Sink Your Teeth In Me — proxies x reader [masterlist]
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
summary: You were born a hungry creature, tainted and unnatural, yearning for a bite. Your father made you to be beautiful, the perfect angel — a gift to God. But you've defied your purpose from the start. Running from divinity, from perfection. Letting sin corrupt your appetite. Now you roam the forest, cold and free. Not any longer lonely. Will they teach you how to feel human again?
A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
total wc: 38.1k
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
contains: agender, inhuman, cannibal! reader; character death, animal death, violence & cannibalism, religious cults & imagery, slow burn, angst, enemies to friends to lovers
a/n: i posted this on ao3 a while ago and decided to also post it here so uhhh yah ( ˙༥˙ ) forgive the long ass summary oops
Introduction (chap. 1)
Entry #1 (chap. 2)
Entry #2 (etc.)
Entry #3
Entry #4
Entry #5
...
Entry #6
Entry #7
𑁍ࠬܓ
(i realize now that i titled the chapters rly confusing bcs i was trying to make a marble hornets reference. i may be stupid. apologies.)
summary: A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
wc: 5.3k
tw: dog death im sorry( ᴗ_ᴗ̩̩ )
masterlist, ao3
The world is dark when you wake up again.
Sky cleared of fog and snow, the moon bright and beautiful above your reeling head. Gracing you with her radiant luminosity.
Your eyelids feel heavy, exhausted. Drooping as your barely conscious mind comes to. Body stiff and weighing you down like you just ran a mile.
It feels like you did. Everything hurts.
A thin layer of white coats your form. Dark clothes blending in with the snow around you as you slowly push yourself up on your hands. They ache when you do. Shooting a hot sting up your arms.
A groan when you're sat up. You're dizzy.
You're in the middle of that field still. Without all the mist it feels a lot less intimidating — a lot less constricting.
Blood is crusted under your nose and on your palms. Your skull is throbbing with a headache. Pounding right under your eyes and temple.
You need a break.
Leaning back on your hands, you tilt your head up and take a minute to just breathe.
Your eyes slowly blink open to gaze at the sky. The stars are out — many of them. Littered all over the midnight blue as if splattered ink. How mesmerizing.
The north star sits right at the edge of the little dipper. Finding it is like second nature with how often you've looked for it. It glows so bright, yet not the brightest.
The special thing about this star is that it aligns almost perfectly with the earth's north pole. It's really your only tool of navigation out here. Helps you figure out where you are. Where to go.
It also shows you just how far from home you are.
That's fine. Fresh start. Fresh starts are good, you repeat to yourself.
After another minute of just letting your body sit and calm itself, you push to your feet. Unsteady.
The necklace dangles with the movement. You completely forgot about it's existence until your instincts used it for protection hours ago.
You tuck it back beneath your clothes. Ready to forget again. Fixing the hood of your poncho as well.
Your legs and arms are sore. Your back too from laying uncomfortably for hours. Your head is pounding — that familiar ringing far too quiet in the back of your head.
You just want to lay back down and forget the world exists.
But that's what someone weak would do. Someone soft and pathetic, who'd rather let death take them than get up and fight. You are not that person. You will move.
So you do. Your steps are shaky, unstable as you make your way to the other side of the treeline, up the small hill.
Your breath held as you step between the wood, eyes wide, refusing to blink for now.
The rustling from the nocturnal animals keeps you on edge as they move about from time to time. Your eyes flicker around, scanning every crack between the trees. You're making sure to keep your footsteps light and barely audible. One hand gliding across the bark, ready to pull yourself up into hiding the second it's needed. Your ears sharp.
As you walk, you begin to think about what kind of new home could be useful.
You don't need anything fancy. A simple cabin with a bed and a working roof would be more than enough for you — last time you had to use buckets to collect raindrops. Something well-hidden but not all too deep in the woods so you can find new victims without having to travel too far.
And a river nearby is a necessity — abandoned cabins rarely still have functional water or electricity. You need something to wash yourself or your clothes in. Or to clean a body in if you've dragged it through the mud.
Your mouth is dry. You should have drank water when you had the chance at the watchtower — you're so thirsty.
You need to find a water source, you think. It might be good to wash your hair as well. It's a mess.
Water flows down — you'll have to go downhill if you want to find any.
The occasional leaves rustling from the bushes keeps you hyper aware of your surroundings. Still unnerved and on edge about getting found again.
You wonder why He hasn't lead them to you yet. You stayed unconscious in the open snow for hours. Weak and perfectly breakable. You wouldn't have been able to fight back at all, especially outnumbered.
But perhaps He has limits too. Appearing so close to you and using all His powers to try and control you must have taken quite a toll. You'd like to think you're safe for now.
Over the next hour, the moon moves across the sky. Climbing higher and higher, shining between the trees and reflecting off the sparkling ground in a delicate blue as you wander.
Pushing through the thick leaves of a few bushes, you're met with a beautiful view. You're at the top of a mountain, looking down at the many pine trees leading downwards. Only few open spaces scatter between. The stars are even brighter out here — the moon full and visible in all her glory.
There are mountains in the back, the high tips hidden by blueish gray clouds. It's all painted in a thin sheet of white. The dark pine trees, the solid stone of the highland, the grass.
It's warmer than it used to be. The snow, although still there, has begun to melt — revealing all the dirt and dead leaves left over from autumn. A few mushrooms are poking out between fallen logs.
As you begin making your way down the hill, you bite your lip as your thumb gets caught on one of the low hanging branches. You've mostly been ignoring the pain of the broken bone but it still hurts a lot. The stab wound in your stomach as well.
They've both been healing pretty good though. All the cuts across your arms and torso already closed, the gunshot in your upper arm long since scarred over. Yet the hole in your ear stays the same — the skin around it closed but the cartilage still missing. Making you look even more like a beast.
You're fine with that. It's what you've always wanted. To be viewed as unholy. Vile. To be feared enough that no one dares to put their filthy hands on you as if they have the right.
As the night goes on, you spend your time collecting nuts and picking mushrooms. Figuring out which ones are safe to snack on and keeping the leftovers in the pockets of your pants as you sharpen your ears in hopes of hearing the sounds of a stream. Or in case you're not alone in here.
You don't find one. Instead, as you tread down the forest hill, you see an asphalt road cutting through the dirt, closely surrounded by the tall pine trees. It curves around a sharp corner and leads downward through the uneven terrain.
You don't have a choice but to cross it if you want to continue down to find water. Twice because of the curve. You stay low to the ground as you make your way towards it, careful not to slip and tumble.
With wary steps you reach the even ground. Making sure to look both ways before you begin to cross it.
You don't know why you always do this the rare times you come across a road, it was never taught to you before. But like many other of your untaught habits, you don't question it further. Having accepted that you sometimes do certain things out of instinct as if your body's learned them in another life.
The asphalt feels almost soft to your bare feet. So used to the rough and spiky land of the woods, you can't help but slow down to appreciate the feeling.
You cross the road cautiously, then begin towards the next one.
Finding a road is a good thing. Roads mean civilization, people — and people need water. Which means there's often rivers or ponds somewhere nearby. You're on a good path.
A bird rustles the branches of a tree as it suddenly flies off. The sound startles you out of your thoughts.
You're halfway across the road when you hear something else. Distant tires getting louder and louder as they move down. You spin around, heart rate speeding up within seconds as your nerves tingle.
There, above you on the top of the road, are headlights slowly approaching.
You freeze. But only for a moment. In the next, you're already off the road and hidden behind a close by bush, low to the ground.
You peer between the thick leaves as the dark gray, almost black pickup truck passes by with a loud hum of the engine. It drove too fast for you to get a proper look inside but something in your stomach twists, sends your breath hitching.
Because who else could it be but them? Like static, the anxiety creeps up your bones, spreading goosebumps along your skin as you watch the car leave. Who else would be out here at this hour of the night but them?
You close your eyes, breathe through your nose.
It's fine. Just avoid the road. Everything is fine — they did not see you. If they did, the car would have stopped and someone would have gotten out. It's gone. And you're fine.
You don't waste more time sitting behind shrubs and worrying. You calm your racing heart and instead leave again. Down the hill — making sure to avoid the direction of the road.
A gentle gust of wind rustles the fur of your hood. It's the only noise in this quiet night — all the animals asleep, the nocturnal ones now hiding or stalking in silence.
You and the slowly descending moon are all alone as the night goes on. Keeping each other company by simply existing together as one. Both children of the earth. Both with no one else to spend your time with.
Yesterdays feelings begin bubbling back up.
You've never made a real friend before. The only relationships you've ever had ended either in mutual hate or with half the person turned to mush in your digestive tract.
You don't mind it most of the time. Completely fine with how you're living as long as you get to chase after your desire. Which is eating people.
But it's moments like these where you can't help but dream about if things were different. If you were born a normal person.
What would you have made of yourself if you hadn't been damned to live as a monster?
The weight of the handcuffs hanging from your wrist reminds you that you're still not entirely free. That the fight isn't over just yet.
The sound of flowing water pulls you out of your melancholy.
At last. You're suddenly too aware of how dry your mouth feels, you had no idea how much you needed this.
You stop to listen for the direction before hurrying towards it.
A small stream flowing down between some rocks. A breathless grin finds your face as you follow it's path — leading to a larger river, finally reaching the bottom of the mountain.
You fall to your knees beside it. The steel cuffs clink against the wet stone as you cup your sore hands together to collect the cold, icy liquid and bring it to your thirsty lips. Drinking it down in greedy gulps. Then again and again.
When you're satisfied, you take the nuts and mushrooms from your pocket and wash them clean, then throw some in your mouth to eat.
They taste much better when there's no dirt clinging onto them, you think.
The winter sun begins to slowly rise from her long slumber. Soft amber shining through the trees and getting brighter the more you let time pass as you sit in peace.
You say goodbye to the moon for now as she makes her way to the horizon. She's done her part in keeping you safe overnight and you've done yours by keeping her quiet company.
One last time you dip your hands in the water and wipe them clean before standing to your feet.
You don't know what exactly to do now except follow the rivers course again. So you do.
The sound of rushing water feels almost calming as you walk on wet stone alongside it. Every few seconds the lively drops of cold splash against your feet.
Then, a voice in the distance. Two of them — men talking.
You freeze.
Then, something worse. A bark.
That single sound opens a dam of memories suddenly flooding in.
Hunting dogs, three of them. Barking, snarling, chasing after you in the wet woods, free of the leash. Your breathing erratic as you clawed through the forest to get away — rain and thunder loud in your ears.
You can't move a muscle as you stand frozen in fear. Wide eyes behind the mask staring straight at where the sounds came from. You can't even think of anything but how—
You would have been faster, would have been stronger if it wasn't for the bullet lodged in your abdomen making you feel like you're crumbling in on yourself. The pain was too much. But the dogs were louder. They're right behind you, don't slow down.
More barking. One of the men shouts something about a lead. You need to move. With careful steps backwards, you creep through the river, the freezing water soaking the bottom of your pants, weighing you down before your feet become frantic. You turn and run.
They caught up quick. Tearing at your skin and gown, jumping up to get a grip on the flesh of your arms. Pulling you down to dig their filthy teeth in until they hit the bone.
You're across the river before you know it, heartbeat wild and pounding beneath your skin. Your head ringing. Every noise drowned out by the sheer terror coursing through your veins as your heels hit the dirt.
Your arms shielded your head as you laid in the mud. They didn't stop their biting. Yanking. It was all too much, you were defenseless.
The men are yelling commands — the dogs loud as they pursue your scent. You can't focus. You can't breathe.
You don't remember exactly how it ended. Just that you came out bruised and mangled, having to hold your own flesh together to keep your body from falling apart.
You can't let it happen again.
Your legs carry you faster than your body can keep up with. Hurried. Frantic. The sounds of paws digging into dirt as they chase behind you almost too similar to that night.
But they haven't caught up with you yet. The only thing they have is your scent, they haven't seen you. You can't slow down. Can't get caught again.
A frenzied turn of your head to look back is all it takes.
Your foot catching on a root, a gasp ripping from your throat as it sends you down — your knee smashing into a rock.
POP!
White hot pain shoots through your leg. Through your wrist as you land on it. A strangled sound as you lay there. Tears building, eyes squeezing shut. You can't move. Your body curling in on itself.
The pain is immobilizing. But the barking is getting louder — you can't just lay here. You need to get up!
Your nerves are tingling, knee pulsing. You use what little strength wasn't ripped from you to crawl to the nearest pine tree and pull yourself up. Pushing through the sting in your wrist you use your claws to climb into a thick branch. Trying to hold in your whimpers when your knee bends even the slightest.
The pressure in your leg is searing. You don't have a choice but to keep it straight — set it on a lower branch. You're shaking. You sink your teeth in your bottom lip to keep quiet. Tears are falling.
The dogs catch up — growling as they keep their heads low to sniff through the dirt and snow. Tugging at the close kept leash.
One of your hands is holding onto the tree for dear life. Digging your nails as deep as they go because if you don't, you might just tumble off with how the world is spinning. Your other, broken hand is held tightly over your mouth as you stare down at them with blurry eyes — blinking until your vision somewhat clears.
"Good girl, Piper. Find it!" One of the men shouts to the large dog. His voice raspy and deep.
A familiar hunting hat covers his head with a bird's feather attached to it.
He's one of them— of course he's one of them. Those huntsman have been out to get you ever since you escaped. It's been so long since you've run into them again, you thought you lost them for good.
He's sporting a thick winter jacket with a shotgun slung over one shoulder. Something about the way he carries himself tells you he's experienced. Or maybe it's the graying beard.
He's following his dog closely as it leads him just below the tree you're sitting on before moving on to check elsewhere.
"You sure this is a good idea?" A younger voice calls from behind him. Nervous. "I mean— do you really think he was killed by that thing?"
He's dressed similar but without a hat to cover his short blond hair. A pair of glasses sit high on his nose that he keeps adjusting. The shotgun on his back as well.
He's clearly new to all this. Body frail and looking like he'll fall over if the dog yanks too hard.
"What else would leave a mess like that, boy?" The older man shouts. "It turned him to a pile of slop! And unless you want that to be how you end, I suggest you'll quit complaining' every second!"
That shut him up. With a sigh, he follows his dog as it leads him ahead, further away from you.
But you can barely focus on what's going on below you anymore — the pain in your knee is too much. Your head is ringing.
"We haven't gotten a new lead in ages. We have to be close."
The older man takes the shotgun off his back with one hand and clicks the safety off as he looks around. The dog tugging on the leash as it circles back to your tree.
Come on, just leave already, you think with a wince you couldn't hide.
"What did you find, girl?"
A few droplets of water drop from your still-soaking pants. Right next to the man.
It's over. Any second he'll look up and find you. You have to do something, you don't have a choice but to—
You drop down without another thought. Using his body to half-cushion your fall. You both land with a loud grunt as you push him to the ground and slit his throat deep with a beautiful, wet tear of skin.
The dog lunges at you with a yell but you saw it coming — stretch your arm out to cover your vitals as its teeth sink through the thick fabric of your poncho and into your skin.
"Sir?" The other one calls out before he's cut off with a gasp as he sees you throw the animal off your arm with a yell and grab the shotgun from the dying man's arms.
You stand, unsteady, to your feet — using the tree beside you to help you up and keep your leg straight because if you even so much as move it in the slightest, you think you might pass out. You aim the gun.
The dog gets back up, pounces with it's maw wide open and you pull the trigger.
BANG!
The gun jerks hard against your shoulder and hands. Your wrist burns with the sudden jolt. You cry out — but the world is silenced by the deafening ringing.
Not even a wince as it drops to the ground, right before your feet. You can't hear anything.
Yet you still spin around and point the gun in the nervous man's general direction. Keeping your head tilted low so he can't see your grimace behind the skull.
He's holding the dog back like his life depends on it. He looks petrified. His mouth is moving, he's shouting something but your head is filled with that intense, excruciating ringing. The cutting pain in your knee almost nauseating as you try not to show your weakness.
He tugs the leash as he tries to step backwards, away from you — and you let him. He looks like the type who couldn't fight if he wanted to and you don't think you can shoot the gun again— everything hurts far too much.
He's gone before you know it. Yanking the barking dog with him to disappear between the bushes.
You drop the act instantly and cry out — the world still soundless by the shrill ringing as you drop the gun and lean back against the tree.
Eyes squeezing shut as you reach out to feel the damage on your leg. Your kneecap is entirely dislocated. Even the simplest touch makes you want to scream out in agony.
You have to pop it back into place or else you'll be completely immobilized. You can't walk like this, you think as you drop down to a sitting position. Two dead bodies still in front of you.
How could you have been so stupid. Letting panic take over your mind — making you get hurt in a place you're supposed to know like the back of your hand.
You're just stalling now. Choosing to self-deprecate instead of getting it over with. Enough of that.
You roll up your pants and take a deep breath as you assess the wound.
A visible lump sticks out at the side of the joint. It's already begun bruising all sorts of colors. You're getting nauseous even looking at it.
Just pop it back into place — it's fine. It can't be that hard, right?
Your trembling fingers twitch towards it, your breathing heavy. You just have to be quick.
Without wasting another second, you squeeze your eyes shut and grab the bone before pushing it back to where you think it belongs and crying out. It feels like a cutting knife was shoved through your tendons with how it burns.
The next few minutes are spent with tears stinging your eyes and you breathing through it all. Slowly, sound comes back to you. Your quick heartbeat, your whining breaths.
Shakily, you push yourself up again. You can't stay here.
A limping, tentative step backwards as you take your leave opposite of where the young man ran off to. Eyes still wary and focused on where he left just in case he'll come back.
You're so dizzy. So out of it, you don't realize someone else was watching you the entire time. Not until you bump right into his chest as you're about to turn around.
A gasp as you spin to face him. Tim.
Your claws extend and you're about to try and stab him but he doesn't give you any time to. He seizes your wrist before his fist finds the space below your ribs. You stumble back with a choked sound and he pushes you to the ground — following to pin you down.
"Remember me?" He spits out cruelly. "Thought it'd be you out here causing another scene. Good to know I was right."
A cough rips from your lungs because of his hit to the diaphragm. Quick, raspy breaths as you try to kick and squirm in his grip. He's practically sitting on your stomach — using his entire weight to keep you down.
"Yeah, you're not getting out of this one."
Any other time his confidence would've made you want to prove him wrong like it's the last thing you'll do, but right now you can't focus on anything.
His eyes are narrow, glaring down at you through that wretched mask. Your attempts at clawing him open prove useless as he takes both of your hands into one of his own and pins them down above your head.
"How many times are we gonna have to do this?" He digs his thick fingers into old wounds on purpose and you sink your nails into his hand as far as you can reach. He ignores your attempts at hurting him and leans down close.
"Because I don't mind beating your ass over and over again, until you come to your senses and realize that you're stuck with us for good."
The cigarette stench curls in your nose and you turn your face away from his with still-wheezing breaths.
"You s-say that like you're not the one with five stab wounds in your gut." The words scrape out. Your throat feeling raw as you eye him from the side. "Wonder where that came from."
A twitch in his eyebrow. That hit the spot, you think with a small smirk.
But that satisfaction doesn't stay long as his hand reaches for your throat and squeezes hard.
"You wanna repeat that?"
You'd love to. But instead of words, a choked sound escapes your lips. The pressure tight around your throat. You can't breathe.
"You need to learn to watch your mouth before I break it."
Your ears are ringing as you gasp for air. Nails clawing at his skin harder but he doesn't relent — even when your limbs get weaker by the second. It just makes him press down harder.
"Either you're gonna learn to listen and behave or I'll knock you out here and you'll wake up right back in the basement." Your vision is blurring. "So what will it be?"
You barely manage to nod in temporary surrender as he releases your neck and you wheeze and cough, taking in the fresh morning air in greedy breaths.
"That's what I thought."
You lay still and dazed on the cold forest floor, breathing erratic — heartbeat wild beneath your skin as he unlocks the cuff attached to your wrist to restrain the other one.
And within seconds you're right back to square one just like that. You broke your bone for nothing.
He gets to his feet and lifts you with ease, hauling you over one of his shoulders as he begins to walk.
It digs into your sore abdomen as you dangle from him. Your knee burns at the sudden movement but he ignores your cries. His hands staying firm on the back of your thighs.
You're too weak to put up a proper fight — too weak to try and get away. But you can't help yourself when your fingers reach for his back, about to try and sink your nails beneath the fabric of his jacket and into the skin before a harsh dig of his thumb into your broken knee stops you with a yelp.
"Don't even try it."
The blood is rushing to your head as you drop your hands back down with a grumble. You're nauseous. You should just puke on him out of retaliation — this is humiliating.
The twigs and leaves crack under his boots as he steps through the snowy dirt. Entirely opposite of your graceful steps — his are heavy, careless like someone who never had to hide to survive in nature.
One handed, he reaches towards the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a phone, adjusting you with a slight shrug of his shoulder.
He taps on it a few times, then holds it to his ear.
You're tempted to smack it out of his hand, but you'll refrain for now.
"Yeah, I got it." He says after a moment, relaxed. Like this was something casual. Like he's not carrying a bruised and bloody monster on his arm. You can just barely make out a grating voice coming from the device. "Was at the gunshot. Meet me at the car, I'll be there in ten. Call the others."
You wonder which one of them he's talking to. How many of them are out to search for you. You wouldn't be surprised if it was all of them.
He hangs up the phone and shoves it back in his pocket. The walk carries out in silence as you try not to focus on the sharp pulsing in your leg and throat. In your whole body. Your eyes gloss over.
You should have never engaged with them. Should have never listened to those stupid thoughts. You could have been living your life just fine the way you have until now if it wasn't for them. For him. You hate him so much. Hate these people — if they can even call themselves that.
But most of all, you hate yourself for ever getting involved in this.
Your mask and poncho are slipping off as his repeated steps cause you to shift around. You have to hold onto them uncomfortably or otherwise they'd tumble to the forest floor.
You can already feel a bruise forming on your throat, your breaths still short — the lack of proper oxygen making you lightheaded and your mind fuzzy.
"Would it kill you to let me walk? I can hardly breathe like this." You grunt out — already planning your escape.
"And have you run off again? Yeah, right."
Sarcasm again. You're going to murder this man, you think as your annoyance blooms into anger. His lazy confidence makes you want to dig your nails in deep and cut him open. See if his insides taste just as rotten as he makes them out to be. You want to see him writhe in the dirt — reduce him to nothing but filth beneath your feet.
You can barely think straight. Which is why you can't stop yourself from muttering out,
"I'll kill you."
He laughs at that. A short huff of an amused breath.
"I mean, you can try. But if you keep getting on my nerves like that, I'm not sure I'll let you."
You don't bother replying this time. All you manage is a sigh — energy depleted and body feeling far too weak to return the fight.
The rest of the walk is filled with silence. Your body swaying with his movements, head throbbing from hanging upside down for too long, the pressure building. You think you might actually vomit on him soon if he doesn't put you down in the next minute.
And fate is merciful this time as an asphalt road comes into your blurred view not much later. Seems you've arrived.
He sets you back on your feet and you practically collapse against the side of the trunk. Your knee burns at the sudden weight on it — it's already swollen.
All the blood rushes back down where it belongs as relief floods your system and you finally get to breathe again. Your chest aches from how his shoulder dug into it.
"Come on."
He yanks the car door open and tries to shove you in by the shoulder but your hands grip the sides. Still half-indomitable in spirit despite the exhaustion as you sink your nails into the metal.
"Just get in, goddamnit."
"No!"
"For fuck's sake!" He spins you to face him and grabs you by the neck of your clothes and crowds you against the truck. "You don't have a choice, okay?! None of us do! So stop acting like you're fucking special and get in the car unless you want me to hurt you again!"
You don't have a response to that. You're breathing in each others ragged breaths as his angry eyes bore into yours.
"Get in."
A wrinkle forms between your furrowed brows in a glare as you let your perseverance die out for now. Let him shove you in the seat of the car without any more energy wasted on a failed escape.
Your body hurts. Your heart hurts.
He shoves the door closed and you turn your head away so he can't see you cry. You let the tears drop.
Even monsters can't help but weep when freedom is taken from them.
Jack Nyras who will never see the world the same again.
Who's eyes were gouged out by the followers of the Black God — of Chernobog — the deity of all the evil that hides in darkness. The deity that doesn't let His slaves exist in light.
They slit his sternum, cracked his ribs to reveal the epitome of life that was his heart and dug it out, filled the cavities with scorching tar. Filled his hollow eyes. They didn't relent despite how much he thrashed. How his pleas grew hoarse from how he screamed.
They said it'd be over quick. That there is no point in begging — that it'll all be okay because their God would gift him with something beautiful and new.
And He did.
It's bigger, black — pumps slower to accommodate his monstrous new size. Leads carbon dioxide to fuel his cells instead, he breathes out oxygen.
It's all twisted and wrong. He's become the opposite of what he once was.
Jack used to be sweet. An empathetic medical student, smart and full of life. Now he's a towering, cruel husk of a man with ashen skin and three tongues. Harming those he vowed to save. But he couldn't care less about people's health anymore — not after having gone through the worst kind of torture.
And he doesn't have a choice either. The cult took everything from him. His life, his vision. His normal, human appetite.
At the very least he got to take his revenge. They had no idea that Jack was never meant to be the sacrifice. Instead, they became the first taste of what is damned to be his only form of sustenance.
