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: 38.2k
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.)
tim learning to play the song you showed him once on guitar…. sighhh (for the record i wrote this with 'escapism' by rebecca sugar in mind)
he hears you hum the melody for weeks before he finally has the guts to ask about it. trying to seem casual by keeping his sweaty palms in his pant pockets but you totally see through him.
you tell him the name of the song and his eyes light up like he didn't actually expect you to answer. you spend that night collecting titles of songs you think he should listen to — write them down to give to him and he spends it trying not to stare at your face for too long.
you're just so pretty when you ramble.
the second he's alone again, he takes the little paper from his pocket and grabs the handle of his guitar, sitting down and searching up that song again.
for the next few weeks he spends his time in his room or on the porch, learning the melody. pausing the audio every few seconds to try and recreate it — a frustrated pinch of his eyebrows when he doesn't quite get it right. the tiniest smile when he finally does.
you'll never know he learned it for you unless you stumble upon him by accident when he thinks you're not home.
he gets so embarrassed when you recognize it. you ask him "did you learn it for me?" and his cheeks flush red and he grumbles out a half-excuse about not having much better to do. telling you not to read into it.
you're flattered anyway — begging him to play it for you from the beginning.
despite his protests of how "he's still practicing" and how "it's not that good yet", he adjusts the guitar with nervous hands anyway and begins to strum — the tremble of his hands just barely noticeable.
and of course it sounds beautiful, he's been practicing for so long, he could play it with his eyes closed.
the notes fill the room in a gentle dance as the rising moon covers you both in a blueish hue. it's too dark for you to see the tips of his ears grow warm.
his fingers fly over the strings. the only time he messes up is when you lean your head on his shoulder and he thinks 'there's no way I deserve this.'
Foaming at the mouth thinking about sink your teeth in me rn. Goated story
akdjsdks THANK YOU SO MUCH !!! youre so sweet everyone has been so sweet !! 😭😭
i never would have thought ppl would like it that much i think my writing is very mid (ˇʃƪˇ) but im so excited to show u all what i have planned for it rahh rahhhhh
I purposely waited to read the newest parts of sink your teeth into me for my birthday 🙏 Happy birthday to me :D
ohmygosh HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU !!!!!! have the sweetest day ever thank you sm for enjoying my fic ŏ̥̥̥̥םŏ̥̥̥̥ i hope you are happy and healthy forever !!!
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: 5.4k
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. The bone is dislocated. 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. Pain shoots up your leg at the collapse and 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.
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 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.
Your feet knock into thin, furry limbs and you jolt away with a startled flutter of the heart. Kicking at the dead animal out of reflex as if it could wake up and torture you if you don't.
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 and blocking your airways shut. 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. The pressure building in your head. It's almost numbing with the way it hurts. "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, mind foggy and dazed on the cold forest floor, breathing erratic — heartbeat wild beneath your skin as he reaches in the pocket of his jeans to unlock 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. Mind still hazy. 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 and stomach ache from how his shoulder dug into them.
"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! I don't want to do this shit either 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.
