.”

Toby’s hands were shaking so badly he had to shove them between his knees to stop them. “No,” he whispered. “No–no no no–”

Brian glanced at him sideways, then back to the blacktop. “Tim went back to her,” he continued. “Swore up and down he wouldn’t. Said he was done. Said he left her for a reason. But the fucker couldn’t stay away. Kept showing up. Kept driving my goddamn truck up there like it was his second home. Boss saw it. Saw the weakness.” A short, bitter huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Distraction, liability, whatever you wanna call it. You know the drill.”

Toby felt sick. Not metaphorically. Actual, rolling nausea - hot and sour, climbing up his throat. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, hard, trying to keep it down. His whole body was shaking now - tics firing off in waves, neck cracking, shoulder hitching, fingers twitching.

He remembered. He remembered the living room. The cartoon flickering on the TV. The bowl of soggy cereal forgotten on the coffee table. Tim slouched in the recliner, boots up, looking more tired than Toby had ever seen him.

Toby had said it. “I think… if you have your heart in the right place… anything’s possible.”

He’d looked Tim in the eye and said, “I’m starting to see that you do.” He’d told Tim - Tim, who was half-destroyed already - that he had his heart in the right place. And Tim had ruffled his hair. And smiled.

Toby made a noise. “Shit–I–I told him,” he rasped. The words came out wet and thick. “I–I told him to–to go back. I said–I said he c-cared. I said she was a-a-a-alive because he cared. I–I fuckin’ encouraged him–”

Brian didn’t interrupt.

Toby’s vision blurred - not tears. He didn’t have tears anymore. They’d dried up years ago, somewhere between the first time he’d woken up screaming and the hundredth. But the guilt was worse than tears. It was a physical thing - hot lead pouring into his chest, burning through ribs, settling heavy in his gut. “Fuck–,” he whispered. “I–It’s muh-my fault. I–”

“Toby.” Brian’s voice cut through, quiet but firm. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

Toby’s breath hitched.

“You didn’t write the order,” Brian continued, same flat tone. “You didn’t put the file on his bed. You didn’t make the call. You were tryin’ to be kind, that’s all. You were tryin’ to be kind to a man who’s been drowning for years.”

Toby shook his head. “I–I shouldn’t h-have–I shouldn’t have s-said anythin’–”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve k-known!” The shout tore out of him. His voice cracked on the last word and he doubled over, forehead pressing to his knees, hands fisting in his hair.

He wanted to disappear. Wanted to throw himself out the window right now, let the asphalt tear him apart, let it hurt his body enough to drown out the screaming in his head.

Brian didn’t speak again. He just drove. The Ford rattled on through the dark. Toby stayed curled forward, breathing shallow, fast, tics jerking through him like electric shocks. And for the first time in years, he wished he could still cry.

They finally rolled up to the cabin just as the sky started bleeding gray into pink, around 6:30 a.m., the kind of cold, thin dawn light that makes everything look washed-out and unreal. The Ford’s engine coughed once, twice, then died with a rattle that sounded almost relieved. Brian killed the headlights. Silence rushed in immediately.

Neither of them moved at first. Brian sat there, hands still on the wheel, staring through the windshield at his truck parked crooked in the dirt yard like it had been abandoned mid-thought. The matte red paint looked dull in the half-light, taillights dark, driver’s door slightly ajar like someone had left in a hurry.

Toby’s neck cracked sideways. He swallowed. “You t-think Tim’s still h-here?”

Brian didn’t answer. Just opened his door and stepped out.

Toby followed, breath fogging white in the cold. The air smelled like damp earth and iron. Brian walked straight to his truck. He reached out, fingertips gently brushing the fender. He ran his palm along the dented side panel, then down to the door handle. Murmured something under his breath Toby couldn’t catch. It sounded like “Hey, girl” or maybe just “fuck.” Hard to tell.

Toby hung back a step. His eyes drifted past Brian, past the truck, to the ground.

There. A dark, irregular patch soaked into the dirt, black-brown, edges already flaking dry. Pine needles stuck to it in clumps. Next to it, half-buried in the needles, lay Tim’s mask along with the hunting rifle. Barrel pointed away, stock resting against a root like it had been dropped and forgotten. That goddamn rifle.

Toby’s stomach lurched. He looked up, past the blood spot, past the rifle, to the porch.

There was a bowl by the porch, shallow ceramic, half-full of old oats gone gray. The bird feeder hung from the eave, seed long since picked clean by chickadees that wouldn’t come back. The stack of cardboard boxes loomed against the rail, some sagging from rain, some still sealed tight with duct tape. A monument to refusal.

Toby sighed. His shoulder hitched once. “I’ll–I’ll check the p-perimeter,” he rasped. “You go inside, c-check if he’s there.”

Brian nodded once without looking at him. He reluctantly dropped his hand from the truck and went up the porch steps. He stepped past the untouched boxes, and pushed the door open. It creaked once. Swallowed him.

Toby watched him disappear inside. Then he turned. Walked around the side of the cabin slowly, boots dragging. Past the shed. Past the woodpile. Around to the back.

The grave was small. Shallow rectangle of turned earth, still raw and dark. Two thin twigs lashed together with a strip of twine to make a rough cross, shoved into the dirt at the head. A bouquet of red roses lay on the ground in front of it, petals browning at the edges, stems limp, almost dead.

Toby stared. He felt nothing at first, just a distant buzzing in his skull.

Then the words came– “I warned you, d-didn’t I?”

A beat. His neck snapped sideways in a sharp tic. “Told y-you to run.”

Another beat. He exhaled once. Then he turned. Walked back around the cabin, past the bowl, up the steps, past the untouched boxes, past the bird feeder.

He pushed the door open. The hinges gave a single, tired creak. Inside, the cabin smelled like spilled whiskey. Morning light slanted through the windows in pale, dusty bars, catching on the string lights still draped along the beams - unplugged now, dead gold coils.

He didn’t know what he expected. Tim gone. Tim dead. Anything but this.

Tim was there. He sat on the sagging couch like he’d collapsed into it and never planned to move again. Empty bottles - cheap whiskey, vodka, a couple of beer cans - were scattered around his feet, some tipped over, some upright like soldiers who’d lost the war. His jacket was half-off one shoulder. His hair hung in greasy strings across his forehead. His hands were buried in his face, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched so far forward it looked like his spine might snap.

Brian stood off to the side near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over his chest, face blank except for the faint tic at the corner of his eye. He didn’t look at Toby when he entered, just kept staring at Tim like he was trying to solve a math problem that had no solution.

Toby stopped three steps inside the door. His neck jerked sideways once, hard, then again. He forced himself to look around. The cabin was… nice. Really nice. You’d made it a home.

The woven rug under the coffee table was soft-looking. The kettle sat on the counter next to two mismatched mugs - one with a tiny painted deer on the side. A small stack of paperbacks leaned against the lamp on the side table. The string lights. The bird feeder visible through the window.

It should have felt cozy. Instead it felt cold. Like the warmth had been sucked out the second you stopped breathing.

Brian finally moved. He exhaled sharply through his nose and took two careful steps forward. Dropped to one knee in front of Tim like he was approaching something that might bite. He rested one hand lightly on Tim’s knee, testing.

Tim didn’t react at first. Then something cracked.

A sound tore out of him - low at first, almost a growl, then rising into something raw and shredded and inhuman. It wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t crying. It was the noise an animal makes when it’s been gut-shot and knows it’s dying but can’t stop breathing yet.

Toby’s eyes slammed shut. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t listen.

He tried to picture something else - anything else - the cartoon dog on TV chasing its tail, the smell of cereal, the way Smile’s tail thumped against Jeff’s mattress. Anything but that sound coming out of Tim.

Brian froze. The cold, stoic, monotone Brian - the man who could watch a throat get slit without blinking - looked completely lost.

He lifted his hand again, hesitated, then placed it on the back of Tim’s head. Gentle. Awkward. Like he’d never touched another person this way in his life. “Tim,” he muttered. “C’mon. Stop.”

Tim didn’t stop. The sound kept coming, broken and endless.

Brian’s jaw worked once. Twice. Then he moved carefully and shifted onto the couch beside Tim. Hesitated another long second, like he was waiting for permission he’d never get. Then he lifted his arm, slow and stiff, and draped it around Tim’s shoulders.

Tim broke completely. He folded sideways like string cut at the joints, face pressing into Brian’s chest, arms coming up to clutch at Brian’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him from falling through the floor. A grown man. A killer. Dangerous, full of rage. Reduced to this: shoulders heaving, fists knotted in fabric, weeping so hard it sounded like he was choking on it.

Brian looked like he wanted to bolt. Like he wanted to draw the Glock and shoot all three of them just to make the noise stop.

Instead he stayed. Arm locked around Tim’s shoulders, awkward at first, then tighter. His free hand came up and rested on the back of Tim’s head, fingers threading through greasy hair. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t try to shush him. 

Toby opened his eyes again, reluctant.

Brian was staring straight ahead - over Tim’s head, through the window, at nothing. His face was blank again. But his hand stayed on Tim’s hair.

The sobs eventually slowed, like Tim’s body simply ran out of air to push through the grief. His shoulders still shook in violent, irregular hitches, but the sound had dropped to something quieter, wetter, more exhausted.

He lifted his head just enough to speak. “Why her?” The words were so small they barely carried. Almost childlike in how helpless they sounded coming from someone who’d spent years breaking other people.

Brian went rigid. His arm stayed locked around Tim’s shoulders, but the hand on the back of Tim’s head froze mid-stroke. His eyes flicked once, quick and helpless, toward Toby standing frozen near the door. A silent, desperate look that said: Do something. Anything. Fix this.

Toby didn’t move.

Tim’s voice kept going, fractured, like he was trying to talk himself into believing any of it. “I didn’t–I didn’t have a choice. It was–it was the order. Clear as day. If I didn’t… someone else would’ve. Brian, you know how it works. You know. He ain’t askin' twice. I tried. I tried to stay away. I left her here for a reason. I left because I knew–I knew what I was. But then I went back. I couldn’t stop. I kept going back. And she–she was just… she was just there. And I–I couldn’t–” His voice broke again. Fresh tears tracked down his face, cutting clean paths through the grime and stubble.

Brian still hadn’t spoken. Tim lifted his head higher, eyes red-rimmed, pupils blown wide with something between terror and desperation. He locked onto Brian’s face. “You’d do the same thing. Right?”

The question hung there, naked.

Brian finally moved. He lifted both hands and cupped Tim’s face. Rough palms pressed firm against Tim’s cheeks, thumbs bracketing the jawline in that hard grip that said look at me without words. He tilted Tim’s head up until their eyes were forced to meet. “Yeah,” Brian said. “I’d do the same thing.”

Tim’s breath hitched sharply.

“Loyalty comes first,” Brian continued, mechanical, reciting doctrine like scripture. “Always has. We don’t get to pick who lives and who dies. We serve. That’s it. That’s all there is. She got too close. She made cracks. Cracks get filled. One way or another.”

The words were cold. Textbook. They were also the worst thing Brian could have said. Because they were true.

Tim’s face crumpled again, not into sobs this time, but into something quieter and worse. Acceptance. The slow, sick slide of a man realizing the cage bars were never going to bend.

Brian held his gaze a second longer, then let go. Dropped his hands and looked away, like touching Tim’s face had burned him.

Toby couldn’t breathe right. He’d been standing frozen in the same spot the whole time, three feet away, close enough to smell the whiskey and sweat and grief rolling off Tim, far enough that he could pretend he wasn’t part of it.

He wasn’t sure he could pretend anymore. His shoulder jerked once, violent tic, then settled. He took one step forward. Then another. He stopped directly behind the couch, looking down at the two of them: Brian rigid, eyes fixed on the far wall like he could stare through it and escape; Tim hunched forward again, elbows on knees, hands dangling limp between them like broken things.

Toby lifted one shaking hand. Laid it on Tim’s shoulder, light. Barely there. Tim flinched anyway.

Toby swallowed, throat clicking dry. “I’m s-sorry, Tim,” he whispered, voice rasped almost to nothing. “I–I’m so sorry.” Toby’s hand stayed there another heartbeat, then fell away. He turned and walked away. He couldn’t be near them right now. The words loyalty and serve and no choice kept echoing in his skull like a bad recording stuck on loop. He needed out. Needed air. Needed anything that wasn’t this room full of broken men pretending they still had hearts.

His boots moved before his brain caught up, soft thuds on the rug, then the creak of floorboards as he crossed into the short hallway. The first door he came to was open. Bedroom. He stepped inside without thinking, pulled the door mostly shut behind him. Just enough to pretend there was a barrier between him and the living room. The room smelled like you. The string lights along the beams were unplugged now, but even dead they looked soft, like they were still waiting to glow again.

Toby stood in the middle of the floor for a long second, arms hanging loose at his sides. His neck jerked once then settled. He didn’t know what he was doing here. Didn’t know why his feet had carried him to this room instead of outside, instead of the truck, instead of anywhere else.

He moved anyway. Walked slow circles around the small space like he was cataloguing it. Touched the edge of the unmade bed - quilt half-pulled back, pillow still dented from two heads instead of one. The sheets were tangled on your side, smooth on Tim’s. Like you’d curled tight against him and he’d lain there stiff. Toby’s fingers brushed the fabric.

He opened the top drawer of the dresser. Socks. A few pairs of underwear folded neat. A sports bra. A faded T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He closed it again, then opened the next one. Flannel shirts. Soft corduroy pants. A cream cable-knit sweater that looked big enough to swallow someone whole. He lifted the sleeve for a second, pressed it to his face, inhaled. His throat clicked dry.

He moved to the nightstand. Small wooden thing, chipped at one corner. A half-read paperback sat on it, spine cracked, pages dog-eared. He didn’t touch it. He opened the drawer instead. Inside: a few hair ties, a cheap lighter, a tube of tinted lip balm, and... a slim leather journal. Plain cover, just a thin strap wrapped around it once.

Toby’s hand shook when he picked it up. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But he flipped it open anyway.

The first pages were jagged. Ink smeared in places like you’d written through tears.

That night. The bar. I killed that man. I swung and I felt the crack and I kept swinging until there was nothing left to swing at. Then the fire. Watched the whole place burn from the parking lot. Thought maybe I’d burn with it. Didn’t. Still here. Still breathing. Still hating every second of it.

Pages turned. Random things after that.

A fawn in the clearing.

Thought about killing it. Skinning it. Eating it. Proving something to myself about survival. Instead I put out oats and apple slices on the porch rail. Stupid, maybe. But it came back and ate.

Beside the entry: a small pencil sketch. Spindly legs. Big eyes. Ears forward. Careful lines. Like you’d spent time getting the ears just right.

More pages.

The fawn is dead. Found it behind the cabin this morning. Ripped open. Coyotes, probably. Dug a shallow grave. Buried it.

Another sketch, this one rougher, angrier. Small body torn apart. Ribcage split wide like a broken cage. Pencil lines heavy where you’d pressed too hard.

Toby’s name appeared often. You’d thought about him a lot. Wondered how he was doing. If his tics were worse when he was stressed. If he ever thought about that hug on the porch.

Ben appeared even more. Long entries about late-night phone calls. His stupid jokes. The way his voice cracked when he said he missed you. How texting him felt like breathing again after months underwater.

Brian showed up too, described as cold but steady. “I’m happy he’s so close to Tim. Someone has to keep him in check.”

Jeff’s name appeared too. “I wonder if he’s always such an asshole. I hope he’s a good friend to my best friend. Ben deserves the world. PS… Smile is a funny name for a dog that looks like it wants to eat your face.”

And even Jack. “Best doctor I’ve ever had, even if he barely speaks. I keep thinking about how he licked the wound on my hand once in the woods, cleaned it like an animal would. It felt… strangely good.”

The sketch of Jack was beautiful, delicate lines capturing the hollow black sockets, the unnaturally long tongue curled carefully around an imagined wound. You’d shaded the shadows so tenderly.

And then, everywhere–Tim. Tim’s name on almost every page.

“I still dream about him. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. Sometimes both at once.”

“I touched the scar today. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Just feels like proof he was real.”

“I hate him. I miss him. I love him. I don’t know how to stop.”

And then–the last entry. Full of light.

“I feel hopeful today. Like maybe it can all work out. Like maybe love, real love, can survive anything. Even this dread that never quite leaves. Even the darkness that follows him. Even me. I don’t know why it’s still here, this cold feeling in my chest, but I’m trying to ignore it. Because he came back. Because he stayed. Because he said he loves me. And for the first time in a long time… I believe him.”

Toby’s vision blurred. He closed the journal. Held it against his chest for a long second, like it might still be warm from your hands. Then he slipped it into the inside pocket of his hoodie.

Maybe he’d give it to Tim someday. Maybe. Or maybe Toby would keep it forever, like a confession he didn’t know how to make.

He stood and walked out, past the living room without looking at the couch, and out the front door. He stepped out onto the porch and stood there for a long time. And waited for whatever came next. Because nothing else felt possible anymore.

Ben.

Ben knew something was wrong the moment your texts stopped.

The last message from you had been bright, almost giddy.

yay i’m so serious about hanging out soon :) tell jeff he owes you that ride. i miss you already. come over whenever you can pull it off. cabin’s ready for chaos!!

He’d grinned at his phone like an idiot, thumbs flying

bet jeffs gonna bitch the whole way but ill make him cant wait dude miss u too like a lot

Sent. Delivered. Read. And then… nothing.

At first he brushed it off. You were probably busy - working a double at the Rusty Nail, maybe dealing with some small-town bullshit, or just crashed out after a long shift. He sent a few more messages over the next couple days but the thread stayed silent.

Then he noticed Tim was gone too. Tim hadn’t been in the house for days. No late-night whiskey bottle clinking against the coffee table, no low growl of his voice down the hall at 3 a.m., no heavy boots stomping across the porch. Brian’s truck was missing from the yard too, and Brian himself was on edge in a way Ben had only seen a handful of times.

Brian paced. Smoked. Stared at nothing. Snapped at Jeff for breathing too loud. When Ben casually asked “Hey man, where’s Tim?” Brian just gave him a flat look and said, “Out,” like that was supposed to end the conversation.

During the third night Ben woke up to the sound of boots in the hallway, quick, purposeful, and then silence. He cracked his door and caught a glimpse of Brian and Toby leaving the house.

They were gone for another two days.

When they finally came back, Brian’s truck rolled into the yard at dawn, engine coughing like it had been driven hard and without mercy. Brian stepped out first: face blank, eyes shadowed, jacket zipped to the throat like armor. Toby followed, hood up, shoulders hunched. Neither of them spoke. Tim stepped out last. He looked like something had been carved out of him. Hair greasy, eyes sunken, skin the color of old paper. 

They stepped inside the house with heavy steps. Tim didn’t even look at Ben who was standing in the doorway to the living room. Just walked straight through the front door, boots leaving muddy prints on the floorboards, and disappeared upstairs. His bedroom door closed with a soft click. Locked.

Ben looked at Brian. Brian looked back, expression flat. Ben’s voice came out small. “Hey guys… what happened?” Brian exhaled through his nose. “She’s not in the cabin anymore.”

That was it. No elaboration. No details. Just those six words, delivered in the same monotone Brian used when reporting mission outcomes.

Ben stared. Waited. When Brian didn’t fill the silence, Ben’s voice came out thin. “Brian.” Brian simply ignored him and walked past him like he wasn’t even there. Past the living room and up the stairs.

Toby, still standing near the front door, didn’t move at first. He looked at Ben for half a second, then quickly switched his attention to the floor, like Ben’s eye contact had burned him. Then he walked away too. Followed Brian upstairs. Door clicked shut again.

Ben stood alone as the silence stretched. And stretched. And stretched. No one came back to explain. No one muttered excuses. No one said “it was orders” or “she knew too much” or even “I’m sorry.” Just… nothing.

Ben wasn’t stupid. He knew the second the silence stretched too long. His best friend was dead.

And there was nothing he could do. Nothing. No frantic drive upstate. No last-minute text begging you to run. No heroic crash through the cabin door. Just the quiet, ugly realization that the world had kept turning without him, and he’d been too late - again.

So he did what he always did when the world caved in.

He smoked a lot. Lit joint after joint until the room was thick with it, eyes red and stinging, lungs burning like he could smoke the ache right out of his chest.

He gamed. Endless runs - mindless co-op shooters, speedruns he didn’t care about winning, volume cranked until the headset hurt his ears and the gunfire drowned out the quiet noises leaking from Tim’s room down the hall.