He's disgusting. A monster.
Which is why he doesn't understand why you just sat there and watched in awe as he devoured the man that followed you into the woods. Ripped him to shreds with his bare hands. A crazy ex, he later found out.
He was going to kill you next. Head tilted, looking at you like a predator at prey as he thumped his black tail against the ground to 'see' you better. Echolocation.
But then you stood from the grass, brushed the dirt from your bruised knees and approached him first. Got on your tiptoes to plant a kiss of gratitude on his cheek.
His filthy, bloodstained cheek.
He couldn't move. Frozen like a beast in headlights trying to figure out if his mind had played a trick on him.
But it didn't. And he had spared you that night.
It's a mystery why you came back on the second. Searching for him as you stumble over dead roots like a baby deer. Carrying a picnic basket with a fresh liver from the local butcher as a gift.
He should've killed you then. Should've killed you all the other nights as well.
But again, he didn't. And he's never been more glad to fight against his instincts.
Jack never thought this new heart was capable of love. Never thought anyone would be capable of loving him either.
But here you both are. In bed on a summer morning. Together. Sleeping with your pinkies interlinked because the heat is too overwhelming to hold each other. Your gentle, rhythmic breaths reveal your face every few seconds. He thinks you've never looked more beautiful.
And he thinks you shouldn't be with someone as revolting as him.
Last night he tried to convince you how he hadn't always been this ugly. That he used to be normal looking, even handsome.
He hoped his words would make you think better of him. But you just shook your head with a delicate smile and pulled him into bed instead instead. Showed him how there was no need to worry about any of that.
Jack Nyras who will never live in a world with light again. And he's okay with it as long as it's filled with you instead.
𑁍ࠬܓ
credits to my fav american freak @habitism for the carbon dioxide hc. actual genius over here
summary: A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
wc: 5.5k
tw: needles, vomiting
masterlist, ao3
The needle glints as sunlight grazes stainless steel.
Countless other tools surround it on the small metal tray beside the woman but the syringe is the one to really drag the unease out of your gut.
You've always hated these checkups.
Weekly tests of your reflexes, bodily functions and changes in height and weight. Piercing skin with those dreadful needles as they take what they need.
But you never complain. Never grimace, never flinch — you haven't learned to express yourself yet.
All you know is to be still and stare — eyes wide and unblinking as you let them roam around every thing that steals your interest.
Currently fixated on the sharp tools laid out on blue medical paper.
That unmistakable scent of sterility, antiseptics and discomfort curls in your nose as she finally stops writing on her clipboard and turns back to you. The leather of the stool under her squealing.
"Hold out your arm." Her gruff voice commands.
You do as told. Movements stiff and soulless like a machine programmed to obey. She takes your wrist in her hand and pulls your arm towards her, angling it to face up. The plastic glove cool against your soft skin as it grips you roughly, making you want to pull back on instinct. You don't.
She reaches for the antiseptic spray, uncaps it and sprays it on the crease of your elbow. You don't flinch from the sudden cold, even as she wipes it down. As the dread stirs in your stomach.
You watch her pick up the syringe, holding it up to check it under the bright light. It stings in your eyes as the white furniture and walls reflect it back twice as harsh. You ignore the urge to blink, instead focusing on how she holds your arm in place and moves it closer.
It always happens so fast, you can barely even hold your breath in anticipation before she's already shoving the thin sharpness into you. A hot sting blooming from the wound as it pierces delicate skin, then vein, then stays still.
You don't look away when the glass container begins filling up with beautiful red as you feel your blood get sucked out of you.
It hurts. She's not being considerate at all. But the slow swirling of the thick liquid is too captivating for you to try and peel your eyes away. Color so deep and alluring you might get lost.
These tests never get easier. You wish they would just stop all together. Yet it's been three months since you came to life in this unusual body and you're once again sitting on this dreaded examination table with a pulsing arm and just a little bit less of your bodily fluids.
Three months with memories not quite yours and one week since you've felt what you learned to be hunger for the first time.
An unnatural emptiness in the pits of your stomach, growing vaster and harsher the more time passes. You haven't told anyone yet. Not the nuns who braid your hair, not the janitor, not even him. You know you should tell at least him.
You've never kept a secret, know it's wrong and downright sinful. The guilt has been eating away at the core of your being.
But heaven knows you can't stop yourself from watching with an envious heart when someone takes a bite of their meal. From fantasizing what it would be like to taste something sweet. Something good and filling. Something that doesn't taste disgusting.
It's not like they've never tried to feed you before — you've tasted all sorts of foods, cooked by the so-called best chefs around, working for hours at a time to come up with something to please you with.
But it all just tasted putrid. Foul like something rotting from the inside out. The smells alone were enough to want to make you turn your nose and press your lips shut when the fork was lifted to your mouth.
You never did.
But even on the rare occasion where the food didn't taste completely despicable, you always ended up hunched over yourself, emptying your stomach with a burn in the back of your throat.
The syringe is nearly filled to the brim by the time the nurse is done with you — pulling it out with far too little care as footsteps from the hallway become more and more resounding the closer they get to the room.
A weak throb blooms from your hand. Down your arm.
The door opens with a creak.
"Are you almost finished?" The Father begins, walking towards her in long strides to stand looking down — eyes not even taking a second to glance at you. "The prayer starts in an hour, the sisters won't have enough time to prepare this way."
"We are done. But—"
"Good." He hums, not caring to listen to another word as he takes the clipboard out of the woman's hands to flip through the results. "So get it changed."
It. That's all anyone has ever called you in this short life time. Because that's all you are — all you'll ever be.
A thing.
A gift to some inconceivable, holy being. Something to take control of, to do with whatever one pleases. Something that's not allowed to show emotion.
"Wallace. I have concerns."
The Father begins making his way towards the door again as his cold brown eyes scan the messy ink before flicking to the nurse and narrowing in skepticism.
"Why? Everything is as it should be." He replies. His words slow — every letter pronounced strongly with a pristine accent. He's always had such a particular way of speech.
The nurse turns to you, face pinched in worry. Unease. Her eyes are trained on the line of your sealed lips.
"Everything but the teeth." She practically sighs the words out as she pulls the blue latex gloves off.
"This again?"
The throb evolves to a sting now. In your abdomen. Arms. Your hand. Yet you stay still all the same. Face neutral.
"I-I mean, with all due respect," She reaches up to your mouth, gripping your jaw with both hands and forcing her thumb past your lips, opening your mouth to show the oddities growing inside. To brush over the pointed tips of your molars. They've been getting sharper lately. Aching. "If you just look at how—"
"Are you doubting my creation?"
The words are bitter, laced with a venom you know sent a chill down her spine. Her fingers stilling against your mouth, her own lips parted as she gapes up at him. Eyebrows twitching with nerves she's fighting to hide.
"No, Fath-"
"Are you doubting me?" His voice gets louder, head tilted up in superiority. "I carry God's will—"
"Of— of course not! I mean— Of course I'm not!" The nurse becomes more frantic, fingers gliding across your teeth harder as she digs her hands further into your mouth. Your spit is pooling, tongue involuntarily brushing salty skin. "But if you would just feel how sharp they've—"
He throws the clipboard to the desk with a loud clang and she flinches. One second of an involuntary twitch against your teeth is all it takes for skin to split.
A pained hiss. She yanks her hands out of your mouth. The Father pays her no mind.
"It was His hand that guided mine, His empty gaze that fell upon me as I worked day and night," He refuses to listen. Voice booming as it reverberates off the white walls. "And here you are. Questioning His offering?"
Metal is the first thing you taste when her blood coats your tongue. The first contact with what will soon become your favorite flavor.
Slightly salty, a hint if iron. You swallow it down far too quickly.
It tastes good. You didn't think it'd taste this good. You didn't know something existed that tasted this good.
Tongue running over the molar to savor the remnants, eyes finding her bleeding wound already being bandaged.
And as you're watching the white bandages stain red, a craving starts to grow from deep within. Unfamiliar. Demanding. You're suddenly too aware of the emptiness caving in your stomach.
You want to taste that again.
The Father finally snaps out of his tirade and the room is silent for a moment as he realizes what happened. As his gaze finally, slowly lands on you.
You who's feeling a small drop of blood dribble down your parted lips. Who's hand darts out to catch it. Wild eyes zeroing in on the beautiful color coating your finger, about to push it back to your eager mouth before he seizes your wrist.
He says nothing but his eyes betray him. Like curtains pulled aside just a hint to reveal the flicker of uncertainty behind.
He knows there is something wrong with you. He can feel it. But he won't admit it — can't allow it. He cannot afford to fail.
The Father's grip tightens. Like maybe if he squeezed hard enough he can will all the growing sin out of you.
The pain spreads from your wrist to bloom throughout your entire body. It tingles at the tips of your fingers, burns in your torso. There is a faint ringing filling the silence of the room, getting louder and louder.
It hurts so much. Why does everything hurt so much? It's overwhelming. Your throat burns, you feel like you're about to—
─── ₊ ⊹˚
Bile forces itself up your throat as you wake with a wheeze.
It splatters to the floor with a wet sound — you had leaned over the bedside just in time. Your head is ringing as you empty half your guts on the planks, coughing, retching, tears forming. Spit and snot dripping.
A heaving breath once it's over — gulping down what's stuck in your throat.
Your eyes sting as you force them open. The unfamiliar room spins, blurry vision slowly clearing up as you remember where you are.
You sniff up the snot trickling down from your nostrils and the familiar smell of death finds your lungs.
The remnants of what once was a man lay still and forgotten only few feet away from you. His insides, his fluids — they stain the brown wood almost black, seep between the cracks of the floorboards.
Disgusting. Maybe you should have at least dumped the body outside, you think. But the pain flaring from your wrist and also everywhere else is quick to distract you.
You're sweating. The sheets damp and clinging onto you as you peel yourself off the mattress and wipe your dirty mouth with the back of your non-hurting hand.
Careful to avoid the remains of yesterdays meal, you get up and make your way to the sink by the kitchen corner on half-steady legs.
It's not unusual for you to vomit after over-consuming. It's something you do a lot. You can't help yourself — Indulging. Feeding into your never ending hunger. Not the physical sensation but rather the desire for the hunt. For the rush of adrenaline it brings you when you rip someone open.
This week alone you've eaten far more than what is usual, especially for winter.
If only you got to add four more bodies to your forever-growing pile of sin, you think as you turn on the steady flow of water. You wonder how sweet victory would have tasted. Being the one to stand looking down at them instead.
Normally your body's already absorbed all the nutrients it needs to keep you going for another month, so you won't feel malnourished so soon despite emptying everything.
Still, you're a little sad it all went to waste.
Your wrist stings as you hold it underneath the freezing water. Covered in your blood, the skin around your thumb slowly reveals an ugly, discolored purple as all the red gets washed away.
There are cuts littered all across your arm and hand. You can feel them burning on your torso. On your jaw. The side of your head bruising from all the times someone's slammed something into it in the past few days. The gunshot in your arm is mostly healed but the one on your shoulder still aches. Your ribs hurt. Everything hurts.
You slip out of your poncho and peel your dirty tunic off, now bare and exposed as you spend the next twenty minutes leaned over the sink, picking dirt and small pieces of glass out of your wounds and halfheartedly rinsing them.
The water runs down your partially naked body, mixing with the red and seeping drops into the waistband of your pants. You don't care. You keep scrubbing and picking at the crusted blood until it all comes off.
Not using as much care as you probably should in favor of leaving this foul scented place behind quicker. You might just puke again if you don't soon.
When you deem yourself clean enough, you grab the rag sitting on the counter and pat yourself dry. Avoiding the already healing wounds.
You can practically feel the broken bone in your hand slowly snap back into place as it regenerates. It's a good thing that you got to eat last night. Without it, you wouldn't have nearly as much energy as you do. Your injuries wouldn't have healed as quick.
You take the clothes you left on the table in the middle of the room and throw them back on. Shuffling to the mask you left beside the body, you take the handmade straps and secure it back over your bruised face where it belongs.
You reach for the handle of the door when a loud buzzing sound cuts through the quiet.
Repeated, blaring vibrations coming from the body.
You kneel beside it — holding your breath because of the smell — and check the pockets of the pants.
A phone call. With the words 'Don't pick up' as the caller ID.
Right, you do recall the man telling whoever he was talking to that he'll call them back.
Amusement splits your face in the form of a toothy grin.
That won't happen any time soon though. You wonder how they'll feel when they come looking. When they see his chest caved in, ribs cracked open and his heart missing. His rotting skin melting into the floorboards, his bite mark-ridden flesh. The flies collecting.
You drop the phone without another care and take your leave.
Better get out while you still can.
The door creaks as you push your way outside. The cold chipping at your skin.
It's early. The sun well hidden behind a thick layer of morning fog — her luminous rays blurred. Only the tips of the white trees break through from up here. The sparkling snow so bright you have to squint to see anything.
A soft breeze flows with the wind as you take the stairs down. They groan under your careful steps.
You're still somewhat shaken from yesterdays events. Still hurting, head faintly ringing. But the feeling of freedom gives you the energy you need to keep going. It fills you with vigor, satisfaction.
You escaped. And fast too.
If only you got to take them down in the process. If only you got to mutilate them the way you did with that man. You wonder if their taste would still linger in your throat.
You reach the bottom of the steps. Your eyes land on the thin snow at your feet, a red color poking out beneath a fresh layer of white.
It's your tracks. Thank the heavens that it still snowed a bit throughout the night. The blood is still visible, but only if your eyes are sharp.
You really need to leave this place quick, you think with a cringe as you disappear into the trees.
You don't even know where to go or if you're near your home, yet you pick a direction and begin your wandering.
Surely you're not too far, right?
You quickly realize just how wrong you are when you spend the next hour aimlessly walking around, trying to find something, anything recognizable to show you the way back.
You're not familiar with these woods at all. This must be an entirely different part of Appalachia — which makes sense because the region is huge. You're not even sure you're still in Alabama.
You know your home like the back of your hand, able to recognize where you are by a branch alone. By the position of stars. Even if you couldn't — you've left your mark in the shape of your claws on bark. You've spent miles and miles exploring them. You know your way.
But this place is entirely new to you, which must mean you're close at all. It might be best to abandon the possibility of going home entirely. Start fresh.
At least you didn't have any personal belongings to leave behind. Except for the pouch they took. Curse them.
The birds chirp loudly as if agreeing with you. Nature lively in its sounds. The wind carries the cold to rustle at leaves and hum in gentle soothing, curling around your ankles as you roam the forest.
Snow begins to descend between the trees in a slow dance. Not much of it, just enough to make the woodland sparkle.
It's almost peaceful.
Then, a feeling. Something tingling in the tips of your still-aching hands. Something telling you to hide.
You don't question it — letting instincts take hold of your autonomy as you climb one-handed into the nearest pine tree without a second of doubt. Sinking into the needles and out of sight.
A beat goes by.
You strain your ears and keep your eyes sharp until you hear a faint pair of footsteps. So quiet you almost missed them.
Leaves rustle as they get louder, the person closer. Then your eyes find her as she emerges from the bushes.
The masked woman — Kate.
How on earth did they find you already? You've been walking for so long, they shouldn't be here! Did that creature— did He do this? Bring them closer to you so they can capture you again?
Anger bubbles in your veins. It flows to your heart and spreads throughout your entire being. Your eyebrows furrow as you glare down at her.
When will He learn already?! You've fought so hard to be free — you refuse to be enslaved! You don't care how much it hurts, if it'll be your downfall, you won't let go of your freedom.
Your nails sink into the branch with frustration. Your heart pounding in your ears. She doesn't notice — her head turns as she's looking around, yet she doesn't find you.
A shuffle of leaves breaks the silence, many feet away from the tree you're hiding in. From up here you can barely see it through the thick fog. A hare.
The moment of tension is over before you know it as you watch her chase after the sound. Gone again.
You take a few minutes to wait until you're sure she won't return before dropping down again with a silent huff. Your feet throb from the fall.
One last look is cast in her direction before you take your leave the opposite way as quietly as possible. Keeping your eyes sharp as you check behind every tree you pass. Ears focusing on every little sound of wildlife. Ignoring the clinking of the handcuffs still stuck around your wrist.
The snow begins getting heavier as you spend the time walking. Landing on the dirt under your feet, the fur hood of your poncho. Gradually coating it all in white. The holes let the cold slip past the dark fabric to bite at the skin beneath.
You don't have a concrete plan on what to do now except walk. Walk until your legs give out — until you're sure they won't find you again.
You just hope the fog clears up by tonight. You'll try to guess your overall location by the position of the stars, but going home is out of the question either way. They've already gotten close enough to discovering it before. It's too risky.
Finding a new area to live in will take days. Maybe weeks. But it's not the first time you've been hopeless and it's necessary.
The sun is high up as she hides behind the clouds to look down at the earth. The wind whistling in a quiet rumble as it carries thick flakes of snow to flow down through the mist.
The thin path you're walking on leads between the trees and to an open, white meadow.
A herd of white tailed deer are feasting on the grass sticking out. Five of them.
You freeze in your tracks.
Your heart stings at the sight. A pinch of jealousy.
You've been alone for so long. Never once having been equal. To anyone. You used to be treated as an object on the daily. Either a spectacle or a slave. On the rare case you were even pitied—
But you don't want pity. You never wanted to be seen as weak. Pathetic — or stupid!
The buck standing in the middle of the herd raises his head, looking around as if alerted by your inner monologue.
You just wanted to be more than something. More than some thing.
His eyes land on you and he stiffens. Staring at you glaring at him. Your head is ringing.
You got what you wanted in the end. You're feared now. Formidable. People don't dare getting in your path because you're already ripping them to shreds before they can even think of it.
More of them look up at you. Motionless like they're trying to estimate the danger you could bring.
But a small part of you has yet to be satisfied. You're still alone. Still have no one to talk to.
One by one they begin hopping up the field after a few moments. The buck stays to look back at you for a little while longer before following the others. Disappearing into the fog and leaving you to be by yourself again. It's almost funny. You're standing here — the skull of their kind covering your face, yet you're the one that feels the hurt.
A sigh escapes your lips. Deep like you're trying to release all the bad feelings out of your chest and into the winter air.
You step off the path and continue the hike. Walking on the open ground would be dangerous, foolish. You'll go around by the treeline instead.
The rustling of the small critters that reside here, the wind brushing leaves, the singing birds — it all stops out of nowhere. Dead quiet.
As if the forest itself is holding it's breath in anticipation. All the fauna silent, hiding.
You turn around, unnerved by the abrupt silence. The only audible thing now is the dull, quiet ringing in the back of your mind.
You don't see anyone.
Then you face ahead again.
Only to be back where you stood just a second ago, the opening of the trees revealing the same meadow.
What?
The empty field stares back at you in twisted silence. Goosebumps form on your skin within an instant. As if your body is preparing you for unforeseen doom.
This… this is stupid. Surely you're not in the right mind. This isn't real.
Stubborn, you step off the path again, more determined. Your feet carry you further than before — you refuse to turn around this time.
A glance between the trees. Then you blink and—
Again.
You're back again.
The sound of your own pulse rumbles in your ear like a tidal wave. Your breathing quickens.
This is wrong.
The snow rains down stronger — it's so hard to see anything and the trees seem like they're curling around the meadow on purpose. As if showing you that the only way to go is in.
You can't do this.
Your hands are trembling, sweating — all the pain pushed down like it's the least of your worries. The hairs on your neck raise in alarm. Every fiber of your being is telling you to get away.
A cautious step backwards. Then two. Then you're turning around again — stumbling, running.
But you trip.
You land on your hands and knees in the snow — hoof tracks right under your face. You look up.
You're in the middle of the field this time.
A familiar feeling creeps up your throat. Tight, uncomfortable. Mind-numbing terror. The kind that makes your vision blur around it's edge. The kind that only God Himself can bring out of you.
It's then that you realize that the deer didn't leave because of you.
The ringing in your head is like white noise. So loud it's almost silent. Even your own heaving breath gets drowned out in it. Your frantic heartbeat.
The fog clouds the edge of the forest. So thick you can't see past it anymore — like this field right here is the only place on earth.
Like you're trapped.
Your eyes are darting around the vast white. Pupils dilated to see better — so you can react quicker.
You know He's here. You can feel it.
Then He appears. In the blink of an eye — like a glitch in reality. One second you're staring at a thick mist of nothingness and the next—
Him.
An icy, almost painful chill runs through your entire body. You're so cold — you've never felt so cold.
He stands tall before you, only few feet away. His form towering. You try to look up at him but it's just long, endless strips of black, gangly limbs.
The mask has never felt more restricting. You can't see the end of Him.
Moments pass and the ringing only gets louder, more painful. You have to do something. You have to move.
"L-leave me…" A whimper. "Leave me alone—" The words scrape out. You can barely hear your own voice.
You know that begging is useless, you know He can read your thoughts. You need to get up.
You're so used to being on the other side. To be the one to ignite fear. To be the predator instead of prey. But now you can't stop the shaking, your chest hurting.
You don't think clearly when your hand reaches under the neck of your shirt and wraps around the cool beads — yanking the necklace out to grip the silver cross tight.
You don't think when you start reciting in a whisper. Old habits die hard.
"He-heavenly Father, I seek your forgiveness!" The prayer comes out shaky, unstable. You squeeze your eyes shut. "I have sinned against you, I have been too far from you—"
The ringing is unbearable and it hurts. Like the flesh beneath your very skin is being electrocuted. A hot tingling sensation spreading everywhere.
"I have lived a-according to my own will, please Lord, cover my shame!" You don't even realize what you're doing right now. But you haven't felt this fear of God for years — your body's scrambling for ways to protect itself as if on autopilot. Running your mouth for you.
You never knew what His concrete plan for you was, you don't want to know.
"Do not let your wrath come upon these peo— me!" You messed it up. The words practically engraved on your tongue, it feels wrong to say them differently this time. "Upon me! Do not take me, please, I beg of you!"
You lick your lips in an attempt to wet your dry mouth. You feel nauseous as you're kneeling before Him. And buzzing with the urge to submit.
"Please."
There is no use in begging. You know you can't escape this forever. You should just give it up already and make Him stop this feeling.
Your head hurts so much. A drop of wetness leaks from your nose.
Let it into your mind if you want this to stop. All these uncomfortable sensations, the suffering. Let Him take full control — He'll take it all away.
It drips down lower — between your lips. Your favorite taste.
But that's not you, is it? You're not weak, you can't lose yourself yet. You need to get a grip and get up. Now.
Without looking up, you push yourself off your hands and knees and stand to your trembling, swaying feet. And the burning under your skin intensifies.
It tingles so violently and thoroughly, you feel as if you're about to throw up again. You can't do this.
For a few moments, you just stand there — good hand gripping the cross like a vice. Frozen in fear like a deer in headlights as your eyes blink open to stare almost through Him. Too scared to even try to meet His empty gaze as you're failing your purpose again.
Stunned, you're trying not to show how you're on the verge of blacking out from the nausea. How you can feel unconsciousness creeping up on you.
You don't want to know where you'll wake up again. Who'll be there to greet you. Which is why you need to move.
You take a few steps back. Your body feels like it's on fire. Like He's melting everything inside of you without moving a single muscle. Just standing there, trying to take control of your mind.
The snowflakes landing on your cut arms feel like icicles — stinging.
You shouldn't run. It hurt so bad and it'll only feel so much worse— You know He can make it feel so much worse. You can't even think straight.
Another step backwards sends you to the ground with a slip. Again. How do you keep failing at this — you expect independence and yet here you are! You can't even do a simple thing like take a step!
You land on your behind, barely catching yourself with your broken wrist and it shoots up your arm in a burn. You hiss.
Memories flood in. The humiliation of getting caught, the pain from your wrist — from your escape. The sweet relief of getting to exert violence. It snaps you out of your daze, reminds you how you'd do anything for freedom.
You grip the cross so tight it digs into old wounds, reopens freshly-healed cuts. Your skin is crawling.
But it doesn't matter anymore. It's too late now, you can't resist fate! You were quite literally made for this! You need to give it up. You can't handle another punishment.
Thunder cracks down on the earth in a violent rumble. The wind is howling, it throws the hood of your poncho off your hair, flows behind you in a dance. It's so loud it almost hides the overwhelming buzzing in your mind and body.
You flinch on instinct, dig your nails in the skin of your broken — healing palm, the silver gripped harsher in your other hand.
You can't listen to these thoughts anymore — it's all too much. You can't tell which ones are yours and which ones are— God, please just make it stop! You can't anymore!
Your broken hand moves to grip at the roots of your hair instead. Pulling, ripping — clawing. The cross held so forcefully, it draws blood. Stains it red.
Anything to help ease this discomfort.
You focus on the pain instead. Think, just think for yourself! Please! You don't want this. You want to be free — you need to be! You thrive in it—
Another booming roar of thunder. The wind picking up.
You won't let yourself be a slave again.
You blink through all the hurt, through the blinding snow and crane your neck up at him. The prickling in your skin kindred to a thousand scorching needles, but you push through it all.
Past the unnaturally long limbs, past the false, black texture pretending to be fabric. Your eyes find His face — His empty canvas of a head. Blank, white, abnormal skin pulled tight over a skull. No eye sockets, no mouth.
