[saintestly]

— MY INFO ! ૮꒰ྀི• • ꒱ྀིა

My name is Fawn, I go by any pronouns. I love anime and Creepypasta. I like to read and write, but I’m mostly too shy to post my writing, hopefully I can one day!

I’m 21 yrs old so I’m not comfortable having minors around my page, sorry!

If you want to be moots, feel free to add me, my DMs are open, ty! (˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵)

[lewdlyluz]

I nutted to ur posts, keep it up 💕

I'll honor your jizz

[saintestly]

Can i be the only one who can bounce on it...

Perchance

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒚 & 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒍𝒖𝒆’𝒔 ⌯⌲

────୨ৎ──── —- -> ⋆｡◛ ⊹ ࣪ ᡣ𐭩₊⋆

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: lıllılı.ıll. Jack Nyras x F! Reader .lllııılı..lıllıl

"I Only Have Eyes For You - The Flamingos ⋅" ★ ➤ ➤

𝟶𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ━━━━━━●─── 𝟶𝟹:𝟶𝟹 ⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻

W/C: 34.9k // Summary: It started with a short cut. A blocked road and one lazy choice later, you end up employed by a faceless cryptid of the woods. A courier for the things that go bump in the night— your biggest struggle? The cannibal you have a crush on seems to hate romance.

Tags: Slow burn adjacent, rom-com, hurt/comfort, the dove got jumped and is being hospitalized, dub-con, domestic fluff, Bsf! Toby, comic relief cast: Jeff + Nina + Ben + LJ, @rainrot4me cameo, cunnilingus, fellatio, dom/sub themes, hard-dom EJ, soft-dom EJ, canon level violence, cannibalism (duh), throat fucking, breeding, branding, vague masochism/sadism, morally questionable reader, pet-play (kinda), dry humping, boot grinding, father figures Tim & Brian, and Jack’s guilt complex

A/N: OMFG ITS FINALLY DONEE !! My longest one-shot by far !! He is SOO brooding in this one T3T anyway- HAVE FUN !!

➽──────────────❥

You were a messenger.

Not by trade but by chance, fate perhaps. A courier for the things that went bump in the night, the job itself is simple enough; bestowed on you by forces your mind couldn’t comprehend. It was early fall, leaves crunching under your soles as you hauled boxes through the door. You had hopped from place to place, not because you were running. Quite the opposite, actually. You were searching.

Searching for excitement. Belonging, something new, with the comfort of a well-loved commodity. Nothing had tied you to any past homes. Friends came and went; the good ones just one call away, so really, what did you have to lose? The days passed slowly as you settled in. Mundane yet enjoyable, but sometimes, there would be… outliers.

Small happenings that made you pause, like how the townspeople close their blinds the minute dusk breaks. The warnings to never look past the fence, nearing the edge of the woods, faded, with missing posters stapled to light poles.

The diner always let you off a bit early to “make it home safe.” There was a heaviness that came with their words, like a teacher who knew all too well what would happen next. Leaning down to lecture a boy who eats too fast, his sandwich in hand.

Naturally, you were curious, but not enough to push beyond surface-level questions. Such as when the fence was even built, or thoughtless jokes. Poking fun at the unspoken curfew everyone seemed to follow. They would answer in that vague way folks do when they want to change the subject. Fast and unassuming. Nothing to worry about. You never pressed. So maybe it was your fault.

Your boots were heavy on your feet, the normally unbothersome leather now bearing the same weight as solid lead. You’d just dragged yourself from the closing shift. Except Lady Luck was not in your favour, as your normal route home had been blocked.

The entire street was closed up due to some big company that bought up a hole in the wall shop, said the people needed more reliable lender firms. A giant fat ass lie, you and everyone in a ten-mile radius knew they were just as sleazy as the last. Loan sharks looking for some sheltered, sad sack to buy in.

Therefore, the most logical solution? Cut through the forest they had warned you about, you had checked the map at least a dozen times now. A dingy, mediocrely printed little thing. Shoved it into your work bag on the first day and have used it ever since. It hadn’t gotten you lost before, so why start now, right?

The path looked clean cut, too, straight through the trees, no twists or turns in sight. You could even see the trail from where you stood.

The barred railing reached across the entire end of town, but not unblemished. Holes ripped through the wire by animals, metal kicked up by misbehaving teens; it was easy enough to just slip past. Hunched over in a half crawl, you stepped over the silent barrier, and when your foot hit soil— something in the static snapped.

You felt it, a shift in the air, like you had been transported somewhere else entirely. The other side of the fence suddenly seemed worlds away; your gut curled in defiance. Every fibre of you screaming to turn back, that being said, your tired arms and aching back won the argument.

Superstitions be damned, you wanted to sleep for the next month and then some. And you’d rather suffer the cold sweat of a creepy forest than the nearly forty-minute walk you’d have to make otherwise. Trudging against the worn-down gravel, the hairs on your neck stood straight up. Whatever caused the initial dread had only worsened as you went.

Your grip on the satchel thrown over your shoulder never wavers. The shadows moved around you, taunting like they were alive. Anxiety gnawing, more and more tense with each passing tree- then, the summit of it.

The first meeting.

The confrontation had stopped you in your tracks, literally. Along the old path, there was supposed to be a clearing. You were expecting it, ready for it. What you were not ready for was the inhuman mass standing dead centre of it. Limbs hanging limply, too long to fit right, adorned in a mock suit and tie. Its fingers were thin, almost needle-like in shape.

The entity’s face paper white, gaunt in some places, a hollow replication of facial features carved onto porcelain canvas. Stature stretching to the tree line and as tall as the sky was vast; it was terrifying. Fear, unlike anything you had ever experienced, had you frozen in sheer panic. You could feel your hands grow clammy. Staring up at something you thought only existed in storybooks or nightmares.

The two of you stood stock still. A staring competition, except your opponent lacked the needed facilities.

This was it.

This was the moment you had gone too far, went against your instincts, and ended up here. This creature, monster, or whatever it was, was going to eat you alive, and it was going to hurt. You had never been particularly religious, but at this exact moment, you were calling on anyone who would listen.

Pleading in your head that death would come swiftly, that the silhouette in front of you, spared you its more sadistic traits. Closing your eyes, you braced. A chase would guarantee nothing but a brutal and gory end, so what was there to do? Other than breathing through your nose and praying that there were good snacks in the afterlife.

There was a pause, nothing but the rapid thumps of your own heartbeat. You heard it before you saw it, a slight rustle of the leaves, the wind colder than it was, debating pros and cons, you blinked and looked up. It loomed over you, not exactly chest to chest, but closer, then it spoke.

Not traditionally, though, more like an echo in your ear. Understanding the words after they’ve been said, but skipping the first part. Hot-lined straight to your head.

It told you the rules, explained hierarchies, and how its workers couldn’t fill certain roles. Too complicated, the risk was higher than the reward. It needed a middleman. Someone neutral to all sides, someone to keep the balance. That someone was you.

A first of your kind, like a boss, trying a new, fun office strategy. If your boss were an omnipotent evil who hired serial killers for day jobs. You agreed with reluctance, shook hands, and sealed the deal. Its palm swallowed yours entirely, then it was gone. The forest felt lighter, just a tad.

You made it home in one piece that night, freshly employed to a second job you didn’t know you were qualified for.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

You met someone new today.

Well, met is a strong word; you saw someone new today. Almost eight months have passed since the proposal, the spontaneous interview you had in the forest. Surprisingly enough, the whole ordeal you had going on wasn’t half bad.

Your tasks are blunt, unvarnished, a letter at your doorstep in the morning stating what needs to be restocked. Routine scheduled for the first Sunday of every month and the last. Packages with notes attached, written instructions, and an address. It was simple, but simple didn’t mean easy. Residents can get prickly, no trust in outsiders, so they lash out.

You’ve dropped off supplies and sprinted off the steps more times than you can count, lest you get caught by someone not partial to your work. Deliveries are swift and done without fuss or mess. A quick trip to the overpass abridging the highway, a march to the rocky skywalk in the dead of night.

You don’t ask questions, and you don’t poke and prod. It’s not all harsh, though. Some residents treat you with decent manners or politeness. A mutual understanding of just getting the job done. You’re even fond of a certain few. A boy with messy brunette hair and a fabric muzzle, goggles always sat loosely against his curls.

A little erratic at times, but well-meaning all the same. He waves at you if he sees you, and his eyes crinkle when you wave back. Little gestures here and there, never full conversations. Still, even then, they warned you of the woods.

They were all horrors in their own right, you’re sure, but they whispered about him like he was something of myth. Monsters that took on the shape of men.

He moved like smoke, leaving ash in his wake. A born hunter with claws made of black steel. Ink-toned keratin that he used like blades, and strength as they had never seen.

An ancient hunger only satisfied by blood and bone. They told you to never stray from the path. That he feeds under the moon, and amongst the other night crawlers; it was safer to stick to your route—

Snap.

A twig, somewhere past the dark borders of the trail. The sound pulling you out mid inner monologue, head whipping to the side as you stared, scanning between the trees- you caught it. Barely there, but a flicker amidst bark.

You couldn’t see the rest of him, body blending into shade flawlessly; the only thing standing out was his mask. Two voids for eyes, like they devoured any light that came near. Hung heavy over his face and painted matte sapphire. He was tall, nowhere near the entity who had recruited you, but even from where you were, his face was obscured by branches.

His head tilted to the side, observing you. You observed him back. You didn’t know what you were expecting, maybe the second you spotted him, he’d lunge at you; or maybe you wouldn’t see him at all. You’d feel the breeze of his movements, then it’d all go black; this was... not that.

Honestly, you were hoping you’d never face him at all. Now you’re here, separated by a couple of feet at most. Call it human reflex, subconscious courtesy, anything to rationalize the fact that you had picked up your hand and waved at him. No reaction. Dropping your arm back on the box, snuggly tucked against your jacket, you slowly turned and went on your way.

He was unnerving, off-putting in the way he stared you down like prey. It made the hairs on your neck stand up- he didn’t eat you, though, and that was a win in your book.

You thought he was interesting.

He didn’t think of you at all.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

It had been a full month since you’d seen him last.

Today’s delivery instructions were different; it was a medical supply run. Which in and of itself wasn’t abnormal, what was new was the fact that you had to take it straight to the infirmary. Something about house residents liking to tamper, knowingly or not, with medication. Never going in depth, just enough for you to understand the importance of the task.

Padding your way across the large porch, package by your feet, you knocked. Once, twice, raising your fist yet again before the rickety door swings open. A man with a worn-down tan jacket fills the frame, gloved hand propped against the door like he’s ready to slam it shut.

He takes a second before recognition flickers in his gaze, voice muffled behind a mask, “Medical?” One word, and you nod, the look he gave you after almost looked like pity. You had been inside exactly one time. The mansion was empty, aside from your axe-wielding friend who was stuck on watch outside. You’d made it to the borderline rustic kitchen, placed the box on a table, and left.

This time around, you had to hand-deliver the resources directly to the basement. A makeshift lab under the house, where you assumed the reason they were still functional dwelt. He steps aside, letting you pass. Breeze whistling through the house as you trek down the hall.

The wooden floorboards creak when you pass. Turning the corner, you’re head-to-head with the basement stairs. The steps are decaying, the splint of it starting to moulder. Staves dented and sunken in from wear and tear, groaning from your weight. Your legs stretch with caution, nearing the cement floor- you pause.

Antiseptic, the smell floods your nostrils, so strong it’s nearly dizzying. Mind-numbing buzz of fluorescent lights fills the silence, and the air is stale with a hint of something metallic. There are tools and scribbled charts laid out against the counters lining the room.

An improvised examination table sat in the middle, next to a cart stacked with miscellaneous scalpels and muddy-looking jars.

Your uncertainty bounced off the walls in waves. Just drop the package on the spare table and leave. Swiftly, you set the parcel carefully on the ledge, cardboard slipping off your fingers by an inch before you shoot up. The sharp rustling of metal hooks- twisting around to the back of the lab, you see him.

Broad and towering, he ducks under the frame, frayed curtain pushed to the side. Only halfway through the opening, and it feels like the infirmary has somehow shrunk. His shoulders alone took up the width of the door before straightening. Zeroing in on you, jaw clicking once. His hood was up, in a black sweater on the verge of falling apart.

The sleeves and edges weathered down, his mask not any less uncanny in better lighting. “They told me- it was in the instructions, I-I had to hand deliver it here-“ tripping over your own words in an attempt to explain. Voice quieter than you’d like, shaky at best, while his eyes remain fixed.

He crosses the room in three strides, now a table's length away, head tilting down at the box, then you. “Alright.” The cadence vibrating through the ground, deep and visceral. You felt the base of it in your ribs.

The tone was completely and utterly— neutral?

A singular, honestly, quite flat syllable. No snarling in your face, sinking his allegedly razor-sharp teeth into your throat. You blinked up at him, clearing your throat; “ok, um, thank you. Bye.” Barely audible, but he nods nonetheless. His form was unnaturally still, and you noticed he truly only moved when he chose to. No shifting weight from foot to foot. He doesn’t really readjust either, like a frame taken out of a paused video.

The rest was a blur, basically scampering up the stairs like a fearful hamster and rushing past the doorman on the way out. Mask pushed up, a cigarette hanging loose out of his mouth. He probably assumed you were an inch away from losing your life, and maybe that would have been better. ‘Thank you?’ ‘Bye?’ Who says that?

Your head hits the pillow with a defeated thud, body overflowing with humiliation. This was the least of your problems, surely.

He could have eaten you, nothing more than a limp corpse on the frigid stone floor, so why was it so embarrassing? Perhaps it was because you had been expecting the cannibal equivalent of the boogeyman himself.

To be fair, he probably was, but no one told you how normal he was outside of that. From his perspective, you were a glorified mailman. Shaking like a leaf for no reason as you dropped off Band-Aids and alcohol wipes.

Why did this even matter to you? It was a miracle you’d even survived this long, frenzied psychopaths at every turn. It was morbid and scary- so why was this the thing that stuck? You sighed with aggression into your pillow.

He probably thought you were weird.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Jack had a predicament.

Recently, he ran into you again. The anxious courier pigeon. That’s what you reminded him of, at least. It had been over a year at this point, dating back to when the operator plucked you from the road like a stray. You made things smoother, and he respected you for that. A meek little thing, he’d seen you interact with the others, heard it through the walls.

You were quick when needed, not talkative but polite, efficient. However, you constantly seemed uneasy when delivering to the lab. The thing was, you did it in a way that came off like you were trying oh so hard not to hurt his feelings.

Small talk, where your hands would tremble passing him an envelope. Looking up to meet his eye (socket), then immediately darting your sight back to the floor.

He hadn’t planned on paying you any mind; you were just another cog in an overworked machine. Jack liked distance, isolation woven into his lifeline. How he lived, how he worked, attachment was fickle at best and dangerous at worst. With the people they were, what they represented, being best friends wasn’t exactly on the table.

Companionship was far and few in between. Indifference was easiest, intimacy out of the question, but you try. Greet him with a smile as if it meant anything, and ask if he was busy, like it mattered. Wished him a good lunch, like you didn’t know, like he wasn’t different. Wasn’t this. Like you weren’t aware of how much brutality it takes for him to have a full stomach.

He knew himself, always aware, even when he wished he wasn’t. He prayed to be numb, wished to be cruel, begged and pleaded to be mindless. He was used to it for the most part, and still. There are moments.

When the night grows cold and unforgiving, when the hunger has finally subsided, what does he have? The crushed remains of someone else’s memories? He resents it, the part of him that wants, and oh does he want. The part that remembers how to hold, remembers the warmth of it. It makes him ill, sick as a dog, while he can taste the bile at the back of his throat.

The transformation had branded him like cattle. A grotesque scar that welted. It was both bleak and rampant. The metallic scent that never seemed to leave his clothes. The guilt that festers in his gut, the wailing that rings in his ears when the sky is still.

Sometimes he feels nothing, sometimes he’s angry, sometimes he sits with the butchered limbs and stares. He’s freezing from the inside out, always cold. Hunger is parasitic, the need to consume, the desperation of it, the shame that follows. The grief that gnaws at him, walking past pictures hung on the wall after he’s done.

They were happy. Closer than close, really. It fractures him. Always an observer but never by choice, he is an outsider with the hands of someone who will know you like no one else. Breaking you open, palms sunk in past your lungs. They cradle your heart, consume you whole as the stars shine brighter than they ever have.

Jack is constantly bathed in carnage, with death painting his palette sweet and bourbon smooth. It coats his teeth like salvation and rots his blood like the plague. When he leans down for the first bite, when the flesh is unmarred. There’s a whisper in that dark that says this is the closest he’ll ever get.

You bid him goodnight on late-night deliveries.

He thinks you’re weird.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

You arrived bright and early, the morning air crisp, new.

Today was going to be a good day; business always seemed to slow on Saturdays, and your shift ended at noon. “Just black coffee- and an orange juice for the lady, a number eight to go,” grunted out and half-heartedly, not even looking up from his menu.

His wife, you assumed, was sitting across from him, picking at her old manicure like she had nowhere to be. They came often, regulars in every sense of the word.

The ink was already staining your hand as you scribbled. Then a quick nod, and you’re sticking the order to the call rack. Shoes clicking against patterned tile, the diner glowed orange. Adorned with windows from wall to wall.

You didn’t hate waking up early, but you definitely didn’t love it either. The sights sure could be nice, though. The sun peaking over the horizon, casting a haze on all the clouds it reached, made you feel cinematic, like a movie star or something.

Armed with freshly brewed coffee in one hand and a juice pitcher in the other, you marched back to the awaiting table. The steam wafting up as you poured, a glass of OJ already sweating onto the napery, “Speedy start today?” Customary small talk, totally easy.

Smoothing hands down your apron, acutely aware of the ticking timer for the to-go order. Your eyes flicked to the old cat clock, hung near the door right above the booth, a rough voice breaking the repetition, “Yeah, I got—“

Ding!

There it was, “Oh my- I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back!” Saved by the bell yet again, when you said regulars, you meant regulars before you. In your humble opinion, talking to people came fairly naturally. It was just something about how stern his stare was, his wife’s judgmental scoff every time you spoke. How they literally never seemed to want to be anywhere near each other.

You had been working hard for a year now, and the couple tucked into the back table had been ordering black coffee and orange juice before college. According to the head waitress, the two started coming in after their first date, a drive-in screening near the big lot of RossWood Inn.

Stumbling through the door, giggling, vibrant turquoise dangling from her ears, the whole nine yards. He romanced her till her head was spinning, high-school sweethearts they called them. Inseparable, all the way up until graduation, that is. He moved away, a sports gig in the city, promised her he’d be home with a shiny ring in no time, and he came home alright.

With some chick on his arm, his girlfriend at the time. They were supposed to move in together- until she got bored. Then guess who came running back. They married, settled down, never had kids, though. They don’t laugh much nowadays. The only similarities were the diner breakfast and those rustic earrings; she still wore them.

They contrasted a bit with her outfit, you think, but it was probably the sentiment more than anything. The greasy combo sat heavy as you tied the bag, kitchen heat making your hair frizz. You looked over, and she sighed something fierce; his eyes never leaving the morning paper. You pray a love that barren would never reach you.

Plastic rustling in your hold, an order handed off, and the door swung shut with a breeze.

Totally easy. Right.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Pace brisk, you got off later than you initially planned to.

Not that you were mad about it, it just set your plans back a little. You were going to go home, order from the only asian food place in town, kick your feet up and watch TV, maybe pass out on the couch. Too full and super satisfied. An exquisite night.

Your movements were sluggish by the time you got to the steps, a letter sticking out of your rickety mailbox. A job for tomorrow, but that was tomorrow’s problem. The lock clicked shut, and you reached your room in record time. Clothes off, jammys on. Socks thumping against your stairs while you scanned the corridor, landing on the phone book folded neatly against the landline.

The silicone buttons are tacky under your fingers, dial tone crackling to life in your ear,

“This is the MayFlower Express; what are you craving tonight?’

And you ordered exactly what you ordered every other time, salivated just thinking about it. Maybe that was shameful to admit; however, it was you, and it was real. They probably recognized your voice at this point; none of it mattered, all background noise.

Your food would be arriving soon, and all would be right with the world. Time passed quickly as you made work of your chores list; sometimes your weekend job felt surreal. Everything was so mundane, then it just… wasn’t. Even the people you were fond of, you knew they would come home soaked head to toe in blood. The missing posters made you feel a certain way; you knew where they ended up and how they ended up there.

Meeting an untimely demise with the end of a dearest friend’s axe. The same guys who’d laugh at your stupid mail puns, the ones who made silly faces as you waved goodbye. What if you weren’t who you were? If it wasn’t the head of operations you’d run into that night, where would you be? The thought made you shudder; it was conflicting.

You had gotten somewhat close with a handful of them, at least it felt like it; they were kind to you. As kind as they could be anyway, it wasn’t up to them, not really. Bad situations, bad homes, bad people, and can you truthfully expect a wounded dog not to bite?

The devil’s mark seared onto gnarled skin, jaw clamped down before they could ever understand it was wrong. Their sorrow was devastating. They didn’t show it in the way most would, but you could still see it all the same. Perhaps that’s why you tried so hard to make it normal, to tell those same stupid jokes, they laugh like they don’t expect it.

Laugh like they haven’t in ages. Shoulders shaking with something akin to endearment, and all of a sudden, you were looking at someone who never got to grow up.