He worked on the computer. Ran pointless diagnostics, tweaked security cams he no longer monitored, reformatted drives just to have something to click.

Hung out with Jeff, mostly in silence. Jeff didn’t ask questions or push. Sometimes they watched movies until the sun came up. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all.

And at night, when the house finally went quiet, when even Tim’s muffled sounds had stopped, Ben cried himself to sleep. Face buried in his pillow, shoulders shaking. Quiet, choking sobs no one could hear. Because the only taste of normalcy he’d felt in years was gone.

You’d promised to keep texting. You’d said the cabin was ready for chaos. And he’d failed you. Hadn’t driven up there fast enough. Hadn’t been a good enough friend.

So he cried until exhaustion took him. And in the morning he’d wake up, eyes swollen, throat raw, and do it all again. Smoke. Screens. Silence. And the hole where you used to be.

It never really dulled. But he kept going anyway. Because you would’ve wanted him to. And that was the only thing he had left to hold onto.

Epilogue

A Letter to My Pretty Girl

Hi sweetheart,

Sorry about the handwriting. I’m shit at this. Never written a letter in my life. Feels stupid putting it down on paper like I’m some idiot in a movie, but I don’t know what else to do with it all anymore. Can’t say it out loud. Can’t say it to the others. So here it is. For you.

It’s been six months. Doesn’t get easier. Not even a little. I wake up every morning and the first thing I do is reach for the side of the bed that’s still empty. Then I remember. Every single time. Missions are the same as they always were, go out, do the job, come back, wash the blood off. Nothing changes. Brian doesn’t talk about it. Toby looks at me like he’s scared I’ll put a gun in my mouth any day now. Ben… I don’t even see Ben anymore. He stays in his room. I get it. I’d stay away from me too.

I visit you a lot. More than I probably should. Drive up to the cabin when the house gets too loud or too quiet, doesn’t matter which. Park the truck where I used to and just sit for a while. Sometimes I bring flowers. Sometimes I don’t (sorry.) Mostly I just lie down on the ground next to the cross and close my eyes. The dirt’s cold, but it’s the only place I can still feel you. I sleep there sometimes. Feels right, somehow. Like I should be uncomfortable. Like I should feel it.

I’m never gonna love anyone again. I know that for sure now. There’s no room left. You’re everywhere. In the smoke when I light a cigarette. In the quiet of the cabin when the wind moves through the trees. In the way my chest still tightens every time I see a stupid fucking deer on the side of the road. I feel you in my hands when I’m holding the rifle. I feel you in my throat when I try to sleep. You’re just… there. All the time. And it hurts like hell, but I don’t want it to stop. If it stops, then you’re really gone.

I hope you’ve forgiven me. I know I don’t deserve it. None of it. It was all my fault. Every single part. I should’ve never walked into that bar the first time. Should’ve never sat down at the counter and let you pour me a drink. Should’ve never looked at you and decided you were mine. I was poison from the start. I knew it. I just didn’t care enough to stay away. I took you to that house. I let the evil in. I watched it crawl inside you and I still kept you there because I was selfish. Because I wanted to feel something good for once. And look what it got us.

But here’s the fucked up part… I’m still glad I met you. Even after everything. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. The only good thing. You made me laugh when I didn’t think I could anymore. You looked at me like I wasn’t just a monster. You were light, my pretty baby. Real light. The kind that doesn’t go out no matter how dark it gets. The light of my life. I was too blind and too stupid and too far gone to see it until it was too late. I invited the darkness in and it won. It always wins with me.

I’m still here, though. Still breathing. Still pulling the trigger when He tells me to. Still waking up and driving up to sit with you. I don’t know if that makes me strong or just too much of a coward to follow you. Probably the second one.

Deer season’s coming again. Leaves are starting to turn. Every time I smell that cold air I remember the lie I told you that first night, said I was just a hunter, tracking deer through the woods like some regular guy. I think about it a lot now. How I tracked you instead. How I waited until you were close enough, until you trusted me, until you reached out with your hand like you were offering something gentle. And then I pulled the trigger. One clean shot. Just like I was taught. I still hear it when the wind moves through the pines up there. I still see the way you dropped.

I hope wherever you are now, you’re running free. No more hunters. No more darkness. Just you and whatever comes after this. I’ll keep coming back. I’ll keep sleeping on the ground next to you. I’ll keep carrying you with me until the day He finally puts me down too.

I love you. Always did.

Tim

[froggiewrites]

Possession

Pairing: Doflamingo x Reader

NSFW

Summary: Doflamingo wants you, and he has always been good at getting what he wants. Warnings: Smut, Possessiveness, Manipulation, Yandere (i think this counts?) Word Count: 1.8k Notes: This is pretty different in vibes from everything else I've posted here, but Doffy has bewitched me a little bit. I was trying to finish Dressrosa before writing about him but I just had to get this one out. Crossposted from Ao3

Doflamingo did not know exactly when you caught his eye.

It was small, at first, the instinct to seek you out. He didn’t indulge in it. He had far more important things to worry about. But as time went on, as you appeared again and again, he found himself more and more determined to have you.

You were a sweet thing, innocent and uncomplicated, ripe and ready for the taking. It took very little effort to endear himself to you. A few well timed words and well placed smiles and you were falling at his feet. It was adorable, really, the way you fell apart when he came around. He expected the passing fancy to end at that, a short dalliance that would end in you being thrown to the side as his ambitions led him somewhere far greater than here, somewhere you couldn’t and shouldn’t follow.

But he found himself enjoying you more and more. Your wide eyes and gentle smiles, your soft hands and thighs, your plush lips and warm mouth. You may not be an asset to the family, ignorant to his work and his purpose, but you were…useful, in your own way.

The nightmares didn't stop, but it was a little easier to come back to reality with someone beside him, not that he would admit that. And if some days he awoke with his hands primed around your throat, ready to squeeze, well. Nobody had to know. That was the risk you took, you naive little thing, when you followed him home. When you accepted his invitation into his bed, into his arms. If you noticed the bruises when you woke up, you never mentioned them. He doesn’t know if it’s ignorance or pity that keeps your mouth shut. He doesn’t know which is worse.

It turns his stomach to think you would pity him, dare to see him as small enough to deserve anything less than utter devotion, than worship. But the idea of you leaving if you truly knew him, knew better…it’s worse than revolting. It makes every one of his muscles tense, his chest tighten, his teeth clench. Every part of him primed to chase you down, hold you tight, ensure that you would not and cannot leave him.

Once he had a hold of the thought of you leaving, it stayed buried beneath his skin, a constant nagging feeling he couldn’t shake. He was haunted with the image of you sneaking away, catching a ride on a ship somewhere far out of his reach. In the days following, he holds you closer than ever before, grip strong enough to bruise. You cannot move an inch without his permission. As it should be.

He begins his careful construction of your cage soon after.

It begins slowly, with small gifts that earn him that soft smile. Then the next step, as you slowly start losing contact with old friends, start coming to him more and more as the only person in your life there and willing to listen. He keeps you coming back for companionship, for joy, for pleasure, ensuring that you can come to him and only him for such things.

When he takes you, he studies you, carefully plans each action to lead you further and further into this delusion you seem to have. That he loves you. That you’re safe in these arms. That you chose this. 

“Doffy!” You cry sweetly when his teeth find your neck, nipping at you gently, finding and latching onto your most sensitive parts. Tomorrow he will pretend the marks are an accident, that the small amount of blood he draws was simply due to an excess of enthusiasm, and not just him taking what he’s owed. Every part of you is his, including the blood in your veins. If he wants it, it is his to have. He savors the taste of iron on his tongue, the taste of your very life, your vital essence.

Doflamingo’s hands are calloused, and you gasp as you feel their roughness against your skin. He holds himself back, ensuring his touches are firm but not cruel, that his pace is steady but not brutal. His hands find your breasts first, pinching and prodding demandingly. He keeps his eyes on your face as his fingers find their place, teasing as he watches you struggle to keep your eyes on his, lashes fluttering. You keen sweetly as he rolls your chest in his hands, and he almost struggles to keep the smirk off of his face. You’re putty beneath him, ready for him to shape in whatever image he pleases.

His hand slips lower, fingers tracing slowly down to where he knows you want him. He carefully plans his steps in this dance, and he can see in your eyes that you’re following his lead without question. You shine with adoration, and when he intertwines his free hand with yours, you light up, a goofy, lovesick smile overtaking your lust for a moment. He grins, a sense of warmth blooming through him. Surely a sense of accomplishment, for continuing the charade successfully. For leading you further and further into your cage without a moment’s hesitation. You’re eating out of his hand, just as you were meant to.

His fingers push past your panties, and he begins by inserting only one, slowly sliding it into your hole as you moan. He keeps his pace slow even as you wiggle your hips in frustration, even as you begin to softly whine. He doesn’t give you what you want until you beg.

“Doflamingo, please, more!” Your voice is tinged with desperation, and he chuckles.

“I need you to be more specific, little bird.”

“Faster, please.”

He had planned to make you beg far more than that, until you were nearly crying for him, but the sweet little whimper in your voice makes it hard to deny you. “That’s all you had to say.”

He begins to thrust his finger at a significantly faster pace, then adds another, then another, prepping you well for the real show. As much as he would love to take you immediately, to take and take and take until you’re broken beneath him, he was sure you would leave for that. You wouldn’t look up at him with that sickening admiration in your doe eyes anymore, and he simply would not lose that. He attempts to take the hand intertwined with yours back, to rub at your clit as you clench around him, but you curl your fingers around him harder, and cry out, “No, stay, please!”

He allows you to keep the hand, for now.

He can feel you near your precipice, can see it in your eyes, and chooses the exact moment before you break to pull out his fingers. You sob as they leave, and he gives you a sympathetic smile, hoping you’re too far gone to realize it’s far closer to a predator’s smug grin. “I know, sweet thing, but you can’t have all the fun to yourself.”

He finally peels your panties off, leaving you bare and caged beneath him, where you belong. He lines himself up with your entrance, and he stares you dead in the eyes as he plunges his full length into you at once. You cry out, eyes closing, and he tuts quietly. “Eyes on me.”

You obey.

His pace is fast but not punishing, and he keeps his thrusts on the softer side of brutal. Another thing he will blame on his enthusiasm tomorrow, when you quietly whine that it hurts to walk and he shushes you and tells you you belong in his bed anyway. You’ll laugh like it’s a joke, and he’ll laugh at your ignorance. One day you’ll realize it was the truth, and you’ll willingly nest here at his side, ready and wanting whenever he asks. But that is the future, and right now he should be more focused on how deeply his cock is buried inside you, and how you cry and tighten around him, calling his name.

His teeth long for your neck again, but he can’t bring himself to break your intoxicating eye contact. He can see himself reflected in your eyes, looking a far more innocent and giving man than he is. Is this how you see him? His hand finds your clit, willing to continue the charade. You nearly scream as you feel his finger rub against the nub, and he almost laughs. How easy you are to unravel. A few more thrusts and a few well practiced movements of his fingers and you come undone, squeezing around him tightly, eyes falling shut, back arching off the bed and pressing your chests together. He keeps moving, allows you to keep riding it out, burying you in your pleasure. He cums a few moments later, burying up to the hilt in you, filling you, marking you as his. He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to bleed, and after his orgasm subsides he licks the wound, lavishing in the taste of you.

He falls on top of you, pinning you to the bed, and you don’t complain. You bring your arm up to run your hands through his hair affectionately. With the hand still held to the bed, you gently run your thumb over his knuckles, memorizing the feeling of it. You lay in silence as Doflamingo begins to slowly ponder the next stages of your entrapment. You’ll stay tonight, of course, but likely still go home tomorrow. Perhaps the next step should be ensuring you stay here every night. Accessible, willing, waiting for him. After that, he’ll find you work to do in the family, find some busywork that keeps you here. You can have everything you’ll ever need in these walls, if he so chooses. And choose you he does.

“Doffy?” Your sweet voice breaks him out of his pondering, and he looks down to see you staring up at him with something resembling worry.

“Yes, little bird?”

“Are you alright? You were frowning. Did I do something?” Your tone is filled with anxiety, your eyes searching his face for answers.

He chuckles. He can’t deny the pleasure he finds in you looking at him for comfort, for reassurance. You trust him. “No, of course not. I was just thinking about some plans for the future. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.” To ensure the matter is laid to rest, he kisses you on the forehead, watching as you flush red, as your lips twitch into a smile and you hide your face in his shoulder. So sweet. So simple.

You fall asleep crushed beneath him, dreaming of a life shared. He falls asleep holding you close, dreaming of the next step in making you well and truly his.

[vampyr-squid]

Crestwood (Inquisition AU)

A sweet (and slightly spicy) AU where the breakup in Crestwood didn’t happen, and instead the night at the lake connected them forever.

[fairyqueenfiction]

vision boards for my reluctant ruler sunshine x devoted defender grump fantasy romance novel

[perverselyyours]

i've been thinking a lot about jack lately. his restraint is just so, so sexy.

but when he starts to lose his cool, it's a glacial crescendo. his fingers twitch at his side when you're fresh out of a shower and he can smell you at your purest, cheeks flushed and ovulating and so unknowingly ready for him. he knows when your pussy craves him before you do. the strain in his neck when you pass him in nothing but a towel, wet hair curling around your neck as you bend over to rummage through your drawers. the voids of his eyes were like a hunter’s—sharp, restless—flickering over you, tracking each movement. he's watching you the same way a lion watches a gazelle.

his own movements are slow and deliberate as he lays back onto his elbows, the bed creaks with his weight. his head tilts in a way that raises the hair on your arms. you know you're being hunted.

you look over your shoulder, damp hair falling over your forehead in a way that shouldn't make him harder, but it does. your smile is cute, prey-like, the way a puppy looks up at its owner.

"what are you thinking about?" you ask, always so curious. he doesn't return the smile, but his eyes soften.

"i can smell you, you know," he says, and your cheeks flush deeper. you laugh, and it's that nervous titter you do before you close in on yourself. you've always been so shy.

"you're so weird," you tell him, turning back around as you reach for those useless little cotton panties you'd picked out. his lip quirks, not quite a smile. more like he was baring his teeth.

“do you like those?” he points lazily to the panties in your hand. your brows furrow, and he can hear the quickening pace of your heart. thumpthumpthumpthumpthump, like a rabbit's foot. you only nod, clutching them a little tighter, seemingly frozen in front of your dresser. “then don't bother putting them on.”

you stare at him, glossy lips slightly parted. his mind floods with the thought of stuffing his cock between them, fucking your open throat until you were choking on him. but he always had to be careful with you. you were easy to spook.

"come here."

his voice is gentle yet authoritative, the kind of cooing he reserves only for you. as he knew you would, you approach him obediently, still clutching the panties. he takes hold of your hand, dwarfed in his larger one, as he sits up. carelessly, he tosses your panties to the side, tugging you closer until you're standing between his muscular thighs. ginger fingers unwrap your towel, craning his neck to leave firm, warm kisses against the hollow of your throat. there was no confusion now as you melt into his hands, as you always did.

he smells your slick as it coats the inside of your pussy, already so willing to accommodate to his massive size. how sweet your body could be for him. one of his tongues licks along the valley of your chest as he drops your towel to your waist. he's teasing himself as much as he's teasing you. his mouth envelops one of your nipples, a satisfied purr rumbling deeply in his chest. not a growl, a purr. he loves this, loves the way you arch into his touch. his second tongue squeezes the softness of your breast as he licks the nub with the other. you drop your face into his hair, muffling your moan.

but he doesn't like when you hide yourself from him.

he drops the towel and takes you by your hips, flipping you onto the bed with an almost terrifying quickness. you gasp, covering your mouth as he crawls over you, every bit the predator he warned you he was. but you can't ignore the way your cunt throbs for him, and he can't either. he moves your hand from your mouth, locking your fingers in his as he presses the back of your hand to the soft mattress.

when he fucks you, he's never clean. it's messy, your drool mixing with his as it drips down your chin and onto your bouncing tits. he's animalistic, growling into your throat as he leaves less than gentle bites across your skin. he licks them, his way of apologizing, but more importantly, to taste you. your thighs are pressed to your chest, legs on his shoulders. as he ruts into you, he lifts himself enough to lick and bite at the ball of your ankle. he wants every part of you to feel him, for your body to know who it belongs to. because, of course, he has always been such a possessive man.

by the end of it, you're in the shower again, and he's running his hands up and down your soapy legs, kissing every spot he bit and every bruise he left. then, he eats you out for good measure. putting those three tongues to work.

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

Nobody fucks w freak nasty laughing Jack smut anymore and it sickens me to my core. That abnormally long tongue deserves to be put to use, he’s INNNITTT AND I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

[rainrot4me]

It's Just Your Imagination

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────── full moon - the black ghosts

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Having an imaginary friend is a very normal part of childhood. What isn't normal, though, is when that imaginary friend begins to show up in the corners of your vision, leaving you presents and an uneasy feeling. What happens when babysitting a little boy turns into fending off his protector? The worst part? He thinks you're very, very pretty.

✦ . Characters: Laughing Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Horror, fear, imaginary friend!Laughing Jack, non-canon characters, stalking, obsession, plot heavy, inexperienced sex, virginity, monster fucking, inhumanly long tongue, cunnilingus, rough oral sex, vaginal sex, biting, scratching, hair pulling, rough sex, virgin!Laughing Jack, mentions of murder, creampie, breeding

✦ . Words: 21.5k

✦ . Note: Longest fic to date, I think! This was so incredibly fun to write, and I grew so attached to the characters I created during it! Jack is less clownish and more so child-mind figment in this, so don’t take anything I say as canon. Anyway! Very rough, very sloppy, very rewarding, please enjoy!!

────────────────────────────────────────────

It was a nice home. At least, it was set up that way.

You were pretty sure the paint was still wet on the fence when you pulled up. It had that high-gloss shimmer that caught in the early evening sun, and the whole house looked like someone had tried very hard to make it look like nothing bad had ever happened there. Suburban. White picket fence. Wind chimes that jangled sweetly in the breeze. It was the kind of place meant to be welcoming—but somehow, it just felt…staged. Like a movie set.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder and knocked twice on the blue door, ignoring the simplistic door knocker that probably wasn’t actually meant to be used.

It opened immediately. A woman in her early thirties greeted you, brushing auburn hair behind one ear and offering a tight, polite smile.

“You must be the sitter,” she said, a little breathlessly, like she’d jogged to the door. “Come in, come in—thank you again for being available on such short notice. I’m Mrs. Dalton—we talked on the phone.”

You stepped inside, the scent of lavender and lemon cleaner hitting you all at once. Everything was tidy, even too tidy. Not a toy out of place, not a speck of dust on the mantle. But there was a strange hum in the air, like something unseen had been recently disturbed and hadn’t quite settled.

“No problem at all,” you replied with a friendly smile. “You said you needed a sitter for a few days?”

She nodded. “Just five evenings, from around five-thirty to ten. I work the late shift at the hospital this week, and with my husband out of town…”

Her voice trailed off. You caught the way her eyes flicked down the hallway behind you before she forced another smile.

“Anyway, it’s just my son, Oliver. He’s six. He’s a good kid. A little…imaginative. Which reminds me—before you meet him, there’s something I should mention.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Let me guess—he’s got an imaginary friend?”

Her smile froze a little. “Friends. Plural. But yes.”

“Totally normal for that age.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” she murmured, and the tension in her voice was so brief and well-hidden you almost missed it. “Just… humor him. If he talks about them, just go along with it. Especially if he mentions Laughing Jack.”

Now that gave you pause. You tilted your head. “Laughing Jack?”

She waved her hand like she was brushing it away. “It’s just a name. He draws him a lot—some freaky clown… you know, spooky stuff kids get from cartoons.”

“I’m not scared of imaginary friends,” you joked.

“Good,” she said, too quickly. “Great. Let me introduce you.”

She led you down the hall to a bedroom on the left. Posters of dinosaurs and planets were taped unevenly on the walls, and crayons were scattered across the carpet. In the middle of the room, a little boy sat cross-legged in front of a coloring book, his brown hair messy, lips moving silently like he was in the middle of a conversation.

“Oliver?” his mother called gently. “Honey, this is your new babysitter. She’s going to stay with you while I’m at work, remember?”

Oliver looked up, wide blue eyes blinking at you. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just stared.

“…He likes you,” he said after a pause.

You glanced at his mother. She gave you an awkward little shrug.

“Nice to meet you, Oliver,” you said kindly, kneeling beside him. “Whatcha drawing?”