You meet God's lack of an eye and you glare. Then think it again, despite how much it hurts, how much it scares you: You won't be a slave again.
The storm is so loud, it's like mother earth herself came to your rescue. Drowning out all the evil from her child's poor, abused ears.
Thunder splits the earth again and within an instant—
He's gone. Having taken all the uncomfortable ringing and tingling with Him. All your energy as well.
Slowly, over the next few minutes, the weather calms too. Going from a raging storm to a peaceful rain of snow.
Until it's quiet again. Natural this time.
The breath you held forces itself past your lips in the heaviest of exhales. You release the grip on your hair — on the rosary. Your hands still shaking.
They fall limply to the wet snow as you sit in the cold. A few strands of hair stuck between your fingers. Old wounds reopened as you feel them leak with your blood. On your palms, your nose. Your heart too. It still coats your tongue from when it dripped past your lips. But you couldn't care less right now.
Tears form on your waterline as you let yourself fall backwards.
Head hitting white grass as all the strength leaves you. You let your eyes roll to the back of your skull.
The Operator ruined Tim's life. It tainted the cells beneath his skin, infected his mind, made him spread it to his friends, his loved ones. He never got the luxury of living a normal childhood — or even a normal adulthood.
And it makes him furious.
It's not fair. Everyone else gets to live a safe, happy life. Gets to make friends, go to college — build a future while he's forced to destroy his own. He doesn't get to dream of a soft embrace after a long day, of a good meal filling his stomach.
He's stuck living in an old cabin in the woods, constantly on edge about being found and having to run again. Spending days, sometimes weeks on missions where he has to stalk and kill innocent people.
He hates it. It makes him feel like the scum of the earth. So he lets that anger out on his poor victims.
They're going to get hurt either way. They're going to get killed either way — once the eyeless gaze of the Operator settles on someone, there's no getting out of it's grip.
It doesn't matter how their last moments went by. How much they scream for help when he gives chase. How much it hurt when his crowbar meets their head again.
No one will save them so they should just shut up and stop putting up a fight so he can get this over with already.
As guilty as it makes him feel, he can't stop the rage festering in the crevices of his heart.
Tim will always be unnecessarily violent.
─── .✦
PRIDE
Brian Thomas is supposed to be a dead man.
He's supposed to lay still on that cold concrete with his back broken, his head split and spilling out as he stares dazed and delirious at the ceiling. He's supposed to be cold to the touch, his vision long gone dark — heart unbeating.
Yet he's not.
He's here nonetheless. Awake. Alive. Back still hurting. But he's here. Even God Himself couldn't let him stay a corpse. Even God Himself knows how skillful Brian can be.
He handles weapons with expertise and learns quickly. He's intelligent, sharp, light on his feet. Knows just where to push to drive people a little more insane without leaving a single trace, knows how to set up a camera for the perfect angle to watch somebody throughout the night without the blink of the red light giving it away.
He's a sharpshooter. Able to hit a guy driving 50 miles an hour after camping the treeline of the highway for the entire night and then hiding the body where no one would look. And he doesn't lack in hand-to-hand combat either.
Brian is the only person on earth to be worthy enough to return from the dead — or at least that's what he likes to believe.
He doesn't like to remember the fact that maybe this disease is so hopeless and inevitable, not even death can save you from it. That maybe him getting his pulse back wasn't a worth the pain that comes with being a walking corpse.
Memory is punishment. He'd rather stay prideful.
─── .✦
ENVY
Like the others, Kate's life was never the same after meeting the Operator.
She grew up introverted, depressed — only few friends to hold close. The kind of kid that wouldn't even dream of approaching someone with easy conversation. Keeps to herself. And when the Operator wrapped its sick claws around her mind, it only got so, so much worse.
She lost her best friend, her love interest, her own mother.
She had to live in a coalmine of all places for so long, she couldn't even remember how old she was until she met the others and finally figured out what year she's even living in.
And the cave was filthy — she wore constantly dirty clothes, coal matting what once was beautiful, silk-like hair. Her eyes so used to the dark that any form of bright, sudden light now feels scorching.
Today she's stuck hunting people she wishes she could have been.
Happy, lovable. People who's joints and bones don't ache with every movement because they got to see the sunlight. People who's skin isn't rough to the touch from working with their hands.
She seethes with jealousy. Wishes she got to fulfill her dreams too. Move in with CR, be with Lauren.
But the Operator took that from her.
Now each mission is filled with envious rage. She makes it hurt on purpose — lets victims get ahead simply for the sake of making their death just that much worse, despite how easily she could catch up. Especially when met with a friend group, much less lovers.
She can't help but punish them for living a life she'll never have.
─── .✦
GREED
Toby grew up to be a selfish man.
He's never understood the concept of pain, of empathy. Never recognized people's limits — especially not as a young kid.
He was only five when his family moved from Germany to the United States. Only three when he began stuttering.
The other kids were merciless — bullying him for his pronunciation, for being new, for being unable to spit out a single sentence without having to start all over again because he couldn't get the words out the first time. Saying nasty things about him when he played too rough. Making him all the more nervous in return. Coming home to a father just as bad — if not worse.
When Toby grew and became stronger — when he met the Operator for the first time, he realized he doesn't have to endure it anymore. It fed him with these violent thoughts. Thoughts of inflicting pain onto others — taking the lives of the ones who hurt him.
Thoughts that didn't belong to him at first. Not until he made them his own.
And when he acted on them for the first time and felt the rush that comes with violence, he knew he'd never stop. He enjoyed it far too much.
How their faces pinch together when they're hurting, their cries and pleas for mercy, sounding all too familiar to when he was young and weak. He can't stop the pleasure it brings him from feeling like the predator for once.
He can't stop the bodies from piling up.
It's all he wants to do now. Take.
─── .✦
GLUTTONY
You have always indulged more than necessary.
Your unnatural digestive tract works far slower than what is normal for a human so there is no reason to consume as much as you do. Yet the taste of blood and flesh are practically glued to your taste buds anyway.
You can't get enough of it. All of it.
Ripping into the space between someones neck and shoulder with a hearty bite, teeth hitting bone and cracking it. Tongue lapping at the beautiful red. The wet squelching sounds of a life ending.
You don't get hungry often, you're not a person. It takes a month for you to feel that emptiness, the growl of your stomach. To get so irritated you can't think of anything but eating.
But that doesn't happen much — you don't let it. You take every opportunity to go for a kill, even when it's not at all needed. You take every chance to fantasize of it.
But… there is another type of hunger in you that can't quite be quenched. Not the one for meat and bones, for the only taste you're able to stomach without throwing up. Not the one for the hunt, the chase, the adrenaline.
It feels so good to be feared. To be the beast in peoples eyes.
But this hunger is reserved for humanity. More than its taste — you want to belong. To be like them. Respected and loved, cared for. To finally feel like a real person.
Something that will never happen. Not soon.
You'll just stick to indulging until your worries fade away for now.
the thought of insecure tim keeps me up at night </3
tim who looks at you with apologetic love. like he's sorry to be the one you're stuck with. to be the one you wake up to in the mornings.
he knows what kind of a man he is — brutal, cruel, undeserving. the kind of man that shouldn't get to have the privilege of a romantic relationship. of gentle hands to patch him up when he comes home with a new bruise forming on his knuckles, new crusted blood stuck beneath his blunt nails.
the shame keeps him up at night. makes him build the walls around his cold heart just a little higher. he thinks you could do better. that you should do better. but you're persistent, and he starves for affection — just a little more than he thinks he doesn't deserve it.
so when your fingers find his face and tilt his gaze back toward your own, when his shame-filled eyes land on you and you look at him like he's worthy of the warmth that comes with love — he knows he can't resist you any longer.
his hesitant hands find the soft skin of your waist and he's pulling you close despite his conscience screaming that he hasn't earned it, that there's hundreds of people who'll never feel again because of him alone. hundreds of families grieving, torn apart.
but then your lips meet his and it all becomes irrelevant. your arms around his shoulders, your grounding weight in his lap.
for tonight he'll push those thoughts away and give in to the quiet cravings he's been fighting to hide.
Thinking about the close bond between Kate and Toby and how they both lost their best friend. Their sibling.
They both grew up unable to make friends easily.
Kate has always been too shy to approach anyone, too monotone to be viewed as anything but rude and off putting and too sad to put in any real effort.
So when someone new moved in, a family with a son her age, she never expected to become so close with him. She never expected to make a friend, especially not one she'll view like her own brother.
Her and CR were inseparable for a while. Always sneaking out at ungodly hours of the night, playing chase in the forest. Telling each other creepy stories as she relished in the childish fear on his face. Calling him stupid for being scared of silly things like the paranormal.
He was there when she fell in love for the first time, listening to her ramble about how pretty the girl was, how nice her hair looked that day. Smiling because he's never seen her so talkative before.
He forced his way past the stone walls of her heart and made her open up when the loneliness got too much.
She never thought she'd be the one to end his life. To have her hands around his throat as she's pushed to brutality, mind clouded by fear.
She never meant to kill him.
But that's in the past. Now she lives with people stuck in the same sinking ship. Living a hopeless life as someone who's only good at one thing. Violence.
Committing sin after sin because an inconceivable eldritch creature so wills it. Coming home bloody and exhausted — losing a piece of herself after every life taken.
But it's not so bad when you finally feel like you're a part of something. When you're not the only one falling into misery.
Toby has always been annoying.
He grew up as the resident freak who talked too much and didn't know how to sit still. He played too rough, didn't understand when too much was too much and never cared enough to learn some empathy.
He's never felt pain the way that others do, didn't get when kids cried because of a scraped knee or why they couldn't look at him when he broke his arm so bad, his bone stuck out. It's just a bone.
Hospital visits were almost a weekly thing because of his recklessness. The smell of sterile tools and disinfectant all too familiar and he knew the nurses better than his own classmates.
Lyra was the only one to ever stick around. To call herself his friend. She was more than just a big sister. She held him when the bullying got too much, helped him calm down when his body wouldn't stop jerking and ticking. When Dad wouldn't stop yelling.
She never blamed him for his anger. For his violence. And she would have never blamed him for her death either. Even if he was the one to distract the driver.
It's so hazy now, he barely even remembers it. Barely remembers anything at all from his childhood.
All he knows is that Kate reminds him a lot of his sister. Not in appearance but rather in being the only two people to really get him.
Sure Tim and Brian understand him too to some degree, but he's never been as close to them as he is with Kate.
So when the name 'Lyra' slips out during another petty argument he doesn't know what to do with himself.
Staring wide eyed with a gaping mouth as Kate takes in a surprised gasp.
He doesn't get why it's so hard to breathe all of a sudden. Why his eyes are tearing up.
"I-I didn't… I mmm-meant—" His stutters get worse with the sudden sadness clawing at his heart. Heat rising to his face as he tries to look at anything but her. "Kate. I mea-meant Kate. Fuck."
A sigh leaves her lips and he thinks this is it. He's ruined their friendship.
His vision blurs and he doesn't see how she's not looking at him with anger or disappointment. Her eyes are filled with pity. Understanding. She gets it.
His shoulders are shaking when she wraps her arms around them. Pulling him close as she whispers "It's okay." into his hair.
It's been so long since he got to cry in the arms of a sister again.
summary: A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
wc: 5.5k
masterlist, ao3
A day has passed since your latest encounter with your captors. A quiet day.
Your joints ache, nose definitely broken and throbbing. Body still sore from the fight. The stab wound on the side of your stomach having long since crusted over. It's a good sign. Means she hasn't hit anything vital — you won't bleed out anytime soon.
Though, you doubt you're even able to in the first place — you've learned a long time ago that death rejects you. Your body always finding ways to mend itself, even when you're sure you've reached the end.
Even when you're laying nestled between the stinging thorns of the forest shrubs, shielded away from searching eyes as you paint the dirt red. Even when you think you're dying — when it feels like you're dying— you never stop waking up again. No matter how cold you are, how weak your muscles have become, how many tears you've shed. This blessed curse has gripped your soul in its relentless claws as it dangles you just an inch above the hungry tide. Yanking you back each time the water gets too close.
But the pain stays all the same — worse even as you're forced to feel it no matter how long it takes.
With a sigh, you lean your head back against uncomfortable metal. Keeping your tired eyes on the low hanging ceiling light.
That ever persistent ringing dulled into a faint buzz in the back of your throbbing head. You can almost drown it out if you try enough.
The morning sun has just woken up minutes ago. The royal blue of the sky slowly merging with a bright new orange as reddish light begins faintly gleaming through the window, painting the room in a warm blanket of something pretty.
You sit unmoving on the cold, red-stained concrete as you think, the pipe harsh against your back. Shoulders bent backwards at an awkward angle. It hurts. Your butt also hurts.
The duct tape that was stuck to your cheek fell off over time. All the tears helped loosen the glue until it separated by itself.
You haven't slept. Body aching and mind exhausted, yet you refuse letting rest guide you into darkness — the occasional footsteps paired with muffled voices filling you with dread each time they get too close to the exit. Keeping you on guard. Awake for hours.
Your wide eyes staying glued to it for more than a few minutes. Your breath held. Until you're sure no one will come downstairs.
Another exhale leaves your lips after a few more moments as you close your eyes to avoid the stinging light. To make the dull pain in your head be just a little more bearable.
How could you have let yourself get dragged into this mess? Was… He the one who led you here? The one who caused time and space to shift? Were you right to think of yourself as reckless or was that… Him— influencing you to walk his destined path?
But you were so sure to have claimed freedom! This entire time you thought you were alone! He couldn't have possibly followed you for all those miles.
That… that familiar feeling of being watched, it had to have been your mind playing tricks on you, it couldn't possibly have been Him this whole time— could it?
A tightness blooms in your chest at the thought. Heartbeat pounding in your temple as you take in shaky breaths.
Uselessly, you try pulling at the cuffs again, twisting your fingers in an attempt to fit them through tight metal — the skin around your wrists raw and peeling from how many times you've done this.
You are so used to that feeling. Your whole life has been spent being studied by everyone you've ever met. It's the one thing you thought you knew how to recognize.
That looming sense of unease tingling in the nape of your neck — fading away the second you turn to look back. This whole time you've refused to acknowledge it, thinking it was just your inner guilt. Guilt from abandoning your sole purpose.
Is this your punishment?
Your thoughts are interrupted by light shuffling sounds above you.
Your heartbeat spikes in a painful jolt.
They're footsteps. So faint you've barely been able to pick them up until you've spent the past hours studying their pattern. Barely audible thumps always in the same exact spots each time, like whoever it is knows exactly which floorboards to avoid to appear as soundlessly as possible. The perfect footsteps for a silent stalker.
Brian.
The door opens with a quiet creak and there he is. No longer wearing the thick black coat you ruined the sleeves of and instead only the pale yellow hoodie.
The sleeves awkwardly stitched up in an attempt to salvage it.
Is he that attached? How pathetic does he have to be to cling on to wounded fabric, showing off the damage you've caused. Does he not have other clothing? You think, wearing the same tattered tunic you haven't changed out of since finding it in the woods months ago.
He makes his way down the stairs as you stare him down with cold eyes — like if you glare hard enough he'd turn to stone.
Wordlessly he reaches for the camera again — of course he does — and points it at you as he approaches, kneeling down to be eye level with you.
You pull your knees up to your face to hide your body and keep as far from him as you're able to.
Uncomfortable silence fills the basement as you scowl at the red blinking light held up in front of his face. Lined up perfectly with the painted eye of the dark cloth over his head.
You'd never have imagined that you'd be the one to break the silence first but you're sick of this. Why won't he speak to you?!
"Wh-what do you want?" You bark at him with a cracking voice.
That sounded a lot more pathetic than you were hoping for. Your cheeks grow warm.
A moment passes. And he doesn't reply — merely tilts his head at you as your breathing wavers.
This silence is killing you. Head ringing as the pit in your stomach grows more nauseating by the second.
Then he leans forward, pointing the camera closer to your face — to your mask. You lean your head away as much as possible, yet he follows anyway, filming close to all the crevices, the teeth. Zooms in on the sockets as you peer up at him in apprehension. Pupils dilated from distress.
His hand reaches towards you — towards the base of the skull. He's barely able to lay one gloved finger on it before you recoil with a gasp, teeth bared as you remind him of what happened the last time someone got too close.
He pauses. Thinking. Then he places the camera down to the ground beside him, still pointing at you, and shifts as he starts rummaging in his pockets, fishing something out.
It's a stale looking piece of bread.
He holds it out to you with a steady hand — no longer shaking. His injuries must have healed already. At least enough for him to properly use his hands again.
His other arm rests on the curve of his knee. Head tilted yet still pointed right towards you. Observing. Lackadaisical. Like you're some thing. Like you're not the reason he had to sit back and heal for hours. Like you're not his prisoner sprawled out on the dirty ground, cuffed to a rusty pipe like a pathetic fool.
Does he seriously think you'd eat that? Out of his hand? Doesn't he know what you are?! What you're capable of?!
Go ahead and try, why don't you.
Your eyes narrow further as you glance at it once before returning your glare to his masked face, hiding your own deeper behind your knees despite your thoughts.
The dark red painted dots just stare back at you. Silent.
The wind howls behind the glass barrier of the window. The loud noise causing your gaze to drift away from him and towards it. Towards hope.
You didn't spend countless hours sitting on cold stone for nothing. You spent them thinking — plotting your escape for when the time is right.
You know it was a mistake to get caught — a result of unusual recklessness. Quick thinking and the ability to ignore pain, to push through discomfort, has always been your strong suit. Getting what you want.
You've forgotten yourself. Enough of that.
The hooded man seems to notice your distraction. He turns to look behind him to copy your gaze before returning it to you. An amused huff of air leaves his lips behind the cloth as your glare finds him again.
Carelessly throwing the piece of bread to the side and grabbing the video camera, he stands back to his feet. Towering over you for a moment. Unmoving as you peer up at him beneath furrowed brows. Unmoving as the red light flickers — as if taunting you.
The whistling of the winds muffles his silent footsteps as he begins messing with the device again — sauntering over to one of the cabinets to rummage through it's contents.
A sense of unease blooming in the pits of your gut. Your breath held as your brain comes up with all the objects he could be looking for to torture you with.
Pliers to pull your nails out one by one? A file to cut down your pointed teeth!? You'll eat him whole if he even tries—
He takes out batteries.
You exhale. And close your eyes, leaning your forehead on your knees.
You need to relax. Remain calm. They likely won't harm you unless you misbehave. As long as you do your part and play along, they'll surely leave you be. You've exhausted them enough, they need the rest just as much as you do.
Soft rain begins to patter against the smooth glass, drowning out the rustling noise of the man finishing changing the batteries.
And even if they were to hurt you, it wouldn't matter. You are getting out of this cage — regardless of how long it takes.
You've run from fate before. You can do it again. Just keep it together.
For a few seconds, the room is silent. And you don't lift your head. Even as you hear his footsteps shuffle towards the stairs again. Even as the door opens and closes after a moment of hesitation.
You're alone.
What a pointless interaction.
─── .✦
The rain only got worse the more time has passed, turning icy droplets into hail. They clatter loudly on the window, hit the roof with insistent thumps.
You like this weather. It drowns out the ringing. Lets you focus on things other than imprisonment. Like how good the cool winds will feel against wet skin once you get out of this hellish basement. The harsh snow under your feet.
The sweet relief that will wash over you like a tidal wave when you finally get to sink your teeth into fresh meat again. A hard-earned reward for your escape as whoever you'll find squeals and thrashes under your relentless maw — only making you dig deeper into their pulsing flesh. Their insides squirting out — dying white snow a beautiful red.
You can't wait anymore.
Enough time has passed since the hooded man came to taunt you. The dim sun barely visible in the blurred world of gray and white, hiding behind this violent weather in shame. Getting closer and closer to the horizon in her attempt to run from the chaos.
Two hours ago, a pair of them left the cabin one after the other. Out to do heaven knows what in this storm.
The rest has long gone to bed. The last pair of footsteps or sounds of movement you heard — even over the deafening rain — were over an hour ago.
An old alarm clock tucked away in the corner of one of the shelves just barely readable. But enough for you to keep track of time.
You've been studying their habits for the past day and a half. Taking note of where the footsteps lead and how long they spend in a room. Counting the minutes — sometimes hours to get a general idea of the buildings layout as you take note of clattering plates or the steady hissing of a shower.
They're rarely home all at once. Always disappearing for hours at a time — often in pairs — probably hiking through the woods, ready to hunt and stalk more innocents.
You're sure that if it wasn't for you being here, they wouldn't be home at all. You do recall Tim saying something about having been out for days. The only reason they're here is to guard you. Watch your every movement through the lens.
Now is the perfect time to put your plan into action. You've rested long enough. The pounding in your head reduced to a mere ache. You can handle it.
The only thing you're somewhat unprepared for is the camera. But there is only so much you can do beside concealing your actions. Someone will come storming down when they see what you're up to, but it doesn't matter. You can only delay the inevitable for so long.
You just have to be quick.
One last time you try fitting your hands through the rings of metal, squeezing and pulling — ignoring the ache.
But its useless. They're too tight. And the pipe is too sturdy to be broken — no matter how much you've scratched at it. Even if it wasn't, you can't claim freedom with your hands restricted.
You have to get them off completely and begging them won't get you anywhere. There is only one way.
You keep your knees close to your face, leaning your forehead on them — hiding your expression as you squeeze your eyes shut tight to prepare for what's to come.
Taking your non-dominant wrist behind the pipe and wrapping your fingers around it, you find the lower joint of your thumb and angle it towards your palm.
You take a breath.
And use the wall behind you to lean on the joint, pressing down as hard as you're able to until—
CRACK!
The pain is immediate. A sharp and stinging burn spreading through your entire hand. Fingertips feeling like they're up in flames.
It hurts.
You bite your lower lip, curling in on yourself even more. Teeth split skin. You try your best to focus on the pain in your lip as tears squeeze past your eyelids, soaking into the fabric of your pants.
You take a second to pant shaky breaths through the burning ache. The ringing in your head returning like endless static on an old TV.
You lift your head with hazy vision, the room spinning as you rest your cheek on a bruised knee. Eyes flickering to the blurred shape of the window.
Right — focus. The pain won't get better.
You take hold of the cuff around the hand you just broke and take a deep breath again before sliding it off. The burn gets worse — sharp and suffocating as you make your anguish heard with a strained cry.
Yet you don't stop pushing it until the tight ring of metal finally slips past the disfigured joint and off entirely.
You're free again. Get up.
So you do. Scrambling to your feet as silently as possible with the handcuff hanging off your wrist, you make a break for the washing machines on the other side of the room — hurling the camera to the ground with a crash and climbing up.
You reach for the window, pushing it up as hard as you can. One arm uselessly tucked to your side as you put all your strength into slamming your palm into the sash as hard as possible but—
It won't budge. There's no time.
Your heart is pounding. You unsheathe your claws and curl them into the glass until it barely cracks before reeling back your broken hand and smashing it with a tight fist.
A pained hiss. Shattered glass breaking skin — your fingers throbbing and stinging, but none of it matters matter. The limb is already unusable, breaking it more makes no difference as long as you still have the other one. Keep going.
Muted footsteps frantically make their way towards the door as you use your arm to smash the glass further, breaking it off enough for you to fit through — wincing as it pierces skin.
But there's no time. Your eyes lock onto the empty space beneath the stairs and the door swings open just as you duck under them. Quiet footsteps quickly making their way down.
"Shit—" A curse as the hooded man rips the cloth up enough over his head to see the damage. Metal crowbar hanging in his hand.
His vision must be terrible under that mask — he thinks you've escaped already.
But you don't give him time to realize you're still here.
The handcuffs on your wrist find his throat in an instant as you push through the pain and use your butchered hand to grab the other half of the chains tight — choking him out.
The crowbar clatters to the ground with a heavy clang as his hands shoot up to claw at your broken fingers as he lets out strained coughs.
Dopamine rushes through your veins as you listen to him choke — a toothy smile breaking through your dried lips. Blood crusted just above them.
Vile man. You deserve this.
His elbow finds your gut. The wound that she cut up with her blade. A burning sting shoots through your stomach — up your still-aching ribs but you don't care.
"Hah!" You shriek a breathy laugh through the pain as he gurgles on his own saliva.
Face surely red as you cut off its blood supply with cold metal. The very metal that he used to restrain you with.
The ringing in your head barely audible over the pouring rain outside. The howling wind akin to the storm raging just beneath your flesh as drops of hail burst into the room and hit your skin.
You'd love to kill him here. Take your sweet time watching death take him home as he fights for the life you're dangling in front of him. Knowing he'll never reach it again.
But fate has other plans.
The sound of a distant thud, hurried footsteps. You need to leave.
His struggling weakens by the second. Fingers trembling as you choke the soul out of him. This is good enough.
You throw him to the cold stone. And within seconds you're hauling your mangled body up and through the shards, ignoring how they pierce your skin and flesh — ignoring the pelting of wet ice against your back as you suck in a breath to squeeze past the sharpness.
It drags along your skin, rips you open further, cutting into your jaw, deeper into your mutilated hand but it's all insignificant — you're already on the other side, barely holding on. All you have to do now is jump down—
A delighted gasp gets stuck in your throat as you freeze. Glinting steel beneath you catching your eye.