The doorbell interrupts your train of thought. Your food. Opening your door with the grace of a newborn giraffe, you sighed. Finally. Hands moving swiftly to pull out the array of containers, almost on autopilot, before a soft clatter sounds from your floor. A tiny sticker book.

You knew you ordered from this place too much. Picking it up with little ceremony, the note attached read ‘A gift for our favourite customer !!’ Both honoured and incredibly hurt at the same time, your thumb flicks open the first page. Most of them were mini versions of the dishes, and a flash of red stopped you mid-flip.

Taking up half the page was a medium-sized sticker of Vampified Lo Mein.

The noodles were replaced with a swirled intestine, and the veggies were chopped up  to resemble brain and liver. The light bulb that appeared over your head was comical.

Halloween was overlooked due to your job and responsibilities. Now standing alone in your kitchen, however, an idea sparked.

Was it stupid? Yes. Was it risky? Also yes. Did he scare you? Most definitely, but that’s not what you wanted to focus on. It was all too perfect. The problem? What if he gets offended and eats you as revenge?

You’d like to think you were a pretty self-aware person; on the other hand, did cannibals even get offended? Does he even count as a cannibal? He was technically a demon, and he ate humans, so. He started as a human, though— this was dumb. Your tendency to overthink would be your downfall.

You vaguely heard about what had happened, about the ritual, a sacrifice gone wrong. They told you about it along with another mumbled warning, horrific beyond what you could ever imagine, you’re sure. Either way, you didn’t want to come off as insensitive or way too into it.

What if it was super traumatic to even acknowledge, and that’s why he’s so brooding all the time? Now you’re all in his face like ‘haha, I have a sticker of your most dark and shameful quality.’ Alas, it would be really funny, and there was a chance he’d actually like it.

The most you had ever “talked” was when you’d say goodnight, which he responded to by nodding once. Or the first time you’d met him, and he said, “Alright.” Or when you came to drop off supplies, and he wasn’t there. You’d stand and wait, then say, “Oh, hey. Were you busy? I have the restock.” Where he would promptly, once again, nod.

He never seemed unnecessarily violent or cruel; he didn’t quite come off that way. Not like that meant you were reckless. You knew he was dangerous. And you weren’t naive enough to believe you were special or invincible. At the end of the day, these were people you worked with.

Maybe to some it was pushing the line of too personal, but they had given their lives and arguably, their freedom. Just for a chance at survival. To breathe another day, no matter how gruelling. The least you could do was speak to them like they were still alive. People with birthdays and favourite foods. You’d bet it was lonely to live like that.

So you were going to try.

And if anyone attempted to stop you, they were severely underestimating your need to be liked.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

You awoke before the sun.

The dawn peaked through your curtains, highlighting the swaying dust motes like snow. A slow dance that you watched in contentment, preparing yourself for the day ahead. Last night, you went back out to grab the letter, finding that the newest assignment lined up with your plans. Perfect.

The job stated that there was a shipment to be collected at the northern border. A trail that dragged along the train tracks. It was a bit of a trek, but not too bad in the grand scheme of things. Walking long distances had become the last of your worries, after all. With the whole, you know, crypted employer thing. So you slipped your big boy boots on and headed to work.

Trudging into the ivory, you sighed. While the task itself was simple enough, it was the trees that annoyed you. The pine always caught in your hair, no matter how low you duck. Snagging your sweater and fraying your sleeves, you hated this forest, truly. Nonetheless, you continued your hike, grumbling to yourself.

With the pine crunching softly under your soles, you ventured into a wide clearing. A train horn resonated through the trees, sending the birds scattering. The ambiance overlapped, and you arrived at your destination. The delivery.

In the centre, sat a small crate. There was twine tied over the sides, looping on the top in a misshapen bow. For carrying purposes, you assumed.

Hands resting in your pockets as you approached, you crouched down. Taking the saved sticker pack from your jacket and peeling one off the parchment. You applied the decal with care, smoothing the edges down onto the wood for good measure. If he ate you in anger after, at least the box would still look nice.  

You hauled the supplies over your back using the make-shift satchel you’d crafted. The splintered oak dug into your back slightly, but you guessed discomfort came with the occupation. Then, you began your journey back to the destination. Home base, if you will.

Technically, you didn’t have a spoken alliance with any of the houses. You were a true neutral to the climate, which is why you’ve made it so far. Some of the proxies were nicer than others, some of them sneered at you from the sidelines- and some of them despised you. Loathed you for tampering, in their words. You didn’t belong in this world, didn’t fit in with the murderers and misfits.

They thought of you as an intruder. Something to be rid of, to slaughter and be done with. To be honest, it kind of hurt your feelings. It’s not like you’ve done anything, and it was their boss who chose you. They act as if you applied for the job of your own free will. It irked you in a way.

You were thrown into this without a choice- like, what were you supposed to do? Say no? Let the all-seeing forest creature absorb you when it gives you an obvious way out? You understood why some of them hated you, but you weren’t immune to the harshness. The clear disdain in their expressions at the mention of you. Still, it was better than being dead, you huffed.

Making peace with your internal monologue, you nudged past the shrubbery. The bundle was neatly packed onto your frame while you marched, before a condescending laugh halted you. Stopped dead in your tracks, you swivelled to find the source. Eyes scanning the bark aimlessly- until you spotted a figure.

A man with glowing yellow sockets, dressed in a dark, long coat. He contrasted with the lively evergreen, sticking out like a sore thumb and radiating malice.

The Puppeteer.

You’d only ever run into him once, and it nearly ended with you losing your life. Out of everyone, he seemed to despise you the most. He couldn’t stand your view on things. Your optimism, your tendency to try and befriend the worst of the worst. You were a pest in his eyes, a bug that didn’t know its place. An unkillable roach.

“Long time no see, courier.”

He spat out each word with venom, wrath already bubbling to the surface while he stepped closer. “This isn’t your neck of the woods, is it? Care to explain why you’re trespassing?” His verbal interrogation had you backing up. Swallowing dryly, you licked your lips. “I was just picking up a package- it was in my instructions.”

Though you knew well enough your answer wouldn’t satisfy him. It didn’t matter what you said; this wasn’t about you.

Scoffing, he cocked his head to the side, gaze boring into you. “Is that right?-” He chuckled humourlessly, speaking through gritted teeth. “You know, you always did get on my nerves. Pretending like this is normal, like you can just squeeze past with a please and thank you-” The disgust in his voice grew, and he closed in on your space.

“It’d be a mercy to kill you now- that dense little brain of yours wouldn’t be able to handle reality. You think this is a game? Some stupid part-time? Walking around like any of your ‘friends’ wouldn’t slit your throat in a fucking heartbeat-”

The pain sears through your arm before you can blink. A hot, prickling agony that spread from your bicep to your throat. His web of strings stretched from his fingertips, the glowing wires piercing your flesh through the sweater.

You choked on the feeling, knees threatening to buckle. This was not how you wanted to spend your shift.

Stumbling forward, you barely caught yourself when you collapsed. The crate slipped off your back, clattering to the dirt with a thud. He jeered violently. “Pathetic. You play pretend as if you fit amongst us, yet you can’t even take a hit? How weak are you? Honestly, you should thank me for ending it so early.” The blood soaked through your sleeve, and tears blurred your vision.

Could you ever catch a break? All you did was follow rules, do your job as you’re told. Your efforts in being cordial were for naught because he seemed set on wiping you clean off the face of the earth. Like seriously? The literal Operator himself was nicer to you; he even had employee benefits and decent pay. This was bullshit.

Your arm jerked up, the limb tugged roughly by Puppeteer’s strings. The cord sank further into your skin, and you muffled a sob. It hurt, it hurt so bad. He was going to rip off your arm, the fear of death making your throat taut.

With scarlet dripping onto the soil, you desperately clawed at the ground. A pitiful attempt in steeling your nerves. A last-ditch effort in calming yourself, even if it proved fruitless. Shutting your lids tight, you braced yourself and when you thought all hope was lost—

A familiar, sharp clink of an axe whizzed through the air.

The hatchet embedded itself into the man's shoulder with a grotesque thunk. Sending him tumbling away from you, his feet tripping as he gathered his bearings. The commotion caused you to jerk back, whipping to the side just in time to see Toby.

In all his double axed, goggle-wearing glory, had come to your aid.

You could cry.

Lunging in front of you, he yanked the weapon from Puppeteer’s body. Your attacker cussed loudly, scrambling off the floor. “This isn’t your fight, Tobias-” And Toby sneered. Hostile as he replied. “That’s f-fucking hilarious coming f-from you, Johnathan.” Readjusting his grip on the handle, he rolled his shoulders back. Standing tall.

“Fuck off, twitch. She doesn’t belong here, and you know it-”

“Yeah? Tell that t-to stickman then. You know what he’ll do to y-you if he finds out you’re f-fucking with orders.”

That seemed to be a threat in itself. The mention of their boss quieted the other man in a flash, and he stuttered mutely for a moment before huffing. “She’s not gonna’ fuck you, twitch.” His comment made the brunette's lip curl into a snarl, his head jolting lightly.

“You’re f-fucking disgusting. J-just because you died a miserable piece of shit, with no one mourning you, doesn’t mean we all have to s-suh-suffer. You know that, r-right?”

People can say what they want about Toby, but when he’s provoked, he knows how to cut and make it sting.

His remark had Puppeteer scowling, and he spun to leave, more irritated than he came. Barking over his shoulder one last time. “She’s not gonna’ last out here.” Though Toby didn’t dignify him with a response.

With the man's shape disappearing into the distance, he finally faced you. Dropping his hatchets to the dirt, he kneeled. “Hey, pidgy- s-sorry I came so late. I didn’t even know you were here.”

The worry- the fondness in his gaze made the dam crumble, and you hiccuped. Pidgy, a stupid nickname he came up with a while ago. It stemmed from messenger pigeon, and right now, it was your lifeline. Something about the endearment in it sliced through the stress, the violence of everything that’d unfolded. You reached for him, and he embraced you without hesitation.

“Man- what the fuck is his problem, Tobes?” Sobbing into his shoulders, he laughed softly at your wording. “No idea, but we g-gotta’ get your shoulder looked at, okay? C’mon, I’ll carry you.” Helping you up, he motioned for you to get onto his back.

“Toby, I still have to bring the supplies-”

“I’ll get the supplies- y-you’re literally bleeding out. P-please just get on.”

His clear exasperation made you grin a little. In a world of people like Puppeteer, there would always be people like Toby. And you thanked the heavens for that.

Awkwardly clutching your wound, you climbed onto him. Letting him hoist you up, snagging the crate by the twine on the way. You breathed out in relief as he started walking, yet concern flooded your mind. “Are you sure I’m not too heavy? The box isn’t that light either-” He cut you off with a snort. “I go out of my way to s-save you, and you’re calling me w-weak? That is s-so low-brow, even for you, pidgy.”

You puffed, of course that’s how he took it.

“That’s not what I meant, dweeb-”

“Dweeb? Wow, maybe I s-should drop you. Make you walk back yourself, since you wanna’ be mean a-about it.”

A beat, then you both burst out giggling. Your friendship with him was born of proximity, but you liked to think that even if you weren’t estranged co-workers, you’d still be close. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for months, though that didn’t mean anything would change. Two peas in a pod, that was you and him. You just clicked.

He was easy to talk to, as surprising as that may be. You looked forward to your job half the time because you’d inevitably run into him. You’d yap and yap, going back and forth about the dumbest things. When you pictured the words “Best friend,” you pictured Toby.

Sinking into his hold, you sighed. The sound came out sappy, and he already knew what mood you were in. “I know, I k-know, I’m great. A t-total knight in shining armour.” You snickered, “Bro, whatever... thanks for like- not letting me die, though. It would’ve sucked to bleed out in front of an emo with side bangs.” Now that got you a full laugh.

“I’d never let y-you bleed out in front of an emo with side bangs. Unless that emo with front bangs w-was me.”

The silence that followed his joke was stale, and he coughed.

“... Kidding- I’m kidding. I w-wouldn’t, you know that, right? You’re my best friend, I’d never- like, y’know-”

“I know, you loser. You love me too much- besides, who else are you gonna’ gossip with in between being a crazy axe murderer?”

“Ha ha, y-you’re so original, and sooo funny.”

The roll in his eyes told you he was annoyed, but his stupid smile said otherwise. Crooked, it made the gash in his cheek quirk up. And he didn’t deny that he loved you, because the truth was? He did. Loved you lots, actually.

You were one of the only people who treated him like he was normal. Toby couldn’t exactly just go out and make friends, so your presence was always a pleasant one.

Even when he was younger, he was always somewhat isolated. By his family, his peers and seniors. Yet you never acknowledged any of the things he deemed to be flaws as such. They were just a part of him in your eyes, and he could see that every time he talked to you.

It’s a sensitive subject, something he doesn’t bring up often, if at all- but deep down, he thinks Lyra would’ve really liked you.

Somewhere along the way, you began snoring on his shoulder. Drooling a little, though you were almost killed, he couldn’t complain too much. Toby nudged you gently when you arrived at the porch, giving you a slight jostle. “Up and a-adams, we’re here.” Chuckling a little when you stirred, blinking at him like he was an alien.

Your wound wasn’t terribly deep; most of the blood had clotted. However, it was bad enough for your sleeve to be soaked through, and he was not taking any chances. He’d lost too many people to bad accidents for that. You groaned.

“Ugh, my arm hurts.”

“Yeah, well, you did kind of get mauled, so...”

Cringing while he set you down, you stiffly clutched at the gash. When all of a sudden, you remembered your stickers- your plans. “Oh god- oh my fuck.” The outburst had Toby quickly turning to you, already inspecting your arm. Worry staining his features, “What? What’s w-wrong-”

His expression swiftly faded into a deadpan once you floundered. “I put a cannibal sticker thing on the crate- I don’t know- it seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m bleeding everywhere. Do you think he’ll be mad?”

“You c-cannot be serious.”

“Tobes, I have never been more serious in my life.”

The look he gave you had you shrinking into your jacket. Okay, maybe it was a stupid idea. Jack was an enigma even amongst the proxies; you genuinely don’t know where you got the audacity to try and pull this off.

“... You don’t think he’ll eat me, do you?”

“Just g-get in the house.”

With that, the two of you crossed the patio. He opened the door on autopilot, ushering you into the foyer and locking the entry behind him. And the second you rounded the corner, you were face-to-face with another resident. The masked man who had let you in last time, this time with less mask. His face was bare, scarred and stern; he reminded you of those outlaws you’d see on comic book covers.

It also looked like he’d kill you for telling him that, and your mouth remained shut.

“Do I even wanna’ ask?” A thick southern drawl coated his almost fatherly disappointment. Toby chimed up from beside you, shrugging. “Puppeteer was lurking like a f-fucking freak near the drop off, got her right in the arm.” The older man’s eyes flickered down to the wound, then to the brunette. Clicking his tongue when he focused back on you.

“That boy ain’t nothin’ but trouble. Next time you go North, take one of us with you. Those bastards won’t quit if it’s just you, understand?” His tone was harsh, yet the offer of a guide warmed you.

It made sense; you were their singular source of outside materials. Still, a part of you chose to believe it was because he cared. Glass half-full and whatnot.

Nodding, you watched as he strode past. Indifferent to the blood. The hand on your non-injured wrist snapped you out of your thoughts, and Toby tugged you down the hall. Package by his side while you walk.

You reached the basement entrance after a short minute, the rickety staircase framed by the doorway. Your companion had lived here for years, and even he seemed tense. While Jack was the main medic of the group, he was never the most approachable. The eyeless man was a step above the rest, a fact that everyone knew by this point.

He was half reaper, half salvation. Playing both roles seamlessly, it’s what gave him his edge. The care he gave wasn’t out of heart, but necessity instead. An obligation, a binding contract.

It’s why they only came to him if absolutely needed. And now, you were going to bother him with a dumb sticker and a wound you’d gotten because you were too friendly. Allegedly.

Toby nudged you ahead, gesturing you down the steps. The worn planks creaking as you descended, and you reached the concrete quickly. There, in the corner, stationed on a desk chair, was Jack. Absently flipping through a scruffy anatomy book, his head tilted up upon your arrival.

The brunette spoke first, clearing his throat. “Got your s-supplies- her arms fucked up, though. We need to p-patch it up.” The “We need you, specifically, to patch it up” went unsaid, but he got the memo.

Rising from his spot, he towered over you as he encroached. Motioning for you to take a seat on the metal table. The surface was cool beneath you, and Toby leaned on the counter across the room. He gave you a subtle thumbs up, cracking a grin to soothe your nerves. The luminescent glare bathed the space beakly, constantly humming like static. It made the lab more eerie than it had to be, but at least you had a friend.

Unfortunately for you, that comfort did not last.

From upstairs, an accented voice yelled for Toby. Informing him that he was required for some task. Something about a new assignment, and he gave you an apologetic shrug. Rushing up the steps and leaving you alone.

With no one to distract you, you were forced to pretend you weren’t aware of every shift Jack made. He moved briskly, exact. Making his way to you stiffly, the cannibal rumbled low in his chest. “You need to remove your coat. I can’t operate like this.” His instructions were easy enough, and you shook off your jacket. The outer layer now removed, he halted. Contemplating before he mumbled.

“I have to cut off the sleeve.”

Well, this sweater had seen better days, you supposed. After you nodded, he got to work. Snipping along the seam at your shoulder, his hands were swift yet careful. He held your arm with a shocking amount of tenderness, as if he didn’t want to hurt you further. The strong alcohol scent made you sniffle, and your gaze drifted to the crate. Your sticker.

Would this be a bad time to bring it up? He didn’t feel that agitated currently, though it was still a risk. A risk that you were willing to take, that is.

You swung your feet lightly while he cleaned the gash, mentally preparing yourself for the conversation. A beat passes, and you craned your neck to him. From this distance, you could observe him up close. And upon doing so, an alarming thought crossed your consciousness.

Jack was kind of... attractive. In a veiled, magnetic way. His presence came off sedative, lulling you into a fuzzier headspace.

He was still intimidating, but watching him be so meticulous about the process was oddly calming. Perhaps it was foolish, yet you couldn’t help placing trust in him. A whisper in the back of your mind that told you that you were in safe hands.

Breaking the silence, you hummed, staring at your shoes. “I found a sticker the other day, it reminded me of you.” Though your comment was lighthearted, he paused as if you’d just delivered grave news. Jack was stunned for a moment; his fingers hovering over the displayed tools. Then he grunted quietly, resuming his objective.

Okay, not a bad reaction. He wasn’t mad, that you could tell.

So you continued, having a one-sided talk with the mysterious medic. “It’s vampified Lo-mein, y’know... ‘cause you eat organs and stuff.” This time, his head lolled a fraction to the side, and you felt his eyes on you. “... I see.” Barely audible, his acknowledgment sparked a reasurrence in you.

“I got it from my take-out order, I actually totally forgot about Halloween- but I thought it was fitting.”

“Mm.”

“The boxes are usually so sad looking- not that I think you’re sad looking. I just wanted to spruce up the packaging a little.”

“Mm.”

The conversation flowed with a shocking amount of ease. It was mostly just you speaking, yet Jack appeared content, indulging in your mindless remarks. His responses were short, small hums and grunts here and there. However, they were existent, and that was enough.

Then he said something that threw you off. In the middle of inspecting the area, he nudged his mask at your other hand. “Your finger.” A plain statement that made you look down.

There, on your ring finger, sat a shallow cut. Scabbed over and barely noticeable, yet he saw it anyway. You tittered dumbly, unsure of what to make of his admission.

“Ah, I guess I scraped it when I fell or something.” Simply put, he took your words as confirmation. Turning to rifle through his tools placed on the cart, he pulled out a small cliche-esk medical-box. A red cross was painted on the lid, and he opened it, picking up a Band-Aid.

You held out your hand mutely, to which he responded by grasping the limb softly. Steadying your wrist as he smoothed the wrapping over your knuckle. Finishing the job, you couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at your lips. The bandage itself was colourful enough, but the part that made you laugh was the design.

A cat with rounded ears and a fluffy tail. Cartoonishly bright.

The quiet giggle halted him, the man going to complete the prior task. However, he seemed almost bashful, answering your unspoken question with a hushed, “I thought you’d rather that one over the others.” Turning your attention to the box’s contents- jumbled adhesives with only a few vivid amongst the beige. Jack had linked your personality to vibrancy.

It was endearing.

Cleaning the damaged skin, he swiped the deep cut with an antiseptic pad. It was cold, then it began to sting. Your reaction was involuntary, a little squeak when you jolted. It had him hesitating for a second, then he muttered. “Apologies, I’ll warn you next time.” And that statement changed your perception of him by a mile.

Again, maybe it was stupid- but perhaps he really was just a guy. Cooped up in his little basement med-bay and introverted. You understood why people were scared of him; it was obvious, logical even. Still, he seemed genuinely thoughtful, not sadistic in the slightest, like you were made to believe. You knew if he wanted to be harsher, he could’ve been. Knew if he was irritated, he would’ve made it clear.

The thing was, he hadn’t, and he wasn’t. The people you’d run into on the clock were way more violent and volatile than Jack. You’d would’ve picked interacting with the cannibal over someone like Puppeteer any day.

He finished tying the bandage over your bicep with little ceremony. Stepping away from you with a slight nod, you hopped off the table. Facing him with a grin, now on your feet. “Thank you, doctor.” You held your hand in the air, pushing your closed knuckles towards him.