He flipped the page and showed you. The lines were shaky and crude, the colors bright and chaotic, but it was clearly a figure in black and white stripes with long arms and what looked like sharp teeth drawn in red crayon.

“This is Laughing Jack,” Oliver said solemnly. “He’s my best friend. He lives in the closet.”

You chuckled, trying to keep it light. “Well, that’s a very cool drawing. You’re really creative.”

“Laughing Jack likes it when I draw him,” Oliver added. “He likes to laugh. He doesn’t like when people are mean to me.”

That little prickle hit the back of your neck—the kind you get when you think someone’s standing behind you even though you know you’re alone.

You smiled a little too tightly. “Does he always stay in the closet?”

Oliver shook his head. “No. Sometimes he sits on my bed. Or hides under it.”

Mrs. Dalton cleared her throat. “Okay, sweetie. Why don’t you show her your space toys?”

He nodded and scuttled over to a plastic tub, pulling out spaceships and planets. You followed, asking him about them, listening to his explanations. He was articulate for a six-year-old, bright-eyed, and yes, wildly imaginative. But there was something in the way he paused mid-sentence like he was listening to someone you couldn’t hear. Occasionally, his eyes would flick to the shadowed corner of the room, near the closet door.

You figured maybe he was just shy. Or had a vivid inner world. You’d babysat dozens of kids. This wasn’t new.

But still, when he tugged at your sleeve fifteen minutes later and said, “Laughing Jack thinks you’re very pretty,” you couldn’t help the chill that spidered up your spine.

“…What?” you asked with a light laugh, trying not to sound weirded out.

“He said it just now,” Oliver replied simply, blinking up at you. “He said you smell nice, too. Like strawberries.”

You had used strawberry-scented shampoo that morning.

The closet door creaked slightly behind you—probably just the wind, or maybe the floor settling—and you turned toward it instinctively.

Nothing. Oliver just smiled and went back to coloring.

His mom gave you a final run-down before leaving: bedtime at eight-thirty, no sugar after dinner, TV only if homework was finished. She was quick, but not rushed—like she wanted to get out the door before you could change your mind and leave first.

She kissed Oliver on the top of his head. He barely reacted, still scribbling in his coloring book. Then she turned to you with a tight smile, and the kind of eyes that said thank you, but also good luck.

“If he has trouble sleeping,” she said softly near the door, “just read to him. He has a nightlight in case he gets scared. But… he probably won’t.”

“Got it,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “Have a good shift.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, the house suddenly felt too quiet. Like it had been holding its breath. You turned back toward the living room. “Alright, kiddo. You got any homework?”

Oliver groaned and flopped dramatically onto the couch. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Math. It’s dumb.”

You chuckled and dropped your bag by the coat rack. “C’mon, let’s knock it out. Then we can do something fun. You like grilled cheese?”

He nodded.

“I make the best grilled cheese. You finish your worksheet, and I’ll prove it.”

Oliver eyed you suspiciously. “Better than Mom’s?”

“I’ll let you be the judge.”

He didn’t smile—still hadn’t, actually—but there was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes as he retrieved his workbook and a pencil from his backpack.

You helped him through subtraction problems while he kicked his legs restlessly and talked about Jupiter like it was his summer home. He was sharp, creative, and a little unsettling in the way only kids can be—matter-of-fact and unfiltered.

While he worked, you started pulling together dinner: grilled cheese, carrot sticks, and a cup of apple juice. You moved around the kitchen like you were trying to own the space, but the house still felt a little foreign—like it knew you weren’t part of it.

“Who’s eating with us?” Oliver asked suddenly from his seat at the table.

You looked up from the skillet. “You mean besides us?”

He nodded. “Laughing Jack’s hungry. And he says Charlie and Mr. Gumball might come too.”

You blinked. “Are those more of your friends?”

“Uh-huh. Charlie only has one eye. But he sees everything.”

“And Mr. Gumball?”

“He’s a skeleton with no teeth. He tells me secrets.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out a little thin. “Well, I hope they like grilled cheese.”

“They can’t eat,” Oliver said plainly. “But they like to watch.”

You set the plates down gently. “…Good to know.”

Dinner passed with more chatter—some of it directed at you, some at people who weren’t there. Oliver had a habit of pausing mid-sentence like he was listening to a reply. You tried to ignore how often his eyes flicked just past your shoulder. You made him brush his teeth after, and he complied with the stoic attitude of a six-year-old facing grave injustice.

It was nearing eight-thirty when you tucked him into bed.

His room was dimly lit now, a soft glow from the rocket-shaped nightlight pulsing across the walls. You sat on the edge of his mattress and reached for the storybook he picked: Where the Sidewalk Ends.

“Okay,” you said, flipping to a random page. “One poem, and then sleep.”

“Can I ask something first?” he said suddenly, eyes wide and serious.

You paused. “Of course.”

Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think my dad is still in the basement?”

You blinked. “…What?”

He fidgeted with the edge of his blanket. “Mom says he left. But Jack says he didn’t. Jack says he screamed for a long time, but I couldn’t hear it because I was asleep.”

Your mouth went dry.

“…Oliver, your dad’s not here anymore?”

He shook his head. “He yelled a lot. At Mom and me. Jack didn’t like him, so he said he would keep me safe.”

“…What do you mean?”

Oliver looked at you calmly. “He said he made him into soup.”

Your throat tightened. The air in the room suddenly felt thick and unmoving. You forced a little laugh. “That’s…an intense imagination you’ve got.”

“I didn’t make it up,” Oliver said seriously. “Jack doesn’t lie.”

You glanced toward the closet, door slightly ajar. The shadows seemed longer than before. You tried not to show the absolute unease that twisted your features.

“Okay, time to sleep,” you said gently, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “You had a long day.”

Oliver didn’t argue. He rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

“Jack says you smell like strawberries because you’re sweet,” he murmured sleepily. “He thinks you’d make a really good friend.”

You stared at him. “…What?”

But Oliver was already drifting off. And somewhere in the corner of the room, the closet creaked.

── .✦

You got used to the routine pretty quickly.

Oliver’s mom would greet you with that same polite smile, say something like, “He’s been good today,” or “You know where everything is,” then slip out the door before you could even mention his dad. She never lingered. Her shift always started exactly on time.

And every night, it was the same: Help Oliver with homework. Make dinner. Talk about his “friends.” Pretend not to be freaked out. Read him a story. Tuck him in. Repeat.

On the second night, he told you Jack liked how “soft” your voice was—that he thought it would be “a very pretty singing voice.” You laughed it off. Said, “That’s a weird thing for Jack to say,” and Oliver just smiled.

It was becoming easy to convince yourself that Oliver was using Jack as a beacon. Kids did that. They had a hard time saying what they really meant, so it was easier to pretend someone else was saying it instead. It just made sense.

Later that same evening, you found one of Oliver’s drawings tucked inside your coat pocket when you were leaving. You didn’t remember him slipping it in. You weren’t even sure he’d touched your coat. But the paper was there—crayon scrawled in jagged loops, a picture of you sitting on the couch.

Behind you, in thick black strokes, was the striped figure of Laughing Jack, grinning with blood-red teeth.

You almost threw it out. You didn’t. You weren’t sure why.

By the third night, something had changed.

It started with how quiet the house felt when you walked in. Not the normal suburban calm—too quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.

Oliver had already set up his math homework by the time you got there.

“I knew you were coming,” he said without looking up. “Jack told me.”

You frowned. “Did he also tell you to get started on your math?”

“No,” Oliver said. “That was Charlie. He said if I don’t do my work, Jack gets bored. I don’t like it when Jack gets bored.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but found yourself unsure what to say.

Dinner was tense. Oliver ate quietly. You caught him glancing over your shoulder several times, like he was watching something just behind you. You turned once. Nothing there. Just a flickering lightbulb in the hallway.

After dinner, he started drawing again. You sat nearby, flipping through your phone, half-distracted.

“You’re really pretty,” Oliver said suddenly.

You looked up. “Thanks, bud. That’s sweet.”

“Jack says pretty things break easier.”

You stared at him.

“…You know that’s not a nice thing to say, right?”

He blinked. “But it’s true.”

That night, you tucked him in like usual. Read another poem. Turned on the rocket-shaped nightlight. Said goodnight, sweet dreams, and stepped into the hallway, already pulling your phone from your back pocket.

You’d left your water bottle in the kitchen.

You padded down the hallway barefoot, the wooden floors creaking softly beneath your steps. The house was dim except for the sliver of gold-orange from Oliver’s room behind you and the low hum of the fridge up ahead.

You reached the kitchen, grabbed the bottle, and twisted the cap open.

Then you heard it. Your name. Soft. Almost sing-song.

You paused mid-sip. You turned toward the hallway.

“Oliver?” you called gently. “What is it, bud?”

Silence. You waited. No answer.

You set the water down and walked quietly back toward the room, heart ticking up a little faster now.

“Hey, kiddo—did you call me?” you asked as you pushed open his door.

Oliver was fast asleep. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. Arms tucked under the blanket. Lips slightly parted. Dead to the world.

You stared at him. You know you heard it.

Then you noticed the closet door was open an inch wider than you remembered. You crossed the room, flinging the door open, eyes scanning the shadows just beyond it—but there was nothing. Just clothes, toys, and a few drawings taped to the inside wall.

But when you turned back toward Oliver’s bed… you stopped cold.

There was a new drawing on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there before. You would’ve seen it.

It showed a hallway—the same hallway you’d just walked down. You were in it—drawn in red crayon. And behind you, grinning impossibly wide, was a tall, striped figure with long arms and white, dead eyes.

You slowly looked back down the hall. Nothing. But that feeling—that cold press on the back of your neck—was suddenly very real.

And somewhere deeper in the house… You swore you heard something shuffling.

It's just your imagination.

── .✦

You showed up early on the fourth night—twenty minutes ahead of schedule, ice cream tub in hand. Cookies and cream. And a tiny container of rainbow sherbet.

You figured, why not? After the past few days, Oliver deserved a surprise. And you deserved something to lift the mood. The tension that had crept into your shoulders every time you walked through that door was becoming a near-constant weight.

Maybe a little sugar would lighten the air.

The front door opened before you even knocked. Oliver’s mom blinked at you in surprise, tugging her coat tight across her chest.

“Oh—you’re early,” she said, glancing over her shoulder into the house like she wasn’t sure she wanted you inside just yet.

You smiled, holding up the bag. “I brought a treat. Don’t worry, no caffeine or craziness. Just ice cream.”

Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something—but then she just nodded. “That’s… nice of you. He’ll like that.” She squeezed past you and gave the same parting words she always did—“He’s in the living room, bedtime at eight-thirty”—but her eyes lingered on yours this time. Something flickered behind them. Like maybe she wanted to say more—but didn’t.

You turned and stepped into the house. The moment the door closed behind you, that hush fell again. That wrong quiet, like the walls were listening. Oliver was on the floor, surrounded by crayons, drawing what looked like a carnival tent in dark, scribbled loops of red and black.

“Hey,” you said gently. “Guess what I brought?”

He looked up. Eyes wide. And then—

He smiled. For the first time since you met him, Oliver truly smiled.

His teeth were small and slightly crooked, but it was the size of it that made your heart skip a beat. So wide. Like his little face wasn’t used to the muscles it took.

You blinked, suddenly unsure why it unnerved you so much.

“Is it for me?” he asked breathlessly.

You laughed softly, kneeling beside him. “Of course it is. Who else would it be for?”

Oliver clapped his hands. “Jack’s going to be so happy!”

You stiffened. He kept babbling as you carried the containers into the kitchen and pulled out two small bowls.

“Jack loves ice cream. His favorite is mint chocolate chip. He says he hasn’t had any in a long time because Mom doesn’t like it when he eats stuff. She says it makes him act funny. But he says he’ll be real good if I give him some.”

You scooped slowly, the plastic spoon dragging through the frozen swirl.

“He told me that once he shared a sundae with a girl who screamed so hard her eyes popped,” Oliver continued dreamily. “He said her voice made the cherry melt.”

You didn’t answer.

When you turned to hand him the bowl— You saw it.

Just behind Oliver, standing beside the hallway door. A flash. A flicker. Something moved. It was fast. A blur of black and white. Tall. Like the edge of a curtain being yanked back—but thicker. A sliver of fabric retreating around the corner.

And just for a heartbeat, a feather—dark and oil-slicked—fluttered down and landed near Oliver’s foot. You hardly blinked—just a jerk of your eyes from panic—and it was gone.

You dropped the spoon. Oliver didn’t notice.

It’s just your imagination, it’s just your imagination—

“Jack says he likes you,” he said happily, licking sherbet from his lip. “He says you’re the nicest girl he’s met in a long time.”

You stepped back, pulse pounding.

You had to talk to his mother. Now.

── .✦

You waited by the door until she came home.

No more letting her breeze out before the headlights could cool. No more smiling and waving like this was a normal babysitting gig.

When Mrs. Dalton stepped in—coat damp from the night air, purse slung over one shoulder—you met her with a look so serious she stopped mid-step.

“…What is it?”

“I need to ask you something,” you said. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

She froze. “…Is this about Oliver?”

You nodded. “And Jack. And the things he’s been saying. The things I’ve seen.”

She closed the door behind her slowly. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes—tired, hollow—met yours.

And this time, she didn’t try to pretend. She just said quietly, “You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?”

The words hung heavy in the entryway. You felt like a stone just dropped into your stomach, the air stalling around you.

You stared at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”

Oliver’s mother exhaled—long, slow—like she’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure. She set her purse on the table and finally, finally, let the cracks show. “Come with me.”

She led you to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. You sat across from her, the light above flickering with that faint buzz it always seemed to carry after dark. She rubbed her hands together like they were cold, even though the house was warm.

Her voice was quiet. Distant. “I didn’t believe it either. At first. Kids say strange things. They draw monsters, they have nightmares. It’s normal. I told myself it was all in his head.”

You didn’t interrupt. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table.

She continued. “Then the drawings changed. They started getting more detailed. More specific. I saw things in them that—” her breath hitched, “—he shouldn’t have known. Things that happened when I was younger. Things that happened in this house. And the stories he told me about Jack…” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “They started getting darker.”

You thought of the shuffling. The flash of stripes. The feather. Your name being called down the empty hallway.

“What happened?” you asked.

She looked up. “…His dad.”

The room chilled, like suddenly the AC had been turned on. Goosebumps ran up your arms.

She swallowed. “My husband…he was not a good man. Charming, at first. But underneath that, there was something broken. And when he got angry…” Her jaw clenched. “Oliver was never his. That’s something I never told him. I think he knew—or guessed.”

Your stomach twisted.

“He hurt both of us,” she said. “Not every night, but enough. Enough that I kept a bag packed and hid it in Oliver’s closet.”

Silence stretched long between you.

“And then?” you whispered.

Her eyes met yours—and in them, you saw something haunted. Something ancient. “Then Oliver started talking to Jack.”

You shivered, glancing around the room, eyes catching all the dark spots and shadowed corners.

“At first I thought it was just comfort—a defense. But the way he described him…it wasn’t like a normal imaginary friend. He knew things. Jack told Oliver where to hide, when to run. He told him I was strong. That I was brave. He told him…” Her voice caught. “…That he could make it stop.”

You didn’t move. You hardly breathed.

“One night, my husband came home drunk. Worse than usual. He was screaming, kicking doors. Oliver, somehow, slept through all of it. I locked the bedroom door. I thought I could hold him off.” Her hands trembled now. “But I didn’t have to.”

You leaned in.

“I heard him coming down the hallway, calling my name. Then I heard something else. A laugh. This horrible, joyful laugh. Like a child and an animal at the same time. I thought I was losing my mind.”

You whispered, “Jack.”

She nodded.

“I came out of the room after the screaming stopped. And…he was gone. My husband. Just gone. No blood. No mess. Just the front door wide open, swinging in the wind.”

Your blood ran cold. “And Oliver?”

She gave a soft, broken smile. “Curled up on his bed. Drawing. With Jack.”

You recoiled.

“But I didn’t see him,” she said quickly. “I only ever felt him. Heard him. Sometimes saw things out of the corner of my eye. But Oliver? He always said Jack made him feel safe. That Jack protected him when no one else could. I think he… bonded to that. Jack is a part of him now. Jack has never really liked babysitters—before you, I suppose.”

You sat back, trying to process it all. The drawings. The feathers. The whisper of your name.

“…He’s real. But he’s not…human,” you murmured.

She nodded once. “He manifested through Oliver’s fear, I think. And maybe mine, too. I don’t understand all of it. But Oliver says Jack protects him, says he’s here to keep him safe. So I don’t mess with it.

“And the last babysitter?”

Oliver’s mom froze.

“…She said she didn’t believe in ‘feeding delusions.’ That Oliver needed ‘structure.’ She lasted four nights. Left in the middle of the fifth. Didn’t tell me. Just… left. I never heard from her again.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“And now?” you whispered. “Jack’s… what? Attached to me?”

Her voice cracked. “I think he likes you. I think he’s curious. I don’t know.”

The light bulb sizzled above your head, the acrid scent of burnt metal curling into the air. You stared across the kitchen table at Oliver’s mom—chest tight, stomach coiled with the kind of dread that prickled under your skin like a thousand little claws.

“…You knew this could happen,” you said, voice low. “You knew.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands trembled in her lap. “I hoped he wouldn’t fixate again,” she murmured. “You were so good with him. He was happy. I thought maybe it would be different this time.”

“Different?” Your voice cracked, rising. “You mean you thought Jack might not try to kill me?”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, suddenly panicked. “Please—don’t say things like that out loud.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped, pushing your chair back. “Are we worried the invisible friend might get mad?”

She flinched.

You stood up, dizzy with rage and the adrenaline rush that always comes after denial shatters into cold, sharp clarity. “You let me walk into this. Without telling me. Without warning. What if he didn’t like me, huh? What if I pushed too hard, or said the wrong thing, or—God forbid—told him to go to bed early?”

“I didn’t know—!”

“Yes, you did,” you cut her off, voice trembling. “You did. That’s why you never stayed long. Why you left before I could ask about his dad. Why you didn’t even mention a last sitter until now.”

You saw it then—how hollow her eyes had become. How sleep-starved and strung out she looked under the dim light. This wasn’t just guilt. This was fear—the kind you live with.

“You were testing me,” you whispered. “You weren’t sure if Jack would like me, and you didn’t care if he didn’t. I was just…just another one to try.”

She didn’t deny it.

You stormed past her, grabbing your coat, shoving your phone into your pocket with shaking hands.

And then you saw him. Oliver. Standing at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t angry. He just watched you—expression blank, head tilted slightly to the side like someone listening to music only he could hear.

“Oliver—” his mother started, but you were already yanking the door open.

You didn’t say goodbye.

── .✦

The first call came the next morning.

You didn’t answer.

Then a text.

MRS. DALTON I’m sorry. I should have told you. Please, call me.

Then:

MRS. DALTON He’s not sleeping. He won’t eat. Oliver’s scared.

Another day passed.

MRS. DALTON He’s asking for you. Please. He just needs to see you one more time. He keeps asking for you.

The texts got more frantic.

MRS. DALTON He’s not talking anymore. He just whispers. Jack this, Jack that. Please. I haven’t slept. I’m losing him. I don’t know what he’ll do if you don’t come back.

And finally:

MRS. DALTON Just for one night. Please. Just stay with him. Help him sleep. You stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering above the reply button. Because even though your head screamed no, your gut twisted with something worse than fear.

Guilt.

And something in the back of your mind—the part that had seen the stripes, the feather, the way Oliver had looked at you—was already whispering that you didn’t really have a choice. Even if this was all imaginary, some make-believe story, you were causing an innocent boy his mental health.

Sadly, your guilt outweighed your fear.

── .✦

You stood on the doorstep longer than you meant to.

The house loomed in front of you—quieter than it should’ve been. Even with the porch light buzzing faintly overhead, everything about it looked… different. More gray. As if all the warmth had drained out with you the night you stormed off.

But you were here now.

You knocked on the door, the thick sound echoing through the walls, and for a moment, you half-expected no one to answer.

Then the lock clicked. The door cracked open.

Mrs. Dalton looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was pulled up in a limp, uneven knot, and her eyes had that swollen red look of someone who had been crying on and off for hours. Her relief was instant—but brittle.

“Oh thank God,” she breathed. “Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”

You stepped past her without a word. She didn’t stop you. Just nodded shakily and grabbed her keys. “I’ll be back by sunrise,” she said, already backing out. “Don’t let him stay up too late. If he gets upset, just… just sit with him. That’s usually enough. And if anything happens—”

You stopped at the hallway, turning just enough to meet her eyes. “I remember.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She gave a small, pained nod. And just like that—she was gone. The door clicked shut. The house swallowed you whole.