You're hanging off the window using your broken hand alone, the shards sinking deeper. Feet propped up against the wooden wall as you realize what's blocking your way.
Something dangerous half hidden in the snow. Pointed spikes poking out in a tight ring.
A bear trap.
A sadistic glint in your eye. A grin revealing your sharpest weapons. As if that would stop you. Did they think you wouldn't see it?
You jump — feet landing on either side of it with a crunch as you sink into the snow. Reconnecting with the nature they're so used to. It feels like you can finally breathe again.
There's yelling from inside, but you're long gone. Staggering down the steep hill with a heaving laugh, trying not to slip.
The whistling wind exhilarating as it pelts cold wetness against your face, the hail storm loud enough to drown out all the grating noises in your head. The rush of adrenaline dizzying as your heart beats wildly in your ears.
You feel alive.
Then— a misstep. A twist of your ankle. And you're tumbling down with a sharp gasp that rips from your lungs.
The world spins, blending shapes of black and white — the snow and the trees — into one beautiful twisting swirl of freedom and pain. Scraping against every wound, old bruises aching like never before.
Even as you recognize that familiar feeling of being watched by the unnatural, as the moving shapes merge into something tall and gut wrenchingly divine for less than a second. It's endless ringing gets drowned out by the raging storm. The throbbing in your head irrelevant as it blends with the pain everywhere else.
BANG!
A shot pierces the dirt — barely missing your tumbling body. A distant shout.
You hit a tree with a thud, finally at the bottom. Your surroundings fuzzy and spinning as your body races to catch up to reality.
Everything hurts. It feels euphoric. There's no time to rest. Move, move!
Flipping yourself over painstakingly, you push yourself to your trembling, busted knees, push yourself through everything that hurts, and stumble as you break into a full sprint — slamming your shoulders against countless firm wood, tripping over your own feet. Yet you're unstoppable.
"Hah.. Haha!" And you're laughing.
A twisted, freeing sound. Bubbling straight up from the depths of your lungs, the most honest sound you've released in years. You're in the middle of nowhere, with a broken everything and you can't stop laughing.
Until it becomes the second time you've escaped God's cage.
You ignore the guilt swirling in your chest, growing between your ribs like festering rot. Push it down.
You won't be a slave to the holy again.
─── .✦
Hours have passed since your escape. The storm having calmed from raging hail to a placid snow — just like the state of your mind. The masochistic high has long since worn off as you slowly come to realize just how utterly done for you are.
In a place you've never been to, littered with wounds and bruises — on the verge of passing out as your quivering legs carry you further into the unknown. Further away from evil. A trail of blood steadily covered by the cold white crystals raining down.
You limp down a snow-covered path with ragged breath, stopping every few moments to lean your good hand on rough bark to steady yourself and not let the muffled ringing lead you into unconsciousness.
The sun has fully set, covering the earth in the eerie darkness you're all too familiar with, as your blurry eyes scan the dense trees for shelter.
The fabric of your clothes clings to your skin uncomfortably — dampened by cold snow and hot blood as your unsteady steps lead you further. The handcuffs heavy around your wrist as the snow blurs your vision.
A quiet rustling of leaves behind you making you spin back. But there's nothing there. Just the forest playing tricks on you like it's angry at you for disobeying. Like it's trying to fill you with apprehension in an attempt to get you to turn back.
It won't work.
Something tall and thin appears in the corner of your eyes just between two trees as you turn back forward. Nearly blending in with the lanky statue of the trees around you.
Your heart drops for merely a second before you realize it's not what you thought it was.
A structure made entirely of wood stands tall in the foggy distance. Some sort of tower. Standing on thin logs, entangled and woven together like an unsteady skeleton. Many pairs of stairs leading up. A barely visible platform at the top with a small place of shelter standing on it. Orange light gleaming through the thick fog, like a lighthouse trying to guide you towards the safety the forest tried hiding from you.
Obvious once it catches your eye. The first place one would check if you were to hunt someone down. But it's all you have for now. Your entire body weak and shaking, the cold snow only making every sting worse.
You don't have a choice.
So you push off of the tree you were leaning on and limp towards it. The cuffs jingling with your unsteady steps. The cold air digging into wounded skin, carrying the sharp, distinct scent of wet earth.
The snow crunches under your dragging feet as you pass the thick treeline and a white road comes into view. Tire marks revealing the dirt beneath and leading towards a red and rusty pickup truck, parked just beside the stairs of your newfound shelter.
You come to a stop in front of them and look up at the imposing building. Fog curling around it, seeping into the empty spaces.
It looks so much bigger than it is from down here, you think as you lean on the railing and take a step. The wood creaks under your tired form — it's barely audible over the whistling of the wind.
Higher and higher you climb the stairs, vision going from blurry to focused as you fight the exhaustion and force your eyelids open each time they get too close to touching. Your wheezing breath so loud, it feels like it's the only thing you can hear.
The building shifts under you at every footstep, rickety planks feeling like they'll snap at any moment.
You're almost at the top when you hear a slam of a door above you, immediately followed by the scraping sound of rough footsteps and a deep, grating voice.
"Come on, you don't honestly believe that crap, do you?"
You freeze in place — eyes snapping wide open as you stare at the top of the stairs.
A man. Just above you — probably leaning on the wooden railing as it cries with a creak to support his heavy body.
"This is like the third time he's spewing that bullshit. He's—" A faint and muffled voice cuts him off before he can continue. He raises his voice in a gruff yell. "No, the guy's a nut, that's what he is! Look,"
A slow exhale. You poke your head out the side just enough to see smoke wafting in the air.
"If it's really out here, I'd be the first to know. Nothing slips past me, yeah?" His voice stifled as if something's gripped between his teeth. "And you can trust me on that."
"Yeah, yeah, don't start with that bible bullshit." The other voice barely audible as the person chatters in his ear. "Just— I'll call in the morning, alright?"
A tapping sound — then silence. The cigarette gets flung down to the snow.
"Fuckin' freaks."
Groaning footsteps move above you before a door slams shut, rattling the entire structure.
You have to kill him, you think. There is no way you are sleeping in the snow tonight— you have to get rid of him. You don't know how much longer you can even stand upright.
So you take a second to stabilize yourself — shake the pain off with a huff and several blinks to stop the world from spinning before sneaking up the last couple of stairs as quietly as possible. The only sound coming from the drops of your blood spilling onto planks.
You reach the top and quickly crouch down as you realize the small building's walls are made almost entirely out of windows, letting you get a perfect view of the interior.
The man stands to the side of the room, hunched over a mini fridge as he rummages through it and takes out a cold beer bottle.
You duck — back against the low wall as you take a breath, trying to come up with the quickest way to kill him without having to tire your exhausted body even further.
You peek your head out again, watching as he turns on an old radio that looks like it'll fall apart at any second. Loud rock music begins to play as he cracks the drink open with a sizzle.
You're right next to the door — his back is turned to you. Now's your chance.
You push yourself up to your feet and nudge the door open. It creaks, yet the sound is covered by the howling storm and shrill e-guitar grating on your ears. Your head is pounding.
The man throws his head back, chugging the beer straight down. You're behind him in a second — not even breathing anymore as your widened eyes lock onto him like a tired predator hunting clueless prey.
Your good hand shoots out to grip his jaw, handcuffs clinking on your wrist — half-mangled arm around his throat within an instant as you grip him tight.
A choked sound forces itself out of his lungs but he barely has time to react. You use what's left of your unnatural strength to tug his jaw up to where his ear is supposed to sit and—
CRACK!
The sound is sickening. He drops to the floor, all life drained from him within microseconds — the beer bottle shattering next to him.
Your breath comes back to you in deep gasps as you finally allow yourself to slump backwards — throbbing back to the wall as the tension leaves your heavy shoulders.
You close your eyes. And take a moment to rest. Everything aches.
But— you think. Eyes drooping open, your lazy gaze shifts to what once was a living person laying still on the floor.
You know just the thing to make you feel better.
His heavy body sprawled out as the drink stains the brown planks a shade darker, seeping between the cracks. His fingers still curled as if to catch it.
You run your tongue across your teeth. Imagining they were something else instead.
And you're throwing yourself onto him in seconds — flipping him on his back and tearing his checkered button-up off and sinking your teeth in.
Ripping into his flesh, you indulge in the fat of his stomach. His thighs. The meat around his neck.
Pulling it off the bone, opening him up to yank out what's inside. Molars sinking deep, tearing out bite-sized chunks. Letting the squelching sweetness stain your tongue, run down your throat in thick gulps.
God— it feels so good.
The room fills with that heavy metallic scent of warm innards meeting winter air as they turn inside out — the wet sound of muscles snapping, teeth clacking. Grunts that sound more animal than they do human.
This is a different kind of hunger. It's carnal — violent. Desire that's growing under your skin and tainting it. Something that's been festering since your very birth.
You know there is no need to eat him whole. You're plenty satisfied from the last time you indulged.
But this hunger is gluttonous. You live to devour. It's the sole thing you're able to enjoy in full. The sole thing that gives you purpose in this meaningless existence.
You're eating so fast, you can hardly focus on the taste anymore, scarfing down half-chewed pieces like it's second nature. Swallowing everything his anatomy has to offer, faster than you can breathe, faster than your body can keep up with — catching what spills past your chin and shoving it back between your hungry lips.
You don't stop until there's nothing edible left. Until he's nothing but a mutilated pile of red. Until you're stained in him. From the space beneath your nails to the hairs littering your forearm from when you reached inside. The skin around your mouth — your teeth and tongue. You don't even know which blood is yours anymore.
Lifting your maw off of the corpse at last and leaning back on your thighs, you throw your head back with a loud exhale.
You take the suffocating mask and lift it up and off your face, freeing you from that constricting tightness. Properly letting you smell that mouthwatering scent of fresh guts lingering. Letting your skin breathe for once.
Wiping a hand over your bruised and bloody face, you stand to your feet and take a look around the room.
Cardboard boxes lay scattered throughout it, a small kitchen tucked into the corner in front of you. The mini fridge still left ajar, cooling the already freezing air even further. A low, round table stands in the middle of the room, with a shotgun discarded on its surface. An ancient looking computer sitting atop a desk, emitting a buzzing sound all too similar to the ringing you're too used to.
But you don't care for that right now. The blaring radio next to it feels like more of a problem for your splitting headache.
You walk to it and click it off before stumbling towards a blue mattress and letting yourself collapse face first on top of it.
Its softness one you're unfamiliar with as you pass the weight of the day onto it.
Head ringing — muscles sore as they finally quiet their screaming at you for exhausting them so much.
You feel like you're laying atop a cloud, watching the pain begin to float off. With a full belly and a slowly healing body — opened skin growing closed.
short oneshot of kate sneaking into your room at night ><
pairing: kate milens | kate the chaser x reader
genre: hurt/comfort
wc: 1.2k
It's the dead of night.
You've been tossing and turning for hours on end — unable to find even a fragment of comfort in your dampened sheets.
The blanket feels suffocatingly warm. A sheen layer of sweat building on your skin and sticking to the fabric of your shorts — but taking it off only makes you all the lonelier. You can't sleep without its comforting embrace. Though it feels anything but comforting in this summer heat.
You just want to sleep.
Lord knows you need it. You're not ready to face the day like this again, having been running on energy drinks all week, making the constant ringing in your aching head only get worse.
And if that wasn't bad enough, you're pretty sure that thing has begun stalking you again. Though you're almost used to it by now. That tingling in the back of your neck at all hours of the day, the chills running down your spine as the sinking feeling in your gut gets all the more nauseating.
With an angered huff you snap your eyes back open, throwing the blanket to the side as you sit up and take a moment to blink the exhaustion out of them.
You've been ignoring the urge to pee for long enough. You can't stand this anymore.
You reach for your phone to check the time in a sleepy daze. Almost four am.
Yeah, you're not sleeping tonight either.
Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you let your feet touch the cold wood of your floor before getting up and making your way to your cramped bathroom with a yawn.
The door creaks as you open it, flicking on the old light and squeezing your eyes shut at the sudden brightness.
You ignore the stinging in them as you finish your business — already missing being surrounded by the softness of your mattress.
The light flickers above your head for a moment, reminding you of just how run down your tiny apartment actually is.
The overhead light in the kitchen doesn't work, the water never heats up properly and the lock on the window beside your bed is broken entirely.
You never bothered fixing any of it. This place is shit. But that's what you get for being broke. You're lucky you were even able to afford anything at all.
Making your way back to the bedroom after washing your hands, you stop in the doorway at the sound of wind howling outside your room.
Has your window been open this entire time? Unease making you squirm in place. You don't remember the rustling outside being this clear.
Is it that thing again? Surely not— it hasn't gotten that close to you in months, you haven't even had a coughing fit yet, it won't just show up out of nowhere, right?
A shuddering breath.
You need to calm down. The stress is getting to you — you need to get some rest. You can't afford another nervous breakdown.
Ignoring the sickening feeling in your stomach, you crawl back into bed. Blanket thrown over you like useless protection as you lay on your back and stare up at the ceiling.
Fighting the urge to start looking out the window again. Not wanting to know if it is looking back.
You force your eyes shut. And try to think of something nice. Like the smell of nutella pancakes after a difficult day. The sound of birds singing again when spring starts to bloom. A tender kiss from someone you haven't seen in weeks.
Then— a shuffle. The bed dipping under weight. A muffled, animalistic breath, way too close for comfort.
Your eyes snap open and you're face-to-face with a mask not even an inch away from you. Coal black staining pristine white. Wide, icy blue eyes gaping into your own.
Your heart drops. But before you can scream, a hand finds your mouth — firmly pressing down.
"Hi."
What the fuck.
Initial fear quickly replaced by anger as you process who exactly is on top of you.
You squirm until she drops her hand and sit up — shoving her back.
"Kate!? What are you—"
She pushes the mask up and off her face, carelessly tossing it to the ground before leaning in and pressing her dry lips to yours without letting you get in another word.
The kiss is deep — hungry, like she's been needing it her whole life. Hands find your cheek, the bare skin of your waist under your shirt. Warmth blooms in your chest.
A short moment of serenity as you melt into it with a soft moan. Your arms around her neck like it's second nature. It is.
Then you remember how she's been gone for almost a month without a single text letting you know she's even still alive.
You rip away from her with a gasp, eyebrows narrow as your glare settles in even when she follows, her hands refusing to let go of you a second time.
"It's been weeks! What is wrong with you!?" Your voice cracks with emotion.
"I know," Her voice low and husky as she breathes the words against your lips. "I'm sorry."
Angry tears fill your eyes and you quickly brush them off. Hiding your face by tilting it away from hers. Your vision blurring as more of them rise to the surface.
She frowns. And forces your head back to face her again.
"Why didn't you call? Or at least text me," A sob rips from your throat as all the nights of worrying for her safety come crashing back to you at once. "I thought you were—"
Another kiss, slower this time. Like she's trying to make you feel her remorse rather than voice it. Her rough fingers tugging at your skin, pulling you as close as possible until the only thing stopping you from truly touching are atoms themselves. Lips moving in deliberate kindness.
She pulls away.
"I'm sorry." Then again, quiet with a sort of softness that tugs at your heart. "I'm sorry."
Her forehead leaning against yours as your hitching breaths wrack your form.
Her thumb brushing away the tears.
You knew what her so-called 'job' needed from her when you got into this relationship. You knew about the violence — the baggage. But that doesn't mean that it's easy.
Countless nights spent patching up her wounds, wondering what could have possibly made her leak her own guts out, staining the cracks between the floorboards red — all while she doesn't say a single word to you.
"I dropped my phone in the woods. Couldn't find it."
"Of course you did."
"I'm sorry." Her fingers move against your skin, up and down your side in a gentle stroke as you calm back down. "It wasn't supposed to take this long. Things happened."
"Okay."
With a shaky sigh, you lay back down again, pulling her with you. Listening to the shuffling sounds of her kicking off her dirtied shoes and crawling under the covers.
You don't care about the grime. You know she'll clean up after herself in the morning. Never one to tolerate a mess.
She doesn't know that the faceless creature has taken a liking to you yet. You don't know how to tell her. She'll blame herself and leave — you can't handle her leaving again.
But that is not tonight's problem.
For now, you relish in her warmth. Her chest beneath your head as you trace her moles. Listening to her heart beat.
my ideal romantic date is hunting each other for sport <3
blurring the line between gentle love and a carnal lust for violence as masky chases you through the wet forest — your hair sticking to your forehead as you trip and stumble over dead roots. a breathless smile on your face as your heart races to keep up. you're both bleeding. your pocket knife still gripped tight in your fist. his viscera staining it.
his masked face above yours as you kick and claw at him — blade buried somewhere in the dirt from your fall. breathing in each others ragged breaths. hazel eyes boring into yours behind the cutouts.
the intimacy of his hand wrapped around your throat. going from squeezing the lifeline out of your lungs until your vision blurs to slowly moving upwards with a stroke that's almost tender. caressing your cheek. his thumb in your mouth. unflinching even when you bite down.
he hides behind the white mask to distance himself from all the wrongs he's forced to do. the blank color kindred to the featureless face of the operator.
when the goal is to kill a victim, he won't stop running his mouth. mocking, yelling — letting his frustrations out through senseless violence.
he just wants them to stop fighting it so he can get this over with already.
it feels so good to put the mask on. to be in control. to feel like the predator for once — no longer the helpless victim coughing up his guts, seizing in his own bedroom, infecting the only people he's ever got to call friends.
god knows the guilt will eat him whole once he takes it off again.
summary: A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
wc: 5.0k
masterlist, ao3
You feel like you're floating.
Body light as a feather, head fuzzy — but not unpleasant. As if you're swimming in a pool of eternity, feeling nothing at all. No pain, no problems. Not even that infinite ringing can reach you here. The universe is silent for once. You're at peace.
You don't remember the last time you felt like this. Come to think of it, you don't remember anything at all. And you find yourself not wanting to. Your mind is calm, body serene.
You hope this feeling never ends.
A voice faintly echoes through time and space. It's so quiet, you don't pay it any mind.
"…ey!"
Again — louder. You stir at the disruption, but quickly fall back into that soothing mindset.
"…ke up!"
You can almost make out words now. But the voice is muffled, like whoever is speaking is swimming underwater. Your eyebrows furrow, wishing whoever it was would shut up and leave you be already.
A harsh punch to the gut pulls you back to reality.
Instantly, you shoot up, a loud, coughing grunt rips itself from your throat as your eyes snap open in a panic.
"There you go, he-…hello!" a familiar, stuttering voice finds your ears, scratchy and amused.
It's him. Your latest victim — or rather what was supposed to be. Orange ski-goggles hardly an inch away from you as he leans in close. You can just barely make out his gleeful eyes under them. His lower face is free from the mouth guard, exposing a toothy smile. A bandage covers his cheek and the corner of his mouth, the color almost blending with his skin.
Memories of where you are and what happened flood your brain within microseconds. The throbbing from your wounds returns as that haziness begins fading away. Your shoulder especially.
You try to look around you in a panic, blinking away exhaustion.
"Sleep well?"
You flinch away from him but he doesn't let you move far. His hand grips your jaw hard and tilts it side to side — examining all the bruises and marks left on what's visible of your face with a satisfied hum, your mask still comfortably shielding away part of the damage.
"Man," he laughs out, his eyes landing on the hole in your ear. The hood of your poncho must have fallen off when you were out. "Th-they really fff…fucked you up good, huh?"
This can't be real. You can't do this—
With quickening breath, you become aware of the tightness around your torso and wrists again. Grunting and heaving, you twist your body in an attempt to loosen what you assume is rope. It only makes him grip your face harder, squeezing your cheeks together and leaving behind a throbbing ache you know will bruise.
That faint ringing in your head returns and your heartbeat accelerates at the familiar feeling of restraint. Getting caught like this — how could you have been so stupid? What is wrong with you?
He ignores your silent panic entirely, orange-covered eyes now focused on the bullet wound in your upper arm as he mumbles to himself and lifts the fabric of your poncho up for a better view. You flinch away from the touch.
"Wish I was there to sss-see it for myself.. would've made sure y-you wouldn't be awake at all right— right now." A harsh grunt escapes his lips. "But hey! You caught me off guh-guard, good on you!"
He lets you go and leans back, body still partially standing over you but far enough for your vision to be filled with more than just him.
You can't let it happen again — you can't live like that again! You have to focus.
Your eyes begin wildly darting around now — searching for the nearest exit as your brain tries to come up with ways to get out.
"Sss-saw what you did to Tim an' Brian too," He's not even looking at you anymore, muttering only to himself as he blankly stares through you. "Ya got some feisty c-claws, huh?"
That's when you notice the looming figure leaning against the wall behind him — blocking the stairs. Scarred arms crossed and masked face pointed right at you.
You freeze.
"I mean— I'm pre-pretty sure this is like the ff…first time Brian's actually missed a target!"
For a second you thought that Tim was wearing a different, dirty-looking mask but you quickly realize that it's an entirely new person.
Straight, dark hair hiding part of the white and black mask like a clinging shadow, spilling past strong shoulders hidden under a dark red t-shirt. A hoodie tied around her waist — dirtied in a way kindred to the mask. With black matter splattered all over.
Another one? Just how many of them are there!?
"And I can't even re-rem…remember the last time Tim cuh-came h-home with his own guts staining hi-his…his—" he's interrupted by a sharp and sudden twitch. His head meeting his shoulder with a painful crack. You wince at the sound, but keep your eyes trained on the newest deadly stranger. "— clothes."
She meets your gaze with hardened posture. Arms gripping impossibly tighter. Your eyes flicker down to her nails digging into skin — probably wishing it was your own. The desire to hurt is practically dripping off of her, you can feel it.
It rekindles the flame of that same craving inside of you. You narrow your eyes, refusing to blink — to be the first to let the eye contact break for even a second.
This— this is good. Her anger means they care for each other. It means it'll hurt all the more when you tear their little family apart. You just need to hold it together.
You're so caught up in your predatory staring contest that you don't notice how the man in front of you has stopped talking altogether. How his wide eyes bore into yours with a blank, unreadable look. How his hand jerks towards the side of his thigh.
You barely have time to react to the sound of shifting leather, to something sharp and cold pressing to your throat within an instant.
Your breath hitches as you flinch away but the sharpness follows — forces itself past layers of skin. Forces your still-glaring eyes to meet his again.
"Are you even listening?" He utters the words with unusual steadiness. Voice deep and angered by your ignorance. "I'm… talking to you."
A hot sting erupts from where the weapon presses harder into you. It burns. But you refuse to let your pain be heard. Even as it dribbles down your neck in wet warmth. Even as your head begins pounding again.
"Eyes on me."
The lack of stuttering sends a chill down your spine. Yet you don't move an inch.
"Should've been there from the sss-start.", he begins mumbling again, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Could've made sure you'd be th-the one missing an arm."
You forgot about that.
Your eyes immediately fly down to what should've been the lack of a limb, only to find it still attached to his body, held up by a sling. It's the only reason you know you didn't dream up what happened.
But how— no, of course they'd know how to stitch it back on. Living like this means they're bound to get injured, they couldn't survive without some medical knowledge. Either way he shouldn't be able to use it for a long time. This is good. It is.
You feel your heartbeat getting louder as he presses the hatchet deeper into you. It only makes your blood boil.
"Wh-what? Forget about our little en-encounter already? I'm hurt."
His mocking tone makes your all the angrier. How dare he speak to you like this? He should be afraid of you for what you did! He should be trembling! You wish you had just made it quick.
He stares at you for a moment. Silence filling the room before the weapon is removed from your throat and dropped to the ground with a violent clatter.
A sudden hand reaches out to find your neck and grip it tight.
"You know it's rude t-to ig-ignore sss-…someone—" He grimaces with a grunt, squeezing harder. "Are- are you gonna k-keep making me talk to myself or are you finally gonna sss-say something?"
A strained noise escapes your lips.
"Well?!" His booming voice makes your ears ring with how he's yelling.
You feel your blood spill out more and more, soaking the fabric of his fingerless glove. It's hard to breathe. Your heartbeat throbs in the veins of your temple. You've had enough of this.
"Get— your filthy hands off of me."
Your voice surprises you. Raw and cracking from rarely using it in all this time.
His eyes widen. A lazy, uneven grin spreads across his lips, letting you get a glimpse at crooked teeth.
He releases your neck and glances at his fingers, rubbing them together to feel the liquid red with a hum.
You try not to let him hear you take in a breath.
"So the beast sss-speaks."
Through the orange goggles, his eyes find yours once more. You're about to open your mouth to speak again but before you can, you notice movement behind him.
The masked woman reaches out to shove the man away by the good shoulder, taking his place in your vision as she leans in close, gripping the antlers of your mask and tilting your head up painfully.
Her icy blue eyes barely visible as they bore into yours through the holes of the mask — wide and full of anger.
Yet she doesn't speak. Merely tilts your head back further. Her coal black hair falls like a curtain around your face as she leans over you. Trapping you with her in darkness.
Goosebumps form on your skin as you realize she won't say anything — Why won't she say anything?! Her grip firm as the nape of your neck begins to ache.
Your breathing stutters and you feel smaller by the second. Her cold eyes remain unblinking, unwavering as they stare into you like she's trying to crack your bones apart to get a glimpse of your rotten soul.