A fist bump.

His mask dips down a tad, then back up. For a moment, you thought you blew it- until his knuckles knocked into yours. Lightly, and a little awkwardly, if you had to admit. Jack’s skin was chilled to the touch before he rigidly dropped the contact. It was evident that he hadn’t done anything of the sort in a long while. And you laughed, giving him a mock salute. Grabbing your coat, you spun to leave. Looking at him a final time, cheerful when you exited.

Back upstairs, you felt a sense of accomplishment. That definitely could’ve gone worse, and you gave yourself a pat on the back. Your boots thudded against the floorboards as you entered the foyer- just to immediately slam into another body. The two of you stumble back, unbalanced from the collision.

Blinking as you steady your footing, you looked up to find a man with shaggy, dark hair and a striped nose. Well, he was more clown than man, but same difference. A monochrome colour palette, adorned with layered feathers at his neck.

You don’t know how you missed him; the guy was massive. Tall enough to reach the ceiling, he stared at you in surprise. The paint on his face cracked a tad when his lips quirked up.

“A human..? Oh! I know, I know! You’re the little messenger bird, aren't you?”

Clapping his hands (claws?) manically at his own realization, he hunched over to your level. Cocking his head to the side, “Oh, my. What on earth happened to you, little birdy?” He prodded, glancing at your bandaged shoulder. You gave an unsure chuckle in return.

While he seemed friendly, you could never be too careful around here. “I was grabbing the supplies- um, I don’t know if you know him, but Puppeteer said I was in his territory. He tried to kill me; it was a whole thing.” Explaining your situation defeatedly, he hummed. Theatrically tapping his chin with a pointed nail.

“Puppeteer... Puppeteer- yes! He is such a drag, no? Always down in the dumps, he never laughs, even though I’m so funny. I really should just tear that spine of his out- save us all the trouble.”

Sometimes you forget they’re all psychopaths to a certain degree, and that irony was not lost on you.

You shrugged, nodding. You hoped he saved that murderous intent for people who deserved it, and not for poor mailmen. The clown notices your discomfort after a second, leaning down closer to your face. “Don’t worry, I pinky promise not to shred you to bits. Between us, I think you and your little packages are quite quaint.” The razor-sharp grin he gave you after did not help his statement, but you digress.

Humming while you side-stepped. You were squeezing past him with a tight smile when he stopped you, gasping loudly. “Where are my manners?! Jack, pleased to make your acquaintance.” Bowing dramatically, your eyebrows raised at how much space he truly took up. His shoulders were so broad they nearly blocked the hall, and you stuttered. Wait, Jack?

The obvious confusion in your features made him giggle. Shrill as he straightened up. “There are two Jacks in this house, my dear. The scary one downstairs is eyeless. I come from a music box-” Pushing into your space once more, his tone dropped to a whisper. “It’s where the ‘Laughing’ part of my name comes from, a literal Jack in the Box. Isn’t that fun?” His eyes swirled, sparkling brightly.

LJ’s enthusiasm was appreciated, but you were still slightly fearful when you agreed. Your gaze followed him up when he bounced, excited to have made a new companion, it seemed. The clown waved you off, and you made a very perplexed trek to the front door. How many people even lived here?

Finally, you stepped outside, inhaling deeply. Though your solace was short-lived because a sharp clang sounded from your left. Jumping almost a foot into the air, you whipped to the source- Toby.

Standing to the side of the manor, his hatchet was raised above his head, and he brought it down swiftly. The iron blade connects with a chopped stump, the force shuddering through the patio. Too focused on the task at hand, he failed to notice you. Huffing to himself.

You clutch your jacket closed over your chest as you approach. With the leaves bristling, you call for him when you’re about an arm's length away. “Toby, what are you doing?” Your voice made his head shoot up, and he rubbed his neck, sighing. “G-getting firewood, if I don’t, we’ll freeze later- how’s your arm?” Always a worrywart.

Stretching, you circled his workspace. Sitting on the rusted bench that was off-centre to the porch. “As good as it can be- also, how many roommates do you have, man?” You snickered, reclining while he threw his axe to the dirt. The question had him running a tired palm down his face.

“Way too many, y-you have no idea. Why?”

“Because you never told me there were two Jacks, I got cornered by a clown on the way out- I think he was nice, though. Sorta.”

Toby’s body language shifted at the mention of the other proxy. Suddenly grimmer than you expected, he narrowed his eyes. “Did he s-suh-say something to you? Did h-he try shit?” The concern flooded off of him, and he walked in front of you.

Though you were quick to pacify him. “No, nothing like that, he just asked what happened to my arm. He wasn’t like super weird about it or anything- is he bad?” Mumbling, your answer made his shoulders less tense, and he plopped next to you.

Resting his weight on his knees, he exhaled heavily. “LJ’s u-unpredictable. Sometimes he’s fine, and t-then he’ll flip over the most random s-shit. I- just be careful, okay? I’m not t-trying to bury you, too.” Said with a rawness that fell over you like a blanket. There was a fear there, a grief that drowned his words.

He’d told you about his past a bit ago. Telling you how he grew up, about his mom and his dad. How terrible it was to live in that house, and how much he missed his sister. Under all his aggression, his hostility and humour- there is a boy who is constantly afraid of losing.

The vulnerability had your heart aching, and you scooted closer. Hugging his arm to your chest with your chin on his shoulder. “I’m fine, Tobes. I swear I’m not gonna’ evaporate out of nowhere.” You felt him lean into you, grunting mutely. “I know, it’s just like- y-you shouldn’t even be here. Not s-saying I don’t want you here, it’s just dangerous. We’re not... we’re not good people, pidgy.” His confession was agonizingly soft.

You think the guilt Toby carried must be devastating.

Smushing your cheek into his sweater, you drew in a slow breath. “It wasn’t your fault, and you are good-” He scoffed, yet you continued anyway. “You are. You don’t do this because you like it, or because you want to see people suffer- it’s because you have to. I would know, you’re my best friend. And you tell me everything.” Ending it on a sappy note, it made his lips twitch up despite himself.

“Yeah, I do. Probably w-way too much, actually.”

“Definitely too much, you’re not even cool and mysterious anymore. You spilled all your secrets, negative points to your brooding persona for sure.”

“I am not brooding- and if I was, I’d be s-super cool about it.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Y-yuh huh.”

A moment of nothing but the wind and the faint chirp of sparrows- before you both giggled. Toby appreciated you more than you’d ever know. Always by his side, no matter what, an anchor when he was straying from shore. You made things lighter, easier to bring up. It was nice.

His shoulder was comfortable, and he was warm. Taking a break to rest your eyes when something hard stabbed you in the ass. Jerking in place, Toby looked at you, confused.

You had completely forgotten about your other plan.

Earlier that week, you’d stopped by a pawn shop to pick up some flip phones. While he did have something to contact the other proxies on, he didn’t have a personal device. Something that was simply meant for reaching him. You had taken the initiative, buying one for him and one for you.

As much as you loved the guy, he was still a serial killer. It would not be smart to just have his contact on your work phone. So this was your solution. It’d mean you wouldn’t have to wait months to see him, and you could bother him when you were bored. Like normal folk do.

Sticking your tongue between your teeth in focus, you reached into your back pocket. Digging out the mobile caller and holding it out to him with a grin. Snorting when he squinted at your gift.

“Surprise!”

“Is that a flip phone?”

“No, it’s a sandwich- yes, you loser, it’s a flip phone. So I don’t have to see you bi-monthly like we’re soldiers at war.”

His face was unreadable, then he puffed. Ruffling your hair with a snigger. “Y-you’re an idiot. You didn’t have to spend money; I could’ve figured it out.” You shook your head, disagreeing with fervour. “You know I love you, but you’re super broke, and I don’t need you getting arrested for petty theft.” And his jaw dropped.

“First off, I would not g-get caught-”

“Crazy idea, bring back being grateful.”

Toby’s mouth clamped shut at that, and he pouted. “... Thank you.” Rolling his eyes playfully while you smiled in triumph. “You’re welcome.” Both of you shoved at each other, laughing over the stupid argument.

He walked you home after, making sure you locked the door before he left. Even though you technically came close to dying, it was an overall pretty good day.

Sighing as you sank into the comfort of your own bed, you went over your mental checklist. Give Jack the supplies with the sticker? Success. Give Toby the phone so you could harass him when he worked? Success. It’d been a productive shift, if you do say so yourself.

All you had to worry about now was how to get an over seven-feet-tall cannibal to fall for you.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Humans were strange.

Maybe not all, but you definitely were. An outlier on Jack’s scale of interactions. You didn’t fit, not really. He struggled to categorize you, struggled to shove you into a box with the rest.

At the beginning, he’d brushed you off. You were simply another worker, another body to carry the burden. And you still were, it’s just that you confused him from time to time. The things you did, the choices you made, were never logical. Your ambition was unfounded, your common sense flawed. He had never entertained the conversations thoroughly, or with unwavering attention-

Yet you seemed unfazed.

It bothered him more than it should have. The cannibal didn’t particularly hate you or anything like that; it was the aftermath that he disliked. For whatever reason, your departures that followed the scheduled drop-offs always left him oddly... empty. An out-of-place ache in his chest that refused to budge. And that feeling only worsened over the months, incessant in staying, no matter how hard he ignored it.

Additionally, your scent was also becoming a problem.

See, Jack’s nose was very, very sensitive. Precise and capable of breaking down smells to each individual note. Which was helpful when he was deciphering how far along a cadaver was in the decomposition process. Useful when he needed to discern what stage an infection had reached- yet currently, it was nothing more than an irritation.

The problem began prior to your most recent visit. Last month, on a Sunday, was the first occurrence. It happened once you’d vacated his lab, and he was alone. Fixed in the spot you stood moments before, he inhaled deeply. Letting the lingering fragrance fill his lungs. Your aroma was unique to you; everyone’s was. A distinct balm that stuck to your skin.

He remained unmoving for at least five minutes straight, and the shameful part was that he wasn’t even aware of it until far too late.

You’d think a being so old would be past embarrassment, but the blue tinge in his ears proved otherwise. Unaccompanied in his med-bay, he chuffed quietly to himself. His claws flexed stiffly as he pretended that it hadn’t occurred.

It was probably because he was hungry, that’s all.

Chalking it up to an unfed stomach, he went hunting. And when he returned, your scent was long gone. So he moved on, not persisting in the thought more than necessary. Returning to his solitary routine, he found peace. (For the most part)

Then you came back.

Injured, you had walked up to him timidly. With Toby at your side, the brunette explained the events that caused your wound. Of course, Jack wasn’t squeamish; he’d seen all there was to see of the mortal vessel. It was the overwhelming amount of your scent that had him reeling. Your flesh and bone, the deep-seated sweetness of it. It made him salivate the second you entered his space.

The odium buried itself in his gut the second after. You’d come to him with trust, with the belief that he was good. That he would help- and he did. Jack helped you with drool collecting on his tongue. Aided you with an appetite behind his molars. Bandaged your wound with starvation gnawing at every fibre in his body. You’d be disgusted if you knew, and you’d be right to.

It’s the reason he failed to understand you. Your motives and goals were a grey area, a desolate patch in his mental diagram. You talked just to talk, brought him stickers as if you were friends. It was strange, and he thought about your perception of the proxies often.

Jack was aware of your relationship with Tobias and the comfort that you brought the boy. He talked about you, brought you up sporadically. Said that you were kind, that you cared more than you should, that he was fond of you. It was clear to him why Toby liked you so much- what puzzled him was why you stuck around.

Everyone in this forsaken mansion was condemned to hell and back. Their hands were stained with more blood than you could possibly imagine. So why?

Why did you stay? Why did you patch up the axe wielder's scrapes when you’d witnessed firsthand what he was capable of? Putting colourful band-aids on the smallest cuts, even when he’d told you himself that he couldn’t feel pain.

You both fascinated and unnerved him. It’s not like you were dim-witted; he knew that you knew what they did. Who they’d become when the static of an order came through. Who they were when dusk settled over the trees.

Such a peculiar creature, he thought.

Organizing the scalpels laid out before him, he arranged them in order of size. Sharpness and use came first, then wear and tear followed. Jack lined up the new shipment you’d delivered, discarding the blunt ones to make room.

All on schedule, he diligently kept at the task until everything was in place. And when his workspace was finally initialized, the cannibal stretched his neck from side to side.

He was hungry again, and his stomach acid demanded something solid. A feeling he’d unfortunately grown used to, he straightened his spine. It was late, and he’d been working down here since early morning. So with his to-do list finished, he decided it was time to feed. But not before noting the date on the calendar.

Jack’s rut was arriving soon.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

A hitchhiker, from the looks of it.

Dragging duffel bags along the gravel, the man had gotten lost on the trail. Aimlessly finding his way through with a flashlight, he stopped to tie his shoe. Crouching down, he was distracted by the rope, and Jack thought he was broad enough for a full stomach.

Stalking near, his claws flexed, preparing to strike. He lunged from the darkness, piercing his talons into yielding skin. The victim didn’t even have time to scream, his windpipe swiftly bitten off by Jack’s unhinged maw. A clean sever, the tendons and muscles crunched under his canines, and he swallowed. Yet when he was hunched over the corpse, ripping cartilage from bone- he froze.

There, in the centre of the man's chest, was a pendant. A symbol he had fought tooth and nail to forget. It was the crest of an old testament, meant to represent worshippers of death and avarice.

Flashes of the ritual took hold of his mind. The fear of it, the black tar that filled his veins like lava. The agony of being changed.

He was stretched and gutted, mutated into something wrong that night. The transformation had left him in an irreversible state, and when the followers had believed they’d won, he stole their valour in a blink. Blinded by the excruciating hunger, he sank his teeth into every body he could get a hold of. It was nothing short of a massacre. Annihilation at its finest.

When he’d reached the last one standing, the man wailed like a wounded animal. Cursed him, damned him by their god's law. Spoke an incantation that would bring rot to Jack’s malice if he ever consumed devoted flesh.

The memory is as vivid as it is violating.

There were only a select few, a small community of unwell folk. Deranged into believing that greed and carnage would gift them something grand. A purpose larger than life and a way into the heavens. As if worshipping a mortal-consuming demon would ever get them anywhere close. Obviously, they hadn’t done their research- because the ritual had gone to shit.

Jack was supposed to be a vessel, not a host. Yet instead of corrupting his soul and assailing, the entity bound itself.

The black magic had woven into his DNA, making it inseparable from his form. It ruined him, turned him into this. And in return, he had devoured them eyes first. Taking his time to ensure the pain lasted, hunting them down until their temple was barren. He was sure he’d slaughtered them all- so what the fuck was this?

Digging through the body’s pockets, he snagged out an ID. Useless. He moved onto the luggage, and inside, he discovered paperwork. Apparently, the guy wasn’t doing well. Never married, with no kids and no surviving family. Jack worked through the pile with haste, searching to identify whether the cult was an active threat or not. He knew they stuck together in packs, always needing enablers to survive.

No friends either, no contacts or connections. The deceased had gone bankrupt trying to start another commune. Selling pamphlets with a lacklustre regimen, it seemed that the twenty-first century wasn’t a fan of sacrifices. Not outwardly, anyway.

He reclined onto his haunches, sighing. A straggler. While the sight of the emblem had him uneasy, at least the worst of it was over.

Though his relief quickly fled when nausea began punching up his throat.

The gravel trail beneath scraped into his knees through the denim, grating the skin. He could taste the bile, a pungent regurgitation of raw meat and blood. The usual pleasant metallic tang had turned putrid, and he gagged violently. Undeniably sick from the bites he took.

It came in waves, making him sway on the spot. Collapsing forward, his claws dug into silt. Dry heaving as he retched. Jack clumsily stumbled off the half-eaten corpse, dragging himself to rest against a tree nearby. He slumped onto the trunk, gasping weakly while he fought to stay upright.

The bark was abrasive, only worsening his condition. Everything was suddenly too much, and it overwhelmed his senses. The crickets were too loud, the wind too sharp. It hurt.

He shuddered; he hadn’t been ill in decades. His body had become used to the lack of mortal ailments, so the foreign seediness was amplified tenfold. It rattled him from the inside out, blurring his vision and impairing his judgment. He could barely even see in front of him.

With his eyes failing to focus, he swallowed a mouthful of vomit. It was disgusting, and the worst of it had yet to come. Seemingly out of nowhere, despite his unsettled stomach, his mouth had started watering. The drool slipped past his teeth, dripping from his snarl. Jack needed to get rid of the taste, or he’d fucking die here.

The cannibal tried everything he could think of. After crawling up, he supported his weight on the oak. Staggering a bit when he reached blindly for some fruit hanging off the shrubbery. The berries crushed in his hand, and he forced them down.

However, the produce did little to help, not soothing his revulsion in the slightest. Then, he tried shovelling the stained dirt and sand into his gullet. Though that hadn’t worked either. The craving for blood only amplified the longer he went, and his gut felt like it was consuming itself. He was so hungry.

So hungry he couldn’t think. Starved enough to devour anything in his path. And his forehead was damp with cold sweat when he heard it. Heard you.

Stepping out from the greenery, you were none the wiser to your impending doom. The cruel fate that awaited you for simply being in the wrong place at the right time. Your scent called to him like a siren's song, sweet and tempting. It curled into the wind, beckoning him. Acting as a noose around your neck while he closed in.

You held a package under your arm, another delivery to a separate house, he assumed. With your back to him, you readjusted your grip. Whipping around when a deep growl resounded throughout the forest. It tore through the silence. Interrupting the chirp of evening birds and the whistling breeze. It took a moment, but you spotted the disturbance as you glanced up.

Enveloped in shadows, stood Jack. His shoulders were beyond tense, jolting with narrowly contained strength. You could feel his gaze, even blocked by the darkness; it had weight. He surveyed you like prey, his mask sitting limply against his hair. From your spot, you could make out the shape of his jaw. The red that smeared his skin, and the mangled remains behind him. You were no longer staring at a medic.

In that moment, you realized why they’d warned you. Why they drilled the stories and myths into your head, why they were so desperate for you to understand. He wasn’t dangerous because he chose to enact, chose consume and desecrate.

Jack was dangerous because he didn’t.

He wasn’t human, and his harm lay in the lack of decision in that. His appetite wasn’t controllable, a carnal need not even he could govern. It accursed him the same way it accursed you. And now you were stuck in a cage with a beast that hadn’t been fed. The key was out of reach, existing in theory and never in practice.

Sure, you could try to run, but would that really do anything except prolong the chase? Stretch the dread that would cease solely when your rib cage was ripped open. Death had come for you in the shape of talons and grief. Taken form in an amalgamation of empty sockets and puppeted limbs. Driven by hunger and hunger alone. There was no way out.

Face to face with the man, you inhaled shakily. Dropping the box to the ground before relaxing your posture. There was no point in being defensive; he could overpower you in a second. The best bet you had was asking him to be swift, and you went to speak- only to be cut off by a strained rasp.  

“Suh- s-sorry.”

His voice crackled like an old radio. The pitch warbly, baritone so low it sounded as if he was choking on the syllables. It rumbled through the roots. Reverberating up your spine to the base of your skull, along with crystalline fear. You were terrified. Frozen in place, his word was the singular notice you got- and he advanced in a blink.

Lurching over you, your back collided harshly with the uneven soil. The rock was sharp against your skin, piercing your jacket while you trembled. Letting out a stifled sob, you gaped at him wide-eyed. A mute plea for him to end it quickly. Then, his claws sank into your arms, and the pain erupted, burning hot.

Your chest caved up and down in repetition. Hyperventilating as Jack waged war with himself above you. He didn’t want to, god knows he didn’t- but you smelled so good. The wound you’d acquired had yet to heal, and the blood wafting up made him salivate. Acid pooled at the back of his throat, nudging him to lean down.

He buried his nose into your collar, breathing in deeply before licking a stripe up your neck. And when his canines broke flesh, you screeched.

Your hands flew to his sides, desperately clawing at the fabric. It was nothing short of excruciating, the sensation blistering you like frostbite. Your muscles were spasming, contracting viciously from the tear. The grasp on his sweater tightened, and water filled your eyes. Streaking down your cheeks while he groaned.

Lapping at the gash, he gulped down mouthfuls of the thick liquid. You tasted utterly fucking divine. Sugary and euphoric on his palette. He prodded his tongue deeper into the laceration, slurping messily at the sinew. Your blood felt like an elixir, a cure packaged in cords and ligaments- he couldn’t stop. The shame in himself wracked his frame, his gut wrought into shape by disgust, yet he continued anyway.

Black tar poured from under his lids, dripping onto your face, and Jack wailed. Akin to a wounded animal, his anguish seeped into your lungs.

Perhaps it was the blood loss, the pain making your head foggy, but a part of you ached for him. Execrated by a malignity that was never his own, it’d be unfair to loathe him for it. Despise him for a fate that you wouldn’t wish on the already damned.

You think if you’d met under different circumstances, when the air around him had yet to be tainted, he would’ve been kind.

The crescent hung bright over the tree's edge, the glow mingling with the clouds in wisps. It was pretty. An enjoyable view to gaze at in your final hour.

Raising your hand, you cupped his nape. Running your thumb against the edge of his hair. By this point, you’d lost feeling in your neck, your brain failing to send signals to your nerves. The sharp pangs had dulled to a spark that flickered here and there. Your head was pounding when your arm fell to the dirt. Lying limp as he feasted.