The air inside felt heavier than it ever had.

You noticed it almost immediately—how the wallpaper looked a little more faded, how the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, almost like fruit that had gone sour. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was dense, like the house was holding its breath.

You made your way down the hallway, floorboards creaking beneath your feet. Oliver’s room was cracked open just slightly, light from his bedside lamp spilling across the floor. You pushed the door open gently.

“Oliver?” you called softly.

The little boy was curled into a ball on his bed, facing the wall. When he turned to look at you, his eyes were already wet, his cheeks blotchy with tears. The second he saw you, he gasped—and scrambled into your arms with a cry that shattered you from the inside out.

“You came back,” he whimpered, clutching your shirt like a lifeline. “I didn’t think you would. Jack said you were mad.”

Your arms wrapped around him instinctively. “I…I’m not mad, buddy. I was just scared.”

“Jack’s sad,” Oliver sniffled. “And mad. But not at me. At you. He said you said mean things. That you don’t like him.”

You froze. He wasn’t accusing you. He sounded… worried. Like he wanted to protect you from Jack’s disappointment.

Your hands smoothed down his back gently. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Jack’s probably just confused.”

“Can you tell him you’re not mad anymore?” Oliver asked, lifting his head, eyes wide. “Please?”

You hesitated. “…Okay,” you whispered. “Jack, if you’re listening, I’m not mad. I didn’t mean what I said.”

You glanced around the room.

Nothing. No feathers. No footsteps. No whisper in your ear. Just the soft hum of the bedside lamp and Oliver’s quiet sniffles.

Maybe it was all in your head.

Maybe—

Oliver let out a tiny yawn, nuzzling into your side. “Will you stay in bed with me?”

“Of course.”

It didn’t take long, he was asleep in minutes. Once his breathing evened out, you gently pulled away and tucked him in. His hand reached out once, blindly, and you took it for a second, giving it a small squeeze.

Then you stood, walked to the door, turned off the light, and stepped into the hallway.

The living room was dim. You kept the corner lamp on, curling up into the same armchair you’d claimed the other nights—blanket over your legs, a book in your lap you weren’t really reading. Every noise made you twitch.

The house didn’t feel empty.

You tried to tell yourself it was just the guilt—the nerves, the sleep deprivation. That it was all explainable. That this was just a messed-up situation and you were being kind, nothing more. This was just a mentally ill mother and an imaginative child who has gotten you stirred up—that’s all it was.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—especially when the heater kicked on. Especially when the shadows in the hallway didn’t quite stay still. You told yourself not to look.

You were halfway through a paragraph when you heard it. Shuffling from the hallway. You sat up straight.

“Oliver?” you called, voice shaky.

No answer.

You stood slowly, shoving the blanket and book to the side. The hallway looked longer than it had earlier—darker, the overhead bulb at the far end flickering like it was gasping for power.

You took a step toward it. Then another.

“Oliver, are you up?” you called again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

But the shuffling continued—dragging, almost wet-sounding footsteps. Too slow. Too heavy.

You swallowed, walked toward his room, and pushed the door open.

Oliver was asleep—tucked under his blankets, breathing slow and even. His face slack with dreams. The shuffling stopped.

You stood there in the doorway, heart thudding in your chest.

Nothing moved. No laughter. No whispers. No feathers. Just your own breath in the dark. You were about to turn around when a soft, warbling giggle echoed—Low. Sweet. And hungry.

You whirled around, heart leaping into your throat—but there was nothing there. Just the hallway. Just that flickering bulb overhead, casting twitching shadows that crawled like spiders up the walls.

“Hello?” you called, voice cracking.

No answer.

But your skin was already crawling—hairs prickling, stomach twisting itself into a tight, nauseous knot. You ducked back into Oliver’s room, barely daring to breathe.

Still asleep. Still peaceful.

You crossed the floor in three quick steps and yanked open his closet. Clothes, shoes, a collapsed cardboard box. You dropped to your knees, lifted the comforter, and checked under the bed.

Empty.

You sat back on your heels, hand pressed over your pounding chest.

Nothing’s there. Nothing’s there. It’s just your—

A feather floated down in front of your face. You stared at it. Silky and black as night, it drifted lazily downward, slow as falling ash, until it landed between your knees.

You blinked at it, blood roaring in your ears.

And that was when you heard the groan—like something heavy shifting against wood.

You glanced up from your spot on the floor.

Behind Oliver’s bed—not behind the wall, but within it, like the cracks of the old plaster had given way—something emerged. Something wrong.

It spilled out from the dark like a shadow cast by a body that didn’t exist. Its limbs unfolded long and slow, impossibly long, like they were uncoiling from another place entirely. One arm—lanky, striped in twisted sleeves of faded black and white—reached over the headboard. Then another. Then a hunched, too-tall figure pulled itself into the dim bedside light.

Laughing Jack.

No more imagination. No more stories. He was here, right in front of you.

His skin—or what passed for it—was stretched porcelain, marred with seams and hairline fractures. Wild black hair exploded from his scalp in a disheveled mess, curled like tinsel soaked in ink. His outfit was a tattered parody of a circus costume—black and white stripes clinging to impossibly long limbs, the fabric grimy and fraying at the seams like it had been rotting over time. Suspenders hung loose over bandages wrapped tight around his waist, showing the unnatural form of him. A wide ruff collar sagged around his neck, drooping unevenly with yellowed lace, and tufts of wiry feathers jutted from his shoulders, some of them loose—like the one you’d seen float to your feet earlier. His sleeves were the same mismatched black and white, stretched tight over arms that ended in long, sharpened claws—stained faintly with something dark and dry. His nose was pointed, like a spike protruding that swirled with black and white stripes. His mouth—oh God—his mouth stretched too wide across his face, cracked at the corners, his lips painted like a clown’s but split by sharp, pearly teeth that didn’t belong in any child’s fantasy. His eyes were deep, glassy voids—so black they swallowed light—but the emotion in them was unmistakable—Rage. Sadness. Defense.

Jack’s head twitched toward you. His neck snapped with an audible crack as he cocked it to the side.

His voice rasped low, warped, like he was speaking through a filter, “You said you weren’t mad, sweet girl.”

You staggered back a step.

Jack’s arms bent and contorted as he crawled over Oliver—crawled, like some horrid insect parody of a man, his striped limbs jointed all wrong. And still, the boy didn’t stir. Not a flutter of his lashes. Not even a twitch.

“You lied to him,” Jack hissed. “You lied to me.”

“Don’t—” your breath hitched. “Don’t touch him.”

Jack’s grin widened. It reached toward his ears. “Oh, I won’t,” he cooed. “But you? You’re mine now.”

Before you could scream, he lunged. Jack’s hands closed around your ankles and yanked. You hit the hardwood with a sickening thud, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pain shot up your back. You scrambled, flailing to grab the doorframe, anything, but Jack dragged you backwards—down the hallway with supernatural strength, his body lurching and rattling like a marionette in fast-forward.

“No—! Oliver! Oliver!”

He didn’t wake.

The house didn’t help.

You were pulled past the living room, down the longer hallway that led to the master bedroom—Mrs. Dalton’s room. Your fingernails scraped against the floorboards, legs kicking violently as Jack growled above you.

“You were sweet,” he snarled. “Kind. Gentle. I liked you.” His voice cracked on the last word, somewhere in the rage was hurt.

Jack reached the bedroom door and kicked it open. The hinges screamed. Inside, it was darker than the rest of the house. A stifling kind of dark, where the shadows didn’t shift—they waited. The room smelled faintly of old perfume and wilted flowers.

Jack tossed you inside. You hit the carpet, rolled, and choked on air. When you sat up, he was already in the doorway—looming. His arms stretched to the sides, fingers twitching, clawlike.

The door slammed shut behind him like a gunshot. The bang rattled the windows. The frame trembled under the weight of it.

You jerked, stumbling back toward the dresser, chest heaving—but there was no time to run. Not anymore. Jack was across the room in a blink, moving with the erratic, jerky rhythm of something barely stitched together—more puppet than man. His hands, long-fingered and claw-tipped, twitched at his sides.

His expression twisted. He looked… devastated.

But behind the grief, behind the dripping sadness that curled at the corners of his stretched mouth and shimmered in the pitch-black glass of his eyes—there was rage.

“You ruined everything,” he hissed, voice cracking like an old vinyl record. “He was sleeping. He was happy. We were fine. And then you—you had to come in and whisper poison into his head.”

“I didn’t—!”

“You said I wasn’t real,” Jack roared, and the lights flickered. “You said I was dangerous! You made him doubt me!”

He surged forward.

You screamed—too late. Jack lunged, grabbing your arm and lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, fists pounding at his chest—but it was like striking a wall of felt and iron. He held you up, inches from his face. That face. That—

God.

Porcelain skin. Cracks lining his jaw like spiderwebs. Painted features half-worn, like a long-loved doll soaked in tears. Teeth so sharp he could barely contain them in his mouth. And beneath the smeared black grin, beneath the clownish facepaint—a man. A sadness. A fury so human it broke your heart.

His glassy black eyes swallowed you whole.

“Do you know what happens,” he whispered, “to people who tell little boys I’m not real?”

Your breath hitched. He rattled you, hard. Enough to make your teeth clack. You felt his claws press into your sides, not breaking the skin—but close. One more breath and he might snap you like a doll in his hands.

But then—You saw it. That tiny tremble in his jaw. The way his grip shook. His bottom lip quivered. He was angry. He was hurting. And beneath it all—he was protecting Oliver.

That’s when you acted. You reached up—fingers trembling—and gripped his face.

Jack froze.

His eyes went wide as your fingers smeared white greasepaint from his cheekbones, your hands coming away streaked like you’d dipped them in some kind of sick frosting. But under the paint—skin. Cold, clammy, too-pale skin. And real. Not a mask. Not an imaginary friend.

“You did it to protect him,” you whispered.

Jack’s brow twitched, eyes wide.

“You made his dad go away,” you said. “Didn’t you?”

His hands tensed—but he didn’t shake you.

“You chased off the last babysitter. Because she was mean. You saw it. You saw what he needed. And no one else was helping him. Not even his mom. So you… you stayed. You took care of him.”

Jack’s mouth parted. His head tilted, glassy eyes flicking across your face like he didn’t understand what he was seeing.

“I get it, Jack,” you whispered, still holding his face. “I know what you are. You’re not here to hurt him. You’re not a monster to him. You’re his only friend.”

His claws slipped from your sides.

“I don’t hate you, I’m not mad,” you said, voice cracking. “I was just scared.”

Silence.

For a moment, Jack stood perfectly still, arms trembling.

And then—his knees gave.

He sank to the floor, pulling you with him, but gently now. Carefully. Like you were something delicate and precious compared to moments before. His arms slid around you, pulling you against his lanky frame as his body curled over itself, shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I just wanted you to stay. You were good to him. You were good to me.”

You were crying now too—maybe out of pity, but mostly from the adrenaline that was quickly crashing.

In the pitch-black of Mrs. Dalton’s bedroom, cradled in the arms of something that shouldn’t exist, you held a creature that had killed to protect a child, and now clung to you like a broken toy terrified of being discarded.

Jack shuddered, “Please don’t leave again.”

Jack didn’t let go. Even as you gasped, trying to squirm back—your breath still hitching with fear, your hands trembling—he clutched you tighter, curling around you like a spider weaving something precious into its web. His lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and waist, his striped sleeves smelling faintly of old fabric and something sweet and rotting, like sugar left in the rain.

Your face was smooshed against the bristling ruff of feathers at his collar.

You shoved at him, fingers pressing into his chest. “Jack—Jack, let me go, I—I need a second, please—”

But he only made a soft sound—like a whimper. And his hold tightened. He wasn’t trying to hurt you—not anymore—but it was like he was starving for you.

His head dipped down beside yours, buried in your neck, and you felt the tremble of his breath—shallow, rapid. Desperate. The way Oliver breathed when he was on the edge of a panic attack. The way he had clung to you just hours before, his tiny fists gripping your shirt like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

It was the same.

You froze.

And suddenly—it all started to click. The way Jack reacted when Oliver cried. The way he went silent when Oliver was calm. The way his moods seemed to mirror the child’s—like strings pulling a puppet in the shadows.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart hammering. “You’re not just his imaginary friend… you’re protecting him.”

Jack didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breathing hitched—a confirmation, quiet and raw.

“You exist for him, don’t you?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Like, a manifestation of his fears—or something. A guardian.”

His face, pressed near your cheek, nodded.

Your throat tightened. “So when he’s sad, or scared, or… when someone threatens him…”

“I fix it,” Jack whispered. His voice was softer now. Like wet velvet. Like a child defending a wounded pet. “I fixed his dad. I fixed the mean sitter. I made him laugh again. I keep him safe.”

You swallowed, slowly easing your hands up between the two of you, not to shove—but to gently, cautiously press them to either side of his face again.

“And now that I’m not a threat anymore…” you said, your voice cracking, “now you want something else.”

Jack nodded again, almost imperceptibly. “I want to be close,” he said, and his voice broke. “Like he is. I want the things you give him.”

You stared into his face—paint-smeared, cracked, but so achingly human beneath it all. His sharp grin trembled with something soft. His eyes, once pools of black malice, now glistened like a child about to cry.

“You want comfort,” you breathed.

His forehead pressed gently to yours. “I want you,” he whispered. “And I don’t know why.”

You should’ve been terrified. But instead—you felt cold. Cold from the adrenaline, the fear, the leftover edge of what could’ve been your last night. And yet…

His arms were warm—too warm—like a fever curling around you.

And for the first time… you saw him not as a nightmare, but as something made from one. Born of a child’s desperation. Kept alive by love and terror alike.

So you let him hold you—just for a moment.

And in that moment, Jack went still—so still you could swear he wasn’t breathing. As if the second you pulled away, he might vanish into the cracks again.

The room was dark except for the sliver of hallway light bleeding in from under the door, casting crooked shadows across the carpet. Jack was still—unnaturally so—as if afraid a single wrong twitch would make you bolt. But then, slowly, his fingers twitched against your waist.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a broken thread. “For earlier. For scaring you. For being so… mean.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could. You were still sitting half in his lap, his arms loosely curled around your back like he was holding something fragile he didn’t know how to fix.

Jack’s head tilted, the long arc of his nose brushing against your temple as he sniffed—gently, like he didn’t want you to notice.

“You do smell like strawberries,” he murmured, voice distant and dreamy now. “I told him you did. Oliver didn’t believe me.” A smile crept into his words, soft and crooked. “But I was right. I always know.”

You felt your breath catch as his fingers slipped a little lower, curling lightly at the hem of your shirt. Not rough—just needy. Clingy.

“You’re so pretty,” Jack sighed, nose nudging into your hair. “So pretty it makes me feel funny—right here.” One hand lifted, curled into a fist, and thumped lightly over where his heart should’ve been. “It tickles. Like butterflies trying to get out. Like I’m gonna burst.”

You shivered, frozen in place. Jack noticed. His arms tensed again.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said quickly, softly, almost pleading. “I’m not! I promise—I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to leave.”

You felt him shift under you—then suddenly you were being pulled into him, lifted like a doll and placed squarely in his lap, your legs folded awkwardly over one of his long, gangly thighs. His claws were gentle, but firm, curling around your arms, keeping you in place. His face buried into your shoulder again, his striped sleeves brushing your cheeks like the wings of some grotesque moth. He was trembling.

“They all like you,” he murmured into your shirt. “All the others. Charlie. Mr. Gumball. Even the quiet ones in the closet. They said you’re kind. That you talk to them even when you don’t believe they’re real.”

You blinked.

Charlie? Mr. Gumball?

Jack chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. They won’t come out unless Oliver says it’s okay. But they watch. And they like you. They all do.” He pulled back just far enough to look at you—his inhuman eyes wide and wet, paint cracked around the edges from where he’d rubbed at his face. His lips were still stained dark, parted like he wanted to ask something he didn’t know how to say, his jagged teeth splitting the seam.

“But I…” His voice hitched. “I like you the most.”

You tried to pull back—just a little, just enough to breathe—but he leaned forward again, brushing his forehead against yours.

“I felt it,” he whispered. “The way you talked to Oliver. The way you hugged him. You’re so soft. So good. I never had that before. I want it all the time, all to myself.”

His claws flexed against your sides again—not hurting, not even tight—but possessive. Needy.

“I want you all the time.”

And you realized, in that moment, Jack had no idea what boundaries were. No idea how much was too much. Because all he knew… was what Oliver gave him. And now—without having to worry about the kid—he was able to express those wants himself.

Jack’s fingers twitched again where they curled around your waist. His breathing slowed, the chaotic heat of him ebbing into something that almost resembled peace.

But he stilled. And his hands moved.

In an instant, Jack dragged one clawed hand up the side of your torso, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he went. You gasped, trying to pull away, but he was already pushing the hem higher, exposing skin.

“Wait—Jack—what are you—?” you stammered, hands flying down to stop him.

“I hurt you,” he hissed, panicked—his voice cracking like a snapped piano wire. “I didn’t mean to—look what I did!” His blackened fingers trembled as he hovered just above the faint red indents curving along your side, the shallow grooves from when he’d gripped you too tightly. They weren’t bleeding. Barely bruised. But Jack looked horrified.

His eyes widened as he stared, claws twitching helplessly.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t even feel—why do I always break things I like?” he rasped, voice warping between a whimper and a growl. “Why did I grab you so hard? You’re so soft, I didn’t mean to squeeze—I didn’t mean to!”

“Jack—Jack, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice soft and trembling as you tried to pull your shirt back down. “I’m fine, it’s nothing, I swear—”

But he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t want to believe it. His claws brushed the marks again—then slid gently against your skin, tracing the curves of your ribs, reverent and curious. He sucked in a shaky breath.

“You’re so little,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So small in my hands. I could snap you like a toothpick…”

You froze—but before panic could take hold, Jack’s eyes darted up to meet yours again. “…but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re too pretty to break.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. Jack tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, your hair, the way your hands clutched your shirt in nervous fists. His lips twitched—like he was smiling, but didn’t understand why.

“I like your skin,” he said. “I like the way it smells. The way it warms up when you’re scared.”

You tried to pull back again, flushing deeper, but Jack suddenly scooped you up.

“Jack—!”

He didn’t give you time to finish.

In one smooth, eerily graceful motion, he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms like you weighed nothing. Like you were a toy, something light and delicate he could cradle in his gangly, striped limbs. Your legs dangled uselessly, your arms half-wrapped around his neck in pure reflex.

He started toward the bed.

“You’re way past bedtime,” he announced, in a singsong voice that didn’t quite match the manic glint in his eyes. “Too many big feelings for a little human like you. You need to relax.”

“I—I don’t need to sleep, Jack, I’m fine, really—!”

But he was already lowering you onto the covers, setting you down so carefully it made your head spin. He crouched at your side immediately, looming with limbs that bent in all the wrong ways, his scruffy feathered collar brushing your knees, his black eyes locked onto you with a predator’s focus—and a child’s confusion.

“You make Oliver feel safe,” he murmured, crawling a little closer. “But now I want to feel that too. I want you to make me feel like that.”

His hand slid over your knee, his claws curling over your thigh with a grip just shy of too tight. “And you will, won’t you?” he asked softly. “Because you like me now.”

The air was too thick to breathe. Too hot. Too sweet. Too close.

And all you could do… was nod.

Jack’s claws didn’t stay still. They roamed. Fidgeted. Brushed the hem of your shirt, tangled briefly in your hair, crept over your shorts like he didn’t know what he was looking for—but was desperate to find it.

You shifted nervously on the bed, your hands trying to keep his at bay, but he was already pressing closer.

“I like it better when you talk soft to me,” he said suddenly, his voice catching somewhere between a purr and a whine. “Like you do with Oliver. You don’t yell. You don’t scream. You’re so nice.”

Your breath hitched as his hands slid down your arms—grabbing your wrists. “But you left.” His voice cracked. “You left. You said those things. About me. To her.”

“Jack, I didn’t know—” you started, gently.

“I didn’t want you to be scared,” he cut in. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to make your heart jump. “I just wanted to show you I could keep you safe. Like I did for Oliver. Like I do.”

He moved quickly. One fluid motion and you were beneath him, your wrists pinned gently—but unyieldingly—against the bedspread. His lanky body stretched over yours, striped limbs bracketing you, hair brushing your forehead.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

“Jack,” you said softly, careful not to let your fear show. “Let me up.”