You haven't felt this seen in what feels like years. It's not common that anyone ever gets a good look at you — you're usually hidden deep within the shadows of the forest. Adept at staying unseen. This new feeling— her eyes piercing yours, like she can see everything you've learned to hide — you cannot stand it.
A hand reaches down to your jaw and she holds it firm. You can do nothing but stare up at her with bated breath and widened eyes as she begins pushing the mask higher in an attempt to unveil your face.
Your heart sinks. Not one pair of eyes has ever witnessed what's under the mask since the very second you put it on. You made sure of it until now.
You try to lean away but it's useless to her iron grip.
"Don't—"
Lucky for you, that time has yet to come, for the door opens with a—
SLAM!
All eyes in the room find him at the top of the stairs — face free of the porcelain white as he makes his way down with heavy footsteps and a frown.
The woman spares one last spiteful glare beneath her mask at your shaken form before granting you mercy from her gaze and stepping away to lean against the back of the old couch, making space for her fellow companion.
You let out a breath.
"Fff-finally awake, huh old m-man?" The twitching one jokes next to the masked woman.
"Shut up."
"Get— get enough beauty sss-sleep?"
She jabs an elbow into his side.
Ignoring him, Tim reaches the bottom of the stairs and your heart stutters at the thought of another face so close to your own. At the thought of another pair of hands around your jaw — digging into old wounds on purpose.
He steps in front of you, unphased by your frightened glare. He sighs.
"Look— I know this sucks but it's kinda on you for following us back here."
He's right. You hate that he's right. You should never have gone after them.
Behind him, the hooded one appears wordlessly. You didn't even hear him come down the stairs. Ignoring everything else, he makes his way straight to the still-blinking camera and picks it up.
"I mean, I was gonna let you be, but" He shoves his hands into the pockets of dark blue jeans as he scowls down at you. "I'm sure you heard that."
His sarcasm is beginning to get under your skin. Hot fury taking hold of your heart again — pushing down the fear and shame. You want to rip him to shreds.
The hooded man stops examining whatever's on the camera and instead turns to point it at you. Little red light blinking as he adjusts it.
"Am i supposed to be grateful for your mercy?" It hurts to speak from how rough your voice is.
A look of surprise unfurrows his thick eyebrows for a moment, not expecting you to respond. He opens his mouth but you cut him off before he can say anything else.
"I should have killed you when I had the chance."
It's silent for a moment. Tense.
"You should've." He pauses, his look of mild annoyance morphs into that of anger. He takes a step towards you, taking his hands out of his pockets. "You should also know that getting me angry isn't going to get you out of here."
You stay quiet for a second. You know that poking the bear is stupid. You know you'll probably get beat. You don't care. Because heaven knows how good it feels to let your anger out on him in silly words. So you do just that.
"You should know that when I do get out," You lean forward as much as the tight rope allows you to. "—I am going to get you first."
There's a snicker from the couch.
Your eye contact with the man doesn't waver — even as he reaches out to grip your jaw hard. He leans down, face close enough to smell the cigarette stench of his breath.
"You wanna be a smartass so bad, go ahead." He squeezes harder. "But the truth is that you're stuck here whether you like it or not, because for whatever reason that— thing has taken an interest in you and there is nothing you can do to get away."
His words send an icy chill down your spine. You know exactly what thing he's talking about. And suddenly the tightness of the ropes feels all the more restricting. Your heartbeat is pulsing through your temple with how your head is pounding and you can focus on nothing but that endless ringing.
Everything hurts. You can't do this.
"Who knows what you were doin' out there in the first place, but you got yourself into this mess and now there is no way out."
You don't reply this time — not like you'd have a proper response anyway — and instead open up to sink your teeth into the side of his palm with a swift bite.
He doesn't flinch, only squeezes tighter as his eyes bore into yours, heaving.
You clamp down harder. You don't know what else to do.
With a pained breath he finally releases his grip on you and yanks his hand back, letting you tear his skin up further as he steps back.
Sweet blood stains your tongue. The only thing keeping you grounded in this hellish place.
From the corner of your eye, you see the woman get up to grab something off a cabinet and throw it to him.
Duct tape. He wipes the wounded hand on his jeans without another care and rips off a piece with his teeth before promptly sticking it over your red-stained lips — dodging your attempts to bite him again.
You can't— this has to be a nightmare, right? You can't do this, you refuse to feel like a slave again. You have to get out, you have to—
"Behave." He sighs as he turns away towards the stairs again. "And maybe we'll go easy."
There's a scoff as the man with the goggles begins to follow him. They're finally leaving.
"Speak fff-for yo-yourself, man."
The hooded man puts the camera back to its original place before joining the others.
But there are still eyes on you. The woman stops at the bottom of the stairs — still facing you. She won't stop looking at you.
Your head is throbbing. Your whole body is throbbing. The tape is tight and you can barely breathe. And that maddening ringing faintly echoes in your ears like infinite static.
Despite the cold, sweat is building on your skin as you weakly struggle against the restraints with a muffled grunt.
"Kate, come on"
She listens after one last hesitating look, but you're not even looking at them anymore. Your eyes are fixed to the cold stone floor in front of you — getting blurrier by the second.
Tears fill up as your heart races and the ringing gets all the more deafening.
You can't believe you let this happen again, you thought you were finally rid of it — of Him. You ran for hours. Days. You had to learn to survive entirely by yourself.
The door slams closed and you feel your throat closing up as all the memories of your old life flood your brain. Memories of being watched every second of the day — of fear and uncertainty as you spend your nights dreading your inevitable future.
A few droplets of tears roll down your face, dripping down to stain the fabric of your pants. Muffled hiccups escape your wet lips as you finally allow yourself to cry.
The rope digs into your chest as you lean forward. Snot begins to clog your nose — sniffing it up doesn't help at all. You can't breathe.
Your head hurts, your ear hurts — everything hurts. You can't do this again.
─── .✦
Minutes turn to hours as you sit alone with your thoughts, squirming uselessly in your restraints.
The tears have long since dried on your bruised face, yet your eyes haven't shifted once. Your empty gaze remains glued to your lap. Zoned out.
The duct tape has loosened from all the wetness running under it and you managed half-removing it from your crusty lips. It still sticks to your cheek uncomfortably but you're able to breathe again.
At least it wasn't entirely useless to cry your eyes out, you think as you hear another creaking footstep from above, reminding you that you're not alone. You just hope they haven't heard.
The buzzing in your head has calmed a bit. You're able to focus on more than just the noise again. You're able to think. Or rather you would be if it wasn't for exhaustion clinging to your bones and holding tight — trying to drag you back to unconsciousness again.
Your body aches for rest, eyes feeling so heavy. And your head is still pounding… maybe this really is just a bad dream. Maybe if you let it in, you'll wake up home again.
A muffled slam of a door snaps your eyes back open — a short burst of fear spiking your heart rate at the thought of one of them coming downstairs again.
Your wide eyes dart to the door in anticipation. A minute goes by as you hold your breath. Yet it never opens.
You hate this. You shouldn't be dreading their violence — you're not even afraid of pain. You shouldn't flinch at the simple sound of a distant voice. How pathetic can you get? You're supposed to be the predator!
The moonlight shines faintly through the small window. The sun has gone down hours ago. You've been here for a day.
A shaky exhale leaves your lips and you swallow. Your mouth burns with how dry it is. You're thirsty.
You look down to where the familiar weight of your cross-body pouch is supposed to be and—
It's gone. Of course it's gone. Of course they wouldn't let you have one thing, you think as anger clouds your mind.
It's not fair. You could have easily killed them — it's not your fault that freak wasn't phased by losing a whole limb, anyone would have been caught off guard!
Throwing your head back in exaggeration, you struggle weakly against the tightness around your wrists. It only digs further into your skin as tears build up again.
But before they could spill past sore cheeks, you realize something. And freeze.
You squirm again — to make sure.
That's rope. They tied you up with rope. A breathless laugh slips out as you're left dumbfounded. Haven't they learned what you are? Have you exhausted their minds to the point of stupidity?
And here you were making a fool of yourself! You could have been free already!
Squirming, you extend your claws and angle your wrists. They're so numb, you can barely feel your fingers anymore — but it doesn't matter as you're already blindly scratching at the material until you feel it becoming looser and looser before it's slipping off entirely.
You arms fall away from the uncomfortable bend — your shoulders relax again. You rest for a second, relishing the feeling. You breathe.
Then you immediately begin slicing through the rope around your torso — around your ankles and the beast is unshackled again.
Without another thought you throw yourself off the chair and towards freedom.
You feel your heartbeat rushing in your head and the ringing getting more and more intense. You ignore it.
With shallow breath, your eyes lock straight on the door as you stumble ungracefully up the stairs, a palm slammed to the wall to catch your balance and—
You pause just as your fingers twitch towards the handle.
Leaving this way would be foolish — you don't even know what's behind this door, let alone who.
You turn back to face the room as your eyes land on the window, your footsteps quiet as you make your way back down again. Calmer this time.
You need to think. Rushing this is a terrible idea — you need a plan.
You're about halfway down the long set of stairs when—
SLAM!
You barely have time to snap your head back to see who ripped the door open before a heavy force collides with your form, throwing you both down.
Your mask flies off as your head and ribs and knees hit the ground — all the air gets knocked from your lungs. You grunt from the force, hardly managing to catch yourself as the person lands on your back, using you to cushion their fall.
You don't get any time to recover — they immediately flip you around as you weakly attempt throwing your elbow in their face to throw them off. It does nothing.
The person— Kate slams your arm down with her left and reels back with her right before her fist collides with your cheek and nose hard. And again.
The force of it knocks your head into the ground. Everything is spinning. You wheeze.
Your arms shoot out to grip her arm and neck before she can try again as you use your knee to push her off of you — slicing at her throat in the process.
You roll out from under her and scramble up, snatching your mask and securing it quickly as you stand — facing her from a distance.
She's heaving, fingers feeling the wetness leaking from her neck before she's charging at you again with a guttural yell.
You see her fist coming this time — quickly stepping to the side as you barely avoid it. You grip her shoulder and your knee connects with her gut.
She grunts — and clutches your hair tight as she slams your head into the nearest wall.
You gasp. Hot pain blooms through it — everything stings. There's no time to think.
You stumble backwards, dizzy and disoriented. Your vision blurry as you barely make out glinting steel.
Your hip bumps into an end table. You use it to keep your balance.
She runs at you again, just as your trembling fingers curl around the cool metal of an old lamp.
Her knife swings for your face and you barely dodge it before using all your strength to strike the lamp upside her head.
She staggers. You try again — but she rips it out of your hands and throws it to the ground where it shatters before promptly slicing at your arm.
You trip over the carpet in an attempt to step away from her — your lower back hitting the back of the couch. She's on you in a second. Pinning you to it with her weight.
Grabbing her wrist and throat, you feel the knife pierce skin, then flesh as she stabs it right into your abdomen. It burns.
"Ah—" The pained sound forces itself out of your lips before you can stop it.
Your nails sink deeper and deeper into the flesh around her neck just as her blade sinks further into your own. Her hand comes up to snatch your wrist and hold it tight as she leans over you.
Your knee comes up to push against her waist in an attempt to create distance. It's useless.
Neither of you are saying anything — eyes locked and filled with determined bloodlust as you feel her heavy breath panting against your own. You haven't noticed it before, but there's a square cutout in the mask where her mouth sits — letting you get a glimpse at grit teeth and cracked lips. At her cold hatred.
There's a certain intimacy to it as she shoves the knife just a little deeper. Your eyes narrow with a pained wince.
Something wet and warm spills past your panting lips — dripping down your chin and neck in a heavy flow. Your nose is bleeding. You don't care. All you wish to do right now is slit her throat. Cut her open 'til she's nothing but a weeping pile of viscera.
Oh, if only she would let you. Your wrist aches with how tight she's gripping it — refusing to let you cut her up any more. Your limbs are trembling. Your hold on hers wavering. You don't know how much longer you can do this.
Dizzying pain spread all throughout your limbs — settling deep within your dense bones. Pressure of her muscles holding down your own. It's the only thing you're able to focus on. Her.
Her flesh pulsing in irregular beats under your talons, her blood staining the gaps beneath your fingernails, her knife twisting like a knot, pulling tighter and tighter until you're unable to do anything but grit your teeth and try to hold still.
You can't tell if it's a blessing or a curse that time feels slowed. The world taking her sweet time moving forward as you glare into the cracked windows of the masked woman's soul.
But in an instant, her weight gets pulled off of you and the blade yanked out. Your vocal chords burn with the cry you let out as it slices you up even further.
A hand flies down to your wound as you crumple in on yourself.
"Shit—" Tim's voice cuts through the tense silence. You didn't even hear him coming down.
He roughly grabs you by the arm and drags you to the other side of the room where a pipe runs along the wall and throws you to the ground — barely letting you catch yourself.
"Get the cuffs.", he mutters to her lowly, glaring down at you with furrowed brows as he kneels beside you, grabbing your aching wrists in one of his calloused hands. The bloodied bandage harsh against your skin.
You weakly kick at his legs — pushing and pulling against his grip like it's going to do anything at all.
"Quit squirming!"
You just growl at him. You'd spit in his face if it wasn't for the sharp stinging blooming from your side. You can hardly move a single muscle. The urge to grasp and clutch onto your newest wound growing by the second.
Sticky warmth seeps out — staining your tunic and dripping down and down. You can feel it begin pooling under you.
"What did I tell you, huh?!", he shouts in your face. "Struggling will only make it worse!"
He turns to Kate as she passes him handcuffs and your wrists are restrained before you know it. Cuffed to the pipe behind your back again — this time on the dirty floor.
"Look, I don't know what it wants from you," he stands to his feet. "But I can tell you for a fact you can't escape it. Give it up."
He's lying. He has to be lying.
Tense silence engulfs the room for a long moment as you stare up at him. Broken by your seething and wheezing. Your head ringing.
He sighs. Turning to the masked woman and studying her still-bleeding throat. One of her hands comes up to shield it from him but he's already laying a hand on her shoulder. Worried.
"You okay?"
"Fine." Her voice is husky and low. You almost didn't hear it with how quiet she speaks.
"You sure? Looks deep." He moves his hand to her back and begins guiding her up the stairs. "Let me help clean it."
If the cut was deep she wouldn't be conscious by now. His compassion is pathetic.
"Tim, I'm fine — honest." Her voice cracks, but not from emotion — she seems almost unphased from her injuries. She must simply never use it often either.
"Okay."
The door closes. You're left alone again. With nothing but your thoughts and the soreness spreading through your limbs.
Shallow breaths slip out as you yank on the cuffs. Cold metal pressing into fresh bruises.
This is fine. It is. You'll just take a bit to rest your wounded body and come up with something new. You know you can think of something — you've gotten out of worse. Restraints have never stopped you before. And they won't start now. You don't care how long it takes — how much blood you have to spill, even if it's your own.
summary: A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
wc: 5.2k
masterlist, ao3
You watch the mans body slump to the ground.
Honestly, you should have expected this. You've seen these guys break into a house and murder people, clearly they weren't going to help him.
The hooded man grabs his shotgun with a trembling hand — the fabric on his arms still ripped up from your ambush. Wounds now covered in bloody bandages as he aims the gun down low and—
BANG!
Anthony's brains paint the white snow red in an instant. Seeping out to cover sacred earth in sin.
The sharpshooter once again turns towards where he emerged, this time stepping away to climb up the small hill.
That's when you finally see it. The masked ones bare face.
Thick eyebrows furrowed above tired, hooded eyes as he stares down at the body — sideburns framing pale cheeks. Thin lips pulled downwards into a frown. A roman nose. Features opposite of that delicate mask.
With a pained grunt he holds onto his wounded stomach as he kneels down to check its pockets, taking whatever he deems useful.
You feel a sick sense of satisfaction flood your veins as you observe their injuries. You're glad they're hurting. You're glad to have left your mark on them the way they did on you.
Your wounds sting at the reminder.
The hooded man is standing right beneath you now as he aims the shotgun at unmoving shadows. Waiting for a chance to put you down. You won't let him.
The world stills. All wildlife around you having gone dead-silent. No birds sing their winter song, not even the wind dares brushing past the leaves — not unusual for this cursed forest, but something feels different. As if the earth is afraid and you should be too.
As much as you want to — you don't jump the man this time. Instead you watch the other one stand to his feet once more, having taken what he needed — a pack of Marlboro Reds and some cash, pocketing it.
He pulls out a cigarette and lights it between his lips before turning to his associate.
"We are not looking for that thing again." He exhales smoke. "Come on."
Again?
A sense of dread crawls up your throat as you comprehend his words. They looked for you.
Wretched anger pushes down the panic in your chest at the thought of them having found your shack. At the thought of coming home to chaos. You swear to rip them apart if they even laid a single finger on your only place of shelter.
The armed man whips around and they lock eyes for a moment — disagreeing. Tension thick. He seems to really want to hunt you down, you realize. And you want to do the same.
You put a hand over your mouth to mute your heavy breathing. Your erratic heartbeat pounds in your ears.
The brunette narrows his eyes as he begins to speak.
"I get that you're obsessed with odd shit, but I mean," He points at the weapon in his arms. "You can't even hold that thing without shaking!", his voice cracking slightly as he gets louder.
The hooded man silently tightens his grip in an attempt to prove his companion wrong. But his nervous system betrays him — the gun remains trembling.
"Look, I've been on my feet for three days straight, so if you wanna play detective so bad you're gonna have to do it by yourself." He begins trudging down the path, snow crunching loudly under heavy boots. "I'm leavin'."
The hooded man watches him step over the body. He stays still for a moment. Thinking.
With one last hesitating look between the unnaturally soundless trees, he follows.
Your glare remains unnoticed.
Coward, you think. He's a pathetic lapdog — giving up without even trying. Surely he can feel your eyes on him. Does he think you're not worth the chase? A wet cough rips itself from your throat as you watch their forms get smaller and their footsteps quieter. You throw your arm over your lips to muffle it. Does he think this makes him a better person? Stepping away instead of satisfying his anger?
Your blurry vision spins as you sink your claws into thick bark. You slide down the tree and stumble, falling to your knees as you spit slimey blood into wet snow. Coughing with blurry eyes — watching the men as they disappear further into the woods.
The endless ringing becomes louder and louder as you heave and wheeze and claw onto your pounding head — the pain becoming ruthless.
Those filthy people. They ruined everything — and now they expect to just run away? After all the hurt they put you through? Do they think you'll just let them get away with it, watch them leave and do nothing? Fools, the both of them!
A hazy cloud of fury covers your senses as you rasp — you can't focus, can't even think right with this incessant sound.
You feel like the only way to get rid of it is to get rid of them first. You must. There's no other way. Violence is the only answer.
A quiet growl rips from your throat — red drool spilling down your chin as you rip through dirt to race after them in that instant. Like a feral animal, you find their tracks and give chase before you can even think to make a different choice.
Fleeting footsteps barely meeting crystalline snow as it sparkles in the bright afternoon sun — sky clear of clouds and observing the predator you've turned into.
Your muscles tense, heartbeat erratic as reckless rage sinks its dirty claws deeper into you. You catch up quick, their silhouettes hiking down the path as they come into your view again.
You slow — eyes hyper-focused on the men as you control your hitching breath. Your footsteps stay soundless as you merge with the trees behind them. Tense silence still engulfing the air around them.
The ceaseless noise filling your ears, the heartbeat pulsing in your fingertips, the throbbing in your jaw and head — it's all suddenly insignificant. All of your senses zero in on the two killers ahead of you.
The crunching snow under heavy boots, the shuffling of clothes as they take a step — nothing matters more to you in this instant. It's all you allow yourself to focus on.
You won't rest until the taste of their beating flesh becomes familiarity — until you've ripped every inch of muscle clean off the bones, until it's easy to discern between the blood of the innocent and the blood of their sin. You hunger for it, filthy gluttony taking hold of your heart.
Unblinking, you move from shadow to shadow. White snow silent under your graceful feet, avoiding creaking twigs with ease. You can practically feel their viscera on your drooling tongue already.
They step off the path as the hooded one turns to check their surroundings — gloved grip still tight on the weapon, finger grazing the trigger. Still trembling.
He steps on a twig as you move out of his view. You don't notice how loud the ringing has become — pay no mind to the painful throbbing, the wetness leaking out of your nose. They take a turn behind a thick pine tree and—
They're gone.
You still with hitched breath. What? You wait a few moments to see if they'd reemerge from the other side. They don't.
With widened eyes you approach it — scrambling to check behind it, to check the branches above you.
Nothing.
Your heart rate picks up again as you look around you in confusion.
It's like they vanished into thin air — how is that even possible? They were right here! They were just—
A frustrated yell escapes you and you slam the side of your fist into the jagged tree.
Why is everything going so terribly wrong?
You squeeze your eyes shut as you sink your nails into wood again — skull throbbing in dizziness. Why are you acting so impulsive? Unable to think for yourself and keep your cool when that's always been your proudest trait. You were finally getting used to this life, to the loneliness. You haven't felt this out of control since—
Icy wetness hits your form out of nowhere. Your eyes shoot open as you look up to see snowy rain. A lot of it.
Just a second ago the beaming sun brightened the world below her, yet all of a sudden the sky is ripped apart. Pouring down relentless tears of snow and rain as if trying to drown the earth itself.
Your clothes cling to skin, freezing quickly as your vision blurs. You turn around — confused.
For a second you think the sudden rain is at fault for the change in scenery but you quickly realize that it's not. This isn't normal. This isn't where you came from at all.
The world around you shifted. This isn't where you stood a second ago — far from it.
You try to get a grip on what is going on when you turn back around only to be met with the rain-blurred view of a beautiful mountain that certainly wasn't there before.
A tall, white forest scattered in the snow leading up it, getting thicker at the top. A cabin not too far, right on the edge of a steep, tree-covered hill, the wooden roof of it relentlessly beaten by the icy downpour of the rain.
You must be dreaming. This has to be the cause of all your recent head injuries — surely.
A hiccup rips from your throat, intense nausea hitting you abruptly and you double over, feeling your insides burn, rushing up your throat.
You shut your lips tightly and slam a hand over your mouth before you're able to retch, fighting to keep your hard-earned meal inside. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears as you swallow it back down.
"Ungh..", you grunt, heaving. Removing your hand to find snotty blood sticking to your fingers — quickly thinning out by the pouring rain. You feel the thick waves of it dripping out of your nose, running between your lips. You taste the iron on your tongue.
Your body convulses in a shiver. Usually you're able to handle lower temperatures well — your blood runs hot, you were made for the cold. It's why you don't need too many layers.
But the icy wetness soaks through the fabric covering your skin. Seeping into warm blood and spreading frost throughout your system.
You're freezing.
With shaky breath you squint through the rain, cold droplets hitting your face below the skull as you notice something out of the corner of your eye. You squint through the blurred wetness.
There, between tall trees stands something dark and looming. Something familiar. Your breath hitches. Dread settles deep in your gut. Your chest grows tight and before you know it, a drop of sleet hits you in the eye.
You flinch with a blink. And the figure is gone again.
This can't be right. You sink your nails deep into wet bark in an attempt to calm down. Surely you imagined it, right? The rain is too strong for you to see properly and you're still concussed. This can't be—
"Took y-yo…you guys long enough!"
A stuttering voice cuts through your thoughts in the distance. You wouldn't even have caught it over the thunderous rain if it wasn't for your abnormal hearing.
You straighten up and tilt your head into the direction of the sound when you squint your eyes to see between the trees and notice three figures by the distant cabin.
With trembling limbs you feel your body begin weaving through them before your mind even gets the chance to catch up. Aching to get a better view in this endless storm. Aching to forget about what you just saw.
As you reach the open clearing surrounding what you assume is their home, you find a dense pine to hide under as you take in the scene.
The dark-haired man is climbing up the steps of the porch, making his way towards the front door with heavy steps — exhaustion clearly set deep in his bones. He's barely even trying to shield his form from the continuous rain.
The hooded man stands facing the forest behind him. Still suspicious.
But you don't pay him any mind, for a third figure has caught your attention. A tall, lanky looking man clad in a thick patterned jacket — fur collar brushing against what looks like a metal muzzle hanging around his neck. Orange ski-goggles hide his eyes. He stands leaning in the doorway with crossed arms as he takes in the defeated view of his acquaintances.
"Pff- wow! What h..happened to you, Tim?" He pushes off the doorframe, shoving a harsh jab to the brunettes wounded stomach before promptly getting pushed to the side in annoyance by the man. Tim — you suppose. "Someone ff-fine...finally beat your old ass?"
He's not met with a proper response as Tim pushes past him and into the house without another sound beside an irked grunt.
This must be their home, you think, already coming up with ways to sneak inside. Ways to take them out in their sleep. Your heartbeat hammers in excitement.
The hooded man stays unmoving, staring at the rain-blurred shadows between the trees until an arm is thrown over his shoulder by the other one. He leans in close, holding a hand over the goggles in an attempt to see what the gunslinger — Brian, if you remember right — is staring at.
"Soo, what're we lookin' for exactly?"
He says nothing. Ever the silent one.
You sink deeper into the shrubs around the tree, waiting for the seconds to pass. For someone to make a move.
It doesn't take very long.
"Welp, I-I don't actually c-c…care, so—" It seems the two men heavily vary in patience, for the man with the goggles pushes away from him and begins heading towards the woodland after not even ten seconds pass. "Have fun with that!"