Jack hadn’t fully torn off the chunk he’d bitten into. Chewing the frayed muscle that came loose and drinking the blood that spilled instead. Yet the damage had been done, and when he pulled back, it was too late.

It took at least half of your body’s plasma to ease the manifested hunger. Draining almost all your life source to give him clarity. With his voracity finally satiated, he slouched onto his knees, looking down.

Beneath him, you lie pale. Blinking slowly, once, twice, like it took all your strength. His eyes drifted to the injury, the gaping hole left by his teeth. A gnarled thing, the flesh was nearly torn to shreds. It made him sick.

Adrenaline kicking into overdrive, he moved with urgency. Hooking one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back, he hoisted you up. Carrying you, he pushed off his heel. Bolting through the timber faster than he ever had. You were not dying tonight. Not when he could save you, not when he would’ve done anything to go back in time.

He should’ve been stronger, tried harder. Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve- but he hadn’t, and now you were paying the price. Not only were you undeserving, but you were also pertinent to your role. A necessity, one that would not be easily replaced. The system was complicated, tricky to maneuver, and the true neutrality you offered was rare. Jack could not afford to lose you.

His feet struck the earth in desperation, steps thundering and rapid while he rushed to the manor. Luckily, his superhuman strength hastened his journey, and he reached the courtyard before your pulse withered completely. Rushing up the stairs, he slammed open the door. Darting down the hall and passing the living room. Toby saw you first.

The commotion had caused a ruckus, and he’d turned the corner just to witness your body in Jack’s arms. You looked like you were dead. Lips tinted with blue, your arms slack while the cannibal sped into the basement. The second thing he noticed was the clear bite taken out of your throat. The dried salt on your cheeks and blood under your nails. As if you had fought.

He wanted to vomit.

Sprinting after the other man, he borderline crashed into the cellar door. Jack had locked it behind him, and Toby roared. Screaming at the top of his lungs as he pounded his fist against the barrier. “W-WHAT THE FUCK DID Y-YOU DO, EJ?” He rammed his shoulder into the frame, throwing his weight against the wood. It shook the walls, and he grit his teeth.

“Open t-the door— OPEN THE F-FUCKING DOOR.”

The entry creaked loudly with every collision, finally giving way with a resounding final crash. The lock splintered, and he jumped down the staircase two steps at a time, filled with panic. The brunette charged into the lab, skidding to a halt when he spotted you.

Sprawled across the padded metal table, your chest didn’t even appear as if it was moving. He scrambled near, interrupted by Jack’s bark. “Do not move her. She’s lost too much blood- I have to focus-” Toby scoffed, hostile. “A-and who’s fucking fault is that? All s-she ever did was fucking talk to you. S-suh-sick fucking freak.”

“I wasn’t- she ran into me when I was hunting-”

“So you couldn’t hold back? J-just had to eat, right? It just h-had to be her? Out of everyone, it had to be f-fucking her?”

“If I don’t operate now, she will die, Tobias.”

The gravity of the situation shoots him through the chest. His feet were unsteady under him, his hands shaking when he slumped against the counter. Biting his nails until the skin is raw, bleeding while he watched the medic work. This wasn’t happening, it wasn’t.

You were fine. You were fine yesterday. You were fine when you gave him the phone, grinning brighter than the sun.

You were good, wholeheartedly good. So why were you here? In this decrepit basement, bleeding out with your throat shredded. It wasn’t fair. He had so little, wanted so little. You were his best friend, the only person he felt at home with. The only person who didn’t deserve to be on that table.

His head jerked aggressively to the side, teeth grinding so hard they could shatter. In front of him, Jack hurriedly prepared the surgical bed.

Dashing back and forth through the room, his hands flew to the tools. He needed to close the wound and close it fast, hook you up to fluids before you were gone for good. Pressing gauze to the opening, he held it firm, ripping open a sterile needle with his canines.

When the fabric soaked through, it was thrown onto the cement. Landing with a wet smack. And the action was followed by him splashing saline solution haphazardly on the puncture.

The bite hadn’t gone deep enough to pierce your carotid artery. It did, however, cut through the initial layer of muscle. Damage to the STA. He cursed, huffing. While not life-threatening in its current state, you were still at risk for hemorrhaging if not treated correctly.

Your pulse causes the laceration to sputter. Heartbeat pushing the plasma non-stop, and flicking scarlet up his forearms. The skin on your neck had been torn, not sliced. Therefore, he needed to rid the wound of non-viable tissue. Jagged flesh that lacked blood flow would most definitely rot if left alone.

Jack stabilized his grip, focusing on the incision. He glided the scalpel along the tears, cleaning the teeth marks into something neater. Tidier and easier to stitch. Isolating the segment, he switches instruments. Silver nitrate sticks were always stocked due to the proxy's constant recklessness- and they were needed now more than ever.

A pin drop could be heard in that moment. Toby couldn’t move, and his foot tapped rapidly. You needed to live, you had to.

Prepping the area, Jack noted your bleeding had clotted enough to apply petroleum jelly. The moisture from the wound would work as an activator, mixing the chemicals upon impact. After spreading the salve, the caustic pencil hovered over the abrasion. By heaven's name, this was going to work; there was no other option.

The lights buzzed to the thrum of your heart, and he lined up to cauterize the vessel. It sizzled atop the artery, only in contact with your capillary for a few seconds. Then, it was quickly removed when Jack deemed the slit closed. Every muscle in his body pulled tight, his back screaming from being hunched over your form.

Casting the thing aside, he moved on to the external mutilation. A thin needle was pinched between his fingers, the steel cold and sharp. This was going to work.

You weren’t conscious enough to struggle, and he began suturing the gash shut. The non-absorbable thread wove in and out of the wound's edge. A ladder-like pattern, before he snagged the stitching taut. Shutting the gaping brawn in one pull.

Still, he held his breath.

Not progressing with any less urgency, he connected you to the standby cardiac monitor once he’d bandaged your throat. With you attached to an IV drip, his attention strayed to the telemetry. The screen beeped to life, displaying your vitals. The notches dip, rising with your respiratory rate until they read stable, and he collapsed into a chair near your bedside.

A successful hemostasis.

Toby shoved off the counter, approaching the operating table. His trembling hand found yours, and he laced your fingers together. “She’s f-fine, isn’t she?” Muttering, he turned to Jack, the man nodding in response. “She’s stable, she just needs to rest. The parenteral nutrition will keep her levelled for now, but she’ll need food when she wakes up.” Gesturing to the bags hanging next to the monitor as he spoke.

The brunette shifted where he stood, glancing back at your connected palms. He wished you never met any of them. Wished that you could’ve stayed far away from this mess. A victim of circumstance, you didn’t deserve to be hooked up to all these machines. Stuck in a blood-stained basement because you wanted to help, because you were doing your job the way you were supposed to- it wasn’t fair.

You looked so weak, fragile, while you lay unmoving on the cot. The question of ‘what if’ plagued his mind over and over again. What if you hadn’t made it back in time? What if the bite had gone just a little deeper- then what? Would he have to bury you with the rest?

Mourn an unmarked grave, walking past missing posters of you stapled to trees. Fidgeting with the phone you gave him in his pocket when things got hard. Bringing it with him everywhere, knowing there would never be someone on the line.

Pretending you were only a call away, sending voicemails to an unmanned inbox. Always hoping that wherever you were, they laughed at your jokes and let you lean on them the way he did. The way he would.

The idea made his stomach churn, and he exhaled heavily. Shaking his head to rid the thoughts, he gave your hand a squeeze. “I’ll bring y-you the soup you like in the m-morning, pidgy.” Leaning down to press his lips to your damp forehead.

On the sidelines, Jack sat rigidly. The guilt and shame in himself were consuming, gnawing at every fibre of his being. He could still feel your touch on his nape, the aching tenderness in your acceptance. How you embraced him as he stole your youth. Thieving your innocence, your years, and soul under the stars. The forgiveness in how you held him, as if you understood.

As if you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him, not even then.

It drowned him in disgust. In himself, in his lack of control, in the still present hunger that simmered beneath the surface. What a terrible fate you suffered, he thought. Enslaved like them when you had no place amongst sinners. Whatever chivalry between him and Toby was long gone. The bridge burned to ash, a point of no return. It’s not like he could blame the boy, either.

Imprisoned in a cell with too many scratches on the wall to count. Forced to slaughter, to labour, and punish. The role of executioner was played to a T, a script he’d never chosen for himself. You were a window to the outside, the only speck of normalcy he could afford.

Jack had nearly ripped that from him. He could only imagine the fear and grief Tobias felt upon seeing you in that state. The change in his personality, in how he carried himself, was stark when you’d gotten closer. And he’d almost lost it all tonight.

The air was pungent with antiseptic and metal, the stale quiet interrupted by creaks from upstairs here and there. Their shared stillness lasted for another beat before Toby straightened up. Placing your hand down, his back was towards the cannibal, and he stepped to the staircase. Mumbling over his shoulder. “Tell me w-when she’s up.” With that, he trudged up the railing.

In the silence of the lab, Jack stared at your frame. The muted alerts of your vitals rang in his ears, and he ran a claw down his face. Exhausted and numb.

He should have died the night they bound him to the devil.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Everything hurt.

The analgesic currently flowing through your veins helped, but it hadn’t numbed you completely. Sharp spikes of pain sparked every time you moved, and you sighed. Blinking to life slowly as you propped up onto your elbows. Apparently, you had made it after all.

You sniffled, wincing at the strain on your neck. The cotton sheets under you were scratchy, worn down with use. Rustling while you pushed the blanket off.

Overhead, the constant buzzing lights were nowhere to be found, and the room was lit by a single lamp in the corner. This place was even creepier in the dark. With your vision struggling to adjust, the shadows on the walls moved in your periphery. Swaying in the glow cast by the cool-hued bulb.

Swing your legs over, you paused, feeling a tug on your inner arm. A needle that connected you to the beeping screen. At least you’d been well taken care of. Thinking it over, you were in the middle of deciding whether to pull the thing out yourself or wait for someone to arrive, when a curtain swished behind you.

Emerging from the small room attached to the med-bay, Jack froze upon seeing you. Your eyes met for a moment, and you coughed awkwardly. “... Hi.” Watching him, your gaze followed as he walked to the monitor. Standing at your bedside, he didn’t respond, simply checking the information displayed.

Wow, you’d think for a guy that almost ate you, he’d be a little more talkative. Still, you chose not to prod, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket instead.

Your problem was that you hated silence- well, not hated. It’s just that, right now, it felt like a ton of bricks in your gut. Clearing your throat, you wet your lips. “Did you like my stickers?” That had him stuttering. His movements wavered, and a muted clicking emanated from his chest. He gave you a stiff nod before resuming his focus elsewhere.

It was evident that the whole almost killing you thing got to him. Probably fuelled the never-ending guilt-complex that he definitely had. Which was... not great, for what you were going for. You were supposed to smooth-talk the guy, not activate his hunter instincts and have him avoid you. Call you delusional, but you know what? This was just a hiccup. I mean, who hasn’t been mauled by a love interest, right?

Glancing down, he began peeling off the medical tape at the crook of your arm. The glue left a sticky residue on your skin, and you mumbled. “Are you okay?” Your comment was quiet, almost fond when it left your mouth.

Jack flicked the used bandage into the trash nearby, puffing through his nose. “Yes.” Though it wasn’t as convincing as he’d intended. His voice sounded strained.

The atmosphere was thorny, a tad too bleak for your liking. So, against your better judgment, you shrugged in his direction. “Are you sure? You’re not hungry, are you?” Joking, his head whipped up. Gaze boring into you. Okay, too soon.

He went back to removing the liquid IV, only to hesitate once it was out. The to-be-discarded needle in his hand, and he huffed. Exasperated when he stood to full height. “Why are you doing this?” Accusatory, his mask tilted to the side. And while you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was most likely scowling.

“Doing what-”

“This.”

Frustratedly throwing his claw into the air, he snapped. “You- I nearly ripped out your throat, I almost killed you. You must understand at least that, don’t you?” Tone shaky, clearly vexed by your refusal to acknowledge the fear you should be feeling. “Yeah, but- I don’t know. They... told me about your hunting. I know you get weird if you don’t eat. It’s not that big of a deal-” However, your retort riled him further, and he pinched his nose bridge through the mask.

“Not that big of a deal? Do you even hear yourself?” Laughing humouressly, he continued, snarling. “If I had gotten back even a minute later, you would’ve been a corpse. Food for the maggots outside, nothing but another body to bury- you wouldn’t be here, messenger.” Chest heaving after he finished his tangent, you rose to your feet- tried to, anyway.

Because as you nudged off the mattress, your legs gave out. Sending you straight into the cement, you braced, yet the harsh floor never came. Instead, you were engulfed by something solid. It held you steady, and you opened your eyes.

Jack had caught you, tugging you to his chest to keep you from falling. One hand splayed between your shoulders, the other on your lower back. He felt warm, carefully reclining when he deemed you stable. Palms on either side of you, while he looked you over. “Don’t rush if you wish to move. If you need anything, ask me for it, understood?” The switch in tone made your head spin.

Going from irritated and loud to awfully tender in a second. You supposed that’s why he was the medic, always prioritizing patients and whatnot.

With his arms around you, you became overtly aware of how close he was. Feeling everything there was to feel. The plush of his muscle against your front, the roughness of his calloused skin on yours.

Your panicked inner monologue was cut off by a grunt. “The sutures will rip if you’re reckless, but it shouldn’t scar. I’ll check in a week. I... I hope the pain isn’t unbearable. If it is, I have something you can take to sleep.”

Not quite an apology, yet the care in his words was undeniable. The previous heat of your one-sided argument had faded, and you hummed. “’Kay, thanks for patching me up, doc.” Teasing him, he appeared to have given up in refuting your humour. Not pointing out the fact that you wouldn’t even need to be patched up if it weren’t for him.

Towering over you, his eyes flickered across your face, then to your neck. The edge of his talon grazed the bandage as he leaned in. Observing the gauze, making sure it hadn’t soaked through yet. “Tell me if it hurts, I’ll fix it.” Hushed, the baritone rumbled deep behind his ribs.

He didn’t know why he was holding you. The overwhelming urge to ease your tension was lost on him. An itch he couldn’t scratch. Your scent, combined with your pliancy, had him giving in before he could stop himself.

The change was noticeable, and your cheeks felt hot. “Yeah- okay, um...” Stuttering, Jack was simply examining his work. Looking over the injury just in case. The issue was that you were aggressively attracted to him, and this was not helping. His hand was still resting on the arch of your spine, thumb absently smoothing up and down.

The claw near your collar then strayed upward, tracing along your jaw. Abruptly intimate, it was as if the air around you had shifted. Tightening a fraction and filling your lungs like smoke. The cannibal tilted your chin higher, your gazes locking. “What do you need from me, courier?” His face was inches from yours, and you squirmed slightly. Lids growing heavier by the second—

BEEP BEEP BEEP-

Unfortunately for you, you were very much attached to the monitor. The machine ratted you out and  borderline screeched. Your heart rate was too high, sending the thing into disarray. Alerting everyone in a five-mile radius that you had a case of the butterflies, bad.

You scrambled apart, with Jack rushing to turn off the telemetry. It shut down with a muted click, and he disconnected you soon after, leaving you to stand in silence.

That was... new. Perhaps you were hallucinating, but that felt just a bit too close for professionalism. Opening your mouth, you went to step towards Jack. However, before you could speak, Toby sprinted down the stairs.

His eyes darted between you two, clearly under the assumption that something had gone wrong. He was frantic as he approached you. “Are you- are y-you okay? Does it h-hurt?” Quickly pulling you into his arms, he cradled the back of your head. “Jesus fuck- I thought- I thought you were-” The last part was left unspoken, the fear in his pupils more than enough for you to understand.

Breathing in deep, you relaxed in his hold. While you didn’t hate or blame Jack, it was still scary. It still shook you up, and your body yearned for someone familiar. You didn’t even realize how much it’d affected you until tears began to dot his sweater. Burrowing your face into his shoulder, he gave you a squeeze in response.

“I-I’m here, I’m here. I p-promise.” Toby whispered into your hair. Rocking you lightly back and forth, he glared at Jack over your crown. A sign for the other man to leave, and he followed it swiftly. Striding past the curtain at the back of the room, the drape swung shut behind him.

Jack slumped onto his old cot. Sprawling on his back, he threw an arm over his eyes.

What the actual fuck was wrong with him?

Wires were crossed in his head, corrupting his agency and everything else up there. You were pliant because you were fucking terrified- and he couldn’t even give you that. He took advantage of you in the woods, forcing you to submit with your life on the line. Then, when you woke up, he’d lost himself again. Coercing you into just going along with it when he trapped you in place.

Your heart rate was so high it sent out a goddamn alert. You were so scared, you couldn’t even speak. The way you collapsed into Toby’s arms had him sick. Trembling like a leaf, you clutched onto the poor boy as if you were dying. And he supposed that you were, in a way.

Being stuck down here with him must have been hell for you.

It’d been obvious you were on edge since you woke up. Making jokes to soothe your anxiety, to try and placate him so he wouldn’t hurt you. So he wouldn’t hold you down and do awful things. Tear you limb from limb while you begged for it to end. All because you’d brought him a sticker. He’d witnessed that hesitance and held you anyway.

Caressing your face like some kind of degenerate. Violating you with the same claws that had nearly stopped your heart. You’d gone into shock, not able to express emotion at all until someone else entered. Someone who wasn’t an active trigger, who hadn’t given you trauma beyond repair.

You were the singular person who’d ever gone out of your way to talk to him- and he’d given you fucking PTSD.

His ears picked up the voices rising out of the basement. You and Tobias had left, which meant he could fall apart in peace. Sitting up, he tore off his mask, flinging it to the wall. His claws dragged down his face harshly as he screamed into his palms. Dry heaving while his teeth grind.

The inky tar seeped out in pulses. Dripping between his fingers and onto the concrete. It’d been so long, he should’ve been used to it. Should’ve trained himself well enough not to feel it the way he did. And yet, the question of why wracked him to the marrow.

Why had he been cursed with this fate? Why did he have to live in isolation? Why couldn’t he control himself even if he desperately tried to? Why did he have to want so deeply? It wasn’t fair.

When he’d adjusted the wrapping on your neck, for a godforsaken moment, he had felt less lonely. Your warmth, your closeness felt so tangible. Just out of reach, something he could grab if he tried hard enough. Like if he stretched far enough- it would’ve been his.

But that wasn’t reality, now was it?

Jack hated how badly he’d enjoyed it. How much he’d savoured it as if you weren’t horrified by his touch. He hated how agonizingly he longed for you to search for him, too. For you to look at him the same way you looked at Toby.

Reaching for him because he was safe, because you trusted him. Because, despite all that he had done, he was still someone you loved. Someone you’d fall into blindly because you knew he’d never hurt you.

A wretched envy shrieked from inside his chest. Scratching at his lungs, decaying his heart and rotting him whole. He would’ve given all his prowess, all his strength and agility just for someone to talk to. Bearing the weight of the job, risking death because he was human in exchange for a companion. That’s all he needed, all he asked for. Just one.

Lunging onto his feet, he sank his talons into the wooden desk. Launching it to the floor with an echoing crash. The oak splintered, and he threw a fit like a child. Ransacking his room, he hurled furniture, shouting until his throat was raw. Crying nothing but oil until his face burned and his hands bled. He hated it, despised it. This everlasting solitude that would plague him till the earth spun anew.

He sagged onto the cold floor after his surroundings resembled a war front more than a room. Choking on grief and disgust, Jack curled into himself. Hyperventilating while he wondered what it’d be like to be held dear.

What it’d be like to be loved at all.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

That did not go well.

Toby, being the concerned friend he was, checked you over for a solid twenty minutes. Interrogating you on whether or not Jack had done anything to harm you when you awoke. When you’d said he hadn’t, the boy barely believed you. To which you smacked him on the chest for. Telling him you wouldn’t lie just to save face.

This led to him walking you home like always, dropping you off at your door, and waving you off. However, you didn’t leave the manor until at least an hour after you’d gone upstairs. So, on your way to the bathroom, you walked past the basement. Now, you wouldn’t say you were a psychic or a therapist- but you’d bet it had something to do with the events prior.

Pressing your ear to the locked door, you heard him throwing things around. Utter chaos from the sounds of it, and you sighed. When he had stepped away, he seemed so disgusted. Even with his face covered, his body language was loud and clear. On top of that, you remembered his exasperation from earlier. How aghast he was when you hadn’t screamed in terror.

Jack probably thought you were a hazard.

Someone who didn’t know their place. Poking and prodding where you didn’t belong. You were reckless, causing him problems just because you stupidly assumed it’d be fine. A walking risk.

You collapsed onto your pillows, wiggling your feet to get comfortable. Mumbling to yourself. “This minor setback might be a major setback, guys.” And just as you were about to roll over and call it a day, your phone pinged. With the screen lit up, you craned your neck carefully to skim the notification. The number was unknown, reading-

[ Unknown: Shit is getting crazy icl. Feels like I’m watching Love Island. ]

Assuming it was a wrong number, you decided to reply. Your boredom would be the death of you. You swiped your thumb across the glass, clicking on the message.