“But you’re here.” He blinked down at you, wide-eyed. “You came back. That means you want to be here. That means I can touch you.”

Your breath caught.

“It doesn’t work like that,” you whispered, trying to sit up, but he pressed you back down again—still not hurting you, but clearly not understanding the line he was crossing.

“But you smell so good,” Jack murmured, almost dreamily, long nose brushing along your cheek. “And you look so soft. I never got to be this close to anyone before. Never wanted to until I saw you.”

You swallowed thickly, pulse thundering in your ears. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you, Jack,” you said, carefully, voice like glass. “I’ll sit with you. I’ll stay. But you have to calm down. You’re scaring me.”

Something in his face twitched. His hold faltered. Just slightly. But he didn’t let go.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he mumbled, nuzzling clumsily against your shoulder, like a child seeking comfort in something they didn’t know how to ask for. “It’s just… when you talk, and when you look at me—right there.” His fingers brushed your cheekbone. “I get this… tight, fluttery thing in my chest. Like when Oliver’s happy. Like when he hugs his bear. It makes me feel like I’m gonna burst.”

Your eyes welled a little. You weren’t sure if it was fear or pity or the sheer strangeness of the moment.

“Jack,” you whispered, softer now, “that feeling? That’s… that’s called affection. Or maybe—maybe even love.”

He stilled. “Love?” he echoed, almost awed.

You nodded shakily. “And if you want to show it,” you added, breath trembling, “you have to listen to the people you care about. You have to ask before touching. And let them go when they say they’re scared.”

Jack blinked down at you, still straddling your lap, still holding your wrists. But this time—slowly—his claws released you.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“…Did I do it wrong?” he asked after a long pause, his voice smaller now. “Did I mess it up?”

You sat up slowly, touching your wrists, feeling the pulse still hammering through you.

“No,” you whispered. “You just have to let me teach you.”

And Jack, in all his mismatched limbs and smeared makeup and feathered ruff, nodded like a child eager for a bedtime story.

“…Then teach me,” he said.

The silence that followed was heavy—syrupy and thick like it was meant to trap breath in your throat. Jack sat cross-legged now, long limbs folded awkwardly on the bedspread like some gothic marionette, waiting for your strings to pull him into place. His eyes—huge and shining beneath streaked face paint—were locked on you, searching your face like he wanted to memorize it.

You swallowed.

“Jack,” you said slowly, brushing your palms down the front of your shirt, trying to ignore the heat still lingering where his claws had been. “You can’t just… take what you want. People don’t work like that. You have to let them come to you.”

His shoulders slumped, his striped arms wrapping loosely around his waist as he rocked once—twice.

“I thought… if I held you right, maybe you’d feel it too,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath. “The fluttering. The warm thing. Like the way Oliver gets when you tuck him in and smile.”

You softened—just a little. “Jack, I do care. But you can’t scare me into staying,” you said gently. “You need to trust me to come back. Just like Oliver does.”

That earned a sharp jolt through his expression. His head tilted, the bells in his costume softly chiming as he blinked. “Oliver…”

He turned his head suddenly—eyes fixed on the hallway.

You froze.

“What?” you asked, voice tight.

He sniffed the air. One deep inhale.

“He’s waking up,” Jack murmured. “He’s crying.”

You didn’t even wait. You were already scrambling off the bed, nearly stumbling into the hallway barefoot. Jack was behind you, eerily quiet despite his frame, close enough that his sleeves fluttered in the air beside you like shadows with feathers. Oliver’s room was dark, but you heard the sniffles before you even touched the door. You pushed it open gently.

“Oliver?” you whispered, stepping in.

The little boy was curled beneath the blankets, arms tightly wrapped around his pillow, tears tracking down his cheeks as he whimpered softly.

“Nightmare,” he hiccupped. “You… You weren’t here when I woke up. Jack was gone. I thought—”

“I’m right here,” you said quickly, sliding into the bed beside him. He immediately reached for you, pressing his face into your shirt, small hands clinging tightly.

“I was scared you left again,” Oliver murmured, muffled. “He got so sad last time. I got so lonely.”

You looked up—and Jack was there, crouched beside the bed, half-shrouded in shadow. The glow from the hallway lit one half of his face—the sadness there was nearly human.

“I didn’t understand him,” you said, brushing Oliver’s hair gently. “But I think I do now.”

Oliver sniffled. “He says he likes you.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?” you whispered.

“He says you make us feel happy.” Oliver’s lashes fluttered. “He says you smell like strawberries, but I don’t think so.”

You tried to laugh but it came out soft and broken. “I’ll stay,” you said quietly, folding Oliver into your arms. “I’ll stay the rest of the night. Okay?”

“Okay.”

You felt Jack settle beside the bed, curled around the two of you like a skeletal gargoyle. He didn’t speak, didn’t reach—he just watched, his limbs folded protectively under him, his eyes more calm now. As Oliver’s breathing slowed, you felt a cold hand brush against yours under the blanket—long fingers lacing between yours like he needed to feel your pulse to believe you were real.

“Jack?” you whispered.

“Hm?”

You didn’t look at him—just kept your eyes on the ceiling. “…We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

The hand squeezed yours once. Then came his whisper—low, skittish.

“Can you bring more ice cream?”

── .✦

The sun had just barely started to rise, stretching faint golden streaks across the cream-colored walls of Oliver’s bedroom. You stirred slowly, blinking against the light trickling through the curtains, a heavy warmth pressed against your side.

Oliver was still asleep, curled into you with one small hand tangled in the hem of your shirt. His cheeks were soft with sleep, lips parted slightly as he murmured something inaudible in a dream. You exhaled quietly, slipping your hand from his to tuck the blanket up over his shoulder.

Clink.

The sound of keys in the door jolted your attention.

Careful not to wake him, you slid from the bed, casting one last glance at Jack’s usual corner toward the closet. Nothing. No flicker, no feather, no eerie reflection. But the air was thick. You felt him. Watching. Resting.

Downstairs, the front door creaked open just as you reached the end of the hallway. Mrs. Dalton froze in the entryway, still dressed in her scrubs, her expression visibly softening when she saw you. “You’re still here…”

“I stayed the night,” you said simply, grabbing your jacket from the back of the couch. “He had a nightmare.”

Mrs. Dalton’s eyes searched yours carefully, cautiously. “And you stayed.”

“I’m coming back tonight, too.”

Her brows furrowed. “Wait. Why?”

You shrugged the coat on. “Because Oliver needs me.”

She frowned. “I know he does. But you—this isn’t your responsibility. I should’ve never let it get that far.”

You gave a small, tired smile. “I’m not doing it because I have to.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, something deeper—maybe the truth behind her eyes—but you were already halfway out the door. The cold morning air nipped at your cheeks, and just as you reached the sidewalk—

Fwwt.

A small feather, light gray and black-striped, fluttered past your face and landed by your foot.

You didn’t pick it up. You didn’t have to. Instead, you stepped over it, heart skipping, and walked to your car.

── .✦

The sky had settled into its deep, navy blue—stars peeking out between the clouds as you walked up the front steps, a familiar white paper bag tucked beneath your arm. You could already hear Oliver inside, thudding softly around the living room, maybe looking for something—or someone.

You knocked once before letting yourself in, calling gently, “Hey, Oliver?”

The little boy’s head popped over the couch, eyes widening when he saw the ice cream. His smile—real and unfiltered this time—was radiant. It made your heart stutter for a beat.

“You came back!” he called, running around the furniture. “You came back!”

You caught him as he leapt into your arms, ice cream threatening to topple.

“Of course I did,” you said, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

He nodded into your shoulder, voice muffled. “He’s really happy.”

You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to.

As you stepped further into the house, shadows curled slightly at the edge of the ceiling—just out of reach. Like fingers brushing the walls. You pretended not to notice, but you felt it—the way the house exhaled when you walked in. And the flicker of something behind you that didn’t belong to the light.

The night unfolded in familiar motions—yet something had shifted. Subtle, warm, like the slow turning of a tide.

You and Oliver ate your ice cream on the living room floor, cross-legged, the television flickering softly in the background with an old cartoon. He babbled between bites, chocolate smeared at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

“Jack says strawberry is his favorite flavor now, not mint chocolate chip anymore,” he said suddenly, licking the spoon.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, quirking a brow and handing him a napkin. “How does he even eat it? He doesn’t have a tongue, does he?”

Oliver laughed—really laughed. The kind that crinkled his nose and made his shoulders shake. “He does! It’s just black! And super long!”

You felt your eye twitch.

“Well that makes sense,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Big clowns, big tongues, big appetite for ice cream.”

He nodded sagely, like you were in on something sacred. “He said you smell like strawberries again.”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t let it show. “That’s probably because of my lotion.”

“Nope,” Oliver said simply, digging back into the tub. “He says it’s your skin.”

You blinked. “Gross.”

More laughter.

The evening continued like that—pillow forts, coloring pages, made-up bedtime riddles. And you answered all of Oliver’s strange little statements like they were part of the game. 

When he mentioned how the other imaginary friends whispered to him at night? You told him to tell them to use their inside voices.

When he said Jack got sad when the window was closed? You cracked it an inch and said, “There. For airflow and imaginary friends.”

And when he curled into your side with a book, his eyes drooping, his hand clutching your wrist like an anchor—you didn’t even hesitate. You read aloud. Soft, slow, your voice steady as his breaths evened. One page. Two. A lullaby wrapped in ink and warmth. Until his lashes fluttered and finally stilled.

You tucked him in gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and whispered, “Goodnight, buddy.”

The hallway light flickered once as you closed the door.

You padded down to the living room and coiled onto the couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow. The silence of the house was a blanket in itself—one that buzzed slightly at the edges. Hums of something just out of sight.

Still, you let your eyes close. “Jack…” The word was soft, a half-whimper from the empty room.

Then again, more urgent. “Jack…”

You sat up slowly, breath held, listening. The house didn’t answer. No creak of footsteps, no flutter of feathers. Only a long, heavy stillness. You exhaled through your nose and pushed up to stand—only for something cold to slip over your shoulders.

Claws.

Long, jointed fingers, talon-tipped, coiling like ribbons of shadow. You felt them press lightly into your collarbones, grazing the top of your chest—not painful, but possessive, circling from behind you.

And then—his voice. Low. Fractured velvet. Warm like a whisper down your spine. “You came back.”

You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. Just sat, back straight, breathing shallow. The claws curled tighter.

“I was scared you wouldn’t,” Jack murmured, his chin lowering until you could feel the weight of his presence against your shoulder. “But he asked for you. Needed you. So I waited. I was so good.”

You turned your head slowly—his feathers brushing your cheek—and finally looked at him.

Jack’s face rested next to yours, chin tucked onto your shoulder where he stood behind the couch. Pale. Painted. Cracked like porcelain, streaked slightly at the edges from where your hands had once smeared him. His mouth, sharp and black, curled into something between a smile and a snarl.

“I was very good,” he said again, almost pleading.

Your voice came quieter than you expected. “You were.”

He inhaled your scent like it grounded him. And then—his claws uncurled from your shoulders and slid down your arms, lingering at your wrists like manacles of silk and bone.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

With graceful ease, one long gangly leg lifted over the back of the couch like he was stepping over a fence, then the other, before sitting cross-legged down beside you. He faced you, head tilted like a curious, waiting beast, his black-tinted claws twitching with thought. His wide eyes flicked over your face, down your throat, to your hands where they rested in your lap, still and warm. The poor cushions nearly buckled under the weight of him.

“Why,” he murmured, almost to himself, “why does it do that?”

You looked over at him, brows furrowing. “Do what?”

His chest rose sharply, a frustrated mimicry of breath. “This… fluttering.” He pressed a clawed hand flat against the center of his chest. “It’s like I’m hollow and full at the same time.”

Your lips parted—your brain stumbling to meet his intensity. “Remember what I said about love?”

Jack blinked, confused. “Love.”

“It’s… complicated,” you offered gently. “It can feel really good and really terrible at the same time. It makes you care too much. Makes you do things. Say things. Want things.”

Jack’s head tilted, and he shuffled closer on all fours—lanky limbs folding with unnatural grace. “Want?” His voice dipped, that awful little smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I do want.”

You leaned back slightly as he reached for you, his claws brushing your legs, your hips, then curling possessively around your waist as he pulled you into his lap again. You let him—more out of dazed submission than invitation. His body was warm beneath all the feathers and fabric, and the way he tucked you against him made you feel like a doll, a thing made for touch.

“You feel soft,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over your back with surprising gentleness for something so sharp. “You smell like the way I imagine dreams do. And when you talk… it gets louder in here.” He tapped the side of his temple.

“I think that’s still love,” you said softly, trying not to tremble as he leaned forward. You didn’t really think that—but the way he looked at you—there was little you could do to no appease him.

Jack’s nose brushed your neck, and he inhaled like he was starving. Then, unexpectedly, he dragged the tip of his tongue up the line of your throat—inhumanly long, textured like velvet. Oliver was right, it was black—and long. You gasped, clutching his arms.

His head tilted. “You tasted… good. But not enough. There’s something else I’ve seen people do. Something Oliver’s parents did with mouths.”

You flushed. “A… kiss?”

Jack’s eyes lit up like a light bulb flaring. “Yes. That. Show me.”

You hesitated—but something in his expression, his wide pupils and fluttering lashes, made your chest ache. He was so bright—despite the monochromatics of him. There were wild colors and energy behind his sad eyes.

So you leaned forward and whispered, “It’s when two people press their lips together. Gentle, sometimes. Or… not.”

Jack didn’t wait. He surged forward with a suddenness that made you gasp, pressing his mouth to yours clumsily at first—like he didn’t quite know how hard to push or how much to take. His lips were cold, but the space between you burned. And when he groaned softly into it, something cracked wide open in your chest.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t delicate. But it was real.

And when he pulled back, body jittering with energy, his eyes searched yours like you held the answer to everything.

“That,” he whispered, claws trembling where they gripped your sides. “Do that again. Please.”

Your lips tingled from the pressure of him—his mouth too cold, too soft, and too eager all at once. The taste of him lingered like sugar laced with something acrid, like old candy or sugar water. His nose brushed yours as he hovered, barely breathing, barely holding back.

And he was holding back. Barely.

“Do it again,” Jack breathed, his voice cracking with need. “Please—again. Just one more—”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have time.

Jack surged forward, kissing you again, messier this time—teeth knocking against yours in his desperation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, tangling like he never wanted to let go. His other arm was tight around your waist, claws digging just enough to make you feel it.

You gasped into his mouth when his tongue—too long, too strange—flicked over your bottom lip, tasting you like you were spun sugar and heat. He moaned—moaned, like he didn’t understand how else to deal with the rush curling through him.

“You’re real,” he whispered into your mouth, dragging you closer, your legs tangled where he held you in his lap. “You see me. You let me touch you. You don’t scream—you don’t run—”

“I was terrified of you,” you said, breathing uneven. “I still kind of am.”

Jack paused. His brows pinched. “Then why did you come back?”

“Because Oliver isn’t the only one who needs me.”

With a shuddering sound full of teeth and snarls, Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply—obscene and greedy—and you could feel his whole body tremble beneath yours. Then his hands—those long, strange hands—slid under your thighs, and in one effortless motion, he scooped you up.

You yelped, arms flying around his neck as he lifted you like you were made of nothing.

“Jack—!”

“Shhh…” he cooed, walking—no, gliding—through the hallway. “I can only keep Ollie asleep for so long, sweet girl. We need to be quiet.”

You squirmed a little, heart hammering, your voice caught somewhere between rationality and surrender. “W-We can sit down. We don’t have to—”

“You’re warm,” he murmured, cutting you off. “And when I touch you, it makes me feel good. I think… I think this is what people mean when they talk about loving someone.” He leaned down, brushing his nose across your cheek. “I want to be good at it. For you.”

The hallway was lit only by the dim nightlight near Oliver’s room, casting everything in shadow and silver. Jack’s body moved soundlessly, his boots not making a single creak on the old wood.

And then he reached Mrs. Dalton’s room.

You stiffened. “Jack, no. We can’t—this is her room—”

But he didn’t stop. He pressed the door open with his foot—which had a little bell at the top, jingling—and carried you over the threshold, and nudged it shut behind him. He walked you to the bed like he’d been there before—like he’d waited for this exact moment. And when he set you down, he was slow. Careful. His claws ghosted over your sides as he released you, reverent, almost trembling.

“You fit,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed like a knight before an altar. “I don’t know why. But you fit. And I don’t want you to go.”

You sat there, breathing hard, watching as he tilted his head—those eyes wide, flickering with too many things—Adoration. Madness. Hope. And something like love.

He didn’t lunge again. Not this time. But you knew—this night, this quiet, this eerie stillness—it wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning—of your doom, your love—you weren’t sure.

Jack’s head tilted again, just slightly, enough for the bell at his collar to chime softly. The tiny sound filled the stillness between you like a warning, or maybe a plea.

“I don’t want you to go,” he repeated, almost childlike, hands resting on your knees—clawed fingers splayed wide, thumbs rubbing tiny, distracted circles into the soft fabric of your pants. “They always go. All of them. After a while. Even when I like them.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Jack…”

“I didn’t like the others like I like you. They didn’t make me feel like this.”

He leaned forward again, feathered collar brushing your arms, the scent of sweets and wrapping around you. His face hovered close, and for the first time… he looked serious.

“I get big feelings when you touch me,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “When you talk soft. When you look at me like I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, reaching a cautious hand up—fingers threading through the messy dark strands of his hair. “You’re not wrong, Jack. You’re just… not like us. And that’s okay. Some people don’t deserve you.”

He whimpered, the sound sharp and fragile as his hands suddenly moved to your waist—claws careful but firm, gripping you like he thought you might vanish again.

“Why does it hurt when you leave?” His voice cracked, nose brushing yours, his weight pushing forward until you had to brace yourself back on your elbows. “Why does it ache?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You just let your other hand come up, smoothing over the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing a smear of dried white face paint. “Because you’re learning to care. And that hurts sometimes.”

Jack leaned into your touch like a dog starved for affection. “Is that what this is?” he rasped. “Is this love?”

You froze.

His claws slipped beneath your shirt again, up your sides—not cruelly, but with that same aching hunger he didn’t know how to soothe. The pads of his fingers found the faint indents he’d left the night before, and he shuddered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder with a broken sound.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “I just wanted you to see me.”

“I do see you,” you whispered, unsure if you were shaking from nerves or something deeper.

He looked up suddenly, lifting himself slightly to meet your gaze again. “And you still came back.”

“I told you I would.”

Jack didn’t like that answer. His mouth twisted—unhappy, needy—and his arms curled around your back, pulling you forward until your body pressed against his chest, your legs falling open around his wide hips.

“You wanted to come back,” he corrected, nose pressed into your hair. “Didn’t you?”

You closed your eyes. “I did.”

Silence fell.

Then Jack giggled—softly, sweetly, but with something strained and high-pitched underneath. “I knew it. I knew you were different. That you weren’t scared like the rest.”

“Jack…”

That’s all it takes for his lips to be crashing onto yours, biting back a little whimper at the messy clash of teeth, of spit, because one taste of your lips and he was already so addicted. One kiss wasn’t enough, neither was two.

Your breath caught when he shifted his weight, a knee sliding between your thighs as he loomed over you, long hair falling like a shadowy curtain around your face. That enormous feathered collar fanned around his neck, brushing your shoulders like wings, trapping you beneath him.

“You said love feels fluttery, right?” he asked, voice rough, cracking slightly. “It feels like you can’t breathe, like everything is spinning and hot and tight.”

You nodded—your throat too dry to speak.

“Then I’m in love,” he declared, eyes glassy and intense. “Because I can’t stop feeling.”

He pressed his nose to your collarbone, inhaling deeply, then let his tongue graze across your skin—warm and impossibly long, like silk and static. You shivered, your hand instinctively grabbing at the front of his suspender shirt, fingers curling into that ridiculous fabric ruffle beneath his throat.

He smiled at that, manic and pleased. “You like this, don’t you? Even if you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you lied, voice tight.

That earned a laugh—soft and delighted, as if he could feel the war in your chest.

“You’re shaking,” he said, claws slipping lower, curved around your hips now, pulling you flush against his frame. “But not like before. Not like when you wanted to run. Now you’re trembling like… like I make your chest flutter, too.”

You didn’t answer, but your body did—arching when his hips settled against yours.