A sudden jerk rattles his body — head meeting his shoulder as he lets out a loud grunt. Weird.
"Where are you going?" The distorted voice startles you for a second. You narrow your eyes at the gunslinger.
"The hell do you thh-think?"
Brian does nothing as he stares at the man leaving, hesitant to go inside. But you already found a new victim to pursue.
Your sharp eyes follow the man as he crosses the treeline, tracking his gloved hands as he reaches back to grab the hood of his jacket to pull it over brown curls — shielding him from the frozen sleet.
Something glints at his waistline. Your eyes drop down to it and you realize he's carrying a hatchet on a belt. Two of them.
He must be a killer as well — an irritating one from what you've seen so far.
A flash of lightning hits the earth, followed by the booming sounds of thunder as you follow him deeper and deeper into the woods. The man remains unfazed — even beginning to hum a tune under his breath as if this weather wasn't torture to exist in.
Cold rain making old wounds sting. Your ear and arm ache, head still throbbing with that constant ringing, amplified by the deafening storm. The feeling of wet clothing sticking to your icy body making your skin crawl. Your trailing footsteps feeling heavier — dragging you down like you weigh twice as much.
It's an uncomfortable feeling, worse than getting shot twice. It makes you want to grind your teeth. Sink them into the twitching form of that careless fool in front of you for being so unaffected. Craving sweet violence to even out discomfort.
You watch him reach for a hatchet, taking it out of the belt as he begins fidgeting with it — spinning it over his hands with ease. Another rough twitch wracks his body with a deep grunt, yet he doesn't drop it.
Suddenly he stops, leans his arm back and throws the weapon at a distant tree — hitting it square in the middle with a dull thud and an arrogant "Hah!".
What a fool.
Your head pounds as you feel the urge to rip into him grow stronger, your hunger yet to be quelled, despite having feasted on someone not even an hour prior. The pain only getting worse by the second as a hazy sense of nausea washes over you again and a familiar chill runs down your spine. You ignore it — too used to the feeling of being watched by now.
You hope him and the others share a close bond, you hope that killing him will wound them, make the hurt run deep, you hope reducing him to flesh and blood will finally make this helpless feeling disappear.
He mutters under his breath, too low for you to catch as he walks up to the tree to begin pulling the hatchet out.
Saliva pools on your tongue as you watch him struggle with the wet wood, the force of his throw having pierced it deep. This is your chance.
You approach slowly, claws and teeth bared and ready. Eyes locked on the struggling man in front of you as you creep closer.
"Oh, come on..", he mumbles in annoyance, hands slipping. He props a leg up on the trunk to get a better grip.
You're right behind him now and you remember how it ended the last time you snuck up on a man. With the body mangled and your stomach full. You can't wait to feel like that again, you think with sadistic hope.
You can't wait for him to hurt.
Without wasting another second you shove him to the tree and plunge your nails deep into his right shoulder, tearing through cloth and flesh with ease.
He doesn't scream like you expect him to — merely gasps from the sudden ambush. You don't give him time to do much else, pressing him further against the bark as you yank his arm back, hold it down and breaking it with a sickening—
CRACK!
And you don't stop there — digging thick claws between the joints connecting shoulder to arm, forcing them apart just as another flash of lightning strikes the snow. A deep rumble following shortly after as you tear the limb off with another violent yank. Unnatural strength making it easy. You're high off the adrenaline.
Blood and gore gushes out of the wound and an exhilarating sense of euphoria drowns out that dreadful feeling in an instant.
You feel in control again.
This right here is what you were made for — brutality. Tearing people apart with bare hands and an open maw.
It's like second nature to you at this point — dismembering your victims within seconds. Barely giving them any time to react. Sometimes even leaving them to bleed out if you feel they deserve it.
You know your body isn't supposed to be so easily capable of ripping people to shreds, but like everything unnatural about your existence, you refuse to question it.
"W-what the fuck?!", he yells out.
He attempts shoving you away by pushing back against you and hitting his still-existing elbow to your chest in a hard jab.
Some air gets knocked from your lungs with a huff but you expected his resistance. Moving him to the side just before he's able to throw you entirely off balance.
You sling him to the ground using his momentum — head spinning in ecstasy as you jump on his waist, holding him down as his body convulses in a violent twitch.
With his hood and goggles flying off into the snow, you're finally able to take a proper look at your victim.
Your eyes catch on the gaping wound on the side of his face first — a whole chunk of his cheek missing, gums and teeth exposed. Deep eyebags under chocolate brown eyes. A hooked nose with a slight crook as if previously broken. Dark eyebrows furrowed as he looks back at the discarded arm getting soaked by the rain.
But he doesn't look pained. His expression is exasperated more than anything.
"Du-dude! My ff-fucking arm!", he shouts over the thunderous storm, like he can't believe your audacity.
..What the hell is wrong with this guy? He should be freaking out! Why does he make it sound like losing a limb is merely an annoying inconvenience rather than what was supposed to be a painful ambush!?
Either way you need to snap out of it — staring at him in disbelief isn't going to get him killed. You shake off the confusion, extending your bloody claws again with grit teeth.
You grab his face, tilting it away to expose his throat in a harsh shove and reaching it, getting ready for a clean cut to the jugular when—
BANG!
A hot sting blooms in your shoulder. Deafening white noise rushing into your ears, growing louder by the second. The force of the shot pushing you back.
You wheeze as your already foggy vision blurs further. You clutch onto your newest wound and feel the world spin as you're suddenly facing the pouring sky.
"Yo-you mm…missed, you moron!"
Dizzy and disoriented, you realize he's on top of you now, wrestling you down with one arm — gripping your wrists with abnormal strength, like having lost a limb means nothing to him.
"Shit!" He lets out a breathless, high-pitched laugh. "Y-you really caught...c-caught me off guard, huh? Wh-what the fuck are you?"
You barely hear the familiar sound of snow crunching under boots over the blaring rain and howling wind, dazedly tilting your head back to see him. Brian.
Of course he's here! Of course he just had to follow you! You should've known better, should've waited for him to go inside first! When will this maddening ringing finally stop!?
Your widened, angry eyes meet his covered ones and you can practically feel the smugness radiating off of him. Pride — for having slain the beast.
He points the gun at you with a trembling grip. Determined not to miss again.
The icy rain strikes your form over and over. You don't flinch. Despite the pain, despite feeling your blood seep out and paint the ground in death. Feeling weaker by the second.
Your vision is fully blurred now, fading from half comprehensible shapes to a mess of bleeding colors merging together.
Wetness still clings to your clothing, freezing your icy body further, the only warmth coming from hot pain. A heavy pressure on your wrists and stomach.
You hear nothing but that infinite ringing.
And the world goes black.
─── .✦
The small crowd of people stares up at you with bright eyes.
Wooden benches filled with faces that you should deem familiar by now, considering the amount of times you've been brought to this tiny church before.
"All of us, then, who are mature should take such a view of things. And if on some point you think differently, that too God will make clear to you."
But the only thing you recognize is that expectant hope in their gaze as they clasp their hands in prayer.
Some of them are crying again.
"Only let us live up to what we have already attained."
A child points at you with tiny hands and amazement in his eyes, mumbling something to his mother as she holds a finger to her lips — wordlessly telling him to be quiet.
You're standing on the raised chancel, posture straight and hands folded in front of you with your expression kept neutral. Polite.
"Join together in following my example, brothers and sisters, and just as you have us as a model, keep your eyes on those who live as we do!"
He's been reading from that book for probably half an hour by now. Standing tall by the altar, arms open and smile confident as he talks about— faith? You're unsure.
It's all the same to you each time. He's always preaching about hope and being saved and staying faithful. You've stopped contemplating the meanings of his words a long time ago.
The creaking wood under your feet echoes through the silence as you shift your weight, aching to fidget with your hands, with anything at all.
Yet you fight the urge, having been taught that it is rude to appear restless. Rude to fiddle with your fingers — despite seeing the father do it countless times.
So your hands remain calm and your head tilted low.
"For, as I have often told you before and now tell you again even with tears, many live as enemies of the cross of Christ."
Reading verses to these burdened people has become a regular occurrence. Though, thankfully you never have to do any of the reading — you rarely speak in general.
All you're here for is to stand still before the crowd and look holy while he spoke of devotion. To remain silent and let them stare. Let their eager hands graze your own when you step past them towards the altar. Listen to their tearful gratitude, thanking him for his divine creation as they make a spectacle of you.
You let your eyes drift to the windows in discretion — tall and clear, presenting you with the beautiful view of ever-distracting nature.
The sky outside is baby blue and filled with clouds, veiling the bright beauty of the midsummer sun. Her rays seep through the gaps, blessing her world with light. The trees dance in the wind.
A barn owl sits on the old wooden fence just before the treeline, preening it's pristine feathers — body facing away from you. It turns its head every few moments, scanning the earth for prey.
"Their destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory is in their shame! Their mind is set on earthly things."
Then — movement. Your sharp eyes find it instantly. Something small shuffling between the blades of grass. Instincts push your head to tilt towards it but you stop yourself within a heartbeat, refusing to show that you aren't listening.
And you're not the only one who caught it. The owls predatory gaze tracks the movement almost immediately. Before you're even able to make out what kind of life is scavenging the dirt, it swoops down in one swift motion, talons stretched towards it, wings spread wide.
It lands gracefully in the tall grass, claws surely grasped around it before taking off into the air again and landing back in its previous place.
"But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body!"
You watch the owl fling the small, grayish body of what you now recognize to be a field mouse to its opened beak, devouring it whole with barely any effort.
It puffs up its feathers and goes back to cleaning itself like nothing happened at all. Like it didn't just feed on a life.
Something stirs within your abdomen at the thought. Something you've never felt in this short lifetime — yet it feels eerily familiar.
Your stomach growls. Not nearly loud enough for anyone to hear but enough for you to freeze.
Your eyes widen and before you can stop yourself, you look down and place a hand on your abdomen in confusion.
Instantly, the room erupts into quiet murmurs as the congregation whispers about you among themselves, a simple movement of the hand enough to have set them off again — eyes never once having left your form.
You quickly readjust yourself but as your gaze passes over the crowd — over their soft, tempting bodies, you feel your mouth watering and that sensation returns.
Is this what hunger feels like?
An image flashes through your mind for less than a second. A sinful, intrusive thought. One that shows flesh ripping and tissue tearing — a metallic taste.
The feeling is gone before you know it.
You nearly don't notice the faint, almost inaudible ringing in the back of your head.
─── .✦
The world comes back to you in hazy fragments.
Bleary vision slowly clearing up as you blink away the wetness from your half lidded eyes. Dizzy and light-headed, you force yourself awake.
The first thing you notice is the darkness that surrounds you as you try to make sense of where you are, looking around doing nothing to help.
You're so cold. Moist fabric sticking to rigid skin being the second thing you become aware of. Damp and frazzled hair clinging to your neck, wet poncho heavy on your bones. Bloody dirt crusted underneath your fingernails.
You shift, attempting to straighten up from where you're sitting only to find a tightness restricting your chest to something hard, your arms uncomfortably bent backwards, a pressure on your wrists and ankles.
Panic blooms in your chest and your body attempts shooting up on instinct — memories of what went down flooding your brain all of a sudden.
The shift in reality, a dismembered arm — a shotgun pointed at your head. It all comes back to you in disheveled pieces.
What happened to you afterwards? Are you even alive right now — is this what hell is? Eternal darkness and an aching body? You always imagined it to be filled with significantly more fire and screaming, but this ominous feeling might just be worse.
You feel your heartbeat accelerate and breath shorten. A painful throbbing in your head and shoulder as your eyes dart around in the dark.
You tilt your head down to see the damage. Clothes soaked in blood and dirt — the entire front of your tattered poncho covered in dark red. A small tear on the side of the upper arm from the bullet graze and another, larger one on the shoulder.
Snapping out of your initial panic, you realize that you're in fact still alive. Somehow.
You've lost a lot of blood, but not nearly enough to lead you to death. The wound in your shoulder has begun crusting over, he must have missed the major arteries. But it was still enough for you to pass out for—
How much time has passed?
It was only in the afternoon when you began following the men again — many hours must've gone by by now.
As you calm down further, your tired eyes begin adjusting to the darkness around you and you realize where you are.
In a basement — a low ceiling light dangling in the middle of the room. A wooden staircase on the left side, the door at the top of it likely locked.
The stone floor is covered by ratty, patterned carpets and a dusty couch sits facing the wall with multiple blankets haphazardly thrown on top of it. If you look closely you can almost make out what looks like dark stains peeking out.
The dizzying ache in your body gets worse again as you try to keep scanning your surroundings.
A single window barely paints the room in faint moonlight. It sits high on the wall and looks barely big enough for you to fit through if you tried hard enough.
Underneath it are two washing machines and an empty laundry basket.
You notice something red blinking on top of one of the washing machines every other second but you can barely focus anymore as your head begins spinning again — exhaustion creeping back up to you, taking hold of your hand and guiding you back towards the darkness.
summary: A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
wc: 6.0k
masterlist, ao3
You're unsure how long it took you to get back home.
With how your head was pounding and your entire body stinging, it felt almost like an eternity until your aching feet finally carried you back to your little place of residence.
But alas, here you are.
Stumbling over a dead bush, you stop to breathe, leaning on a tree as it comes into your view.
The small, long forgotten wooden cabin that you've been using as shelter ever since your big escape. It blends into the darkness of the night around it, making it hard to spot if you're not keeping close eye on your surroundings. The thick layer of shining snow on the roof making it a little easier.
With a dark, uninviting exterior it seems a shadow always falls over the place, no matter the time of day. Almost like you took the seeds of your sins into blood-stained hands and buried them in the dirt underneath the house where they festered, growing out between the floorboards. Spreading across the walls, across the roof. Having infected it since you stepped foot inside.
A shaky exhale leaves your lips as you take a minute to close your eyes and calm your racing heart. You try to keep your pained moans to a minimum as you listen for footsteps behind you.
Nothing. In fact, you realize you can't hear any sound at all, other than the deafening ringing in your head accompanied by the harsh sound of your erratic heartbeat slowing back down.
You turn to look behind you instead but it isn't any easier. The world is blurred ink around you. Stars hidden behind dusty clouds you can't make out, snowflakes blurring the world as they dance a waltz in the wind. You feel the trees watching you again — or whatever is in between them anyway.
It is an eerie, moonless night. And it's nothing you're not used to.
A sharp sting claws at the back of your head and your breath catches in your throat. Your head is killing you, you think, letting go of the weeping wound on your arm to clutch it. The fact that you've made it home at all should count as a miracle with how dizzy you are.
Moving your bloodless hand to touch the wound with a wince, you're relieved to find that it has at least stopped bleeding. Either way you definitely have a concussion.
Every muscle in your body aches. The cold wind brushes past the burning hole in your ear, your head still ringing, the gash on your bicep burning and you can feel a bruise forming on your cheek from where the guy punched you and all you want to do is go to bed before you pass out in the snow.
Stumbling towards the entrance, you make your way inside, pushing past the creaking door. The interior is no different from the exterior. Unkempt and dark. Empty. Like the owner took the buildings soul with them when they left in a hurry — leaving behind toppled chairs, broken cabinets and shattered glass you had to pick up with tweezers.
Wrestling your poncho over your head and throwing it in the vague direction of the coatrack in the vacant living room, you stagger into the cramped bathroom.
Your hands tremble as you dig inside your little pouch. There it is. Your soaked hand wraps around the flashlight, cold to the touch.
The shack you live in has long since been abandoned. Electricity alongside it. This thing is your only source of light apart from the beaming sun.
Turning it on and placing it on the sink you take a second to lean on it to squeeze your eyes shut. To wait until you feel the room stop spinning.
Blinking a few times, you open your eyes with a groan and stare at your broken reflection heaving in the shattered mirror. Unlike most of the other chaos in the building — this, for once, was your undoing.
You like to pretend that you found the room like this, that you always keep a cool head, that you're getting better and this wasn't the result of another violent outburst but—
The scars on your knuckles betray you.
You take off the skull veiling your face and study the creature staring back at you. Eyes once burning with life gone cold, the flame extinguished — only ever reignited by the thrill of a hunt. Blood crusted underneath your lips and nose. Eyebags deep from restless nights, the dark color akin to the bruise growing on your cheekbone.
You tilt your head, eyes finally landing on the gaping hole throbbing in your right ear. Wet blood oozing down the side of your neck, staining your tattered tunic. Yet another freakish trait. You're hideous.
You glare at whats left of the glass. You still can't bear to see what you've become. You were once beautiful. Holy. The perfect, flawless gift — with dull nails and smooth teeth. The embodiment of innocence. None of that remains now. The guilt and gluttony shine bright through the windows of your soul. You are burdened with shame.
Enough of this.
Squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, you clear your thoughts, kneeling down to get to the med kit in the cabinet below the sink. The hinges of the door wailing at you, augmenting the pounding in your head. With a wince you grab the box and yank it open to get to what you need.
You grab the antiseptic spray and reach for what looks like your last roll of bandages. You hesitate a moment, careful not to stain them with the blood dripping down your arm. These are all you have left, maybe you shouldn't waste them on a graze.
But you just washed your blanket the other day, you're not wasting all that effort.
You take it, deciding to simply not get hurt next time.
Rising back to your wobbly feet, you slump down on the lid of the toilet adjacent to the sink and place the items down. With heavy breath you look down at the mess you've made. Blood soaking through your clothes, matting in your hair, pooling in the palm resting on your lap. Stuck beneath your fingernails.
A mix of red and dirt trails right to where you're seated.
You turn on the sink, body feeling weaker by the minute as you slump against it, laying your bleeding arm inside, under the icy water. Eyes lazily watching it mix with the thicker liquid pouring from your body before thinning out and disappearing down the drain. You don't even react to the pain.
Your stomach growls. You're still hungry.
This could have easily been avoided if you hadn't acted out the way you did. What were you thinking attacking them so carelessly? You wouldn't be hungry now, you could have been indulging in heavenly flesh in this exact moment if it wasn't for foolish recklessness, you scold yourself.
But you guess it doesn't matter now. What's done is done, you can't erase past mistakes.
You scrub the remaining blood and dirt off your arm and disinfect the wound before wrapping it in the gauze, movements sluggish.
With heavy eyelids you fight the exhaustion wrapping alluring fingers around your form. Tempting you with blessed rest. Any more of this and you feel you might pass out before your head hits the bedding.
This will be good enough for now, you think after spraying the disinfectant on your still-ringing ear and the back of your throbbing head — not even wiping the wounds — before getting up and stumbling towards your sorry excuse of a bedroom. It doesn't even have a proper bed. Just one ratty mattress covered in a multitude of resilient stains, once a bright red, now a dull brown.
You drop down on your side, careful not to hit your aching head too harshly on the pillow. You barely have time to tuck yourself underneath your soft blanket before letting slumber take control at last.
─── ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
The choir of birds mesmerizes you with their heavenly voices.
Quiet chirping blending with the distinct coo — mellow and woeful — akin to that of a flute. A beautiful somber melody, repeated over and over. You can't imagine ever getting sick of it.
A kind breeze brushes past your form as you search the scattered trees for the feathered angels. The sunlight peeks past the leaves, brightening the wildflowers and covering the grass in a delightful coat of gold.
Where are you hiding, little friends?
You stop at a tall tree and reach out to feel the rough bark. So many textures, so much to see. It all feels so familiar, yet you're sure this is the first time you've stepped foot outside the laboratory.
"Come along now. We don't have all day."
His voice pulls you out of your delightful distraction. You turn to him to see he's waiting quite a few feet ahead of you, where the path begins to lead up a hill.
Saying nothing, you walk towards the man until you're by his side again.
"Ever the distracted one, are you not, my dear?" Putting his hand on your back, he turns and begins guiding you up the hill. "Just a little more. Stay by my side."
You tilt your head up towards the still-singing songbirds. It's not the first time you hear their voices. Your bedroom window is facing right towards the edge of the forest, so you hear them a lot.
But they're never this close. Their melodies have not been so clear until today. You want to see them.
But you'd like an answer first.
"Why did we come here?", you ask for the second time, looking up at him.
He guides you to step over a fallen branch and pauses to think about his answer for a moment.
"You are listening to the answer as we speak."
You strain your ears. All you hear are the sounds of your footsteps and gentle chirping.
"The birds?"
"Look around, you might even see it if your eyes are sharp enough."
So you do. You see trees towering over you — a fleeting shadow between them — bushes and weeds. There's a boulder covered in moss. You don't get it.
"Life."
He adjusts the shotgun slung across one shoulder.
"It exists everywhere around us, constantly. There are millions of organisms living on this earth. Some so small you'll never even see them with the naked eye."
The melancholy cooing is becoming louder, the higher you climb the hill.
"Everything is alive. And everything has purpose. The birds blessing us with song, the trees providing our lungs with the very air we're breathing, the bacteria on our skin teaching our immune system to fend off germs."
You look at your hands and imagine tiny worms with swords.
"And then there is you."
You look up at him again, finding that his gaze is already turned to you.
"You, my angel, are unlike anything that has ever existed. One of a kind — entirely singular. Your existence is unnatural."
Your eyebrows furrow. You don't like to think about this. You want him to stop.
"And not without reason."
"Reason?", you ask him, voice quiet.
"Your purpose."
You don't even realize when you both have stopped walking but you find yourself at the top of the hill. An open meadow in front of you. There are hundreds of small flowers growing alongside the grass — dandelions, common daisies. The sky is a gradient of baby blues, white clouds scattered all across it. The sun is bright and it is beautiful.
The song of the birds has never been so loud.
"You're aware that you won't be here forever, are you not?" He holds your shoulders and turns you to face him. His dark eyes wide as they look at yours. A shadow falling over them, he is facing away from the sun. "Do you understand what death means, my dear?"
You faintly remember hearing that word before. You don't recall the meaning — all you know is that hearing it fills you with dread.
You say nothing.
The sorrowful singing stops and you glance behind him to see something moving in the sky. He lets go of you and turns around, looking up.
"The mourning dove. One of the most abundant birds living in America. Their song carries the meaning of love and peace." He looks at you again. "You like their song, do you not?"
"I do."
You watch with bright eyes as the bird flies to sit on the branch of a lone tree and begins preening its wings. You don't even notice the sound of the shotgun being taken into rough hands.
It's peaceful for a moment. But just for a moment.
BANG!
The bird falls to the grass as you flinch with a gasp — hands flying to your ringing ears.
He grips your arm and walks you over to the body, looking down at it.
He puts his hand on your head. His hand. The very hand that created your own. He pets your hair.
"This is death, my little mourning dove."
─── ₊ ⊹˚
The dream slips from you as you feel your consciousness return behind your eyes, already forgetting what your imagination concocted to entertain your sleep.
An old memory? Well, it doesn't matter now.
You sit up as the shining morning sun greets your weakened form. You squeeze your eyes shut and go to wipe the tears of sleep off your face when your fingertips come in contact with the stinging bruise on your cheek.
You flinch away from it as you blink and take a second to remember where you are — what happened to your throbbing head.
Oh. Right.
Hazy sleep leaves your body as you remember just what happened yesterday.
What on earth was that? The coughing, the headaches, your mind becoming all hazy — that unusual recklessness. You weren't thinking clearly at all, it was like your hunger had consumed you.
You make your way back into the bathroom, movements much less sluggish now that you've had some rest, and grab the still-shining flashlight to click it off before stuffing it back into the pouch still hanging from your form.
Turning on the sink, you begin washing off the blood and filth crusted on your face.
Whatever it was that happened yesterday — it can never happen again, you think as you pat the wetness off with a towel. You take another look at your reflection in the broken mirror and sigh. The daylight shines through the single window of the bathroom. You can see yourself much clearer than last night. And you don't like it one bit.
Your eyebags remain consistent and the dark bruise on your face has grown into a deep, hideous purple. A reminder of your shame.
Your stomach growls. It's time to head out. You'll have more luck this time, surely.
You grab the mask sitting on the sink and pick up the poncho fallen to the living room floor before throwing it on and making your way back outside. You strap it over your face and trace your fingers over the surface of the dense bone to check for any cracks — thankful to find none.
The sun shines brightly on your face, running gentle hands of light across your skin in her effort to warm you up, having just barely risen from the east. It's still early.
The snowstorm has long since settled, but not without leaving behind a fresh new layer of frozen crystals hiding the trail of your blood. The liquid proof of your failure.
The minutes come and go as you wander along the snow-covered dirt path you're all too familiar with, you keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. Anyone.
As unlikely as it is to find a person out here at this time of year, this is the only thing you can really do — scout the area. It's become routine. Your only way of finding food.
But.. you could always go back to the cabin for the bodies. Surely the men are gone by now, you think, then quickly shake your head, stubborn. No. Going back there would be a sign of weakness, going back there would mean admitting to your failure. You're not picking the easy way out. Your pride won't let you.
So you keep walking with narrowed eyes and pinched eyebrows, determined to survive the way you're used to. The hard way.
You ignore the chills running up your spine at the thought of going back.
You'd never openly admit this but, a small, helpless part of you is afraid. Not of the men, not of their weapons — of the way you lost control of yourself.
You've spent countless hours training your mind — resisting temptation. Only ever indulging when you deem appropriate. Only ever indulging when you allow it.