[ ⭑.ᐟ : LMFAO I wish. My love life is lowk in shambles bro. Also, this is def not who ur looking for :p” ]

[ Unknown: Nahhh, it for sure is. ]

The second that text loaded, your screen began glitching. Colourful bars filled your tab, and an image popped up. An off-toned character from a video game, with buzzing letters overlayed on top.

<<YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE THAT>>10101010101

Then, a voice resonated out of the speaker- though it wasn’t nearly as creepy as you predicted. Instead of an eerie, ghoulish rasp, he greeted you like a YouTuber. “What’s up, mailman?” Okay, you guessed this wasn’t the weirdest thing you’ve been through. “... Hello?”

“Dude, shit hasn’t been this interesting since Toby got wasted and totally pissed in the sink.”

At the mention of Toby, you immediately knew it was someone from the mansion. Leaning back onto the cushions, you answered leisurely. Out of all the houses, The Operator had a surprisingly decent employee list. Compared to the others, anyway.

“The way I don’t know that means.”

“Brooo, oh my god. Your thing with EJ! The tension has me on the edge of my seat.”

You quirked a brow. First off, how the hell did he know about that? You hadn’t told anybody, and the interactions you’d had with him were lacklustre at best. Not counting the last one. Second, he was talking as if he’d been watching. And now he was contacting you about it. God, when would you rest? Picking at your cuticles, you crossed your ankles.

“I’m sorry- have you been stalking me?”

“What? No- dude. Well, like not stalking-stalking. Your phone's just out when you talk to him, I can’t not. It’s literally my whole thing.”

“That’s creepy. Like so creepy, you realize that, right?”

“Ayo, chill. I’m not creepy- I don’t watch you when you leave. It’s only in the house, and c’mon. You know what I’m talking about- spill the deets!”

Groaning, you thought about how this was definitely a bad idea. Yet your need to talk to somebody about it overruled your logic. “Bro, like I actually don’t even- wait. Who even is this?” A snicker, then he huffed. “Ben, elf guy, yada yada- now, spill.” You rolled your eyes, continuing nonetheless. “Okay, it’s not a big thing- I don’t know. We’ve only talked-”

In the middle of your sentence, a thud sounded from outside your window, and you whipped your head to the side. Ben laughed on the line, “Oh yeah, Jeff followed you home. My fault.” And before you could register his words, a pale hand yanked open the sill latch. The killer had somehow scaled your house, balancing on the ledge just to eavesdrop.

The glass pulled up, allowing space for a man to shove his head in. Long, unbrushed dark hair shagged over his face. A Glasgow smile carved into his cheeks, with scarlet freckling his hoodie.

You screamed.

“Fucking- shut up, shutup-” He scrambled through the opening, jumping to your side and clamping a palm over your mouth. You were both frozen in a stare-off for a beat, then he spoke. “I’m not gonna’ kill you, so stop throwing a fuckin’ fit, ‘kay?” A jagged knife fell from his waistband, falling to the floor with a clang. “... That’s for other stuff- just don’t fucking scream.”

Slowly, he removed his hand. Stepping back, then settling into your window seat and collecting his blade. Your phone chimed in again. “Well, shit. Guess the gangs all here-” Obviously, you were the lord's favourite jester, because just as you thought this was it- a claw shot out from under your bed. Crawling into the light, he stood up.

LJ.

In all his feathered grandeur, he loomed in your cramped bedroom. Sharp grin on full display. “Heyyy.” The clown waved at you before dropping onto your carpet. His legs folded under him. Your life was a joke, and you did one final call. “If anyone else has broken into my house- please just come out now.”

You truly didn’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t for a girl to pop her head in from the window.

Her hair was dyed with pink stripes, faced sliced with a scar to match Jeff’s. “Sorry- it’s just that everyone else was going and I wanted to see.” Cheery, then she climbed in. Plopping next to the other killer. You massaged your temples, exhaling heavily. “Why are you all here?” Aggravated that work was affecting your free time, Ben answered.

“I told you, this is the most interesting thing since that New Year’s bash- okay, I can’t do this over the phone.”

The line cut, and you heard your living room TV switch on. Static, then shuffling, followed by your bedroom door swinging open. And just as he’d stated, an elf. With pointed ears, he was blonde, his eyes blackened. Blood streaking his skin, he looked like a classic horror figure.

The glitch threw himself onto your beanbag, a bag of chips in hand, while he nodded at you.

“Alright, I’m ready. Go.” Munching away, your eye twitched as you took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going to ask one question, is everyone ready?” Monotone, you deadpanned. The room filled with agreements, muted shifts of fabric, and you sat up. “Why are you in my house?” You claimed to be a patient person, yet sometimes situations really tested that.

Jeff flung his knife into the air, catching it with practice. “My girl likes gossip.” Said with little ceremony, you caught a glimpse of a bracelet dangling on his wrist. A singular ‘R’ charm that flickered in the light. Opening your mouth, you were interrupted by a collective gasp.

“Pause?!-”

“Oh? And you kept it from us?”

“Wait, who- Jeff, tell me-”

“PLEASE- can we just get this over with?”

Your outburst made them turn to you, stunned into silence. One could easily believe you fit in amongst them with the amount of homicide you were thinking about. Taking a moment to collect yourself, you gestured to Ben. “I’m guessing you’ve been running your mouth?” His lips pressed into a thin line, and he shrugged. “I got bored.” Reclining further back when your glare grew in heat.

“Aren’t you guys serial killers?”

“Not all of us, but it’s the same shit. C’monnn, give me something.”

Pinching your nose bridge, you deflated. Fuck it, might as well. “Whatever is said in this room stays in this room- or else I’m calling SWAT and ruining everyone’s day.”

Jeff snorted, and his acknowledgment mingled with the rest. The group listened expectantly when you began recapping the events. Reaching near the end, the girl who’d introduced herself as Nina piped up.

“He made you look at him? Oh my god- wait, I’m actually obsessed-” You replied with a sad puff. Shoulders sagging while you looked up. “It was fine- but like I think he kind of hates me- not hates me. It’s like I make him weird, and every time we talk, something goes wrong. Which makes it so complicated.” She hummed, tapping her lip in thought. “Mm, well, don’t you have to see him in a week anyway?” The remark had you frowning.

“Yeah, but it’ll probably be tense now.”

“Babes, he literally caught you. And it’s not like he said he hated you or anything. I think you should at least try making up- besides, you guys would be so cute.”

“Yeah, if he doesn’t fucking eat her.”

Jeff’s icy tone cut the banter like a dagger through prey. His head cocking to the side while he fidgeted with the knife's handle. “What? We gonna’ act like the guy’s not a headcase and a half? You’re lucky you even got out with your head- we all know he could’ve done worse.” Looking you up and down, he ran his tongue along his teeth. Though Ben was quick to ease the tension.

“Okay, but he didn’t. Also, where have you been? They have so much chemistry that’s literally all we’ve been talking about- and EJ doesn’t tolerate anyone. He held her, bro. That’s insane.”

Defending your budding romance with a passion not even you expected. The glitch emphasized his point by throwing his hands in the air.

Rolling his eyes, Jeff refuted his opinion. “I’m just saying not to be delusional. I mean, he fucking took a chunk outta’ your neck.” Nodding at you, his bluntness made Nina squint. “You’re such a debby downer. They could be soulmates, Jeff. Soulmates. Besides, he patched her up. If he didn’t care, she wouldn’t be here. That has to mean something.” She argued with a pout, and LJ chimed in from his spot on the floor.

“To be fair, she is the messenger. It’s his duty to keep the boss’s plans running smoothly. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if our medic had developed a crush? Oh, the drama, the anguish- I’m getting heart palpitations just thinking about it.” He sighed wistfully, twirling a strand of hair around his finger.

Nina crossed her arms, “I think you should go for it. Just like... bring an extra bag of organs in case he’s hungry.” Adjusting in her seat as you huffed. Ignoring the fact that you had no way to obtain said organs, you also didn’t have a clue how to approach him. Especially after that.

The situation was complex, something you’d never dealt with before, and far out of your comfort zone. You had to be careful.

Playing with the edge of your shirt, you shrugged, tired. “I don’t know- he’s checking me over next week. So I’ll see, I guess.” Your mood was sombre, yet Ben shot up. Snapping in your direction with a newfound determination. “Wait! You’re close with Toby, aren't you? He’s roughed up all the time, and we can get him to ask EJ about you-”

“Absolutely not.”

Your interruption was met with widened stares. The group, taken aback by your raised volume as you continued. “Toby’s weird around Jack right now. He saw me when I was down there, and it shook him up really bad. I don’t wanna’ stress him out more, alright?” The confession had Jeff gawking at you in disbelief. “Wow, he’s even got the whole overprotective act down- ya’ sure he’s not into you?” And the elf gasped, somehow more offended than you.

“Dude. No. That’s basically her brother; they have a whole thing. Oh my god, do you pay attention to anything?”

“They’re literally all over each other every time I see them. It looks like they’re fucking, Ben-”

“You’re actually- I swear you walk around with a blindfold and earplugs, bro. Toby is the overprotective childhood best friend trope, we are the comic relief cast, and EJ is clearly the brooding and damaged love interest. Your stupidity is throwing off the dynamic, Jeff. Lock in.”

Ben was nothing short of appalled, out of breath by the time he finished. Who would’ve known that the computer virus was a die-hard romantic?

Blinking, you shook your head. Focusing back on the conversation at hand. “... Okay. Anyway- please, just keep this to yourselves. It’s messy enough as is, and I have work tomorrow. I need to sleep. You guys can debate my love life another day.” You stated in defeat.

While you were technically using your schedule as an excuse, it was true. It was getting late, the clock reading fifteen-to-one when you glanced over.

If you wanted even a speck of energy for your day job, you’d have to pass out in the next ten minutes. But much to your dismay, the killers lingered for another half hour. Only departing once they’d ransacked your pantry for snacks. A few also insisted that you save their numbers, for “emergencies.” Allegedly.

It was nearly two AM by the time you were alone, and you groaned into your pillow.

Why did finding a boyfriend have to be so hard?

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Hustle and bustle, hustle and bustle. That was the motto.

The glasses clinked as you balanced them on the tray, and you put your best foot forward. The diner was busy, filled with lively conversations. Gold streaming through the windows from the midday sun, music sparking over the old radio's static. It had you squinting when you approached the booth.

After they’d left the night prior, you fell asleep around three in the morning. Not terrible, considering your shift started at noon- but still. The lack of a full night's rest was felt, and your faint eye bags spoke for themselves.

Placing the dishes down on the table, you chatted with guests. Small talk with the patrons had gone smoothly up until this point, so overall, you were pretty content. Your heels scraped on the patterned floors while you made your way back, when the entrance bell rang. Chiming brightly, you turned to the door from behind the counter to see the regulars. The couple.

Turquoise hanging from her ears, she walked ahead of him. Settling down in their usual spot. They appeared to be bickering, the wife clearly upset over something. Emoting enough to cause the husband to huff. It wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary, and you wiped down the surface with a rag. Yet, their argument remained in your peripheral vision.

It made you sad, in all honesty.

Their love story had begun so promisingly, ending in tragedy just because he’d chosen excitement. Your heart hurt on her behalf, dimming your mood a tad. However, you didn’t have much pause to linger on it. The alert for your break was buzzing in your pocket, catching your attention. It was time to take your fifteen.

You stepped out the back. Fishing your phone out of your apron pocket and leaning against the brick. Scrolling through your notifications absent-mindedly, the sound of the alley door made you look up. The wife. She trudged onto the concrete, not sparing you a glance as she passed you by. Leaning on the wall adjacent to you while fixing a cigarette between her lips.

The lighter sparked once, twice, before she inhaled. Defeated when she finally met your gaze. The sky was now overcast, the clouds blanketing the warm glow above. Drifting to suit the mood, it would seem.

The woman tugged her coat tighter around her frame. “What?” Her words were muffled by the smoke, and you stuttered. “Nothing!- Nothing, I just...” The question of what truly happened spun in circles in your head. You didn’t want to come off as nosy or rude, but you wanted to know.

Everything you’d heard about her dull romance had come from others. A game of telephone played by gossiping strangers with too much free time.

Hesitant, you cleared your throat. “I’m sorry if I’m being like- invasive, but... why’d you stay?” Tucking your phone back into your tied pinny, she scoffed. The noise wasn’t offended nor cruel; it came off more tired than anything. As if she’d heard that same phrase over and over again. She took a slow drag. “Always that question, huh?” You went to apologize, only for her to shake her head.

“Mm, it’s alright. I get it. Why would I stay, right? Everyone in town talks about it. My man’s a deadbeat, I know.” Laughing humouressly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I loved him. Oh, I loved the bastard somethin’ awful. Waited on him for longer than I should’ve. Believed him when he promised me a ring- but you probably know all that, don’t you?” Her remark had your ears hot, and you nodded.

You felt bad, yet she appeared unbothered. Used to it after the years. “I stay ‘cause it’s been too long. There’s no point in leaving now. He pays the bills, gets me things I want, so I don’t yell at ‘im when he comes home with a hickie. It’s easier that way.” Though her tone was neutral, the stale hurt lay beneath. Worn down from age.

Flicking ash off her cigarette, she simpered. Humming like she was reminiscing. “It’s just how it is, hun. Ain’t no way else about it.” Giving you a once-over, the woman gestured at you. “Now, I don’t wanna’ lecture you, but you stay far away from men like that, understand? Don’t waste your life away settling for someone ‘cause they seem ‘safe’. I’m tellin’ you now, it’s not worth it.”

She took another inhale, the paper burning around the tobacco. Lighting up a muted amber as she continued. “I waited because I didn’t know better. You’re young, you got time. Don’t let yourself become bitter. If you find someone who sends your heart racin’, you chase that bastard to the finish line, ya’ hear?” The words were spoken as both an instruction and a warning. To not lose yourself.

To never sacrifice your joy for the sake of maintaining normalcy.

Finishing the smoke, the filter was crushed beneath her heel. Simply ash on cement when she goes to exit the back lane. Her hand gripped the steel handle, and she faced you one last time. “If it’s right, you’ll know. Real love won’t fade, it’ll stick like a scar- even if you ain’t want it to. Trust me.” A click of the latch, the door swung shut, then shes gone. Leaving you to simmer in your thoughts.

Alone on the street, you sighed. Her phrasing made you think. “Stick like a scar,” huh? If the bandage on your neck was anything to go by, that had to mean something.

If this wasn’t a sign, then what was, right?

With your shift nearing its end, you folded your apron. Placing the bundle on a shelf with the rest. It had been a decent work day, and you checked your surroundings for anything you could’ve forgotten. The kitchen had already been tidied, the counters and floors wiped clean- you straightened your jacket. All you needed to do was clock out, then you’d be free.

Reaching for a pen hung next to the printed schedule, you scribbled onto the paper. Signing off, before you begin your trek home.

The next check-up could not come faster.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Of course, everything that goes wrong- goes wrong on a Saturday.

In theory, today should have been easy. You were off, your chores were finished, and the only thing planned was a take-out dinner. Yet, fate seemed to love throwing you in the wringer.

It had been almost a full week since you’d seen Jack. While you and the medic hadn’t left off on the greatest of terms, you were optimistic. If you broke it down, the only barrier that technically remained between you was a misunderstanding. You just needed to talk, clear things up, and it’d be fine. Probably.

Hopefully.

However, you couldn’t even mentally prepare for your endeavours because currently? You were a mess. Since you’d woken up, your routine had been in disarray. The neighbour's dog had gotten into the yard, biting and kicking all your plants over. You had to physically go out to lead the puppy back to its owner. Who was not as grateful as he should have been, by the way.

Then, when you thought things could not possibly get any worse, you realized your favourite spot had closed early. Something about a kitchen mishap, which meant you wouldn’t be able to get your usual. Which also meant you’d have to leave the house to get dinner. Sure, you could just suck it up and make instant noodles- but you wanted a treat.

Things have sucked lately, and all you wanted was a good meal. Unfortunately for you, Lady Luck’s help was a one-time get-out-of-jail card. So now you were forced to buckle down and take a journey to the local corner store.

Walking quickly, you shivered a little. Should’ve brought a thicker coat, yet your suffering didn’t last too long. The lights of the mart were only a few steps away, and you sighed upon entering. The in-store heating warmed through the layers, relaxing you as you browsed.

Okay, let’s try... pasta? Maybe a roast on the side with garlic bread. Mumbling to yourself, you plopped a pack of raw brisket into the basket. Collecting the ingredients leisurely as you made your way through the aisles. You threw a bubbly drink in there, too. You deserved something fun after all that. In your opinion, at least.

Check out was a breeze, and you started your march back. The plastic bags rustling in your hold while you stepped, hung at your elbow. You were humming quietly until you caught a glimpse of the hole in a nearby fence. The place that started it all.

It was weird thinking about it now, making you wonder about how different things would be if you had taken another route.

Glancing from the empty sidewalk ahead to the crooked metal, you squinted. Would it be stupid to take a shortcut? It’s not like there was anything that could harm you past that point. As far as you knew, the only creature of the night that lurked these grounds was your boss. Deciding to risk it, you ducked under the wire. Strolling down the trail with your goods.

You could already taste the massive bowl of penne; it was going to be glorious. The imagery had you grinning, and you shifted your grip on the bag. At the mention of food, you hoped Jack was doing okay—

Snap.

A twig, somewhere to your left, had cracked. This could not be happening. Again. Turning cautiously, your eyes widened. Wolves. You’d been so caught up in thinking about supernatural threats that’d you forgotten about how dangerous the woods were. Too absorbed in your bubble to remember the animals that prowled the grounds. Now, standing face to face with the carnivores, you swallowed.

If you ran, they’d chase. If you stayed, they’d attack. Stuck in limbo, cold sweat lined your back. They moved in packs, growling, as they began to circle you. You cursed yourself mentally. Why did you even go this way? It’d gone terribly last time, so why on earth did you think it’d be smart to take the route again?

The one ahead of the group bared its canines, snout in the air. Sniffing like it could trace your blood in the wind.

You blinked once, twice, three times- and then it charged. The rest following suite. They surrounded you while you fought. Wrestling its head away from your face as best as you could, it snapped its teeth. And you weren’t weak, per se, but an animal was an animal. Winning a fight against one wolf would be a miracle. Surviving five is a daydream.

It gnashed in your hold, another one snagging your jacket. They were beginning to grow impatient, closing in on you. Hot breath wafted above you, and it smelled like meat and hunger. You probably struggled for a couple of seconds at most, yet it felt far longer.

The jagged stone stabbed through your coat when you shoved wildly. Out of all ways to die, out of all the near-death encounters you’d had- of course, you’d lose to something mundane. A stray animal attack. Your muscles screamed, burning and straining with all their might. But it wasn’t enough, and even you knew that. A single slip of your arm, before it broke through your restraint.

You closed your lids on instinct, your whole body bearing up in preparation. A ragged huff, and its drool landed on your skin disgustingly—

Then something ripped it clean off of you.

A figure too rapid for you to see, moving like smoke, lightning over ash. It swung the wolf to the dirt by its neck, and the animal landed with a grinding scrape. Snarling only for the beast to snarl back. A show of dominance, predator on predator.

When your sight finally focused, you recognized your saviour in a heartbeat. Recognized him in a heartbeat. Jack, his claws flexing, gnarled and broad with barbarity.

The wolves pounced onto him from behind. Latching onto his shoulder, its tusks sank deep before he seized the head. Talons piercing bone as he launched it aside. Another shot for his throat, and he ducked. Swerving to the left, he grabbed the thing muzzle first, slamming it to the ground and slicing it from head to chest.

Blood from both parties slathered the grounds. He was brutal, not stopping for even a second. Every attack was refuted by a bite with more force. A slash that cut to the artery.

Some scuttered away after realizing the opponent was stronger, and others became mangled in the crossfire. By the end, the cannibal huffed over scarlet-soaked gravel. Wiping the gore from his jaw with the back of his hand before flinging the remains away.

He was panting, sweat soaking his collar, with red splattered on his mask. The thing was half-on, pushed up to reveal his mouth and the tip of his nose. After rolling his shoulders back, swivelled on his heel. Spotting you almost immediately.

The silence stretched on for an uncomfortable amount of time, and just as you gathered yourself up, groceries still in your possession- he borderline folded in half.

Catching himself by sinking his claws into a tree. Even at this distance, you could see the shudders that wracked his frame. The barely contained growl that fought to break free.

Though you weren’t as scared as you thought you’d be. Sure, he’d displayed an insane amount of strength and brutality, but he’d saved you. Jack could’ve left you for dead, yet he didn’t. Getting mauled for your sake in the process.

Lacking fear, it was exchanged for worry instead. With concern taking its place in your gut, you moved closer. Carefully calling out for him. “Jack?” You were quiet when his head shot up. “Get away from me. It’s not safe.” He sneered in response, his body jerking.

It sounded like it was a struggle to even speak, and he collapsed onto the dirt. Heaving on all fours. Alright, perhaps it wasn’t the smart decision- but you couldn’t just leave him there. Especially after he’d put himself at risk for you. The poor guy could barely stand; it’d be wrong to just walk off.

Kneeling in front of him, you tilted your head lower. Trying to catch a better glimpse of him. Now closer, you could see how strained he really was.

The perspiration dripped down the columns of his throat, adams apple bobbing when he swallowed. Jack shoved away from you desperately, and his back collided with the trunk behind him. “Enough. You need to go. Now-” Cutting himself off with an animalistic clicking. The noise erupted from his chest, seeping between his gritted teeth.