Jesus fucking Christ. You felt the boneyness of his hips, the slimness of his torso, and the absolutely—devastatingly, mouthwateringly—curve of his erection against his hip. Your hips jerked immediately at the feeling, eyes shooting wide when you felt him grind down just the slighted bit. There was no fucking way.

Jack groaned low, almost surprised by his own reaction, his clawed hand catching your thigh and hiking it up around his waist. “So little,” he hissed, voice shaking with something deeper now. “So small and warm in my hands…”

His head dipped, tongue trailing up your throat, stopping just beneath your jaw. “Want to taste your skin again. Is that okay? You said I need to ask permission.”

You managed a nod, your fingers still clinging to him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the manic glee that bloomed across his face was both terrifying and beautiful.

There was nothing gentle about it.

Jack kissed like a creature who’d only just discovered the act existed and couldn’t fathom living without it—which was mostly true. His mouth was hot and desperate, his tongue curling past your lips like he needed to taste everything you’d ever spoken. He moaned against you—guttural, starved—as he dragged your hips closer into his, arms caging you in completely.

The room spun, your senses burning, and when he finally pulled back for air, a string of spit clung between your mouths. His chest rose and fell like he’d run miles, pupils blown wide with something that wasn’t entirely sane.

“I want more,” he whispered. “Let me have more.” Jack gasps, chasing hotly after your lips. Eyes half-lidded to watch the snapping of those delicate strings of saliva, “You’re— you’re so—” And he’s way too impatient to get out his words, licking heatedly at the slit of your mouth, over and over and over. “I can’t help it.”

And the both of you are stuck on the way Jack’s moving again, hips fucking up in jagged, mindless little grinds. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like he didn’t even feel the way his twitching erection was smearing along the insides of your thighs. You’re erratic, entire body shaking every time the tip of his cock catches your clit through layers of clothes. How was this even happening?

“I remember—” Jack started, tugging his hips off of you, leaning back, your legs still spread wide around his hips. “I remember what Ollie’s parents used to do. I remember seeing it. I think that was the first time I felt like this.” His voice is shaky, like he’s barely containing something running rampant behind those stripes and monochrome.

“What do you—”

Jack’s claws ran under your shirt, pushing the fabric all the way up until it bunched under your chin. You seized, hands letting go of his shirt and moving to cover your chest, bra slightly askew from all the prior movement. Jack didn’t like that—he wrapped a hand around your wrists, tugging them away with a huff. “I want to show you.”

He pushes your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere against the wall, before he’s snagging one long, sharp finger under the main band of your bra. Your breath catches, hand wrapping around his wrist—before he’s snapping it up.

Your tits fall free, bra bunched onto your chest, nipples hard from the chilled air and rampant energy of your body. You shuffle in embarrassment, pressing your arm over your chest, “Jack—”

He stalks towards your trembling figure as if hypnotized, “Oh, you look even prettier this way.”

You don’t even have time to react. Jack’s painted lips are latching onto one nipple, giant claw snagging the other. You can fill the pinprick of his jagged teeth against your skin, and it elicits goosebumps all over. He’s groaning, humming sweetly against your nipple as that bastardous tongue laps and snakes against the nub.

“Jack—hah—oh god—”

His bright eyes meet yours through heavy lids, chittery little grumbles as he sucks and swirls and makes your head dizzy. Your hands curl into his hair, brushing the strands from his face as he pops off one tit and immediately locks onto the other. A thin ring of black circles your nipple, evidence of his dark lips that sucked a red spot onto your skin. You can hardly catch your breath, arching up into the feeling.

“Tastes… so good. You’re so sweet…” he moans against you, licking a thick stripe across one mound, then to the other. But he’s back up at your lips before you know it, slipping that tongue through your teeth and messing with your own. He forces his way into your mouth, dragging the muscle across your inner cheeks like he’s trying to memorize it.

You feel him slipping down, dragging your hips with him in a firm hold, until you hear the thud of his knees hitting the carpet at the side of the bed. He smacks one, hard kiss across your lips before retreating down your jaw, then to your throat. You gasp out, craning your neck as he nips and sears his teeth across your veins.

Then you feel the tug of your pants, thick claws snagging the fabric and pulling them down your thighs. You try to maneuver, moving to grab his shoulders, but Jack retreats—leaving your mouth and throat alone.

“O-Oh.”

Jack settles between your spread legs, tugging your waistband down your knees and off your ankles. You have enough mind to lean up onto your elbows, unclasping your bra and tugging it off your chest before it becomes too uncomfortable.

Despite your thoughts, despite the way your heart hammered so violently in your chest—Laughing Jack looked so pretty when he knelt obediently at the edge of the bed. A thin sliver of sweat sliding down his temple, breaths coming out in heated gusts, clawed hands balling into a fist and shivering once you smear your legs open just a fraction more. Twitching, white-knuckled like he was forcing himself to not just ruin you right then and there. 

“Let me taste you.” Jack said sternly, an edge of hesitation in his voice. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know what to do. Let me show you.” His words got faster as he spoke, frantic. Like if he couldn’t convince you in this moment, you’d up and leave. Your thighs shook, mind dizzy between right and wrong.

But the sight of him there, claws sneaking up to brush against the inside of your calf as your legs dangled off the side of the bed—not your bed, you’d have to make sure to tidy up. There was no point in stopping now.

“Okay.” You’re nodding, and the very action is enough for him to snap his eyes down where your cotton panties were starting to dampen and swallow. “Please—please—be gentle.”

With so much pent-up eagerness, Jack’s lips twist into a sleazy grin—crawling himself the few inches it was to stuff himself nose-deep between your pretty legs. First it was the tiniest tug on your restless hips, then it was a sniff—and then it was a bite of his sharp, pearly whites over the waistband of your underwear. A throaty groan snarling through his teeth, “Oh, sweet girl, I promise.”

Quick as a flash, he’s snagging his teeth on the flimsy fabric of your panties and all but tearing it off of you. Ripping to simply push its tatters to the side, Jack doesn’t even fully take it off before he was simply drooling. 

“Sweet,” he gasps out, tongue flicking past his lips to taste the air. You shrieked, gripping your fingers tight into the sheets, but he just smiled lazily, “So sweet.”

The fattened pad of his thumb sears down on your swollen folds and spreads you wide open, cock twitching at the deafening wet squelch that chimes.

“And mine.”

“Oh— oh fuck—” You’re shrilling out a syrupy moan once his singing tongue flicks at your clit like a lollipop, taking extra care to press down hard so that it has you thrashing.

“There? S’that good?” He’s roaming his mouth over your puffed-up lips eagerly, yearning, not knowing what he was doing, just addicted. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. S’this for me? A-All for me?”

The only answer he’s getting is a few soft gasps of oh! and yes! You couldn’t help but nod your head down and admire just how drunk Jack was as he’s sucked away on your twitching clit. The hollows of his pale cheeks sucked-in, spit-glossed mouth wrapped snugly around your sensitive nub. “So… so good…”

Your legs try to clamp around his head.

“E-Easy, Jack—” You mewl out in a tone that makes his tensed hips rut forward like an animal, immediately grinding against the firm base of the bedframe. You snake a hand down to intertwine with his messy hair, tugging the strands until his eyes snap up to meet yours. “Easy.”

Jack nods against your cunt, lips bumping your clit and smearing your arousal across your folds. You try to tug his head off, just to give yourself a moment—

“I want it.” He grumbles, popping off your clit, hanging his head back as he pants into the air. His eyes are so glassy, the tip of his tongue flashing across his bottom lip—until it’s not the tip anymore—wait—

The curly, dark end of it stingingly slaps down on your thigh, Jack’s tongue is so long enough that he can lace it all over your shivering leg and wrench them further and further open. You nearly faint.

“I want in.”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart—just a few solid, thorough inches of Jack’s slimy tongue burrowing past your puffy folds, keeping your jolting legs pinned firmly by his sharp claws digging in. Your head slams back against the mattress, hands taking a blinding hold on Jack’s hair. You’re being rendered utterly stupid by the jerky flicks of his pointed muscle stirring up your insides, wriggling in circular patterns around and around your gummy walls. Scarfing you down until his tongue reaches the very gooey bottom of your cunt and kisses your cervix so hard that you’re pushed up the mattress and he’s forced to reel you back down again. 

“What— oh…oh my god—” Tears drip down from your heavy lids, wailing whimpers breaking off from your lips at every smack he left on that spongy end, further pushing aside your panties. Then it’s retracting all the way back out, only to thrust in again. “Jack— it’s so big— your tongue—”

He grumbles his agreement, smacking his lips back against your folds, sucking your clit. He’s slashing his tongue almost aggressively inside, knocking your g-spot in-between his journey to fuck you with his tongue. You could feel the ridges of his tongue, feel how it had to bend and curve to fit all of it inside of you. It angled to the shape of your walls, making you feel so full.

“N-ngh please!” You could feel your resolve breaking, nearly hear the sound of your fear shattering and getting rebuilt into uncontrollable lust. You can’t help but rock into every second of his frenzied cadence, creeping down one of your hands to hook on the underside of his jaw, angling his head so that he could go even deeper, “I-it’s so good— don’t stop, don’t stop.”

And the look in Jack’s shiny eyes is the most raw glint of disbelief that you’ve ever seen.

His thighs clench as he hits his erection against the wooden board of the bed and grinds, unwilling to yank the button of his pants down, unwilling to take his hands off of you for a mere second.

He throws your thighs over his shoulder, your trembly hands guided through his sweaty scalp, mouth hungry. You nearly scream every time the sharp ends of his fangs snag on your clit, tongue fucking into your sopping cunt like he’s addicted to the mere taste and sounds of it—because he is.

Your noises, your smell, your taste. How did he go so long without you?

“Fuck- fuck, you’re making such a mess, Jack.”

“Mhmmmm—”

“I can’t— I can’t—” And you don’t know whether it’s the sight of slicked saliva falling from Jack’s mouth or the sheer overstimulation that has you jumbling up your syllables—but it’s enough to make Jack grin against your folds. “S’too much— hold on—”

Your brain’s fuzzily numb by the time you finally recognize that familiar twist at the bottom of your gut. Blubbering out an unsteady, “H-Hold on— Just give—agh— give me a minute.”

“I know— I know I know I know— make a mess.” He’s tugging his tongue out, letting a wad of saliva stream straight down your slit and licking it all up before he returns to probe your entrance fully, swirling every fold of his tongue until it was like he was stuffing you with his taste buds.

Tears pool from your eyes, hands jerks two thick strands of his hair and pulling—and your body absolutely shatters under him.

Jack picks it up immediately—keenly aware of the way your walls clamp down with a searing grip on his lashing tongue, flooding his tastes with such a sweet, sweet taste. You could practically see the fireworks exploding behind his eyes, eyelashing fluttering and lips twitching as he only shoves his jaw closer to your skin.

Your hips roll at the primal way Jack’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each eager swallow. Thin lines of sappy slick falling from the black, puckered corners of his lips and waterfalling all down the side of his throat. 

“Good— Good girl—” His sopping wet tongue drags up and down your open folds to pull you through your euphoria, every lolling flick of the curled end jostling against your thoroughly-stuffed cunt. “This— this is all for me?” He’s crooning out, dazed, letting his jaw fall open with every quiver you’re instinctively clenching with your cunt, “All for me. More— more, sweetheart.”

The waves of absolute pleasure ran through your gut, through your legs, until it slowly fizzled into sharp, jerking twitches of your legs clamping around his head. Jack let you, too busy tasting your orgasm to worry about his head getting squished between your shaky thighs. He wasn’t stopping, his tongue making it a point to clean every inch of your insides, to taste every sweet drop.

His tongue kept thrusting, lips continually sucking on your weeping clit. Your eyes rolled back, hips jerking off the bed and slamming back down into the sheets with every curl of the muscle inside you.

It wasn’t until you were hitting your fist against his head and pressing the bottoms of your feet against his shoulders that he flicked his eyes up at you, catching the absolutely fucked-out expression that lay before him.

“Jack— s’too much, too much—”

And he’s perking his head up like the thought didn’t even occur to him—slowly retracting his tongue from your folds and back to his own mouth. His glistening tongue licks his lips, catching all the spit and slick that got absolutely everywhere all over his face. His eyes are locked into yours, despite you rapidly blinking away tears. He smiled, innocently, all sharp teeth and giddy eyes, “Was that good?”

Your eyes flicked back and forth between his face and your body—your inner thighs and center absolutely covered in smears of white and black facepaint. You could see where a black O shape circled right around your cunt, where his cheekbones has pressed right into the meat of your thighs. It was an absolute mess—and that wasn’t even counting all the drool and slick accompanying it. But your eyes flicked back to his face.

Fuck. He was pretty.

Granted, you always saw him in the shade of shadows or in faint passing, but right now—with Jack’s dark strands of hair hooding his half-lidded gaze, what little you could see of his eyes gleaming, chest rising and falling rapidly—he was dreamy.

One gangly limb after the other, Jack crawls back up into the bed—well, grinds right between your legs so that he’s putting pressure on your throbbing cunt. He doesn’t even look like he knows that he’s doing it, not when he’s gripping your flushed cheeks in one claw and puffing your lips together.

Looming over top of you, his other claw grips into the askew bedding near your head, face quickly lowering toward yours as he catches your mouth again.

It’s all spit and tongues and the taste of you on his lips. You’re both panting into each other’s mouth’s, his sharp teeth catching against your lips and making you hiss. He grinds down again, making your hands grip into his ruffled collar, rutting his hips and dampening the front of his trousers with your wetness.

He’s whimpering into your mouth, eyes clenched tightly shut as you feel the head of his cocktip smear through your folds over thin layers of fabric. Your hands move before your brain does, fishing for the waistband of his trousers and finding the metal clasp that holds the layers together.

Jack feels your hands against stomach, knuckles running across those bandages tight around his waist, and angles his hips upwards. He can’t figure out why he feels so warm, why the fluttering in his chest has traveled south—but when your fingers latch on and snag the clasp open, feeling as his length bobs out from behind the fabric and smacks against your belly-button—it’s like he just touched a live-wire.

“What—” he started, popping off your lips to look at the space between you. His face is twitching, like he can’t pinpoint what expression he’s supposed to have, watching at his cock twitches and smears pre-cum against your stomach. It’s only when you let go of the fabric of his pants, mindlessly darting over to swipe your thumb across a pearly bead of pre that glistened on his slit—that Jack’s hips jerk at the feeling, chasing your hand.

“O-oh.” Jack grunts at the look on your gorgeous face once your hand wraps around the head of his cock, twisting slowly. His hips stutter, brow knotting as you slowly stroke your hand on his tip, smearing his arousal on his bulbous head. “No one’s ever touched me like this—hah!” You pump your hand lower, gaping at the way your fingers have to separate to get a grip on him, jerking his cock lazily while you drool over the sight.

“It’s okay, Jack— Mm, does that feel good?” You hum, shuffling up to press a wet kiss against his jaw, his eyes still glued on your hand.

“Ye-Yeah. Really—hnm—really good.”

“Yeah?”

He’s nodding frantically, rolling his hips until his tip is knocking against your stomach. He’s so long, so thick that you can see exactly where he’s going to end up inside of you, see exactly where the tip of his goes past your belly-button. Your stomach rolled with excitement.

You push against his shoulder, minding the ruffles and feathers, and wrap your leg onto his hip, rolling the two of you over.

“Oh.” He’s gasping—you settle on top of him, legs bracketing his hips as his length sits heavy against the curve of your ass. You’re completely naked above him except for the shredded remnants of your torn panties still hanging on. You couldn’t care less about them, not when he’s panting underneath you, staring up with wide, anxious eyes.

“Jack…” You’re sliding the curve of your ass gingerly against his aching hot length, shudders skittering down your spine at the sheer size of him pressing up against you. “Y-you’re so big. I don’t know if it’ll fit.”

“Fit? F-Fit where?” He’s whispering, in awe. Watching with damply bated breath as you reach between your legs, gripping the base of him—fingers not even close to touching—and dragging him to point that curved, bulbous tip right between your folds and sliding it up and down, collecting all your sweet arousal. Jack nearly snaps his hips up, if not for the weight of you on top of him.

“Right here,” you purr, grinding your clit against his weeping slit.

“Am—Am I really that b-big?” He’s panting at the first squeeze of his reddened, blushing tip against your entrance, his chittery voice wavers almost as much as his heavy eyelids, falling apart with just that first taste of your perfect cunt. “You got it—uh huh, yeah, you got it—Show me how good it feels.” Jack’s voice cracks with a whimper at that snug resistance, “You can take it—you can take it. I’ll make it fit.”

“Oh—oh my god—Jack, Jac—!”

“Is it too big for my sweet girl? Hm?” He giggles under you, claws latching tight onto your waist, pushing you down each and every time Jack jerks his hips off the bed and pushes just to fit in. “Sweetheart—” Jack gasps as you throw your head back with a mewl at the sheer size of him, planting your hands into his forearms.

His painfully-aching cock was so big that just the mere first inch being bullied inside was enough to make your vision blotch with black specs. His rounded head was stretching your slick-flooded walls so bad it burned, “I’m sorry, sweet girl— M’sorry I’m so big. But you’re my girl— my girl can take it— you can…you can take it.”

You can’t even move, let alone think very hard. Where all your teasing was prominent moments ago, it all fissiled the second Jack learned what he was meant to do, realized he could feel good too. You’re just limp in his hands down, stuttering fucked-out whimpers and tears dripping down your chin onto his frilly clothes. It was pathetic.

He had to be almost in—he had to be.

Your heart nearly fell to your ass when you looked down, eyes cracking open just enough to see when the two of you were connected—and realize he was hardly half way.

“Jack— oh my god— oh my god.”

“So tight, so tight, so— so warm— tight—”

“Mhm—” And you’re just letting out the cutest cry once he finally eases himself all the way in, practically impaling you. Your cunt gushes around him, thighs trembling as you feel both of your bodies untense.

Tenderly caressing your palm down his chest, you whine, “I-it’s in?” Your hitched tone makes his eyes flutter shut, and yet, he’s fighting to bring them back open and watch as you grind against him. “It’s in. O-oh my god, I can feel you— so deep.”

“It burns,” he whines, clamping his claws tight around your waist as he begins to haul you up, the bells on his clothes jingling as he shifts you higher on his length. He’s stretching you so wide, rubbing against every curve and sensitive spot inside of you, making you dizzy. “Need’a move.” You’re jostled ever-so-slightly on top of him as he’s sucking in a deep breath.

One jerk of his hips has you falling forward, draping across his long body, you’re nothing against his over eight foot height. He takes advantage of the angle, wraps his gangly arms around your back, and thrusts.

You feel the wind knock out of your lungs, feel your spine arch at the sheer fullness that erupts your thoughts. “Jack—” you cry out, gazing up to see his gleaming teeth on display, a feral snarl painting his features.

“Sweet girl—” Planting a rattling thrust you’re feeling all the way in your chest, his twitching length is so widely thick that Jack has to bite down on his lips and manhandle you for his thrusts to move to and fro, fighting the sheer tightness of your walls.

“Nghhh—Jack! Fuck, y-you’re in so deep—”

He nods, painfully so, and reaches to wrap a claw around your jaw, forcing you to lean up to him. “Kiss me, please.”

“Should’ve— should’ve done this sooner—” He hisses out through a narrowed pant, tongue flashing angrily across his lips as he pushes the tip between your lips. “Should’a had you like this from the start.”

“O-oh fuck fuck fuck—” The backs of your thighs ache after every slamming thrust you’re bouncing back into his bony hips, pounding away like he was crazed, every jackhammer only makes Jack grow more feral. The sounds, the absolute vulgarness of your skin slapping together.

His rummaging, fat-tipped shaft was so large that you could feel the way his ridged cockhead scraped your cervix, bumping against the end like he desperately needed to get deeper, impossibly deeper.

Facepaint practically smearing down his cheeks now, “Should’ve fuh-fucked you the moment I—hnngh—saw you. Should’ve dragged you into that closet— sh-should’ve—” You’re squealing once his sharp claws dart down to toy and pull at the curve of your ass. “I knew from that first night— Yeah, I knew it— You’re perfect.”

Oh, he’s babbling. 

Cooing, you slither one of your hands through the tangled strands of his dark hair, “Awww– it’s okay, I’m here. You’ve—hah—you’ve got me now.”

“Yes.” He’s seething, heaving thick swallows of air against your lips. Your smell was driving him mad, he can’t help but bite against your lips and pull. “Are you feeling good, too?”