You've let filthy gluttony consume you for long enough. You're ashamed.
Last night was a mistake. One that you won't ever let happen again.
So you keep walking the opposite direction.
Time passes by as you wander on the path you've walked a hundred times. Listening to the sound of quiet snow crunching underneath your feet and the tender chirping from the birds hiding in the snowy branches of the trees above. The endless ringing from your wounded ear never once subduing.
You watch with little interest as a pair of deer notice your presence and hop away to safety. It seems they're not too keen on the corpse of their brethren covering your face, you think with a lazy smile.
Nonetheless, you stay on track, watching the clouds shift their shapes from one form to another. Filling with light as the sun moves higher along the set path of her sky.
You're not sure how many hours have passed when you finally notice something dark move alongside cotton clouds — is that smoke?
Your eyes widen. You know exactly where it's coming from.
A toothy grin forms on your lips as you steer off the path and begin hurrying towards what you know is the campsite, dodging the bushes and branches you're all too familiar with.
You'll never understand why people would willingly choose to camp out here in the middle of winter — especially with all the missing person reports surrounding these woods — but heaven knows you're not complaining.
As you approach, the sound of laughter finds your ears. Melodious joy.
You hide your body in the shadow of a tree as you take in the sight.
There, in the middle of the frozen lake, stand two people, presumably in their mid twenties, holding onto each other. Well, stand is a strong word — they're both slipping and flailing in an attempt to not lose balance on the ice.
A third person sits by the snow, watching the other two with a laugh, taking a video of them with his cellphone. Two tents stand tall by the campfire beside him, still burning bright and hot, smoke steadily floating upwards — the map that led you to delectable treasure.
Oh, you'll be fed soon enough. Luck is on your side today, you can feel it.
You lick your lips and creep closer, mindful not to break the branches beneath you, though you doubt they'd hear it over their cheerful yelling. You crouch behind a shrub as the person by the fire stands to his feet, pocketing his phone and holding a hand to his mouth.
"Hey lovebirds— oh shit, haha!" He cuts himself off with a laugh when one of the people on the ice yelps as they slip and fall to their back, pulling the taller one down with them. Their fall cushioned by the thick winter-jackets they're sporting.
"You guys okay?"
With a laugh, the shorter one gives him a thumbs up as they both attempt to untangle from the other.
Fools, both of them, you think — eyes sharp and unblinking. Breath caught in your throat in anticipation as you observe them with a predators patience.
The man by the fire begins stepping around it and towards the thick treeline surrounding the frozen lake before he shouts again.
"I'm gonna go take a leak, yeah? Be back in a sec!" There it is. The golden opportunity.
He makes his way past the first tree and into the forest. You're behind him in an instant, moving with the shadows and paying no mind to the 'Okay!' being shouted by one of his friends.
He walks along a path for a few moments, then steps off of it. You follow. He steps over a fallen log. You do the same.
Saliva pools on your tongue.
He sniffs and rubs his nose as he finally stops by a large snow-covered bush, his back turned to you. He reaches for his zipper.
You stalk closer — you're mere inches away from him at this point. Your breathing turning into heavy panting, surely tickling the nape of his exposed neck. But before he's able to react at all you extend your claws and open wide.
Your cracked lips surround the uncovered skin in an instant, molars finally sinking into blessed flesh. Clawed fingers wrapping around his mouth, muffling his pained cry.
He begins squirming, trying to push back against you. Kicking and thrashing. Your other arm holds down both of his — nails plunging into it, ripping past the layers of his thick winter clothes with ease and stabbing into his bicep. His muted screams increase in volume.
His struggling only makes you clamp down harder — until you feel the rows of your teeth reconnecting in a hefty bite, liquid blood squirting out as you rip your head back, taking a piece of him with you.
You barely take the time to chew before swallowing and going in for another. Twisting your body around his as he tries to step forward — away from you. You stick to him like glue, tilting your head to reach his jugular.
You disregard his muffled sobs, teeth already finding their home inside opened, bloody muscle — tearing it up further as you coat your tongue in heavenly red. Swallowing it down in a sizeable gulp.
A delighted moan escapes your throat as you dismantle his. You don't worry about someone hearing, the distance large enough for adequate privacy.
With his teeth biting down on your hand and an elbow thrusted into your abdomen, he finally manages to free himself from your grip of death. You let him.
"HELP!" His voice is raw and cracking as he screams. Uselessly trying to cradle the bleeding wound. "ANTHONY! Please—"
His freedom does not last long, for his body is quickly thrown to the snow with a grunt. You hunch over him and grip him by the root of his chestnut curls, yanking his head back and bending his body to lean your face over his. You stare into his frightened eyes from above and tell him to "Be silent."
He wails as you grab him by the wounded neck and squeeze down hard, watching his eyes roll back as he begins to choke and gurgle, desperately clawing at your hand. Blood squirts out of the wound, coating your claws, burying beneath them. Spurting out of his mouth and nose with his coughs, landing on your mask. Painting white snow red with little drops.
You wait for his body to stop its pointless struggle, his hands going limp as the energy leaves him and he slumps to the wet ground with a twitch. You drop his head and sit back, rolling his body around — before he can even try to crawl away — so the opened flesh can face the sky. So it can face your hungry mouth.
A strained whimper leaves his lips as he chokes on his own liquid lifeline.
You're sat on his stomach, barely even having to restrain him as he bleeds out before you. You lean in close with heavy breath — watching fat drops of your favorite substance escape his form.
You cup your hand to catch it like his neck is a drinking fountain and you're a thirsty bypasser on a hot summer day.
Sitting up again you tilt your head back and pour the liquid into your eager mouth as you gulp it down.
"Mm.. I've missed this.", you mumble, eyes glazed over. A single drop spills down your chin but you're quick to catch it with your thumb, pushing it back into greedy lips.
His sputters never ceased but he doesn't make another move to call out for help. His body merely twitches from time to time — lacking all the energy to struggle against you.
All he can do is wheeze and stare up into the ethereal sky, probably wishing he never came on this trip. Probably wishing for whoever this Anthony was to come and save him. He won't.
Licking your fingers clean, you let your head fall forward again with a sigh. Your eyes fall on the leaking wound and you lean down to drink directly from the source.
You wrap your lips around the opened muscle and suck the ambrosian blood out of him — the appetizer to your long-awaited craving.
Once you've had your share, you release a delighted breath and lick your lips.
You take the half-opened zipper of his thick winter jacket and unzip it fully, then rip the neckline of his shirt to expose the muscle connecting neck to shoulder.
Without wasting another second, your teeth split his flesh further as you take another tasty bite.
And another. And another.
The minutes pass as you devour his now-lifeless form. Ripping up the layers of skin and muscle. Pulling out his vital arteries with grotesque slurps. Indulging in your wicked fantasy after countless hours of imagining.
You're not sure how long ago his wheezing stopped.
It doesn't matter.
You stand to your feet and take a few moments to appreciate the mess you've been longing to make for weeks.
Your blood-stained hands are trembling from the ecstasy. You can't stop yourself from licking upturned, panting lips.
You begin walking back to the campsite, body slowly coming down from cloud nine as you're reminded of the other two. Your appetite is not yet satiated.
Trudging back the path you came, you realize the joyful yelling has been replaced with quiet conversation. Growing louder and louder the closer you stalk.
"Have you seen my phone anywhere?" A feminine voice finds your ears. "Thought it was in my pocket, but it's not."
The lake comes back into view as you stop to crouch by the shadows of the treeline.
The couple — at least you assume they are — is now standing by their tents. Jackets wet as the woman pats her pockets down in search of her device.
"Don't tell me you lost it again." The taller one says with a laugh as he removes his beanie to ruffle wet drops out of dark brown curls. He drops it on a chair.
"Dude, if it fell out when we were sledding I'm gonna be so pissed."
"Want me to go look for it?" The man — Anthony, you think — offers. Looking at her with a sly smirk as he grabs her waist to get her attention away from empty pockets.
Looking up at him, she wraps her hands around his neck in a loving embrace.
"It's fine. I probably left it in the tent" He leans his face closer to hers. "But.." She leans back with a playful tone. "What you should be looking for is your brother. He's been gone a while."
"Pssh, dude's fine. You know he takes ages to piss." He pulls her closer to kiss the corner of her mouth.
"I just don't want him to get lost." She mutters and pulls back, face contorting in concern as they share a look. "The posters, you know?"
"You're still worried about that?"
She plants a peck on his cheek and steps out of his arms before turning and making her way towards the tents.
"Just go find him, Ant."
That's it — split up more, you morons, you think with a beaming, bloody grin.
Anthony groans as he slowly starts walking backwards, hesitant to take his gaze off his lover, before turning around and jogging towards the forest. Towards you. You crouch further into the shadows, hiding behind a shrub just as he passes by you. Mere inches from his brother's killer. Not that he's aware of that yet.
You wait for a few moments until you're sure he won't turn back before quietly sneaking towards the tent. Towards your next victim.
You'll have to be quick to kill her — the mangled corpse you left behind isn't exactly easy to miss, you only have little time before he finds it.
The woman is on her knees inside the spacious tent when you approach, fumbling with a sleeping bag in search of her phone. Her back is turned to you and you take a step past the entrance. Your foot meets wet polyester and—
You slip.
Oh my God.
Before your body meets the ground you manage to keep your balance but it's already too late. She turns back at the sound and gasps when she sees you.
Hands outstretched to stay balanced, coated in blood just like the rest of you. Covering your mouth and chin, staining your neck, the fabric of your poncho. Splattered on the skull on your face.
She screams.
This is so embarrassing, you think before pouncing on her anyway.
You pin her down and attempt to cut her throat before promptly getting punched in the face again. Your jaw aches. You try to ignore the pain.
"Get off me!"
She kicks and thrashes under you with all her might, yet you don't budge — used to it at this point. You claw at her arms and grip her wrists in one hand before she knees you in the stomach, hard.
Your grip wavers and she breaks free with a grunt, pushing to her feet in an attempt to escape. You don't let her.
Her long hair flows behind her in a beautiful whirl. You reach your filthy claws towards it and yank it hard — throwing her to the ground and making quick work to slash her jugular, then hold her still.
Watching her bleed out without making another sound beside choked gurgles.
Dead, just like that.
Her copper strands stick between your fingers as you remove your grip. You've never seen hair this long. It's pretty. Too bad it led to her downfall.
You shake them off.
Before you even get to think about properly indulging in her sweet viscera, you're distracted by another scream from the forest.
Maybe you should have gone after him first, you think with a sigh as you stand back to your feet, knees cracking as you do. But not without slipping a finger through the cut to scoop up another mouthful of blood and sucking it dry.
You crawl out of the tent — careful not to slip this time — and crouch behind it. The man will come back for her. You'll kill him when he does.
And you were right. There he comes, stumbling out of the bushes, flailing and shouting.
"PENNY! Penny, he's... fuck—"
He trips over his feet in his hurry, tears streaming down his face as he tumbles to the ground. Bawling his eyes out.
Just wait until you see your little girlfriend.
He's crawling now, on his knees as he finally stops checking behind him to look for her with trembling breath.
"Penny..?"
He inches towards the open tent, then falls backwards with another blood-curdling scream as he sees her at last. You stalk towards him, letting him notice you — covered in gore.
You tower over him as he stares at you in shock.
You enjoy this — watching the color drain from people's face when they comprehend their fate. Unmoving, their breath held. On the ground, gaping up at your looming form. Frozen like a deer in headlights as they meet deaths eye.
You get to feel like God for once. Tall. Terrifying.
His shock doesn't last all too long, with another shout he begins crawling backwards and turning around in an attempt to stand to his feet but you're faster.
You stand above him and kick him down, unaware of his hand reaching towards something in the snow as you attempt to sit your weight on him to hold him down but he whips around — smashing something hard against the side of your head with a yell.
Ow.
You're stunned as you fall to your side with a grunt, catching yourself with one arm. A sharp pain blooming from where he hit you.
"Ungh.." Dizzy and disoriented, you watch as he begins frantically running past the treeline.
He's fast, you think when you rise to your feet again. Stumbling after him for a few steps — nearly tripping before squeezing your eyes shut to take a moment. The ringing in your head becomes louder.
You bolt after him within a heartbeat.
"HELP! Anyone— please!", you hear him yell. You struggle catching up, all the recent injuries to your head making it hard to stay oriented.
He's got a good distance on you, but you refuse to lose him, powering through the pain to reach him. Determined to eat him whole.
He disappears between the dense trees as he sprints to find safety. You hunt him down again as you watch his body race through the woods, weaving through trees and shrubs in a failed attempt to shake you off.
"SOMEONE— Help me!"
You doubt anyone will hear him. It was already a miracle that you found people out here at all — the chance for someone else to be here is close to zero.
He begins hurrying down the hill — out of your sight — towards what you know is a familiar path.
"YOU! Please… please help me!"
So. You were wrong.
You abruptly stop your chase, palms smacking into a pine tree as you quickly hide behind it with a quiet gasp. He comes into your view again, desperately grabbing onto two strangers. You climb up — hidden.
"Holy fuck— I can't believe I found… It— it killed them!" He's still crying, looking behind him in distress as he fails to catch his hitching breath "My Penelope, it killed my…"
He's cut off by another sob as he clings to a complete stranger.
The dizzying throb in your head becomes more and more painful. You feel a cough itching your throat. You hold it in.
As you finally take a proper look at the people in front of you, you realize something.
You recognize them. It's the masked men.
"It killed… I can't—" Hes stumbling over his own words, failing to finish a proper sentence. "Oh God—"
Just what are they still doing here? They were supposed to leave — you were supposed to never see them again, so why are they back? Why here of all places?
Panic blooms in your chest as your eyes widen. The beat of your heart starts racing and you struggle breathing — much like the man you just traumatized.
"Slow down." The gruff voice of the brunette interrupts him, putting a heavy hand to grip his shoulder. "What happened?"
He's unmasked. But you can't take a proper look at his face, not only do you fail to get your eyes to focus but the taller one is standing in the way. Shotgun still slung across his shoulder.
Your wounded ear throbs as you remember what it did to you. You feel sick.
The hooded man turns towards where the man — Anthony — came from, cloth still veiling his face as he stares below you into the trees.
"It kill... There was a beast—" He trembles as he tries to get the words out. "It killed my girlfriend and… oh God, my brother—"
He begins heaving again as the men share an unreadable look.
The dark haired man lets go of his shoulder and reels his fist back before striking him right in the side of the jaw.
He drops to the ground.
𑁍ࠬܓ
next part
also forgot to include this stupid doodle of the reader slipping and pouncing lmao
(this is just how i imagine em but ofc you're free to change them in your head to match them more to how you look >:3)
summary: A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
wc: 5.2k
a/n: i dont really know how posting on tumblr works but ummm
masterlist, ao3
Hungry. You are so ravenously hungry.
It's been about six and a half weeks since you've last eaten a proper meal, which would be quite concerning for just about anybody else. The human body can last around a month without consuming any food before it starts to deteriorate. The muscles will weaken, the bones turn brittle and vital organs begin slowly shutting down one by one, causing all kinds of important bodily functions to stop working all together.
Six and a half weeks without food would mean the beginning of a slow, agonizing death for the average human being.
Luckily, you are not an average human being.
Your body still holds time before it begins to decay. Your bones are strong, muscles fit enough to climb trees and race through dense woods, your organs still intact. You never quite understood why your insides worked the way they did but besides the obvious, gnawing hunger causing the rather annoying stomach ache you've been enduring for the past two days, you feel fine. A bit grumpy from the pounding migraine that hasn't gone away since waking up this morning but nonetheless, fine. You're hungry, but at least you're not starving.
It's not often that the forest you've been taking residence in for the past however many months offers you the kind of sustenance you need for survival. Of course there will always be the occasional critter scurrying through the bushes making for a great quick meal and sometimes you'll even find wild berries if you're up for a sweet treat.
But nothing will compare to feeling a persons skin rip and dent as you sink your blood-stained canines into them. Violently tearing out another mouthful of their wet and squelching flesh, liquid red splattering all over their still squirming body, dripping down your chin and neck. Soaking in it. Drinking it down as you chew on raw meat like a feral dog.
Oh, how you're drooling at the thought. Licking your lips and opening your eyes again, you look down at the ground beneath you. Faintly squinting through the bright orange sunset, you blink until the stinging in your eyes quells, getting used to the light.
The branch you're sitting on is high up, letting your sharp eyes see just about anything going on in the snow-covered dirt below you — despite the mask covering your face. The skull of a deer, antlers and teeth still attached. It took some getting used to.
But alas, the forest remains empty and so does your stomach — as per usual. Aside from the occasional hiker or camper, it's quite rare that you'll find a human being this deep in the Appalachian woods, especially during winter. No one in their right mind would come here during this time of year. You would have been dead in a ditch ages ago if it wasn't for your unnatural digestive tract.
Regardless, you'll need to feed soon. You don't know how much longer you can stand the gamey taste of wild hares and the leftover walnuts you've been collecting since autumn.
An icy breeze rushes past you, rustling the fur of your hood. You got real lucky finding the thick poncho that's been saving you from frostbite the entire winter. Contrary to the dead body you snatched it off of. The freezing temperatures in this place are no joke, even for you.
Dangling your legs, you're about to turn your attention away from the growl emitting your stomach and back to feeling the shining warmth of the setting sun on your face when you hear something. Just a tad louder than the rustling of the pine needles and the gentle dripping of a nearby stream.
A faint voice in the distance. You almost didn't catch it.
Your mind doesn't even register the words but your body is already twisting towards the sound before you even had the chance to think about it — eager for a taste.
You hop off the branch and your fingertips burn as you sink your growing claws into the rough bark, sliding down the tree trunk and landing on a lower branch with a quiet huff, before near soundlessly lowering yourself onto the ground, following your next victim.
Your eyes wildly dart around as you race through the deserted forest, breathing heavy, trying to quickly spot your soon-to-be meal. Straining your ears to listen for the distinct crunching of footsteps and the cracking of twigs under combat boots.
"Shouldn't be far now."
That voice again. Clearer this time, only slightly muffled, sounding flat and masculine with a hint of a southern accent. Closer. Your palm slams into the wood of another sturdy pine tree, abruptly stopping yourself with a hitching breath. Saliva pools on your tongue. Your head tilts towards the direction of what you assume is a man and—
There he is, you think, face morphing into a toothy, wide-eyed grin as your eyes finally land on the stranger.
Straight dark hair getting rustled by a gust of wind. A thick hand fixing it back into place before it's stuffed into the pocket of his tan bomber jacket, a heavy-looking backpack haphazardly thrown over one shoulder. He seems to have enough meat on his bones to keep you satisfied for months. Just how you like it.
You move your frame to be one with the growing shadows of the shrub behind him.
And he isn't alone, it seems.
There is another, taller figure coming into your view now, walking behind him with what looks like a shotgun slung over broad shoulders, the back of his head covered by a mustard colored hood, body sporting a thick black coat. You didn't even hear this ones footsteps.
A robotic hum is heard from the hooded person while they keep walking through the woods, unaware of your presence behind them.
You've always been good at this. Sneaking up on people without making a single sound. Being light on your feet — moving through terrain without so much as snapping a branch. You're lucky to have this talent. Surviving alone as a man-eating beast in a forest barely anyone steps foot in has never been easy considering the amount of times you've been on the brink of starvation before.
You'll never forget how you laid in the muddy dirt for days, body weak and shaking, barely able to lift a single finger. Stomach feeling like it was digesting itself, the burning pain in your abdomen almost unbearable, no matter how much you clutched and clawed onto it. No matter how much you writhed and moaned in pain. The slowing pounding of your heartbeat in your veins feeling like the loudest thing in the entire world. How long has it been since your last meal? Your vision blurred, cheeks wet with tears and drool. Cold. You were so cold.
You never want to feel like that again. Which is why you run your tongue across your pointy teeth in anticipation when the men in front of you come to a stop to check their surroundings.
"Alright." The shorter one sets the backpack on the snowy ground, kneeling down to open it. "We're close enough. I'm leavin' the stuff here, so let's not forget it. You good to go?"
Oh? You wonder what they're up to at this time of day, it's almost dark already, they couldn't possibly be going hunting, could they? You can't think of many other reasons you would need a shotgun for.
Crouching behind one of the many pine trees, you keep your watchful eyes pinned to the man taking out what looks to be a heavy crowbar before standing up and dragging the bag towards the large roots of a tree, half-heartedly hiding it in the snow.
A tingling just beneath your skin lets you know that staying on the ground won't be safe for long. Your instincts never fail you. You climb up, hiding in the sharp pine leaves, ignoring the sting. Like a vulture stalking prey, you take a seat on a strong branch just as the hooded one turns around and your curiosity grows. He's wearing what appears to be a black cloth over his head. A dark red frowny face painted on it.
How odd. You wonder how he can see anything at all. But not like you care too much — all you're here for is the flesh under his skin.
He's looking around now, turning his body in your direction like he knows you're there. Head tilting ever so slightly, careful eyes probably scanning the white woodland. He doesn't see you sitting right above him in the shadows but it's almost like he can feel your presence. Good. You like when they're on edge.
He takes a step forward, arms lifting and fingers twitching for the shotgun on his back when he's met with a firm, gloved hand on his shoulder.
"What're you doing?" You understand why the shorter man sounds muffled now.
A white, porcelain-like mask covers his face as well. Black paint encircling the large cutout holes of the eyes with small eyebrows painted as a rounded arch on top. A petite button nose. Thin lips coated in black. Feminine.
What is it with these guys and hiding their face, you think like you have any room to talk at all.
The hooded man says nothing for a few moments, silence washing over them as the men stare into the dense woods, growing darker by the second.
"Is it Him?" You watch his grip tighten just a bit.
The world is quiet for an instant, holding its breath like its nervous of the answer.
"No." A deep, vibrating electric voice blurts out the reply, sounding almost unreal. For a second you wonder if you imagined it.
"Then forget about it and let's go. We don't have all night."
Letting go of his companions shoulder, the masked man turns back around to start walking once again.
Unmoving, the other one stays still. Thinking. Scanning.
"Hoody."
After one last hesitating look, he finally turns and follows the other man.
If only he knew that all he had to do was look up, you think with a glint of amusement in your eyes. Your stomach growls and you're reminded of why you're here again.
Waiting a few more seconds to make sure they won't turn back around, you make your way back down.
Your eyes land on the snow-covered backpack and you hurriedly kneel down beside it once they're far enough, yanking it open and shaking it upside down to sift through its scattered contents. Some journal, bandages, another weapon — brass knuckles, rope, a water bottle, keys, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
Ignoring everything else, you grab the water bottle and stuff it into the pouch slung across your body and get back on your feet, leaving the rest of the items laying in the wet and muddy snow. They won't find use for them now anyway.
The sun has fully set, the yellow and orange hues of the sky pushed to the bottom of the horizon by a vibrant royal blue. A few stars are coming out behind the clouds and the crickets have long since started singing their nightly lullaby.
It's a nice night.
Or at least it would have been if it wasn't for the faint pricking sensation on the back of your neck accompanied by a chill running down your spine. You know this feeling. You know it all too well. You're being watched again. You smack a hand on your nape and quickly glance around behind you. Nothing.
You're fine, you tell yourself.
With a short cough you almost fail to muffle, you begin following the strange men once more. You'll be fed soon — you just need to wait for the right moment.
You catch up quick, watching them hike through shrubs and step over fallen logs for another couple of minutes, stopping near what looks to be the backyard of a large wooden cabin, emitting smoke from the chimney. A thick layer of crystalline snow blanketing the roof. Windows foggy from the temperature.
Short, dead shrubs are scattered around the blanketed grass, but they're nothing next to the one enormous tree in the center. White-covered branches growing in every direction, lacking every leaf.
Huh. You didn't know of this place at all despite having lived in these woods for nearly a year. The forest is big — seemingly endless. Guess you should've explored more when you went house hunting.
"We're here.", the masked one murmurs, making his way towards the building. You crouch behind a thick bush and observe as they communicate through hand signals and split up to scout the area and check the windows for any unlocked entryways. The masked one pauses at one of the windows at the side of the house. He wipes the glass and stares for a few moments before making his way back. Seems he found whatever they came for.
They reunite at the backdoor.
"Cover me, yeah?"
He doesn't wait for the response he's not given, taking the crowbar and wedging the tip of it into the gap between the doorframe and the lock before forcefully popping it open while the hooded man takes the shotgun and turns towards the treeline.
Your eyes narrow. Breaking into someone's house can only mean they're either burglars or killers. And judging by the masks, the deadly weapons and the sinking feeling in your gut, the truth will probably be the latter. Maybe you shouldn't be around to find out.
"Focus." With a robotic huff, he faces his associate once again, watching him twist the handle, about to open the door "I mean it, Brian. It can wait."
"Hoody."
Sharing one last glaring look, the brunette opens the door and creeps inside.
You barely got away the last time you picked a fight with deadly people. Not saying you didn't finish it — you did, and they tasted divine. But it was too close. You don't know if you'll get so lucky again. There is no shame in knowing your limits, you'll just come back for their victims body when they're done. You doubt they'll have much use for it.
But curiosity is a wicked thing. It grips you tight and keeps your feet planted firm.
It keeps your gaze on the armed man as he stalks around the side of the house, body close to the wall, peering through the window over his shoulder. Gloved finger resting on the trigger. Waiting.