In the grand scheme of things, he was probably correct. This was dangerous- the man had almost taken your life last time. However, he still patched you up. Still held you when you’d fallen. Still went out of his way to keep you safe. He was good, even if he didn’t acknowledge it.

Under all the hunger, the aggression and violence, he was well-meaning. You knew he was. So you stayed planted.

This forest was close to the main road, and in this state, you weren’t sure if he could properly get away if someone saw. Making up your mind, you spoke with urgency. “We need to get you somewhere else. People break past the fence all the time; they might see you.” With that, you grabbed his wrist, tugging. Yet Jack was adamant in his refusal.

“Stop thinking about me and worry about yourself for one goddamn second- you won’t survive if I-”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

The outburst stunned him, and your eyes searched his. Begging him to stand. “M-my place isn’t far, it’s a ten-minute walk, but we have to hurry.” The dread was thick in your cadence, and he couldn’t fathom your desperation. Your overwhelming need to get him to safety. You were too kind for your own good, offering sanctuary even if it was at the cost of your own preservation.

This was a beyond foolish idea. Letting you bring him back would only end in disaster. You would be injured and further traumatized at best, and mutilated with a still heart at worst. His self-control was weak, threatening to give in at any moment.

He’d put off hunting because he’d been too caught up in his spiral. Then his rut had hit at full force. And now the scent radiating off you was making his mouth water. This was a bad fucking idea. He couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Can’t—

“Please.”

Your voice shook, the hold on his arm faltering before it was readjusted. You held onto him with both hands, your fingers digging into his blood-soaked sleeve. Too earnest, too genuine as you pleaded. You decayed his fight, chipping at his resolve until it shattered. Jack was at his wits' end when he begrudgingly agreed. Staggering up along with you as he was dragged along the path.

The pair of you reached your doorstep, and after you’d ushered him inside, he dropped onto your couch. Rapidly tapping his foot while you hung your coat.

Jack could smell you everywhere. Your fragrance stained the walls, wafting off the furniture. It was dizzying. Pungent and drowning, it was clear to him that he’d fucked up. It was hard enough to rein it in when you were in the open air. With the space being confined, he’d doomed himself as much as he had you.

He needed to leave. Now.

Pushing off your sofa, he stumbled slightly. You, of course, noticed him in an instant and rushed to his side. Easing him back down with a soft murmur. “You need to rest, you can’t go out like this- I have meat if you’re hungry? I don’t know if you can eat animals, but I can try to-” Your voice was buzzing in his head, the tangent becoming background noise.

It was disgusting, a rotting want that festered behind his ribs. Thrumming through him in pulses as he struggled to keep himself still. You were trying to help. Naive to the vulnerability, the risk you’d put yourself at. He understood that, knew it like scripture- but alas. His grit was wittling by the second, and it’d only be a matter of time before he snapped.

Jack wouldn’t be able to leave without touching you- without bringing harm to you in the process. You cared far too much; you’d try to negotiate. You weren’t aware of the severity at hand. He wasn’t just hungry; the sick urge to claim was now present. The need to possess, to take and breed. It was a part of his biology, something that had changed in his blood the day they’d changed him.

You were so close, settling next to him after placing tea on the coffee table as if it’d help. As if he weren’t drooling at the thought of breaking you open. Both in body and in soul.

“... Jack?” Hesitant, you leaned to the side. Attempting to see his expression. “Are you okay?” He hated how much your concern fuelled his appetite. Innocent, akin to prey, you blinked at him. Confused when he rasped. “You shouldn’t have brought me here.” And your reply had his molars grinding. “I know it’s- weird right now. But you literally can’t even stand. I don’t mind that you’re here. I- I’m not scared of you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

His nails dug into his palms. You were blameless, awfully generous to a beast that craved your essence. Jack cursed himself for letting his hunger get this out of hand. He should’ve hunted prior; at least then he’d have the energy to make a run for the door. The seasonal ruts were destructive on their own, so he couldn’t even comprehend the marks he’d leave on you.

Yet you only instigated the already building heat. Fussing over him, you fidgeted with your thumbs. “Is there anything that would help? It might be stupid- I just think if we get something in your stomach, you’d feel at least a little better.” Like poking a starved bear.

The straw that broke the camel's back was the minute you touched him.

Your palm rested gently on his shoulder, worry written across your features- and he lunged. Pouncing on you, your bodies slammed onto the floor. Causing the cups on the table to clatter. Jack pinned your wrists by your head, panting over you. His mask had slipped off in the rush, his face left bare. The obsidian tar dripped onto your cheeks while his lashes fluttered, and the sight made you gasp.

“You’re beautiful.”

It acted as a sucker punch to his gut, winding him. He snarled, the sound rumbling low. “You’re a fool.” Pained when he dipped his head closer, his nose grazing the uninjured side of your throat. You smelled so good, achingly warm and alive. It had his cock throbbing painfully in his slacks, and he latched onto the skin.

Lavving at the spot, his teeth pierced flesh, making you arch into him. And yet, this felt different than before. Too intimate, he wasn’t biting you to feast- it was like he was trying to infect you. Spreading his hunger like a disease and injecting it into you by blood. Another thing that contrasted with the previous incident was the way he dropped his hips between your thighs.

Spreading your legs to accommodate his mass and grinding onto your core. You whined, breathless. What the hell was happening? Though any logic was quickly dissolved when he began rocking against you. His zipper caught on your clit, the pleasure resetting your brain entirely. Your thighs twitched together, clamping around his body as he groaned.

It felt good, heavenly and mind-numbing. The taste of your blood, combined with the feeling of your clothed cunt sent him reeling. You sounded so pretty, all gasps and hushed moans. It was addictive- he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Not now, not when you were squirming under him. Not when you’d writhe and shiver from his touch.

He rutted harder, rougher, while your lids drooped. Tongue sliding over the tiny cuts left on your skin, savouring the taste. You were even better than he imagined. Pulling back, he licked across his canines. Breathing heavy, the air was so heated it created foggy puffs with each exhale. A view that had you dripping, Jack looked manic.

His grin stretched up, razor-sharp teeth on display and glimmering in the dim light. He purred, “Sweet meat.” A slow baritone. Leaning down and letting his lips mold to yours. He kissed you deeply, with his tongues exploring every inch of your mouth. He was completely drunk off it. Off you. Too lost to stop and think about the way he’d trapped you in place.

You mewled, and the drag of his bulge over your cunt made you dizzy. The thick outline slotted between your folds through the cotton, pressing against your sensitive clit. He was drowning, vast and ruthless. The cannibal wasn’t even fucking you, and you were already panting. You just couldn’t help it- the authority, the control of it, making your head spin.

Whining into him, he swallowed the sound. Grunting while his hips jolted. The friction was too much, too fast. Jack fucked you through the denim with urgency, refusing to give you reprieve. It’s not like he’d started gently either. The man had jumped from sitting quietly to pouncing on you in a blink. Still, the embers within your core sparked like matches. Setting aflame and devouring your heart's home.

The fury, famine, and fervour were balanced on a pin. Tipping the scales as your release overtook you.

Your orgasm came without mercy, rushing from your head to the tips of your fingers. Making your spine curve while he soiled his jeans. The groan he let out had you twitching. Empty, when you clenched around nothing. Your back felt raw from the constant motion of your bodies, and the afterglow blurred your vision.

“J-Jack-” Yet the shaky call of his name landed on deaf ears, the cannibal flipping you onto your stomach.

He restrained your lower half under his weight, caging you between his heavy thighs. With his stiff cock nudging against your entrance through the fabric; it was obvious to you that he had no plans ending this any time soon. Just what had you gotten yourself into?

Continuing to hump you, Jack’s saliva dribbled down his jaw, and he dropped. His arms bracketed your head while he bit onto your nape, moaning at the taste. The pain was sharp, a repetitive throb that mixed with the heat. You sang from the prickle, “Ah- mmph, s-slow down.” However, it appeared he was in a daze. Dragging his teeth to your shoulder, he sank his canines down.

Orgasm after orgasm, he had you pinned under him for hours. His seed had seeped through his slacks, blending with your slick. You’d lost track of how long it’d been, barely able to keep your eyes open by this point.

Weakly pawing at his bicep, you hiccuped. Eyes rolling back when his engorged cock head ground on your clit once more. You seized violently, skin littered in punctures. The red had stained nearly everything around you. The slow drip of the wounds painted the rug, streaking your frame. It made your living room look like a crime scene.

The clock on the wall read ‘2:48 AM’ when he finally slowed to a halt. Sweat beading down his brow as he reclined. You were lying beneath him in disarray. Hair knotted, with tears streaming along your cheeks. His teeth marks nearly covered the entirety of your upper body.

That was when it dawned on Jack what he’d done.

The evidence was clear as day between your wet thighs. His cum coated your flesh, slobber leaving a shine from your marred shoulders up to your neck. You were wrecked beyond repair. Injured and crying mutely, with your head craned to gaze at him. The lack of focus in your pupils had him fucking nauseous.

He shoved off of you, scrambling to do anything. To help, to aid, to fix this. And when you struggled to roll onto your back, he tasted bile.

You weakly propped yourself onto your elbows, slumped slightly to one side. “It’s okay- it’s okay.” Though it was evident that he disagreed, he hastily crawled forward. His hands shook while he sputtered, “Shit- I-I have to stop the bleeding. Just- just wait- I’ll- Jesus fuck.” Claws hovering over you, desperate yet hesitant.

“My bandages and stuff are upstairs, in my bathroom.” Trying your best to calm him, he hurriedly picked you up. Cradling you in his arms as he rushed the steps. You two rounded into the ensuite washroom, and he placed you on the bathtub ledge.

Darting to the cabinet, he grimaced at his reflection before grabbing the medkit. Yanking the white box open and dabbing the cuts along your collar.

He kneeled in front of you, his breathing unsteady. As much as he wished to flee, he’d done enough damage. The least he could do was make sure you didn’t bleed out. The guilt consumed him with every peel of a Band-Aid, with every pat of gauze on your lacerated throat. And once he was done, the silence was so thick you thought you’d suffocate.

Idly remaining on the tile, his bottom lip wobbled. He was so angry, disgusted- filled with nothing but self-loathing. Jack had no right to cry, no right to grieve. Despite all of it, his body was running on fumes, and he tumbled onto his hands. Head hanging low, an inch above your legs. He let out a choked sob.

The cannibal collapsed onto his haunches, burrowing his face into your knees. His claws pathetically grasping at your calves. Careful not to harm you further.

“I’m sorry- fuck, I’m sorryI’msorry- I didn’t want to. I didn’t- I swear on my life I didn’t. I would never- I wasn’t-” You go to comfort him, your hand a centimetre away from his trembling form, before he jerked away harshly.

Clarity had shot through him like a bullet. What the actual fuck was he doing? Forcing you into such an uncomfortable position. Making you soothe him as if he hadn’t just submitted you to an act so violating it’d haunt you for years.

You were probably so lost, traumatized and afraid. Trying your best not to trigger him into doing anything more. The shock was most likely the only reason you weren’t having a full-blown panic attack right now.

Stumbling back, his expression was bordering on pure devastation. Horrified, when he staggered past the doorway, his gaze fixed on you. “I’m sorry.” His words were heavy, and he left your sight quickly. That was all you got, the singular statement he left you with. You heard your front door slam shut, the force rattling your home as you fell apart.

Jack was right about one thing. You were in shock, and you were definitely on the verge of hyperventilating. It wasn’t that you were traumatized from him, exactly- it was simply that you were beyond overwhelmed.

Everything had happened so fast, you hadn’t had the time to process it. You needed something to ground you, to ease you after your endorphins had peaked. And he had left.

Putting you in isolation at literally the worst moment. If you didn’t call someone, you’d vomit.

While your bedroom was a few steps from your spot, it felt a world away. Your feet lugged against the floor, heavy as lead, and you dove nose-first into your sheets. Fetching your charged flip-phone from under your pillow, you unplugged it. Pressing it to your ear after dialling the only person you could think of.

Toby.

The tone cycled three times, then it clicked. A voice crackling through the other side when you exhaled. “H-hello?” Salt had already brimmed under your lids, and you sadly puffed. “Tobes, please tell me you can come over.” The quake in your words made him straighten up immediately, gathering his coat.

“Yeah- yeah, of course. W-what happened?”

“Like- ugh. Just hurry, please.”

The conversation was swift, and you hung up once he’d told you he’d started walking. Time flies when you’re spiralling on the brink, you suppose- because your bedroom door swung open in a flash.

Toby, out of breath, stood at the entryway. And the second he digested your state, he jumped to your side. Frantically rolling you over while you sniffled. You were pitiful when you reached for him, and he didn’t hesitate to sink into your embrace. His arms slipped under your back, with his body on you like a weighted blanket.

He was attempting to stay calm- but holy shit. The first red flag was that your door was unlocked, the second being the blood on almost everything. Then, when he’d gotten to you, you looked like this.

Mind racing a mile a minute, the brunette mumbled into your hair as you sagged into him. “Talk to me, pidgy. You’re s-scaring me here.” A weak jab at humour, and you sighed. “You have to promise not to freak out.” Quietly, your hands curling around his sweater.

Okay, now he was definitely freaking out. All the signs pointed to an obvious conclusion, one that he prayed wouldn’t be correct. Though he nodded anyway, waiting for you to continue.

“... I ran into Jack, he was sick- I think. I don’t know, I brought him home. I was trying to help and then-” Toby pulled back instantly, cutting in with a disbelieving huff. Eyes wild. “What?” You freeze, backtracking to explain, but he was already set in his wrath. Cupping your face, he stared at you unblinking.

A simmering rage and disgust swam behind his pupils, grip steady. “It’s okay- you’re okay. I’ll take c-care of it, alright? I’ll kill him, I’ll f-fucking kill him- I promise. He’s not gonna’ touch you, I s-swear he’s never gonna’ f-fucking touch you again.” His forehead rested on yours, and you shook your head. Tugging at his sleeve gently,

“No- Toby, it wasn’t like that-”

“Listen, okay? It-it wasn’t your f-fault, you don’t have to lie for him. I’ll take care o-of it, I’ll figure s-suh-something out. You can drop things off outside, I’ll wait for you-”

“Toby.”

You planted your palms against his cheeks firmly. “I know it... seems bad. But I promise he didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to.” The confession made him pause, speculation strong in his gaze. Toby was stagnant for a moment, then he hummed. “... You can tell me anything, you k-know that right?” Still distrustful when you fixed a lock of hair behind his ear.

“I know. If anything ever happened, I’d tell you first.” His narrowed eyes softened a tad at that, and his shoulders eased. “Okay. So, what...?” Waiting for you to explain, the boy dropped his head back onto your collar.

You let your sight drift to the ceiling, exhaling. “It’s- ugh. It’s like every time I see him, something happens, and he runs. None of this is normal, but I still... I don’t know. I still like him, Tobes. And it feels like he either can’t stand being around me or he’s all over me. Everything or nothing- I just want to talk.” Finishing your tangent with a tired shrug, he was at a crossroads.

On one hand, he didn’t like the idea of you getting mixed up with Jack at all. On the other, he knew you too well to ask you not to. You were determined, hard-headed, and way too believing. Seeing the best in everyone, even when you shouldn’t. Toby hated that about you as much as he loved you for it.

Jack was a one-off. Unique in how he carried himself down to the very fabric of his existence. He was hard to read, difficult to understand. A singularity in lifeforms. It’s not that Toby didn’t trust your judgment; it was that he didn’t have complete faith in the cannibal's intentions. He wasn’t even aware the guy was capable of  things like romance, let alone wanting it.

Muttering into the hollow of your shoulder, “Why him?” He sighed, and you lamented for a bit. Playing with the strings of his hoodie, then your voice flooded the fragile silence.

“I thought he was cool when we met- it sounds stupid outloud, I know. But he’s not as bad as everyone says he is, and he saved me. I went to get food earlier, and there were wolves- you should’ve seen him, Toby. He literally threw himself at me to get them off. They bit him everywhere, and he fought them to keep me safe.”

You knew that if he really didn’t care, he would’ve turned a blind eye. It was a hassle, and it’d been apparent he was already in bad shape. Jack had chosen to put himself at risk anyway. Even before that, he’d always done everything with consideration, no matter how little it seemed to be.

Giving you a colourful bandage over a plain one because he thought you’d like it more. Apologizing when he hadn’t warned you of the alcohol swab. Catching you when you tripped. Actively choosing to make things easier for you, just because.

Continuing to spill your heart out, Toby listened intently. “It’s so messy right now, and maybe he never wants to see me again- but I wanna’ fix this. I’ll have to keep interacting with him anyway, I don’t need it to be super tense, you know? And if you were in the woods earlier, you would’ve done the same thing- ‘cause you’re reckless and you don’t think when you panic-”

The mock scold had him snorting mutely, but he remained still nonetheless. “I know you don’t trust him- but if you were cursed, I’d still love you. Even if you got scary sometimes, you’d still be Toby. You’re my best friend, but you literally kill people in cold blood daily. He’s in the same spot, and I can’t hate him for being like you.”

Your confession weighed on him heavily, and he groaned. You were right in a sense; he was technically being hypocritical, it’s just that he’d never done harm to you. Yet he understood that the fact had a high possibility of not ringing true if you hadn’t met him the way you did. If things were different, he could’ve done much worse.

Toby expired begrudgingly, giving you a slight nod. “You h-have the worst taste in men, though. Like, s-shit, you couldn’t have gone for a business guy or s-suh-something?” Teasing, you smacked his arm. “Ew, Tobes. You want me to date a finance bro?”

“God forbid I want y-you to have a stable home life.”

“It wouldn’t be a home in the first place if there weren’t people like you in it.”

You always say sappy things he doesn’t know how to handle. Not meaning you wanted serial killers in your house, but that you didn’t view them as just killers. Your friends- simply individuals who were stuck. While he didn’t exactly agree, you had yelled at him way too many times for him to vocalize that.

With your spirits lightened, you circled your arms around his neck. Rubbing your cheek against his. You reminded him of a cat, and he laughed. The atmosphere was much brighter than when he’d initially arrived, a full minute of solace before he chimed up. “Okay, but let me get t-the whole story. You ran into him, then you took him home and...”

Head lifted by a fraction, the brunette raised his brows once, lips pursed. Squinting at you and insinuating exactly what you thought he was. You rolled your eyes in response, pressing your lips into a line. It was so hard to be serious around Toby at times. The topic wasn’t funny in nature, but his phrasing and mannerisms always got to you.

The guy who ran around like a maniac, hatchets in hand- was the same boy who couldn’t use “sex” in a sentence without giggling.

Who would’ve guessed, huh?

You stifled a snort, tying his sweater’s draw-cords into a bow. “Okay, TMI- but it was kind of crazy, not gonna’ lie. Literally growled when I was on the floor, Tobes. He got... weird after though. I think he thought I wasn’t into it; he patched me up and sprinted. Apologized a bunch, too.” Perplexed as you toyed with the strings further, Toby clicked his tongue.

“Mm, I mean- did y-you guys talk after? Maybe he got freaked out. S’not like he g-gets around.”

“I wanted to, but he ran before I could even say anything. And I’m stopping by tomorrow so he can check the stitches. I just don’t want it to be awkward.”

Catching him up, you laid out the details. Everything from how it started to the things Jack had said prior to the event. You ended the information with a beaten groan, making him chuckle quietly. He still didn’t love the idea of you with EJ, but it wasn’t up to him.

You were your own person, plenty capable of deciding things for yourself. All he could do was stand by your side. Keeping you safe, supporting you to the best of his ability. The conversation stretched on for about another hour before his phone buzzed in his backpocket. An alert that told him he needed to return, and he gave you a sheepish smile. “Duty calls,” you supposed.

Collecting his things, you walked Toby to the front, waving him off. Then you flung your body straight into the shower. The leftover muck of the day felt gross, and a thorough scrub was overdue. Swiftly slathering your frame with soap, the water tinted with red. Washing away all your turmoil down the drain.

You finished your routine efficiently, stepping onto the tile in a towel. In the midst of your skin-care when you heard a clatter from your bedroom. The wooden floors were cold under your feet while you peered from the bathroom door.

The flip phone. Earlier, when you dialled your companion, you’d haphazardly thrown the device onto your nightstand. It appeared that the notification ping had knocked it onto the ground, and you bent to grab it.

[ Incoming Call From: ERROR101001 ] ✚ One New Message :101001011

A couple of years ago, this would’ve unnerved you. However, you’d seen too much, and the caller ID could only belong to one person.

Ben, for whatever reason, had texted you. The guy was nosy, probably contacting you to pry. Your thumb slid across the keyboard, the metal smooth as you read the screen. “DETAILS. DETAILS NOWWW.” Quirking a brow at his message. Toby wouldn’t have said anything, and Jack definitely didn’t- so how the hell did he find out?

⊹₊⟡⋆  . ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧ ⊹₊⟡⋆

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Istg if you were listening through my phone, I’ll actually find a way to delete you. ]

[ Elf: NO. Omfg u actually think I’m a freak. Toby came back and didn’t look like he wanted to murder EJ walking past the basement. SPILLLL ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : You piss me off so bad. GET HOBBIES. ]

[ Elf: Pause- adding you to a gc. Give me a sec ]

He ignored the fact that you hadn’t acknowledged his request in the slightest, and you got another alert. Ben had stayed true to his word, attaching your number to a text chain. A groupchat with four other people. Wow, you wonder who in the world they were.