Pace growing sloppier by the minute, he barely even noticed when you nodded, too worried about tugging you lips open with his jagged teeth and shoving his tongue back into your mouth. It’s almost as if you didn’t know if it was you bouncing back on his cock on him thrusting up into you, only fucked dumb with every sharp jut. His cock curved just right, targeting your g-spot over and over with his bruising tip.

You could barely breathe, especially when his tongue was yawning in your mouth, pushing to the tightness of your throat. It took your hand on his face, pushing his forehead back before you could gag. “I-I’m so close—” You’re hiccuping through your salty tears, brows scrunching at the overwhelming coil at the base of your gut. “F-fuck! Jack m’gonna cum.”

“Again? Hah— again?” His response comes out guttural, and it’s just so cute the way that he’s forced to gnaw on his bottom lip to stop himself from shoving his tongue back into your pretty mouth.

You’re nodding frantically, pressing your hands into his chest to raise yourself, fucking your hips back to match the unrelenting pace Jack was setting into your weeping cunt. The sounds had grown more lewd, slick and arousal coating your inner thighs, nails dragging along the bandaged wrap of his waist. Shocked, Jack sounds as if he could still barely even believe this was all real. “That feeling— the, the fluttering,” he whines, legs kicking out from under you like he’s trying to get away from some foreign feeling, “It’s worse—hah—it hurts, it hurts—”

His claws sear against your skin, pace faltering as his brow twists with unease, eyes flickering to your face and your cunt with panic. You reach to grab his face, forcing his shaky eyes on you, your fingernails pressing into his white-coated face.

“Don’t stop. Jack—aghh— don’t stop.” You’re grinning like wild, tear-heavy lashes fluttering so fast your vision blurs with flashes of monochrome. “You’re gonna cum. Inside— please, inside.”

“Ah—Alright— Oh, sweet girl. Oh, goodness.” You could feel the rumbling under his skin as his teeth pull back into a primal snarl, tear-glinted eyes locked permanently where his red, swollen cock was disappearing between your legs. “It hurts, it hurts. Need it to come out—hah—need it.”

But between all of his babbling and all of his jittery movements, Jack doesn’t even realize it—doesn’t even remember to breathe the very moment you’re creaming all down his monstrous cock. Violent twitches take over your body as you shut your eyes and ride it all out. 

The sheer amount of slick that pools out of your cunt is mind-numbing, every drop coating Jack’s cock for him to piston even faster up into you. You fall limp in his hands, your orgasm shattering every ounce of willpower you had left, reduced to nothing but a drooling fucktoy on his chest.

And, god, he cums. So thick, so much, straight into the gummy walls that constricted around him like a vice. He gnashed his teeth, claws scratching down your sides and gripping hard into the meat of your ass as he holds you there, forcing you to sit and feel every shot of cum that pumps into your cervix. He’s whimpering, teeth chattering so hard you were afraid he’d pass out.

And you’re just tapering off from your own orgasm, finally mustering enough energy to look up at him, you slur your words, “Didn’t that feel good? Ah— good job, good job, Jack.”

He’s not listening.

“Again. Again, again, again—” Urgent, rapidly he’s flipping the two of you immediately over to hover on top of you and rut like an animal. You’re gasping once your back slams down on the soft bedding, heels struggling to cling onto Jack’s slim hips until he’s wrapping his long arms underneath your knees and hauling them over his shoulders. You feel your back bend, and bend, and bend—

He had you manhandled like some toy into a mating press. All the air gets pressed out of your lungs as your heels hook onto his shoulders, ruffled feathers on his collar tickling your bare skin. You’re so open, so powerless, so… braindead.

“Need to make you cum again—” Growling through the tiniest gaps of his grit teeth, he presses his forehead to yours, his striped nose poking against your cheek, and inhales that sweet scent of yours still permeating the thick air. The straps of his suspenders rub against your skin as he begins to move again, searing his hips back to thrust back into you again. He laughs, rough and low and tired, chittering his teeth, “I want to feel it over and over. Want to make my sweet girl feel good again.”

He struggles to even focus his eyes on you properly, and Jack’s teeth grit at the lead squelch your pussy makes once he sinks all the way back in, drools of cum and slick pooling onto the mattress below. 

He picks up a brutal pace again, planting his claws on either side of your head, your hands wrapping around his wrists as you try to hold on for dear fucking life. The angle, the position, the sheer force of his hips have your jaw going slack, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Jack’s length bumps into your g-spot so bruisingly that with only a few more strokes you’re cumming again. 

It’s only when you cry out, a shrill noise bubbling out of your throat, that Jack realizes it. A wide smile paints his face, every sharp tooth shining in the dim light as he watches every twist and turn of your expression, refusing to slow his pace even when fat tears roll down your cheeks. “Yes. Yeah, yeah, yeah— Yes, sweet girl. Give it to me, give it to me—”

He can’t even finish the damn sentence before he’s following right behind you, your cunt clenching so tight that he can’t thrust again before he’s spilling into you—even more. You can tell he’s sensitive, can feel the way his hips fight his mind to pull out, whimpering so pitifully as he fucks him cum into the already stuffed cavern of your walls.

“So good for me— so good. Feel how full you are, so full and— and warm…” He was practically twitching, trembling. “It’s so hot inside…”

You couldn’t even move without feeling cum slip down the curve of your ass, spilling onto the bed. You prayed Mrs. Dalton’s comforter was washable.

Yelping, your legs struggle to shut once his sloppy cadence turns even sloppier. Lazier. Heels slipping off of his shoulders and crooking onto his elbows. “O-one more—” Jack’s whining, black tongue lolling between his teeth, licking up the drool that pools onto his lips, “Keep— keep those pretty legs open f’me. M’begging— take it, sweetheart.”

One claw wiggles its way under your back, arching your body off the bed and pressing your chest to his, face-first into the ruffles of his collar. The other claw plants at the top of your head, and pushes you down.

“Jack—!” Your legs were shaking so violently every snap of his hips made you weep openly. So overstimulated, you could barely even be touched without lighting cracking through your veins. 

“Yeah? Feel good? S’all for you— only for you—” Purposefully pressing up close so that your poor clit gets rubbed over by the wrap of bandages that stop at his pelvis, the rough fabric tugging the sensitive bud. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, totally focused on making you as full as possible.

He was fucking you like he couldn’t get enough—would never possibly be able to get enough. Every thrust had him pushing you down once more after the stuttering recoil, grinding your bodies against each other because Jack couldn’t bear to part. “You’re never leaving again—never—Need you all the time.”

You can’t help but nod, can’t even think straight, mind completely full of the skin slapping and the strong smells and the horrible way you knew you were going to be so bruised after this. This was going to hurt so bad tomorrow.

“Cum. Cum on me, sweetheart. All over me.”

“Jack— please—” you cry, mouth falling into an obscene O shape as you feel your legs going numb.

“Now.” You could hear the grit in his voice, hear the absolute need. But more than that, more than his voice, you could feel the heavy tongue that slithered across your throat, across your shoulders, all the way into your mouth and to the back of your throat—choking you.

Feel it as you squirt.

“Yes.”

Simply spraying him with a searing flood of your sweet, soaking juices. Jack has the mindless audacity to crane his head and look between you, wide eyes catching just as your wetness sprays onto his hips and trousers and just everywhere.

“Fuuuck…” You feel like you’ve been dragged through the 6 rings of hell with the way your body absolutely burns. Gushing and gushing—it’s almost embarrassing how much you’re leaking around Jack’s creamy base. 

Jack didn’t seem to think so, though.

He was mesmerized, hypnotized. A glistening few droplets of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he just watched himself get drenched in all your gushing orgasm whilst he cums for who knows how many times.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes—” Jack is absolutely losing his mind, every languid pump of his flinching cock sending massive shockwaves through both of you. He can’t even draw his hips back anymore, can’t even thrust, “Yes.”

He just grinds, just pumps you full again, this round of cum not even trying to fit into your cunt and just spilling out. Jack falls limp on top of you, muttering yes, yes, yes like a mantra, like his mouth can’t form another word. You both just lay there for a moment, all heaving breaths and shaky limbs, clinging to each other like you never want to let go.

“So full… Jack… soo full…” You mumble against his chest, tears and spit staining the white fabric. He nods against your hair, taking deep breaths of the sweet smell of you. 

The room was still heavy with heat and haze, the air thick and sweet as your chest rose and fell beneath him. Jack’s weight was heavy, his long, wild hair a curtain around your flushed face, his hands still curled loosely at either side of your head, claws twitching with the remnants of adrenaline.

You were boneless beneath him, throat raw from panting, lips swollen from being kissed breathless. Every inch of you felt claimed—touched, tasted, adored in that chaotic, frenzied way only he could manage.

Jack licked his lips, then leaned down to nose against your neck, humming softly to himself, as though delighted by the sheen of sweat on your skin. “You were… so good,” he murmured, voice thick with pride and possessive warmth. “So warm. So soft. I didn’t know… I didn’t know anything could feel that good.”

You swallowed hard, heart still hammering in your chest as you tried to blink the daze from your eyes. His tongue flicked out, dragging slowly along your collarbone, tasting you again. “Jack—” you breathed, trying to lift your hand, but he caught it midair, pressing it to his chest like a treasure.

He slowly lifted his hips, pushing your legs open so he could ease out of you with the least amount of pain possible. It was useless, your hips still stuttered upwards when the head of him caught in your entrance, snagging a shrill cry from your lips that he immediately swallowed up.

His cum gushed out of you, thick globs of him pulling out of you and pooling onto the bedding below. You felt your whole body shiver, felt Jack’s eyes rove over every curve and surge of your body.

“You felt good,” he repeated, more urgently now, almost reverent. “Like magic. Like you were made for me. Were you?”

Your throat tightened. “I… don’t know.”

“You are now.” He leaned down again, licking along the swell of your breast before trailing down your ribs, slow and unhurried, as though savoring the salt of your skin. His voice was muffled, cheek pressed against your stomach. “Mine now. Can’t give you back. Won’t.”

You twitched when his tongue dipped a little lower, lazily tracing over the marks he’d left. His claws gently held your thighs open as he worked, less frenzied now—just curious, affectionate. Worshipful. He pressed the thick curve of his tongue through your folds, across your lips, careful not to let your hips jerk away from him. 

You squirmed under him, both flushed and too sensitive to bear it. “Jack—enough, please—”

He huffed, nuzzling your hip as if reluctant to stop. “But you taste like strawberries,” he whined. “And you let me, didn’t you? You let me do everything.”

“I was trying to help you understand,” you said, voice thin and shaky, though you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Trying to make sense of… whatever this is.”

Jack blinked, resting his chin on your belly, his eyes wide and unusually soft.

“I don’t want to make sense of it anymore,” he murmured. “I just want you.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I love you.”

You felt your throat choke up.

“I love you,” His tongue moved easily, cleaning your inner thighs, cleaning your cunt, careful not to hurt you when he pressed the muscle against your entrance and into your pitiful walls. “I love you, I love you,” he muffled against your center. You squealed, tears hot and heavy against your cheeks. But Jack held your thighs, swiped his thumbs over your skin in comfort, easy as he cleaned every curve and slope of your cunt. “Mm love you.”

When you felt lightheaded, when you didn’t know if you would be able to open your eyes every time you blinked—Jack finally let up, licking his maw, and planting one, gentle kiss against your spoiled clit.

His hands slid up, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you up against him again. You collapsed into his chest, exhausted and limp, your fingers curling into the soft, ruffled fabric of his shirt. Jack purred in his throat, the vibration sinking into your bones.

“I— hah—” you whispered. “I love you, Jack.”

Jack hissed quietly, pleased by the mention—but he didn’t stir you. He only curled tighter around you, his limbs tangling with yours like string and shadow, pressing soft, lazy kisses into your temple.

And as you lay there, sleep creeping in at the corners of your mind, you realized something terrifying: You didn’t feel scared anymore. You felt claimed.

── .✦

The first rays of sunrise spilled through the curtains in delicate streaks of gold, turning the bedroom air hazy and warm. You blinked groggily into the soft morning light, eyelids heavy, body sore in all the places that had been handled—held, touched, claimed.

But when you moved, it was with a jarring realization: Your clothes were back on. Neat. Clean. Smoothed over your skin as if nothing had happened at all.

The bedding beneath you was immaculate too—fluffed and freshly tucked like someone had come in during the night and changed the sheets around your sleeping body. There was no trace of feathers, no smudges of face paint, no claw marks in the mattress. No lingering shadow in the corners.

No Jack.

You sat up too fast. A bolt of dizziness slammed through you, your legs swinging over the side of the bed on instinct, your feet hitting the floor—only for your knees to buckle immediately, muscles trembling from the night before.

“Shit—!”

You pitched forward, panic flooding your chest, the carpet rushing up to meet you—

—but something caught you.

Sharp claws—long as branches, strong as iron. They snaked around your waist mid-fall and reeled you back up into the air like a ragdoll. You let out a yelp, twisting in surprise.

“Careful, sweetheart!” Jack’s voice cooed near your ear, syrupy with delight. “Can’t have you break yourself again so soon. I just put you back together.”

You looked up, heart hammering against your ribs. He held you easily in his arms, your feet dangling slightly above the floor as he giggled—a glittering grin splitting his face beneath that mess of black and white scruff. His long nose brushed your cheek affectionately, lips pressing a hot kiss there, and then another at your temple.

“You wore yourself out, silly thing. All that shaking and moaning and screaming my name—” he grinned wider, if that were possible, voice practically a purr. His eyes gleamed, lids heavy with smugness. “I’ve never seen such a generous girl before.”

You flushed furiously, pushing lightly at his chest. “Jack—shhh!”

But he only hummed, spinning you effortlessly in his arms like a toy ballerina before cradling you bridal-style once again. “Come on then,” he murmured. “Let’s go see our boy.”

With a gentle lurch, he carried you through the hall, humming a wilted lullaby that made the hairs on your arms stand up. And yet… you didn’t resist. You let your cheek rest against the soft feathered scruff of his collar, hands curled into the frilled edge of his sleeve.

The door to Oliver’s room creaked open on its own as Jack approached, and he stepped inside with a kind of reverence. You could feel the difference now—this wasn’t just a child’s bedroom. It was a sanctuary. A space Jack had claimed as sacred.

He placed you carefully on the edge of the bed, his clawed fingers brushing your cheek with startling tenderness.

You turned immediately to check on Oliver. The little boy stirred beneath his covers, his tiny fists rubbing at sleepy eyes. His hair was tousled, cheeks warm and pink from dreams, and when he saw you—his whole face lit up.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, beaming.

“I told you I would,” you said, smoothing his hair with a soft smile.

Oliver blinked up at you, voice quiet and dreamlike. “Jack says… he’s really happy now. He said he likes the way you smell when you’re sleepy. He said he wants you to stay forever.”

Your heart skipped. You turned over your shoulder—but the room was empty. No creak of footsteps, no swish of feathers, no glint of a manic smile from the corner. Just the soft hush of morning light, Oliver’s sleepy breathing, and the distant jingle of keys at the front door.

── .✦

It had been just over a week since that first night back—since the floodgates had opened. The days blurred together now in a soft, steady rhythm. Every evening, the sun dipped low over the Daltons’ quiet street, and you found yourself there, ringing the doorbell with your overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Mrs. Dalton had grown warmer, more relaxed around you. You understood her now, why she left so often, why her shoulders never quite fell from that constant state of tension.

The mornings were slower. You and Mrs. Dalton had even begun grabbing coffee at the little shop a block from the house before she left for work. She never asked questions, never made you explain the way your shirt sometimes looked hastily thrown on or how you wore the same dazed smile every morning. Maybe she didn’t want the details. Maybe she already knew with the way the energy around the house had completely shifted.

But tonight, something was different.

Oliver was already in his pajamas when you arrived, swinging his legs off the couch and grinning ear to ear.

“Guess what!” he chirped, bouncing up to meet you at the door. You smiled, setting the bag down and slipping off your shoes. “What’s up, bud?”

“I made a friend at school!” he announced proudly. “A real one! Her name is Ellie, and she has a pet lizard and everything.”

Your heart bloomed with warmth. It was the first time Oliver had mentioned a friend who wasn’t invisible or feathered or from some half-imagined memory. “That’s amazing, Ollie! I’m so proud of you.”

“We’re having a playdate tomorrow! Her mom and my mom set it up. She’s gonna come over after school.” He beamed up at you with all the brightness of someone who’d waited too long for something this simple. “You’ll be here, right?”

You nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Oliver hesitated then, tugging at the edge of his pajama top. Something in his expression changed—less excitement, more careful consideration.

“I think… I think I want you to keep Jack,” he said softly.

You blinked, crouching down to be eye-level with him. “What do you mean?”

“I think he likes you better,” Oliver said plainly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “He always tells me how pretty you are. How you smell like strawberries. And he’s really, really happy when you stay. He used to be sad all the time. But not anymore.”

A small, fluttering ache pressed against your ribs. “Ollie… Jack’s your friend.”

“He is,” Oliver said, with a tiny, knowing smile. “But now he’s yours too. So you gotta take care of him.” He wrapped his little arms around your neck then, tight and firm the way kids do when they want to say something big without using words.

You held him close, whispering, “I’ll take good care of him. Promise.”

Later that night, after brushing Oliver’s teeth and reading through the last pages of Where the Wild Things Are for the fourth time that week, you tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and switched off the light. The house was quiet when you padded into the living room, curling up on the couch with a blanket drawn over your legs. You waited, like you always did now—breath slow, heart expectant.

The air stirred. And then, gentle as a whisper, black claws slithered around your shoulders, a familiar heat blooming against your back.

Jack’s claws slipped around your shoulders with slow, deliberate weight, his touch always somewhere between possessive and reverent. You let him pull you back against the solid press of his chest, feeling the faint ruffle of feathers brush your cheek as his breath ghosted along your ear.

“You heard him, didn’t you?” you murmured quietly, not needing to look. “Oliver… he said I should take care of you now.”

Jack didn’t answer at first. Just held you a little tighter. His long legs coiled beside yours as he crouched on the back of the couch, half-lurking, half-nesting.

“I heard,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “But I’ll still watch over him. Always. Even if I’m… with you now.”

You tilted your head back to rest against his collar, smiling softly. “You’re not gonna sneak around in my closet, are you?”

Jack snorted, the sound bubbling out of him like a hiccupy laugh. “Your closet’s much bigger than Ollie’s. I’d have space to stretch out… but it smells like laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Not strawberries.”

You smacked his arm lightly, and he giggled, his limbs shifting around you like a jungle gym. “Maybe I like the closet,” he said dramatically. “But I think I’d rather sleep in your bed.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Oh, would you now?”

Jack leaned closer, feathered collar tickling your jaw as he pressed the side of his face to yours. “Mhm. I like it when you get all squishy and warm and sigh real soft. I like your hair.”

You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m yours,” he replied easily, chin now resting on your shoulder as his arms draped fully around your waist. “That’s what Ollie said. And I love being yours.”

A warm ache bloomed in your chest as he stepped over the back of the couch and sat next to you, pulling you into his lap like a ragdoll, curling himself around you like a giant predatory housecat. His weight settled, limbs folding over yours, as if making a cocoon.

The quiet stretched, and you leaned into him, no longer startled by his touch, by his presence—by what he was.

“You’re really staying with me?” you asked, voice hushed.

Jack made a low hum in his throat, his clawed fingers tracing idle shapes into the fabric of your sleeve. “Only if I get to sleep in your bed.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as your head rested against his chest, the rhythmic thrum of something not-quite-human but not entirely monstrous beating beneath your ear. Outside, the world was turning slowly toward morning. Inside, the couch creaked beneath two bodies tangled together, something real and strange and maybe a little bit of magic settling in.

Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

This was a request from @valinpariss!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[lunarkace]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ pro hero bakugo fucks his pr agent

tw: rough sex, office sex, uniform kink, unprotected sex, creampie (he’s bad at pulling out), semi-public, fingering, orgasm denial, canon timeskip katsuki (mid‑20s)

═══════════════════════

It’s your job.

Literally.

Keeping Dynamight from ruining his own career.

And if that wasn’t already hard enough, he makes it worse…by being exactly who the fuck he is.

“No." You hiss under your breath, heels clicking as you walk ahead of him toward the press room. “You can’t call the guy a dumbass on air. I don’t care if he was one.”

Katsuki scoffs behind you, unbothered. “He was. If he’d kept his fuckin’ head down like I told him, I wouldn’t’ve had to blast through a whole damn wall.”

You stop walking. Turn.

He nearly walks into you, catches himself just short, and glares down at you like you’re the problem.