Minutes go by before you hear the muffled sound of a glass breaking. The hooded man stays put. Observing. He doesn't make a move to go inside and instead turns his head to face the woods. You sink further into the white branches — out of sight.
It's quiet for another few minutes until a guttural yell emits the house, accompanied by several dull thuds.
The gunman looks inside again but it seems he can't find the source of the sound as he quickly rips the door open and hurries inside, footsteps near soundless.
A sense of dread settles heavy in your bones. You should leave. Now is the perfect time. Clearly these people are dangerous, you could get really hurt if you decide to stick around and you can always return for the remains later because this obviously isn't the first time they've done this and they outnumber you. Not that this is usually an issue for you —you've won plenty of unfair fights in the past. But that heavy feeling has been growing in your stomach since waking up this morning. Something bad is going to happen soon, you know it.
You decide to leave in that instant. Your instincts never betray you — it is best to listen to them. You turn to make your way back towards the dense part of the forest. A quiet exit.
Until your stomach growls. You feel your heartbeat pulsing in the vein of your temple.
God, you are so hungry and the chance for food is right there. And not just leftovers, real, fresh meat. At least three whole bodies for you to devour. Three whole bodies for you to take home and feast on. You'll be full for days. It's been so long since you've indulged in the fight, you can't leave now — you're so close. You have to go in.
The throbbing in your skull becomes excruciating. You clutch your head as your throat closes up and you begin coughing what feels like your lungs out, dropping to your knees.
It hurts. You can't breathe and it feels like you can't even think, like a thick fog is clouding the clarity of your mind and you can do nothing but cough and heave and double over, holding onto your place of pain. You can do nothing but feel the saliva pool between your heaving lips at the idea of a hearty bite.
You're going inside, you decide in a haze and your wheezing gradually ceases. Your headache is reduced to a faint throb again as you wipe your mouth and get up, scrambling to get to the half-opened door with a racing heart and wet cheeks.
Panting, you push it open wider and creep inside, light on your feet. Just in time to hear a—
BANG!
Your heart drops at the sudden crack of sound rattling the entire cabin. You still, holding onto the wooden pillar next to the entrance.
"I had him!" You recognize the shorter man's voice. It sounded like it came from upstairs.
Hastily, you scan the interior. A rustic kitchen connected to an open living room — TV still on, loudly playing some kind of fantasy movie — and a wooden staircase to the left of the pantry. Bohemian and colorful.
"You didn't."
You focus your attention back on the muffled sounds coming from upstairs and find the stairway leading to the second floor.
You can do this. They're distracted.
You're about to head up when you see it. Something laying on the kitchen floor out of the corner of your eye.
"Alright, whatever. We're done here so let's loot the place and go. I'm spent."
It's a body. Laying just behind the counter. All that's visible from here is a pale arm soaking in a small pool of blood.
A drop of saliva spills out and down your chin as a short, shaky laugh slips past your lips, drowned out by the blaring noise of the television.
At last. You grin, eyes wide — unblinking.
You stumble towards it, bare feet nearly slipping on ambrosian red in your hurry.
The body is that of a young woman dressed in sleepwear, late thirties at most. A broken glass cup lays in a puddle of water near her hand — ice cubes scattered and melting.
She'll never drink it now. Her head sports a large dent in the side, blood matting in her blonde hair and staining the cracks between the floorboards.
Falling to your hands and knees in a rush, you run a shaky finger through the wetness on the ground, collecting the liquid before stuffing it in your mouth and sucking it dry, swirling your tongue around the metallic taste.
God, did you miss this, you think with a quiet moan. But the blood isn't the only thing you're here for right now.
You grab the arm and extend your claws, getting ready to slice off the mouth-watering piece of flesh you've been dreaming of for weeks on end. With heavy breath, you tremble in anticipation.
You've spent hours fantasizing about this moment the other night — sinking your pointy teeth into pounding meat, ripping through the first few layers of skin with ease before finally getting to the real treasure underneath, that chewy richness, paired with a salty iron flavor staining your tongue.
Just as you're about to cut off a piece of your meal, you're interrupted by a gentle creaking under heavy footsteps descending from the stairs. You wouldn't have heard it if it wasn't for your unnatural hearing.
With a quick internal curse, you retract your nails to soundlessly crawl to the shorter end of the counter, crouching behind it just in time to get out of his view.
The footsteps stop and you don't dare peeking out to check which one of the men it is. But the looming feeling in your gut tells you it's not the talkative one.
It's silent for a moment.
He steps into the kitchen and you strain your ears to hear a dull clicking sound from what you assume is the gun in his grip. He pauses at the body.
You should have waited, there would have been so much time. You don't understand what's wrong with you today, you're never this reckless — even in ravenous hunger you always keep your cool.
The pounding in your head and heart becomes louder, near unbearable. You hold your breath and extend your claws again. You don't have another choice now, you'll have to catch him off guard.
You might be able to take him as long as he's by himself. Carrying a shotgun around surely means he's less confident in hand-to-hand. You'll disarm him and fight up close. It'll alarm the other one but as long as you're quick, you can escape through the door in front of you. You forgot you left it open.
The urge to cough comes back. You slam your palms over your mouth and hold your breath. Chest jerking with the need to let it out, your throat itching. Now is not the time.
Why is everything going wrong today? This was supposed to be easy, it was supposed to be quick. You need to get out of here — clear your head.
Your eyes land on the pillar to your right, next to the door. It would cover you for just enough time.
But if you try to get to it now he'll see you — you'd be dead in a second. You just need one moment of distraction.
Your ears begin to ring as you keep holding your breath. Rigid silence broken by a harsh, electric hacking from the gunman. He's coughing. This is your chance.
One hand still clutching your twitching lips, you push yourself up with shaking limbs and—
You're out the door before you have the chance to think about it, diving behind a bulky, snow-covered shrub with a guttural wheeze rattling your entire form. You can't stop, slipping to the wet ground and coughing until the blood you've been aching to swallow leaves your esophagus again, you writhe and hack until your throat stings like thorns are growing inside of you.
Tears involuntarily spilling past your lids, your head spinning, ringing and your face feels abnormally warm and all you can think about is how this must be the men's fault.
That sinking feeling, the constant headache — hacking your lungs out. You're used to migraines but this has not happened to you in such a strong intensity until you've come across what was supposed to be your next two meals. They have something to do with this. You're sure of it. And you seethe at the thought.
You'll end them for this. Forget the body, you'll slice them up and eat them raw. Make them watch as your teeth grind down the chewy muscle and all they can do is beg you for your mercy. Their writhing flesh is the only thing worthy of your wretched appetite. There is still time.
A trail of wet warmth spills out of your nose and past your chin as you collect yourself. With a few more phlegmy coughs you inhale a trembling breath and push yourself up and off the dirt.
Narrow eyes widening for a moment at the feeling of something cold dropping on your cheek. Looking around, you realize that the sky has grown completely dark, thick clusters of crystalline snowflakes soaring through the howling wind, growing stronger by the second. Kindred to the icy rage festering within your beating heart.
They're still inside. It's been more than enough time for them to loot the house, especially since they're not alone.
You wipe your face and climb up into the massive tree in the middle of the backyard, deciding you'll ambush from above, just as you barely hear a crunching footstep over the wailing of the wind.
The hooded man.
Your entire body tenses at the sight of him. That bastard — he knew you've been stalking them since the beginning. It's like he could smell the tainted craving radiating off the very marrow of your bones. Musky and prominent.
Your grip on the sturdy branch below you tightens as you sink your claws in deep, a silent snarl pulling at your lips.
If it wasn't for him, you'd be indulging molar-deep in fresh meat right now. If it wasn't for him, you'd be gulping it down, yanking the tissue off her bones — you think, like it wasn't your own fault for going in so recklessly.
With one last look inside, he takes another step and begins walking towards the forest, shotgun still held firm.
You don't even think about the fact that he's alone, the second he's underneath the branch you sit on, your body moves, pouncing on him like a puppet pulled by strings — knocking him to the wet snow with a thud, shotgun thrown aside.
"Oof!"
The man holds up his thick, coat-covered arms, defending his face from your oncoming attack like he knew you'd jump him before you even thought to do so.
A resentful growl rips from your throat and you sink your growing nails well past the fabric — well past layers of bleeding skin and you rip him open.
A choked grunt escapes him as you unzip his arm like a suit of flesh. That familiar copper scent fills your nostrils almost immediately when you're promptly yanked back and off of him.
The masked man. You completely forgot about him in your raging daze.
You don't get the chance to react at all, your body slams to the cold earth in a flash — head hitting a stone with a sickening crunch before he sits his entire body weight onto your abdomen and strikes you square in the face.
You grunt at the force, despite the thick mask protecting your cheek. This would have hurt a lot more without it.
Unphased from punching solid bone, he grabs your jaw tight and shoves the icy crowbar to your throat, effectively choking you as you claw at his arms with a strained gasp. You feel the back of your head grow wet and warm — the world spinning, growing whiter by the second.
This is the first time you see him up close. His narrowed eyes glare down at you beneath the mask. The raging glint almost unnoticeable with how low his eyebrows furrow and how blurry your vision is becoming.
"What the hell are you supposed to be? And just what do you think you're doing, huh?", he growls out. His voice is almost clear with how closely he leans into you.
You're not afraid of him. You hold his glare with equal fury — a snarl escaping grit teeth.
How dare he. How dare they both. Isn't it obvious? You've been waiting weeks to fill your empty gut. Months.
His question is left unanswered — you slam your lengthy claws just under his ribs, stabbing him right in the large intestine, sinking deeper and deeper until he gives out with a curse, his grip faltering.
Yanking them out with a slash, you shove him off and roll out from under him, dizzy and wobbling, you begin to crawl away — you don't get far.
He grips the antler of your mask from behind and tugs you back, one arm holding down both of yours to keep you still and the other thrown around your neck in a chokehold, warm body pressing firmly into yours. He's rendered you completely immobilized.
Your head begins to ring and the throbbing from earlier increases ten-fold. Your eyes water and that prickly sensation on the back of your neck returns as you already struggle breathing. It does not stop you from thrashing in his hold, clawing at his arms and attempting to elbow his bleeding wound. He does not let you.
His firm grip amplifies the faint tingling digging into the layers of your skin. Uncomfortable and mind-numbing.
"Just shoot the thing already!", he barks with a cough. You barely heard him with the crying wind and buzzing in your ears increasing.
He shoves your head to the side and the world blurs as you see that the hooded man has long since gathered himself. Shotgun back in his gloved hands, he clicks the safety off, aiming at you.
Your vision clears enough to watch his glove-covered finger slowly lift off the safety and move to rest on the trigger.
You should have left when you had the chance.
But he does not shoot.
His hands tremble and his entire body begins to shake and falter, wracked with heaving, electric coughs. But he refuses to drop, held up by the sheer will to kill — equal to the man holding you down.
Something behind him catches your attention. Tall and looming, blending right into the dark tree you jumped from.
You don't get the chance to look at it any longer, your own body gets consumed by the urge to cough your insides up. You begin wheezing and hacking as you feel the man behind you do the same.
Just what on earth is going on?
BANG!
Your thoughts are interrupted by a deafening crack and a sudden burning sting on your ear. Wet warmth seeping out the wound. Out your gasping lips. You hear nothing but blaring white noise and your own increasing heartbeat and it's all too much.
You thrash in the mans hold again. Dampened knees digging into wet dirt as you squirm, elbowing his gut as you fight the urge to go limp and just let them bless you with tempting death already.
The masked man shouts something. You can't make out what it is — the world is filled with a cacophony of echoes and all you want to do is get away.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up and you break free as you feel his grip wavering — his body wracked with violent coughs.
Your own throat itches and your chest is tight, vision blurry. You feel a drop of blood emerging from your nostril, dripping down between your lips. But you can't focus on the mouth-watering taste right now, you scramble to your feet and stumble away with wheezing breaths as your feet begin dragging through the snow, running back towards the forest. Towards your home.
BANG!
Another ear-piercing sound. A slice in your upper arm. You drop back down from the sudden force — the burn immediate. It hurts.
Get up.
With grit teeth you push to your feet, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you clutch your arm. The ringing in your head is suffocating and you can't even hear yourself coughing anymore.
You scurry past the dead tree, past the blurry shape beside it.
You're past the treeline before you can even process what just happened. Long gone. You don't look back.
You run until you can barely feel your legs — tripping over hidden roots and smacking into stray branches and trees you couldn't see. Your vision blurred by the icy snowflakes pelting your throbbing face and the tears you can't fight back.
Hitching coughs near over — letting you almost take a breath.
summary: reader is a human-avian having trouble preening their wings. tim comes to help out :-)
genre: fluff
wc: 2.5k
contains: genderneutral reader, no description of readers physical appearance beside wings, pining, the most awkward attempt at writing a conversation ever, preening inaccuracies probably, reader is a proxy
cw: description of past cannibalism (um), implied cannibal reader, mentions of operator-sickness
a/n: i wrote this bcs i cant stop dreamimg about having wings and bcs i love tim. i was originally going to make this about jack because he's a 'monster' as well and it would have been more fitting but. oh how i love tim. there aren't enough tim fics out there and i have to change that. oh tim my pookie. this is also kinda based off my miserable self insert oc but shh
edit: i fight the urge to delete this every day
Sitting on the edge of the wooden railing of the cracked, old balcony with one of your wings curled towards your lap, you harshly tug your fingers through the dirty, dishevelled feathers in an attempt at keeping them neat and in place. It hurts. But the stinging sensation of pain has long since stopped bothering you, considering your line of work.
Being a proxy slave to an eldritch entity means day-to-day life is bound to be filled with all sorts of injuries and suffering. Whether that be by the hand of whatever unfortunate bastard you were hunting down or by the mind-controlling cryptid itself. It varies from the occasional punch to the throat to waking up in the middle of nowhere with a throbbing head and dried blood and tears crusted on your face, not remembering a damn thing about how you ended up here. Knowing you probably deserved it.
Either way, the pain is all the same and whining about it won’t get you out of its vicious clutches.
A sharp, howling gust of wind rushes past you into the foggy night, rustling your feathers and the branches of the thick forest behind the abandoned cabin you're calling home for the time being. It’s nearing the end of September, meaning days are getting shorter, the air chillier and the auburn maple leaves are dancing through the gentle breeze of change again.
The smell of petrichor is wafting through the air, gloomy weather becoming more common with the transition into autumn. It’s going to rain soon. You better hurry up with this.
With a frustrated sigh you stretch your wing a little further, not quite able to reach the one spot in the back. It’s always given you trouble, no matter how much you shift and bend. But you need to get it over with. You’ve been pushing it off for days and you have a long mission ahead of you in the morning. Something about a self proclaimed group of investigators, hiking through the grueling trails of Appalachia, knowing more than they should. You weren't really listening when your ‘coworkers’ were going over details.
You’ve been a part of their little murder group for almost five months now, consisting of you and four other mentally ill and miserable souls, all sharing the unlucky fate of getting caught like flies in the Operator’s wretched web of psychological torture and suffering.
You’re rather quiet around them. Too shy and socially awkward to even attempt holding a conversation. As a.. whatever people would call you –an angel maybe, a beast definitely– either way, you haven't really had a chance at normal human contact, leaving your social skills to be quite rusted. But it doesn't matter. You prefer listening to their banter.
The balcony door creaks open behind you and you smell him before you turn around to see him. Tobacco mixed with an earthy musk and an undertone of sweat.
Tim.
He doesn’t seem to notice you at first. Too preoccupied trying to flick the lighter on a few times to ignite the cigarette in his lips, before his eyes dart up to where your gaze is now pointed at him over your shoulder.
“Oh. Hey.”
His eyes flicker to your fingers combing through your wing. Eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Unsure whether or not the act of preening is something that should be done in private.
“Oh! Uh.. Sorry, didn’t know you’d be out here. I’ll just..-”, his speech slightly muffled with the cigarette between his teeth.
He points his thumb towards the door, already turning his body and taking a step towards it before you interrupt him with a:
“Stay. I don’t mind.”
“Uh, okay…” He clears his throat. “Yeah, cool.”
You watch his eyes screw shut, eyebrows furrowing in a pinch of embarrassment as he turns back towards you.
Amused, you focus your attention back on the problem at hand. Picking up your oil-slicked preening comb in the shape of a bird’s beak, you get back to work. It’s been laying abandoned by your side for long enough, you think as Tim leans his back onto the sturdy wooden railing you're sitting on. Once again flicking his lighter on and lighting the cigarette between his dry lips.
Minutes go by and a thick wave of awkward silence washes over the both of you. Only ever filled by the occasional huff of smoke leaving his lungs and the annoyed tsks and grunts escaping you because of the particularly entangled lump of feathers you're trying to set straight again.
You notice Tim glancing at you out of the corner of your eye every once in a while, never saying anything. You can tell he’s curious, yet too shy to speak whatever plagues his mind.
He’s almost finished with his cigarette by the time he finally breaks the silence, asking “Need help with that?”, probably wondering whether or not he’s crossing a boundary right now.
You barely hear him. Irritated. Taking a few seconds to process his words before your face softens and you let out a “Huh?”
“Ah, you know..-” He stiffly motions to your wing, heat rushing up his neck.
“Ya looked like you were strugglin’. Thought I’d offer.” He doesn’t meet your eyes now, unsure why he even asked in the first place, both of you knowing damn well he doesn't know a thing about preening wings.
“Oh! Um..”
You've never let anyone else do this to you. Not since her.
You still remember the feeling of sinking your teeth into her beating flesh. Heartbeat erratic, pounding under your molars. Hands pushing at your chin and temple, uselessly trying to force your jaw apart. You still remember the taste of her warm, metallic blood squirting on your tongue and splashing against the back of your throat, before swallowing it down your esophagus. You still remember feeling the clank of your teeth reconnecting around the thick piece of meat with a hefty bite. You still-
Enough. You force your eyes shut. Guilt won’t bring her back. Might as well try to get over it by creating new memories. This will be pleasant, Tim has treated you with respect since the beginning.
If you forget about how you got here in the first place.
But that doesn’t matter, it wasn’t his choice and you need to speak before he takes his offer back.
“Yes, please.” Looking at him again, your expression morphs into that of gentle admiration. It always does.
He huffs a nervous laugh through his nose, putting the cigarette out and flicking it towards the ashtray on the round glass table. He turns towards you and shuffles closer.
Hands twitching towards your wing, but not yet wanting to touch it. Unsure.
You shift, sitting up a little straighter, legs pressing tighter together. Fidgeting with the metal comb in your lap, trying to seem like this isn’t affecting you at all, stretching your wing in his direction.
“How do I..” He starts.
Oh right. You forgot he hasn’t done this before.
“Try to untangle them, if-if you can. Make sure they're all straight and get rid of the grime. It gets really uncomfortable if they're not all… Yeah.”
Your wings have been feeling particularly aching as of late. Covered in dirt, debris and the occasional tick. There’s no avoiding it when your job is to hunt people down like a feral animal charging through the woods. Unlike your partners, you don’t use any traditional weapons. Your teeth and claws, partnered with your stamina and ability to blend into the shadows are more than enough for you.
“Alright.” Handing him the comb, he carefully takes the large wing in his callused hand, trying his best to avoid it touching the metal. Acting like you're much more fragile than you really are.
His other hand reaches towards your multicolored feathers, running his fingers through them and brushing off crumbs of dirt. He’s always wondered what this would feel like. ‘Soft’, he likely thinks.
You’ve seen the way they look at the oddities emerging from your back. You’ve felt it. When you’re staring at the moving shapes through the car window. When you’re mumbling a hushed reply to one of your colleagues. You recognize curiosity when you see it. After all, it’s all you’ve ever been met with. Curiosity, pity and unadulterated fear.
You fold your other wing towards your lap, joining him in brushing fingers through it with the intent of saving time to get this done and over with.
Despite it usually feeling like a nice massage or like scratching an itch, you hate doing this. It’s a long, tedious process that typically steals hours of your time. Combing through your feathers absentmindedly while travelling is one thing, but it’s not often that you take your time to properly groom them like you’re supposed to do.
This often leaves your wings feeling uncomfortable and sometimes even painful, even when they're safely tucked away into the warm comfort of your body.
After untangling the lump of feathers you were struggling with earlier, you feel Tim take the comb into his other hand and begin to spread the waxy oil covering the comb over your wing. This makes them waterproof and helps maintain their condition. Not that he knows.
“Let me know if it hurts, yeah?”
As the leader of the group, Tim has always made it his mission to look out for his partners, repeatedly ignoring his own well-being to make sure they have it easier. Standing up to the Operator itself when it’s being especially cruel to them. To you. Knowing damn well he won't come out unharmed. Acting like he’s braver than he is.
You appreciate him for that.
It’s not often that a person sticks up for a beast like you. You’ve torn apart dozens of people with your bared fangs and sharpened claws, yet here he is. Brushing your feathers like you’re delicate. Holy. Something to be worshipped. You can’t contain the smile blooming on your lips.
“Yeah.”
The sound of rain drops gently hitting the balcony roof guides you out of your thoughts. Watching the water wet the large, empty field under the balcony, dirt path leading up to the house growing muddy. You hope the skies clear up by the time you have to leave.
“It's almost morning. What brings ya out here anyway, couldn’t sleep?”, you hear him ask.
“No.”
He hums, picking at a stray leaf stuck between your feathers. “I know the feeling.”
“Are you an insomniac?”, you wonder out loud. You’ve always been blunt.
A brief chuckle escapes his throat. “What makes you say that?”
“I hear you play guitar a lot. When you think everyone is sleeping.” Good dreams come to you easier those nights. When you fall asleep listening to the tender melodies and his quiet voice.
You feel his hands freeze for a second, “Sorry, uh..”, clearing his throat, he continues. “Didn’t know I was keepin’ you up with that. I’ll stop.”
“Don’t. I like it.”, you lied. You love it.
You barely catch him letting out a shaky breath over the sound of the rain. He continues fixing your feathers with the comb.
“Thanks.”
You see a flash of lightning from your peripherals. The distant storm clouds hanging far above the field you're facing. A few seconds pass and you hear the matching rumble of thunder somewhere. The rain is growing heavier, dampening your dangling legs.
“You know.. I’ve never seen you fly before.”, he starts. You recognize his statement to be a question in disguise. He wants to know, ‘Can you?’
“I used to. Somewhat. I just don't get the chance to do it anymore.” Spending most of your time in a dense forest, a cramped, stolen family van or in some cheap motel means there's not a lot of space to spread your wings in, leaving you to fold them into yourself more often than you’d like.
“I see.” He carefully plucks an insect off of you and flicks it down the balcony. Quietly, he asks, “Would you like to?”
“What?”
“Would you like to fly again?”, speaking louder this time.
Of course you would. Soaring through the skies, reaching your fingers towards misty clouds, spinning in the wind, watching the glistening stars with no one to suffocate you with their endless staring, no one to prick your skin, then veins with stainless steel, sucking up your blood in a small glass container, bringing it away to run the test of the day. Being alone. It was heavenly. Of course you would like to fly again.
“I would.”
“I ca- we can make time for that when we get back. If you want. Enough space out there, right?”
He’s talking about the field in front of you. Large and vacant. Without nosy strangers to watch. That could work. But you haven’t done it in so long, it would be embarrassing to fail in front of them.
“That would be nice.”
The balcony door slams open with a bang, both of you nearly jumping out of your skin. Tim’s hands leave your wing as you whip around to look behind you.
It’s Toby.
“The hhh-hell are y-you two doin'?”
He barely gives you time to open your mouth before he starts speaking again, holding up a hand.
“Actually I don’t c-care, we have to guh-go soon, come on.” He grunts, head jerking towards his shoulder in a harsh, involuntary shrug. “B-Brian is already bringin’ the bags down. He actually w-wanted me to help with that but honessss… -honestly that prick can eat shit and die, so I came to get you guys inste-instead.”
He has such a way with words, you think to yourself.
Despite him starting the conversation off with urgency, he’s sauntering over to the wooden bench next to you now, slumping onto it with a groan of relief. Leaning his arms over the back, legs spread wide and head thrown back, making himself comfortable.
“God, I’ve been puh-packing for…” He lets out a guttural grunt again, face scrunching up. “-over an hour. 'M not helping him with fff-fuckall.”
Listening to him run his mouth all day is something you find amusing. The brunette constantly finding something to moan about, often bickering with Tim or Kate, seemingly unable to exist in silence.
“I told you to get it done yesterday, didn’t I?” you hear the man behind you scold as you shuffle your wings back upright and turn around.
“Fuck off, Tim”
He hands you the comb back and steps away from you, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and avoiding your eyes. His ears are red.
"Hey, watch your mouth before I throw your ass off this balcony."
As much as you would love to stay and watch these two bicker and try to beat each other up – as they so often do – you're getting rather cold out here and the rain is becoming harsher by the second. There's only so much the balcony roof can protect you from. They can fight in the car.
“We should go. Let’s not keep Kate and Brian waiting.”, you mutter, hopping down the railing and onto your dripping feet. You give your legs a few shakes each to brush the water off.
Your wings already feel much better. The day will be easy.
can u tell i've no idea on how to write an ending :3
this is my first time writing a fic ever so you aren't allowed to be mean to me btw