Giving up, you went back to your bedtime schedule. Sitting at your vanity, and opening your moisturizer. You multitasked, switching between replying and patting the cream onto your cheeks.

[ Clown: Ben told us you had big BIG NEWS !!!!!!! ]

[ Elf: I yapped mb ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : How r u guys so evil yet so easily bored. Aren’t you supposed to be brooding and scary?? ]

[ Nina <3: Not all the time, and that’s only Jeff :p now tell ussssss plspls ]

[ Stabby: fck u ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Okay like. He saved me from a pack of wolves, and I lowk brought him home... ]

[ Elf: AYO???????????? PAUUUSSSEEEE ]

⬩➤ Multiple people are typing...

[ Nina<3: WAITTT ARE YOU SRS??? ]

[ Elf: THE DEETS MAILMAN. ]

[ Stabby: stting up rn wtf  ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : I already told Toby, but it’s kinda TMI ]

[ Clown: You told Tobias ? I thought you said that he’d be against it ?? :^O ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : I called him after. I was crashing out icl- it was so messy ]

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Replying to ⭑.ᐟ - [ Nina<3: Noooo why r u ok :((( ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : I’m fine <//3 it’s just like ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Ugh. ]

[ Elf: I will start seizing rn istg STOP EDGING US BRO ]

[ Elf: Actually 1 sec ]

Elf added “Tobes :)” from your contacts ->

[ Stabby: sht might as well add masky atp ]

[ Elf: That’d be funny asf if he wouldn’t shoot all of us for it. NOW SPILL. ]

[ Tobes :): WHAT THE FUCK. HOW LONG HAVE U BEEN TALKING TO THESE PEOPLE???? ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : THEY BROKE INTO MY HOUSE ITS NOT MY FAULT. ]

[ Elf: THAT ISNT IMPORTANT EVERYONE STFU ]

[ Stabby: lol ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Making it short idc. Okay he saved me and then he came over and we did thingshsgsui ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : AND THEN HE RAN OFF. IDK IT WAS UGHHHHH. ]

[ Nina<3: Still not over the fact that he saved you T-T omggg I’m screamingg AHHH that’s so goals ]

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Replying to ⭑.ᐟ - [ Stabby: ej ran? ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Yeah. ]

[ Stabby: he prbly has a fcking complex ]

[ Stabby: got too real or smth. doubt its bc of u ]

[ Elf: Hello?? Who even r u rn?? ]

[ Nina<3: Jeff r u possessed ]

[ Stabby: stfu. ]

[ Stabby: im js saying it wdnt b surprising if he got weird ]

[ Stabby: ur a civi. ur soft n the mf eats ppl. he prbly got in his head ab it n fcked off ]

[ Elf: Holy shit. Having a gf gave you a brain. ]

[ Stabby: ill snuff u tf out ]

⬩➤ Multiple people are typing...

⊹₊⟡⋆ . ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧ ⊹₊⟡⋆

Despite the forming headache, Jeff’s words stuck with you. You already knew Jack was most likely at odds with himself about everything, but having someone who saw him daily confirm that made it click.

It would’ve been unimaginably lonely to live all your years at a distance. Always being careful because you never knew if ‘too close’ was only an arm's length away. Fearing a snap in physiology that could overtake you at any second, you’d flinch at touch. Craving it to the point of insanity, only to wail and wither as if it had burned you.

Jack kept you at a distance when he could, as a security measure. Not for his peace, but for your safety. Every time he’d crossed that threshold, you had gotten hurt, therefore reinforcing his bias. He left you assuming you wanted him gone. That was his apology; he thought the solitude was what you wished for, what you needed.

A gift to you after all he’d done. Made of sorrow and stitched from ruth.

With newfound clarity, you inhaled deeply. Mentally preparing for tomorrow's climate. It’d be uncomfortable, maybe tense and definitely stressful. Yet it needed to be done, to be said. You were going to talk to him, really talk to him.

No beating around the bush or avoiding the subject. You refused to exist in a limbo for all of the foreseeable future just because of miscommunication.

There was no time like the present.

Or whatever people said.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

You’d been restless since dawn.

Going through the motions on autopilot, you were nervous at best and nauseous at worst. The journey to the manor was done through muscle memory, the ambience settling hushed as you marched. As if the trees were holding their breath.

The sun had set about an hour ago, and by the time you reached the infamous porch, the crickets sang loudly. You closed your eyes at the door, steadying yourself before you knocked. Then your knuckles rapped against the heavy oak, and you heard the lock click from inside. Metal rattling, the door cracked open a sliver, the gap widening when he recognized you.

“Where’s yer’ package?” A cigarette hung from between his teeth, and he gave you a once-over. It wasn’t harsh or suspicious; the man spoke like he was genuinely curious. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him not smoking. The leaves rustled behind you, and you rocked on your heels. “I-uh, I got hurt last time, Jack told me to visit for a check-up.”

“S’that right?”

“Mhm.”

He squinted at you, eyes narrowing for a second, before he stepped aside. However, as you passed him, he tutted. “You eat yet?” The question left you confounded, and you turned to him. Brows raised, “... I had breakfast..?” You replied carefully, unsure of his intentions.

‘Masky’, you were guessing, was the person who’d let you in on most deliveries. He never interacted with you much otherwise, and his abrupt curiosity was jarring. The man appeared decent enough; this was just random. Yet he didn’t stop there. Pausing like he was registering your answer, he shoved his hand into his pocket.

A puff of smoke curled into the air when he pulled out a granola bar.

The wrapper was a little crinkled, and he held it to you. Face still blank while he grunted. “Here.” Masky dropped the snack into your palm, then his fingers went to his lips. Snagging the cigarette. Another cloud of fog wafted out, and your confusion built. Maybe it was dumb, but you asked nonetheless.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“You questionin’ me?”

His glare was sharp, cut-throat like glass- making you shoot up. “No!” Said too quickly, though he remained unbothered. Scowl fading before he gave you a stiff nod. He shifted to the entrance, another figure joining his side. A guy in a muted yellow hoodie, with a knitted black mask tugged down to his neck. The gun-slinger looked over his shoulder, and you felt his gaze on you.

Preparing to leave on what you assumed was a mission, he adjusted the rifle over his body. Rasping, “Don’t die, an’ you better finish that.” Nudging his head at the bar in your hand. Then the pair exited swiftly, the door swinging shut behind them.

They were basically strangers, yet you felt as if you’d been scolded for not taking better care of yourself. The word “Dads” flashed through your mind unconsentually, and you shook it off. Continuing down the hall, the rickety floorboards creaked under your feet.

Your boots dragged with anxiety in every step. This was it; there was no more room for aversion, no more time to waste.

You ran through what you’d say and began your descent. Entering the lab, Jack was exactly where you’d thought he’d be. Nestled in the corner, surrounded by clutter, he busied himself. Glancing up upon your arrival. He stood carefully, evidently tense in your presence. “Your check-up.” It wasn’t a question; he knew why you were here.

Knew that there was a hefty barrier between you two.

An unspoken stalemate, before he gathered his med-kit. Walking over to the medical table, you did the same. Meeting him in the middle. Your heft was braced by your hands when you leaned on the surface, and he started preparing the tools. Lying the needles and sterile gauze on the steel, you puffed through your nose.

His body language was rigid, overly aware of the distance to your form. He worked on the very edge of the counter, his mask tilted to the floor. You couldn’t do this anymore. It had stretched on too long, leaving you stressed for days, nights- months. Every encounter always passed you by, never acknowledged, and you were tired. Over it.

“Why’d you run?”

Three words, yet he froze dead in his tracks. Braced as if you’d shot him. “... It wasn’t safe.” The ‘for you’ was unsaid, then he returned to his task, clearly not intending to expand further. See, you were a pretty level-headed person, but his avoidance struck a nerve. He had left you, abandoned you, always too caught up to hear anything you said. A constant push and pull that exhausted your patience.

If he wasn’t going to address it, you would. “So that’s it? We’re just going to pretend it didn't happen?” An accusation that carried a world of weight, making him drop the instruments. His posture was stiff, fists balled by his side, when he spoke.

“There is nothing I can say to erase what I’ve done, and even if you don’t trust me, I assure you this visit will be swift. I’ll change your wrappings, it won’t take-”

“You’re not listening to me.”

You interrupted him, pushing off the table. “You act like you can’t stand being near me, and then you pin me to the fucking floor. You saved my life, shoved your tongue down my throat and left, Jack.” You threw your arm into the air, exasperated. The hurt in your voice had him gritting his teeth, and he snapped. “You think I don’t know that?-”

Stepping back, he dragged a claw down his face. “You think I wouldn’t give anything to undo what happened that day? Wouldn’t give anything to rid you of the disgusting things I did to you- but I can’t.” Flinging his hand down, his shoulders heaved, lip curling up behind the mask. “I’m not asking you to take it back, I’m asking you to listen.” You argued with frustration. He wasn’t getting the point.

“You’re allergic to me one second- then you’re all over me. You came over, used me just to fucking leave. I just wanted to help-”

“And I told you not to. I warned you. I begged you to stay away, yet you refused. And now you’re stuck in a room with a monster who—”

Jack cut himself off, clamping his jaw shut. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, too cowardly to confess it outloud. Absolutely scum. The cannibal drew an unsteady breath, uttering quietly. “I know what I’ve done. I know you were scared. I know you despise me, and you have every right to. There’s no excuse I could give to make you forget, but I’m- I’m sorry.”

The silence was suffocating, and you swallowed. His guilt must be eating him alive- it wasn’t like that at all. One foot in front of the other, you moved towards him. Holding your hand out when he shuffled away, his back connecting with the wall. “I don’t hate you. I just wanted you to stay.” You dropped your arm and clutched it to your chest. Standing in front of him as the gap tightened between you.

“What are you-?”

“Jack.”

You said his name softly, a singular aching syllable that knocked the air from his lungs. Reaching for his wrist, you tugged it over your heart. Cradling it before lacing your fingers together. “You kissed me until I was dizzy and wouldn’t look at me after. You can’t be surprised I was upset.” You pressed yourself flush, bringing his large palm to cup your face.

Nuzzling into his touch, “I’m not scared of you. I like you, and when you held me, it felt so good.” You mumbled, and his cadence shook. Yet he didn’t recoil. “You don’t know what you’re doing- you have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Deny, deny, deny- still, his pulse quickened nonetheless. You were so close. Eyes swimming with nothing but want.

“I almost killed you- I’m dangerous, why can’t you understand that?” A warning with little grounding, his resolve was splintering like glass, and you could tell. Stretching to his mask, your thumb hooked under the edge of it. Pushing it up gently while you sighed. “You also saved me, again and again. You kept me safe.” He was terribly weak- selfish, a fatal flaw amongst all his mastery.  

“You’ll break. I’ll ruin you- the damage will be irreversible, and I won’t be able to fix you.”

“Then make me someone new.”

The mask clatters to cement, and his lips molded against yours. Claws gliding up your waist while he forced you back. It was a straight zero to one-hundred, and you felt him everywhere. Grabbing at your hips, pulling you deeper into him as your spine collided with the table. The cold steel sent shivers through your body, making you gasp.

With your mouth agape, he took the opportunity. Slipping his tongues past your lips. It was atonement, reverence, and possession in physical form. You ran your hands up his chest, squeezing the muscle. Jack’s brawn had never gone unnoticed, but now you were drowning in it. Given the freedom to touch and taste without obstacles.

He broke the kiss with a huff, a ribbon of saliva glinting between you. “You will bleed, and it will hurt.” Grunting, then he hoisted you onto the counter. The denim of your jeans didn’t stand a chance. His talons snagged the waistband, yanking down and splitting the fabric clean in half. Your pants were at your ankles by the time he dropped to his knees.

The cannibal fell so fast it sounded like it hurt, bone slamming into concrete- yet he didn’t react. Instead, he hauled you forward. Forcing your thighs wide when he tore your panties with his canines. He dove in nose-first, and you screamed.

Slurping lewdly, he was nowhere short of ravenous. Latching onto your clit and swirling into your hole. He didn’t let you adjust or prepare in the slightest. And the groan that reverberated from his ribs had you whining out. Jack was eating you like a madman. Devouring you with an insatiable appetite. “Fuck-” He lapped at your pooling slick.

Your head spun, completely overwhelmed by the pleasure. It was so much, and he wasn’t easing his pace. Tongues thrusting in and out mercilessly of your cunt. They reached deep, worming frantically inside your tunnel while you convulsed. “J-Jack- ah, wait.” You gave his forehead a flimsy shove, tangling your grip in his hair. “Please-”

He responded by swiftly sinking his teeth into your inner thigh. Piercing flesh, the taste that flooded his palette made his lids flutter shut. You were always so sweet, decadent and rich. Something to be served on velvet and gold under mosaics.

The bite marks spilled a dark red. Dripping down your leg, the second he unfastened from you. His claws had punctured skin, and they cut in more and more with each jolt. The pain had you dizzy as your gaze flicked to him. Jack’s muzzle was drenched in your arousal, your blood smearing the metal. He looked every bit of the monster they’d told you about- and your eyes rolled back.

Mewling when his nose knocked against the sensitive bud, your shoulders bowed. “S’too deep- ngh. Please, I can’t-” The tips of his tongues were driving into your cervix, making you see stars. He gulped, “You begged me like a whore, and you will take what I give you.” Snarling, his talons suddenly fastened onto your hips.

Heaving you off the polished surface, he flipped you. Your tits pressing to the metal while he prys you open. The sensation of his tongues at this angle had you choking. “Holy shit- haah-” Gasping for air pitifully. It was humiliating like this.

He had dug his thumbs into your folds, spreading you when he began rocking you onto his mouth. The cannibal was literally fucking you with the muscles. Three inky tendrils that slithered and expanded inside your pussy. They slipped back and forth, making your canal squelch loudly. You were so exposed, borderline put on display by his grip.

Jack was straight up making out with your cunt. Slobbering, licking at every inch of skin you offered. And you wailed upon feeling his incisors puncture the fat of your ass.

A deep wound above his hold on you. Tiny droplets of scarlet bubbled along the pattern, mixing with his spit as he feasted. It was as if he were trying to consume you whole.

Leaving his signature in your flesh, signing his name off by the edge of his canines. A labour under moonlight, in the thrum of flourescents and the heat of fever. If you wanted him, then you’d have him in his entirety. Take and take until there was nothing left of you both- because this wasn’t sex. It was a welded brand that would condemn you as sick as he was.

If you wanted to be remade, then he’d strip your bones clean.

Estacy overspilled in your gut, and you came. “Jack- Jack.” White knuckling the steel ledge. He ran his tongue along his teeth after pulling back, watching you tremble with fascination.

You were bleeding, scraped up from head to toe- yet you had the stupidity to peer at him. Asking for more, like you wouldn’t be torn apart in the process. Like there wasn’t a chance you’d lose your life for the sake of lust. A glutton for punishment. A deer that had skinned its own meat for a starving wolf. Your ankle was caught in a bear trap, and you did nothing but reach for the hunter.

Your release poured out between your shaking legs. Puddling on the floor when he wrapped your hair around his fingers. He ripped you off the table and forced you to your knees. Making you clumsily steady yourself, your palms flat on the cement, before you looked up.

Over you, Jack unfastened his belt. The buckle jostling, clinking mutely- he grunted. “Open, courier.” Grasping your chin, the other tugging down his boxers. He was big. Inhumanly sized, his cock hung heavily in front of you. Flushed at the tip, with a vein running down the underside. He stroked himself once, lining up with your lips, huffing.

You had no idea how the hell that was going to fit. Fear contorting your expression, he settled his free hand on your windpipe. Squeezing faintly as you dropped your jaw.

He was warm against your tongue, and you gave the head a kitten lick. “Look at you, pleading to be debased like some mutt in heat. A brainless pet begging for scraps. You’re pathetic.” Sneering, then he pushed your head forward. His girth was almost painful.

It stretched your mouth to the brink of capacity, making your jaw ache around him. You gagged from the intrusion, and he bucked his hips. Bullying the length further down your throat while tears gathered at your lashes. The cannibal moved his grasp from your neck into your hair. Twisting the strands harshly and yanking at your scalp.

The pace he set was brutal. Mercilessly thrusting without giving you reprieve. He was using you as a sleeve, a toy without thought or agency.

Your hands scrambled for purchase, latching onto the front of his slacks. You choked; he was only about halfway in, and your lungs were already burning. Cheeks stuffed full, his pre-cum bubbled obscenely. Forming a gluey ring around his cock. “Gods-” He droned, letting his head fall back. You stared as he swallowed, his adams apple bobbing.

The view could last you for decades. Sweat beaded down the columns of his throat, shoulders broad and heaving. With his hair in disarray, he was a vision fit for your most debauched fantasies. It had you clenching on nothing, and your thighs twitched. He was so mean, fucking your mouth ruthlessly- wet plaps resonated through the basement.

He gazed at you half-lidded, pulling out, just to slap his dick on your face. Depraved, when you lapped at his balls. He grabbed himself, tapping it across your skin. His seed dribbling onto your features. Arousal and possession curled in his stomach along with disgust. You were being tainted, corrupted by his own hands with a smile.

It was such a wretched, diseased gratification. Satisfying him like rot to maggots. Jack was death with a pulse. A relentless hunger that ruined and devastated. Yet you worshipped him as if he were salvation. Deliverance from something wicked, someone you deemed a saviour. If you were deluded, then he was vile.

Because he let you stay. Let you touch and moan and weep. Allowed you to degrade yourself to this. An animal with a warm mouth and inviting cunt. Grovelling at his feet, crying for his cock like a whore.

Lip curling up cruelly, he taunted you. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Are you proud?” Shoving his boots between your thighs, he jerked your head back. Blood-soaked leather against your throbbing clit while you whined. It had your hips jolting, and your blissed-out expression made him grit his teeth.

“Humping my leg like you can’t help yourself. Stick out your tongue, dog.”

You followed his demand, obediently letting your jaw go slack. Drool gathering in the cavern- he spat harshly into your mouth, and when you swallowed, he scoffed. “I could crush your airways right now, and you’d use your last breath to thank me.” Then he slammed past your lips, immovable snare on your crown. You gagged violently.

Squirming from the pressure on your sopping pussy, and the fullness of your throat. You hiccuped with your nose buried in his happy trail. Salt streaming down your cheeks as he built his rhythm. You went limp, slumping into him with your spine arched. Each thrust had your body lurching in place, causing you to grind onto his boot.

“Fuck. That’s it- hah- keep it in-” Your esophagus was so wet, convulsing tight enough to have him shuddering. Roped muscle tensing when he rutted forward over and over. Brows furrowed in concentration. The pleasure had him fucking high. Submission was trust. Blind faith that he wouldn’t accidentally crack your skull open in the rush.

It was everything he’d ever wanted and everything he despised you for all at once.

Your surrender of mind and body sent him over the edge- and he flooded your mouth. Groaning lowly, while his cum pumped deeper. His grasp finally loosened, allowing you to tumble onto your haunches with a cough. Desperately trying to find your bearings, he tasted like thick syrup. A musky laquer that coated your tongue.

You lapped at his still leaking tip, gulping the leftover arousal. Pornographic, before Jack wrenched you up by the throat. Caging you beneath him after borderline tossing you onto the counter. Your back crashed into the chilled steel, and he threw your jeans to the side. Hiking your legs to your chest- “Wait! I want- I want to see you.” The meek stutter interrupted him, making him freeze.

Lying almost completely bare, you sniffled. Eyes glassy as you gestured to his sweater. “Please?” Beautiful prey, far too docile to be where you were. He reacted by snagging the back of his hood, ripping it over his head briskly. Now uncovered from the hips up, your leer drifted over his torso.

The scars littered his abdomen, tiny healed slashes leading from his Adonis belt to the curve of his pecs. They dotted up his frame, with freckles dispersed along the divots like stone. He was sculpted in the same way as statues in Rome were. Devastingly breathtaking.

He leaned forward, stationing between your legs as his hair shadowed his sockets. The cannibal was pretty. Perspiration dripping down his clenched jaw, lashes fluttering. A sacrilege of the natural law, yet you cradled his face anyway. He always loathed his reflection, couldn’t stand the sight of it- and here you were. Touching him like you wanted to, like he was something radiant.

Too gentle, too fond, you brought him closer. Brushing his nose against yours with intimacy he never deserved. Kissing him softly while he remained unmoving. It was overwhelming, and he flinched away as if you’d burned him. Wrestling your wrists above your head, his grip was bruising when he aligned with your cunt.

Jack paused, chuffing in thought- he grabbed a clean rag. Meant for blotting wounds, it had been cast aside, hanging off the table's ledge until now. He raised it to your lips. “Bite.” A single syllable, and the second your teeth met cotton, he returned his claw down south. Pushing the head inside without warning.

Your spine arched off the metal like you’d been struck by lightning. The bolt seized through your body, weaving into your blood, scorching your marrow, and forcing your ribs open. A harvest of the soul, reanimated like Frankenstein’s monster by Jack’s design alone. There was no going back. You had been altered to the very cell.

Wailing through the fabric, he grunted over you. Slowly feeding his length into your cunt, it was an ungodly stretch. Making you writhe helplessly, it felt like he was tearing you in half. You sobbed, and he sheathed to the hilt. Pitching over, while your vision blurred. He began rocking into you. Shallow thrusts that thumped against your cervix.