“You’re on live TV in four minutes.” You say calmly, like you’re not seething. “Do not go in there and curse out the other pro. Don’t grunt. Don’t scowl. Don’t call anyone an extra.”

He tilts his head, unimpressed. “That’s half my fuckin’ vocabulary.”

“I know." You mutter, then force a bright, PR-trained smile and spin back around. “That’s what keeps me employed.”

And you walk away.

Heel. Toe. Clip. Click.

You know he’s staring. You always do. Especially when you're wearing tights.

——————

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The tension.

The bickering. The heat. The way you look at each other too long.

You’re his public relations rep, for fuck’s sake. You handle his sponsorships. His press coverage. His approval ratings.

You’re not supposed to want to kiss the way he spits out a swear word.

Not supposed to like the way he leans back in an office chair, thighs spread, chest still heaving after a patrol, sweat clinging to the collar of his suit.

Not supposed to stare.

But god. When he's in that black and orange hero suit? Hands braced on his thighs? Jaw clenched like he's still thinking about the fight?

You’re not blind.

And he notices.

The way your eyes drop to his chest. The slow blink you give him when he runs a hand through his hair.

The sigh you let out when he shrugs out of his gear.

He notices. And worse?

He smirks.

——————

“You need to stop saying ‘fuck’ in interviews." You mutter, eyes on your clipboard, not looking at him.

He’s standing behind you. Way too close.

“What the fuck else should I say?”

“NOT that.” You whirl around.

He leans in.

Close enough that your nose almost brushes his. Close enough to see the mild amusement behind the scowl on his face.

He likes this. He likes riling you up.

“You got a better suggestion?” He murmurs, voice low. “Wanna write me a script, princess?”

You hate when he calls you that.

You hate that it makes your stomach clench.

Your gaze drops - for half a second - to his mouth.

His gaze drops - for half a second - to the neckline of your blouse.

You’re close. Too close.

You step back.

“I’m sending you talking points for the next segment.” You say, sharp and professional.

But your voice comes out breathier than it should.

It happens again two days later.

You’re both backstage at a hero gala, arguing in low tones near the emergency exit. You’re wearing a dress that hugs your thighs. He’s in a suit he clearly hates.

“You’re not skipping the meet-and-greet.”

“Tch. Waste of time.”

“You promised the agency.”

He rolls his eyes. “I never fuckin’ promised-”

“Bakugo.” You grit, stepping into his space.

He steps right back into yours.

You’re chest to chest. Breath to breath.

You can feel the tension rolling off him. That storm-thick frustration, the itch in his jaw, the impatience humming just under his skin.

Your hands are clenched into fists at your sides.

His arms are folding, muscle flexing even under the expensive fabric.

Neither of you moves.

You can feel his eyes on your mouth.

“You’re real fuckin’ annoying." He mutters, like a reflex.

Your voice is steady. “You’re lucky I haven’t walked out yet.”

“Why don’t you?”

You blink.

And for a moment, the room feels too hot.

“Because you'd fall apart without me.”

It slips out before you can stop it.

And to your surprise - he laughs.

Low. Under his breath. A smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah?” He mutters. “You think you got me all figured out, huh?”

“No." You say. “But I know what happens when you don’t have someone to clean up your messes.”

You turn. Start to walk away.

But not before he mutters low just loud enough for you to hear.

“...Wouldn’t mind makin’ a mess outta you.”

You stop. You don’t turn. But your legs go weak for just a second.

You pretend they don’t.

——————

It’s a quiet evening.

Your phone buzzes with approval ratings. Even after that snarky remark to the press.

You’re in his office. He’s half-undressed, the tie from his suit he aggressively ripped off thrown over his chair.

“Did good tonight." You mutter, glancing at your tablet. “Only cursed twice.”

He’s watching you. From the chair. One leg spread wide, ankle crossed over the other.

“Did better than that." He says.

You glance up.

And he’s not smirking.

He’s watching you with that look - the one that makes your pulse skip. The one that feels like he’s undressing you with his eyes.

Your throat tightens. You clear it.

“You’ll still need to do the morning interview." You say softly. “Public’s loving the new outreach campaign.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

You try to look back at the screen.

But he leans forward in the chair. Arms braced over his thighs.

“Y’know I’m not stupid, right?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I know what you’re doin’. Walkin’ away every time I get close. Pretendin’ you’re not into it.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

“I’m not-”

“Yeah, you are.”

His voice is low. Certain. Unapologetic. And it hits something in your chest that makes your heart beat louder.

You don’t move.

Just stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his gaze slides over your legs. The way he looks like he’s holding himself back.

“You’re my client." You whisper.

“So?” He mutters.

You swallow. And you don’t say anything else.

Because he’s not wrong.

Not really.

You clear your throat.

The air feels too thick.

“I’ll… see you tomorrow, Bakugo.”

It’s the most professional thing you can manage.

You grab your tablet. Keep your expression neutral even though your pulse is a hammer in your throat.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you leave, jaw tight, that unreadable look in his eyes that sits somewhere between challenge and want.

——————

The next few days, you pretend everything’s normal.

You sit in meetings. Draft press statements. Edit highlight reels from his latest rescue operation.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That the heat in your stomach every time he says your name is nothing but stress.

But then night comes. And it’s just you, your couch, your laptop, and the soft blue glow of the TV screen.

Katsuki is on the news again. Hair still damp from the fight, arms crossed while he answers questions. You watch the way his throat flexes when he swallows, the way his forearms tighten under the black fabric of his uniform.

The way he doesn’t smile. Not even when they praise him. He just nods once. Lowers his eyes. Grunts something short.

And god, you shouldn’t. But you imagine what it would be like to shut him up with your mouth. To grab that stupid collar of his uniform and drag him down until his words die between your lips.

You press your thighs together. Turn the TV off.

——————

Three nights later, you’re packing up to go home.

The sun’s already down, the office nearly empty. You’re standing at your desk, tugging on your coat, considering the text from your friends:

Come out. Drinks?

You hover over your phone. Wonder if maybe getting drunk would drown out this thing that’s been sitting in your chest all week.

And then you hear it.

Heavy boots.

The door clicks open.

He walks in still in uniform - black and orange gear streaked with dirt, the faint smell of smoke clinging to him.

“Bakugo.” You straighten up. “Come to bother me for the last few minutes of my work day?”

“Was in the area.” His voice is rough, casual. “Figured I’d stop by.”

You raise a brow. “To do what? Critique my reports?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans against the doorframe, eyes dragging over you - slow, deliberate.

“What’re you doin’ tonight?” He asks finally.

Your heart stutters. “Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just askin’.”

“You don’t need to know everything I do after hours.”

“Tch. The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you say evenly, grabbing your bag, “I have a life outside babysitting your public image.”

He snorts. “Babysittin’, huh?”

You glance up - he’s smirking, sharp and cocky. The kind of smirk that crawls under your skin.

“Yeah." You snap. “Babysitting. Because you can’t go a single day without me cleaning up your-”

“You goin’ out with someone?”

The question hits like a slap.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask if it was." He growls. “I asked who.”

You step closer, glaring up at him. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

And for a second, neither of you moves.

Just shallow breaths.

The sound of the clock on the wall ticking too loud.

Then -

Bang.

He slams the door shut behind him, hard enough to make the glass rattle.

Your stomach drops.

“Bakugo-”

But he’s already crossing the room.

You back up instinctively - until the edge of your desk hits the backs of your thighs.

He doesn’t stop. He grabs your jaw, fingers firm but not cruel, and crashes his mouth against yours.

It’s rough. Unapologetic. Teeth. Tongue. Breath.

You shove at his chest once - not to stop him, but to feel how solid it is - and then you’re pulling him back in by his collar.

The sound that leaves him is somewhere between a growl and a sigh.

He kisses you harder. Deeper. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first breath after weeks underwater.

You grab a fistful of his uniform. He grips your hips and lifts you - strong enough that your breath catches as you’re set on the desk, papers scattering, his body slotting between your legs.

He’s still kissing you - the kind that leaves your lips raw and your lungs aching. You can taste him. Smoke, salt, adrenaline.

You drag your nails down his neck and feel him shudder.

He breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breath harsh.

“You done tellin’ me it’s not my business?” He mutters.

You tilt your chin up, meeting his eyes.

“Maybe." You whisper. “If you keep your mouth busy.”

And he does.

He grabs your hips, pulls you closer, and kisses you again - deeper this time, slower, tongue sliding against yours like he’s learning you one breath at a time.

The kind of kiss that feels like it’s been waiting months to happen.

You should shove him back, get your shit together, tell him this is a massive breach of every ethical boundary in your job description…

But instead, your fingers are tugging at the buckle on his duty belt, hands shaking with the effort.

Bakugo’s mouth is hot against yours and he groans when he feels you pull the strap free.

“Fuckin’ god, finally." He pants, helping you get it off. It drops to the floor with a loud, metallic clunk, utility clips rattling on impact.

You don’t even look at it. Too focused on the way he’s already dragging your blazer off your shoulders, his gloved fingers fumbling at the buttons of your blouse.

“You wear too many fuckin’ layers." He mutters against your mouth.

You huff a breath into his. “You’re the one in a Kevlar corset.”

He smirks - barely - lips brushing yours like he’s laughing. “‘S tactical.”

You roll your eyes.

Another kiss - rough and open-mouthed - and his fingers finally get one of the buttons undone. Then another.

You gasp when he brushes the fabric aside, his palm warm over the skin of your ribs.

Your own hands are already under his uniform compression shirt, fingertips gliding over the edge of his abs, the heat of his body soaking through the suit.

And then -

“Fuck.” He curses softly, tugging at your tights. “How the hell do these things come off…”

“You’re a pro hero.” You breathe, lifting your hips. “Figure it out.”

Your tights are halfway down your legs, bunched at your knees, when he leans back with a groan.

“Fuck this." He mutters. “I don’t have the patience.”

He fists your skirt and shoves it up around your hips instead, bunching the fabric at your waist in one quick, rough pull.

You exhale a sharp breath, blinking down at him. “Seriously?”

“I’m busy." He grits, voice low, eyes flicking to the dark panel of your panties. “Unless you want me to waste time getting it off right.”

You snort, breathless. “God forbid you use any finesse.”

Katsuki smirks -- that fucking smirk - and leans forward, crowding your body until you’re flat on your elbows, back arching, skirt hiked up, legs spread wide on the edge of your own desk.

“Finesse." He echoes, almost teasing. “You want finesse, princess?”

His fingers hook the waistband of your panties, tugging them all the way down, pocketing them easily.

And then you feel him. Two fingers, thick and callused, sliding through your folds - slow, firm pressure dragging over slick heat.

Your head falls back with a soft, involuntary gasp.

Katsuki leans in at the same time. Mouth catching the underside of your jaw. Kissing slow, possessive, hungry.

“Not so smug now, huh.” He murmurs against your skin, dragging his mouth down the side of your throat, biting softly at the hinge of your jaw.

You open your mouth to fire something back, but he curls his fingers, just right. Your breath catches. Your thighs twitch.

“Fuck.”

He grins again and kisses lower, under your chin, tongue flicking slow just beneath your ear.

You feel him breathe you in, that little grunt in the back of his throat when he realizes how wet you already are.

“All this for me, huh?” He mutters. “Just from makin’ you mad?”

Your hand fists in the collar of his uniform, yanking him back up to your mouth.

“Shut up." You whisper, voice wrecked. “You talk too much.”

“Thought you liked my mouth.”

You kiss him hard before you can answer - open, messy, his fingers still working between your thighs.

It’s hot. Deep. Desperate.

“You should’ve said somethin’ sooner." He rasps, dragging his thumb slow over your clit. “Fuckin’ coulda been doin’ this for months.”

Your answer is another moan. Sharp, breathy, hips grinding down like you’re chasing the friction, fast and sloppy.

And all he does is smile. That same cocky little grin against your mouth as he curls his fingers deeper, wrist flexing just right.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “There she is.”

You can barely think.

He drags his fingers slow through your slick. Rubbing tight, cruel little circles on your clit, just enough to make your thighs twitch, just enough to make your stomach coil, just enough to make you almost come then backing off.

Again.

You grit your teeth. “Bakugo.”

He grins against your throat, not even trying to hide it. “Yeah?”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“You’re cute when you’re pissed.” He mutters, kissing under your ear.

You slap a hand down on the desk behind you, lifting yourself up on one elbow, staring him down.

He's still in his hero uniform. Boots planted between your spread thighs.

And fuck, you hate how hot it is.

His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, arms flexing every time he moves. You can see the curve of his biceps, the thick straps tight across his chest, the way his utility vest rises and falls with his breath.

You can smell sweat. Smoke. Him.

It’s all too much.

You’re wet, aching, toes curling in your heels. And he’s standing there acting like he’s got all the time in the world.

Your voice drops. “Stop fucking around.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Yeah?” He mutters. “You want it that bad?”

You stare him down. “You know I do.”

He breathes out a rough laugh. Then…

He licks his fingers.

Slow. Deliberate. Eyes on yours.

Your stomach flips.

Then he reaches for his belt, yanks his zipper down…

And your mouth parts before you can stop it.

Oh.

Oh.

You weren’t ready.

He’s thick, flushed, already leaking. You blink once, caught completely off-guard - and he sees it.

He smirks. “You gonna sit there with your mouth open or you want me to fill it later?”

You blink hard. “You’re such a…”

But you don’t finish, because he’s already grabbing your hips, dragging you forward across the desk like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, hands bracing behind you, legs spread wide -

He’s in. One hard, deep thrust.

He pushes all the way in, slow enough to feel every inch, but fast enough to make your back arch and a full, helpless moan spill out of your mouth.

“Fuuuck -”

His hips grind against yours, breath caught, head falling forward onto your shoulder as he groans just as loud.

“Holy shit - baby…”

You both freeze at the sound - loud, echoing off the office walls - and then, like instinct, you grab the front of his uniform and pull him down, slamming your mouth into his.

The kiss is messy, all lips and teeth and open gasps.

You moan into him. He groans into you.

His cock pulses deep inside, the stretch insane, thick enough that you feel it everywhere.

You’re clenching without meaning to. He swears again. Low, guttural, and thrusts shallow, just once, like he can’t help it.

His mouth breaks from yours, panting.

“Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt." He breathes, voice wrecked.

"Harder." You demand.

And yeah. He fucks you like it’s all he’s been thinking about.

Just deep, hard thrusts, slamming into you with all that strength he tries so fucking hard to hide during press events.

Your hips knock against the desk with every push, the wood creaking underneath you. Papers scattered, pens long gone.

He grunts with every movement, his jaw tight, eyes locked on your face like he wants to see every second of it.

“God. Fuck.” He pants. “So fuckin’ good. So fuckin’ tight."

You claw at his arms, nails dragging over fabric and skin. "You gonna narrate the whole thing?"”

He grabs your thighs, hoisting you higher on the desk, getting a better angle before slamming in again.

You moan, loud, eyes fluttering shut.

It’s almost filthy. The contrast. How professional you look half-undressed. Blouse unbuttoned, bra still on. While he’s slamming into you like it’s the only thing that’ll quiet his head.

He palms at your chest, squeezing. “Been thinkin’ about these fuckin’ tits since the first week I met you." He mutters, mouth brushing your collarbone, tongue flicking the sweat pooling there.

You roll your eyes, breathless. “Charming.”

“Shut up." He pants. “You know I have.”

His hands fumble at your back, cursing low when he can’t get the clasp - until it finally snaps free.

Your bra slides off your shoulders.

He doesn’t hesitate. Mouth drops to your chest, teeth grazing the swell of your breast, tongue licking a hot stripe over your nipple.

You cry out, legs locking around him, and he fucks into you harder, rutting deep and fast and rough.

You suck in a breath when he bites down - not hard, just enough to make you twitch. He soothes it with his tongue immediately after, lips wrapping around your nipple, groaning into your skin like he’s fucking starved.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging hard. His mouth is everywhere. Your throat, your chest, your jaw - sucking, biting, kissing, dragging his tongue over every inch of skin he can reach.

The sound of skin slapping fills the office. Your moans. His grunts. His voice muttering low filth into your neck.

“Been wantin’ this since the first time you yelled at me." He admits, nipping your ear. “Every fuckin’ meeting. Every press run. You’d stand there all smug in your little heels…”

And he can’t stop touching you. Even with his cock buried deep, slamming into you like he wants to carve himself into your body.

He can’t stop.

One hand claws at your waist, gripping your skirt like it offended him. The other’s everywhere. Cupping your tits, dragging down your sides, spreading over your stomach like he’s trying to memorize you by feel alone.

“So beautiful.” He grits, voice cracking on the words.

He palms your breast again, rougher this time, thumb brushing your nipple as he leans down to take it into his mouth for the third time, sucking so hard your hips jolt.

You moan - loud, unfiltered - one hand braced behind you on the desk, the other buried in his damp hair.

He groans against your skin, tongue flicking fast, teeth grazing, biting before he kisses the sting better again.

You suck in a breath when he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“This what you wanted?” He pants. “Shit - this what you been thinkin’ about when you stare at me in that fuckin’ pencil skirt?”

You roll your hips up into him, gasping. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He repeats.

Then he grabs your tits in both hands and fucks you deeper.

Harder.

It punches a cry out of your throat.

“Say it.” His voice is all gravel. “Say you’ve been thinkin’ about this.”

“Fuck…yes.”

“Say you wanted me.”

“I wanted you." You cry out. “God, I - fuck, Bakugo.”

He kisses you again - filthy, wet, lips dragging against yours with no aim but contact, connection, pressure. Tongue curling into your mouth like he owns it.

It’s insane.

It’s so wrong.

It’s your office.

But you don’t care. Not even a little.

Not when his teeth are back at your collarbone, sucking hard. Not when his hand slides down between your bodies to rub your clit in hard, perfect circles.

Not when he groans low into your ear, voice wrecked and possessive…

“You’re mine now. You know that, right?”

You can’t speak. Just nod.

You’re right there. So fucking close it’s unbearable.

Your legs are shaking around his waist, skirt bunched, tits bouncing with every thrust. One heel’s still on. The other is god knows where.

And Katsuki is pounding into you like he’s possessed. Jaw tight, sweat running down his neck, grunting through clenched teeth.

“You feel so fuckin’ good…tight little pussy….so fuckin’ wet for me….”

You’re panting so hard your voice breaks. And then you say it.

You whine it.

“Katsuki…”

His whole body jerks like you punched him.

“Say it again." He rasps.

You do. You’re not even thinking anymore, just crying out through gritted teeth, eyes shut, hand clawing at his bicep:

“Katsuki - Katsuki….fuck….don't stop…"

He loses it. His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, thrusts deeper and rougher like he wants to fuck his name right back into you.

You moan it again, higher, more broken - and he grabs your thighs tighter, slamming into you so hard the desk rocks with it.

“C'mon baby…” He pants. “Keep sayin’ it. Fuckin’ love the way you say my name…”

You’re right on the edge. And it snaps. White-hot and sharp, coiling tight, then ripping through you like a wave that hits too fast, too strong—

“Katsuki!” You cry out one last time, voice cracked, body clenching hard around him as your orgasm slams into you, long and blinding and overwhelming.

You sob into his mouth, back arching, thighs locking around him like you’re trying to take him deeper.

“Shit…fuck…” He gasps, head dropping to your shoulder, and suddenly he freezes.

“Wait, ah…fuck.”

But it’s too late.

He pulls out right at the edge, cock twitching as he spills hot and messy against your thigh, the edge of your skirt.

"Didn’t pull out fast enough…damn it." He swears again, breath shaking, watching it drip.

Neither of you move.

You’re panting, chest heaving, bra discarded, his release leaking down your leg. Katsuki is standing between your thighs with his pants halfway down, still in full pro hero gear, eyes locked on you like he’s never seen anything better in his life.

And the room is hot. Sticky. Silent - except for your breath and your thighs still trembling open around him.

You lick your lips. Shaky.

“That was…”

Your voice breaks. You clear it.

“…so fucking stupid.”

He grins. Hair in his eyes. Still flushed, still panting.

“Yeah.”

And then - without even blinking - his hand slides back down to your ass, fingers massaging rough and slow, squeezing the soft curve of it.

His voice is hoarse.

“Now let’s do it again.”

… i have bakugo katsuki brainrot rn sorry guys xxx

[sugarwarachan]

bakugou: “You’re mine now. You know that, right?”

me:

[eepyvivi]

[tuquidflamingo]

Finishing old work 👀 I like this one a lot 😚🦩 Hope you like it too ❤️🦩❤️