You tremored pathetically, you were too full, and you swore he was hitting your lungs. Stuffed to the brim, gorged beyond your limits. You snivelled, your eyes couldn’t focus- you couldn’t even think. Head lolling to the side with your ears packed with cotton. Your limbs went slack, and you jolted with every snap of his hips.

Letting out muffled “Mmph- mmph- mmph-”s. The searing pain had dulled to a simmer. Overtaken by a building decadence. It coiled in your womb. Engulfing you from the bottom of your feet to the base of your skull. He had torn your entrance, and the pale red blended with your slick.

Your ankles hooked behind his back, pressing him flush. You spat out the towel, “Wanna’ kiss- please. Ngh- so d-deep.” Mewling when he grinded into your sweet spot. You were a mess, ruined under him. Hair splayed on the metal with lacerations covering you.

Despicable as it was, the sight had him purring. You were a lamb ripe for the picking, lewd enough to make him salivate. Completely and undeniably his.

The baritone rumbled in his chest, sonorous as he dipped to your face. His mouth slotted against yours, making you moan into him. With his body bent to the new angle, his pelvis mashed into your clit- absolutely mind-numbing. “Ah- Jack.” It was spoken like a prayer, and he burrowed his head into the hollow of your shoulder.

His lust, his need, betrayed his principle. He lapped at your collar, sinking his canines in roughly as you screamed. Bite after bite, tear after tear. Jack was eating you alive, claiming you from the inside out. You wanted this, you begged him for this. So you would reap what you sow.

Releasing your wrists, the purple had already begun blooming. The hues decorating your flesh while he huffed. Driving his shaft balls deep. “Look at me, messenger-” Though your eyes refused to focus, and his patience waned. Running thin- he gripped your jaw. “You can’t even speak, can you? All it takes is my cock for you to become a drooling addict-”

Jack rolled his hips forward, the table creaking from the force. He continued. “Does it excite you knowing I’ve dissected bodies exactly where you are? Does it thrill you that I could snap your neck like nothing? Rip you limb from limb while you scream- does that make you wet?” Pounding into your weeping pussy as he snarled.

He was abusing your hole, splitting you open roughly, and your pupils blew wide. Rolling up into your skull. “Oh- ngh, god-” The cannibal hoisted your leg up, hooking it onto his shoulder before he crowded you. “Letting a monster fill your cunt like some depraved prostitute- pathetic.” His talons wrapped around your neck, pinning you in place.

The pace was unsparing, fucking you with abandon. You pawed at his forearm, and your view was speckled with black. The room had begun spinning. “Jack- can’t breathe. P-please, I can’t-” Yet his palm stayed firm, squeezing your airways without remorse. Your head was buzzing, your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen.

Pleasure and pain, pleasure and pain. You supposed it was inseparable to him, following him like a second skin. From the beginning, you already knew this was a risk. So this must have been fate.

Dying to him the way they’d warned you about. The way he’d promised it would end. A tragedy in the making, bound by grief and longing.

However, there was a whisper that told you he wouldn’t press harder. Maybe you were naive, but something about the anguish in his gaze made you believe it. His hold wasn’t one of malice; it was a test to himself. To prove something unspoken.

Your hand slipped, and you stared up at him. Admiring his features, the ripples of his body that were caused by exertion. Even though you were on the brink of passing out, it was still pleasant.

The deep drags of his cock sent waves of ecstasy through you, and you sighed quietly. “S’good- feels so good.” Slurring with your tongue heavy. You hoped that if this all went down in flames, he would remember you. A fleeting moment in his endless years. A time long ago, when an anxious courier had thought of him as something more.

Then, he suddenly yanked his claws from your throat, and you gasped. Inhaling deeply, he eased his rhythm to a halt. The look on his face was the definition of horrified.

His hand quivered near your neck for a second, then he slammed it onto the table. His nails flaying the steel open in grooves. “Fight.” Sneering, with desperation shaking his voice. Jack bracketed your form, trapping you beneath him when he roared. “Fight. Scream- yell for help-” His tone was exasperated, disgusted by his own actions and your acceptance.

“Hit me- do something- anything. I could have killed you. You would’ve died in this fucking basement under me-”

“I didn’t think you would.”

Reaching up, you cupped his jaw. The lacklustre strength made him sick, and you smoothed your thumb over his skin. “You didn’t think- you bet your life on a concept. Do you have any idea how idiotic that is? If I held on for even a minute longer, your brain would have begun shutting down. I would’ve violated you, then turned you into a fucking corpse.” He spat, lip curling up, and your reply had him scoffing.

“But you didn’t.” You sounded so sure. So absolute in your resolve- in your faith in him. It confused him as much as it angered him.

“You keep trying to convince me you’re this terrible beast, when you’re not. Every time you’ve done something, you break down. I know you’re not cruel. You just pretend you are because you think you have to be.”

He grit his teeth, letting his head sag to avoid your eyes. He stared at the center of your ribs, sockets flickering over the bruises and cuts. “Your belief in me is foolish. You should hate me.” Muttering with disdain, you raised his head, your palms on his cheeks. “But I don’t.” You whispered carefully. Searching his face and far too patient.

“You’ll get hurt.”

“We have Band-Aids.”

“It’ll ruin you. I’ll leave you starved.”

“Then I’ll come to you full.”

Your trust was agonizing. A string garden, woven together with glass thread, and devotion so pure it could only be born of something wrong. He drew a measured breath, resting his forehead on yours. “You make this more difficult than it has to be.” And you hummed, "Not if you stay.” Kissing him slowly, you took your time.

With your lips fitting together, you could pinpoint exactly when he gave in. A jar too full, each colourful marble hits the glass until it stacks to the top. The weight of it makes the container lean toward the edge of the shelf. You ran your fingers through his hair, unravelling the knots. Whining softly when his hips pull back.

Jack rutted into you, the base of him grinding onto your clit. He angled his maw to the right, savouring you without rush. The jar inches closer to the ledge, sliding a fraction. His tempo was painstakingly tender, and the warmth of it drowned you. “Ah- c-can feel you in my stomach.” You clawed at his shoulders, lids drooping.

A muted clink, and the thing sways a bit. He nuzzles your throat, rasping a defeated chuckle. “I should’ve warned you. Forgive me, little dove.” The petname has you swooning, making you cling to him. Pupils dilated when he pecked the corner of your mouth. The glass balances by a hair's breadth.

Your cunt twitches around him, plush and velvet-like. His jaw fell slack as he built speed. Hand sliding into yours before he entwines your fingers on the table. A sharp thrust, and your lips part, forming an O while your spine lifts. It topples over, shattering on the floor with the beads scattering vibrantly. “Please-” Slurring, he soothes you, affection bleeding in.

“I know, I’m here.” His cock pulsed inside your tunnel. Throbbing with need when you clenched down. He hissed, giving your smaller palm a squeeze. His claws were digging into the steel, an attempt not to harm you more than he already had. The metal below you fogged, and you tugged at his scalp. “Ngh- so good. You make me feel so s’good.” Your praise sent him reeling.

The med-bay was silent aside from your hushed moans and the sticky sound of skin on skin. Bodies moving in tandem, he thrusted in again and again. Picking up the pace with a grunt. “You don’t know what you do to me.” Then he hauled you off the surface. Bracing you by the waist, his talons dug into your ass. Reclining to full height when he started bouncing you.

Jack moved you like you were weightless. Unearthly strength that he used to sink you up and down. The added gravity had him knocking into your cervix, forcing pitchy moans to echo off the walls. He panted, “You have no idea how many times- haah fuck- I’ve thought of filling you-” Bucking up into your pussy, you left wet kisses along his jaw.

He was so fucking deep, a dizzying stretch, and your eyes crossed. Repeating his name like scripture while you came. The slick gushed out of you messily, drenching his abs and thighs. “So sensitive.” He cooed, fucking you through your orgasm. Following close behind when he slammed you onto his cock, once, twice more, before he spilled hotly.

Painting your insides white with a groan, he stepped across the room. Tugging you off, then twisting you to face the wall. His length slid back in instantly, and you arched into him. Spine forming a semi-circle as he snapped his hips forward.

The squelch of your cunt was embarrassingly loud, yet it did nothing but fuel his appetence. He grabbed your waist as leverage, jerking your frame to meet his rhythm. The friction of his balls slapping against your puffy bud made you collapse into cement, and you mewled. “Ah- ah- hah-” Drooling with your tongue lolling out of your mouth.

Your feet were lifted off the ground by his hold. On your toes, when he breaches your entrance to the hilt. The impact of his thrusts rippled through you. Pelting into the smooth surface under your palms and rattling the shelves. All his equipment, his tools and apparatus- clanked together. The glass clashing before whipping off the ledge.

The once pristine lab was an utter mess. Claw marks streaked the wall, dented into metal with blood trailing the floors. A ritual sight, where he bound you to him by essence and matter. Drawing release after release, splitting you in half until your pussy took his shape. Until your body would remember him by touch alone.

In the dead of night, when you were blind, lost at sea. When the North Star had failed to guide you, and your heart was shrieking with fear. You would call for—

“Jack!”

A gasp that made him zero in on your connection. His length was drenched, glistening with your arousal. It pumped in and out repeatedly, pummelling past the tight ring of muscle. Your hole had been overstuffed, oozing his seed with every plough. Obscenely pouring down your legs, gathering in a sticky puddle by his boots. He scrunched his lids shut.

Beating your cunt like he was mad at it, he splurted inside you. “Good girl.” Rumbling low enough to send you over the edge. You convulsed, crying out when he stilled. However, your peace was short-lived- because the man immediately spun you around.

Snagging your thigh in a large talon, he hauled the limb up. Hooking your knee over the crook of his elbow, then steadying you by the hip. He nudged in balls deep, and you sobbed. Nerve endings on fire while your other leg was basically dead weight. You scratched at his biceps, leaving shallow streaks. “Too much- I can’t think-”

Your blunt nails dug into grey, and he struck your sweet spot with a sniper's accuracy. Hammering into your bloated tummy over and over. You thought you were going to explode.

It was so much, devouring your senses like a wildfire. Every vein, every ridge, and pulse of his cock dragged against your walls as he continued to plunge. You could feel it all, oversensitive to hell and back. Jack was unyielding, tunnel-visioned on making sure it stuck. The pent-up need had possessed him; he wanted your mind rewritten.

Snarl akin to an animal- he grinded harshly. Baring teeth. “You’re mine.” His claw clamped down hard enough to bruise. “Mine to break-” The lines in his neck tensed, shoulders heaving. “Mine to corrupt-” You shuddered; his engorged cockhead was smearing too deeply. Fitting snug with no room to even breathe. “Mine to breed.” He drove his hips forward, and you saw white.

The cannibal bent had you in tears for hours on hours. Bending you in every position possible, he fucked you in ways you could barely comprehend.

Folding you over the table again, locking you in place with a heavy palm on your spine. He pounded you from the back, leaving welts on the fat of your ass. “Begging for more when you’re bleeding from the stretch. Where’s your dignity, courier?” Kicking your stance wider when you moaned.

He hung you upside down. Tongues expanding, guzzling your squirting cunt. He held you with a hand gripping your thigh and the other on your head. “Don’t pass out- you want to impress me, don’t you? Give me something worth keeping.” Using your throat while you clutched desperately at his legs, your ears ringing.

Then, Jack took you on the floor. Pelvis thwacking against your folds as you hiccuped. “Uh- uh- s’too good- ‘m gonna’ die-” He snickered, cruel and mocking. “What a mouthy lamb, I have.” Spearing you on his girth, you raked your nails down his back. Clawing his flesh, thrashing vigorously. He healed you like a saint and fucked you like the morning star.

You could barely move by the time he was done. Limbs buzzing with exhaustion, and your head heavier than tungsten. He hissed upon slipping out, meticulous of your state. “Apologies, I should have been more wary of your limits.” Mumbling quietly, his arms cocooned your limp form. Uprooting you from the concrete.

He carried you past the curtain near the back of the basement. Padding to the small washroom, you were gently placed on the bathtub's ledge. “I don’t think I can walk.” Teasing him while he stripped both of you. He shook his head in response, guilty. “You will be sore tomorrow, but I have ointments for your wounds.” The shower was turned on, and he helped you in.

It felt good under the spray, the warm water easing the sting. You circled your hold around his middle, and he hummed. Carefully washing the grime from your skin after discarding the old bandages. “Pretty romantic for a guy who supposedly hates touching.” You joked, resting your chin on his pec.

It seemed to fluster him, making his pointed ears tint with blue. “Enough.” An almost-pout, and he grabbed the shower head behind you, rinsing the cuts on your back. If you were a better person, you’d leave it at that. Let the poor man rest after all that turmoil. Alas, you weren’t, so you snorted instead.

“This better mean we’re official- ‘cause I don’t do one-night stands.”

“How you have the energy to be coy is beyond me.”

Monotone, yet the way he kissed your damp forehead after told you enough. He cleaned your bodies swiftly, finishing the task with medical precision. You were dried off with a fluffy towel, he’d left the room to bring you a new one and everything. Then he patched you up as promised. Transporting you between the med-bay and his sleeping area efficiently.

A solid twenty-minutes later, you were settled against his pillows. Watching him rummage around before you reached for him. “Cuddle.” Demanding with grabby hands, he agreed despite himself. “Are you thirsty?” Taking a seat next to you. He’d dressed you in an old T-shirt, covering your bottoms with the smallest pair of boxers he owned.

Low-hanging sweats at his hips, he was bare from the waist up, and you crawled onto him. Perched on his lap. “A little, but you didn’t answer me earlier.” You slumped forward, arms around his neck. It made him sigh. “You’re the strangest human I’ve ever met.” Tracing shapes onto your thighs, his hesitation wasn’t unnoticed.

Even if he was cautious for the rest of your days, there was still a risk. A danger that came with being around him. Though you were insistent on your view of him, refusing to back down.

“You bit me and said I was yours. Specifically, that I was yours to break, yours to breed-” And he threw an arm over his eyes. “Oh, gods.”

Post-nut clarity had hit him, the embarrassment kicking in quickly. You giggled. “No- no, it was hot, I liked it. Jack-” The groan he let out resonated through the entire room, and he dragged his claw over his face. Peering at you from between his fingers. “I got... carried away.” Cringing while you pecked his knuckles.

“Did you mean it? Like- y’know.” His hand descended, then he cupped your cheek. Memorizing your features, the vulnerability in your gaze- he exhaled as if he’d made a life or death decision. “Yes, I did.” A confession that fractured him more than you’d ever know, and you pressed your lips to his. Parting from him after a second.

You were determined to rid him of any excess worry. Your plan of action? Tooth-rotting affection. It was the obvious choice; he was right there. Completely unguarded, appearing very boyfriend material, you couldn’t not.

It started with a kiss to his nose, one to his jaw, then another to his brow. You trailed all over his face, leaving no stone unturned. And when you pulled back, Jack looked dazed. Sockets drooping, with an undeniable amour to his expression. “Mm.” He grumbled mutely, shying away by burrowing his head into your shoulder.

For someone so big, he curled into you like he was tiny. Clinging to you, he slid his palms under your shirt, sniffing a little. The closeness was addictive, and he basked in it.

Enjoying your scent, your warmth and intimacy. One achingly soft- saccharine moment of solace, before you spoke.

“I know you like the way I smell-”

“I beg of you.”

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

The aged wood creaked beneath his feet.

After you’d persuaded him to snuggle with you a bit longer, he ascended the lab stairs. Not bothering to throw on a shirt since it was nearly four in the morning.

While the proxies didn’t have good sleeping schedules by any means, they were always cooped up in their rooms. It should’ve been a brisk trip to fetch you water.

Emphasis on should’ve

Because just as he filled the glass, with the tap sputtering to life- a tell-tale snap sounded from behind him. Followed by a bright flash and a hushed “Oh my god.” He turned to see exactly who he thought he’d see. Ben.

Standing in plaid pyjama pants at the kitchen entrance, he had a palm slapped over his mouth, phone in hand. “Is she alive?” He stared at the cannibal with astonishment, flipping the phone around.

There, on the screen, was a picture of Jack. His back was covered in scratches, from the divots of his shoulders to his triceps.

However, much to the other resident’s dismay, he showed no reaction. “She’s fine.” Bluntly stated, before he shut off the faucet. Walking past him, the elf clicked his tongue. “We kinda’ thought it was over for all of us when you were down there- but I mean! Like- shit, congrats.”

Giving him an awkward thumbs up, it was evident that Jack’s presence still had him on edge, and he scurried off in a blink.

Though the interaction had been mundane, expected even, his words stuck. Just what in the world was Ben talking about?

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Earlier ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ -> ->

Approximately 9:45 PM Central Eastern Time.

They had gathered in the main room to lounge. Snacking on whatever they could find and putting on something interesting to watch- when suddenly, a force shuddered the manor. It rattled the ceiling beams, making dust waft into the air.

“The fuck?” Jeff mumbled, mid-chew, with his hand wrist deep in a chip bag. Spinning a blade with the other.

The group brushed it off as house noises, only for another bang to reverberate through the floors. Then another, and another, and another—

Toby, Masky and Hoodie had been sent on a job. So it couldn’t be the brunette trashing a room, Tim testing a new gun, or Brian fixing his truck. The next obvious choice would be LJ, except he was sitting in the love seat. There was no one else, and the boss was definitely not the answer.

The proxies were at a standstill, shooting each other curious looks, before Nina shot up. “Wait! Isn’t the messenger getting a check-up?”

A beat of silence as her words sank in, and the group erupted in scandalized gasps. The snack had fallen from Jeff’s lap, with LJ bordering a screech. “Oh heavens! You don’t think-?”

Ben replied aghast. “I mean, I knew they had tension, but holy shit- the whole house?” His tone made Jeff cackle, and he slammed his knife into the chair’s arm.

“Genuinely praying for her fucking pussy. Have you seen the guy? He’s gonna’ kill ‘er whether he wants to or not at this rate.” Immediately pulling out his phone to text his mysterious lover, Nina's eyes were bright.

“Ugh, their size difference.” Sighing wistfully, she clutched her hands to her chest while Ben scoffed in disbelief. “’Kay, this is great and all- but isn’t she human?-” Getting cut off by a loud crash coming from the basement.

It sounded like EJ and their messenger were either having the most insane sex to ever happen, or you were fighting for your life.

Nina hummed, freezing for a second, then huffing. “... Okay, but he’s in love with her. You literally said that!” To which the elf refuted with a passionate, “Bro- I want them to work. It’s just that EJ’s stroke game is about to collapse our house. Our house, Nina.” Exasperatedly throwing up his hands, she crossed her arms.

“You’re a fake shipper.”

“I am not! I’m literally the only reason you know about them-”

“Shit, what if he actually takes her out? Death by dick is fucked up.”

“Well, I’m choosing to believe our medic is simply a very, very passionate lover—”

➽──────────────❥

➽──────────────❥

A/N: UGHHHH MY BABIES 💔💔 Bsf! Toby u r forever famous. Also I KNOWWW I abuse the fuck outta that twig LEAVE ME ALONE 💔💔 (too lazy 2 fix)

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

!! TIM SCRIBBLES !! :pp

Bro doesn’t wanna go on the mission 💔

I think I’m getting better at drawing his nose… happier w this one tho ^3^ my last sketch of him was a lil too sharp and I needed to rectify my wrongs <//3

Also haunted by thoughts of Tim w chest hair.

[notiddygothgf]

✮ PROTOCOL ― Aki Hayakawa x F!Reader

✮ cw/tags: pwp, smut, drunk sex, one night stands (or is it?), coworkers to lovers, NOT EDITED WHOOPS #imrushing to go see the csm movie rn

✮ a/n: i know one of you is very happy to see this. WELLLL AS PROMISED (though ik im late), here is the first installment of the kinktober series (which lowkey may turn into NNN too hehe). this has been absolutely gruesome to right and took me soooo long... @mrshayakawaa, this is our baby. i couldn't have done it without you. ITS NOT EDITED because I realllllly wanted to get this out before I went to go see the new CSM movie so!!! enjoy!!! i'll prob come back and edit it later #sorrynotsorry. hope this makes up for my absence a bittttt x

(ok idk why it wont save the spaces i made between scenes but wtv i give up cuz im running late! i'll fix tn)

✮ wc: 24k

THE MISSION WAS far more tedious than you had planned for. It was an out-of-town mission, too. Some housekeeping that the Kyoto sector apparently was too understaffed to handle. Between the blood, the guts, and the fact that the damned devil exploded and gave birth to what had to have been hundreds of mini devils, it was… well, it was shit. Utterly exhausted by the day’s events, you and your division sat in complete silence the whole car ride over to the hotel.

You sat in the backseat of your supervisor’s car, crammed between Denji and Power (who were, as always, bickering over something stupid), head pressed up against the window to cool down. You were beyond tired, yes, but your mind refused to settle down, and it wasn’t a result of the mission.

In the driver’s seat, Lieutenant Captain Hayakawa – your partner and supervisor – gripped the steering wheel like he owned it. Two big, strong hands wrapped around it, tilted it to the side to follow a curve in the road – for a moment, your eyes betrayed you, following the intricate scars on his skin, the veins on the backside of his hand. On his right hand, which sat atop the wheel, a gash was healing. It was something small, something you probably shouldn’t have noticed, but that was just the thing.

There were a lot of things about him you’d begun to notice lately. The two of you had been partners for quite some time. It hadn’t always been smooth sailing, but the two of you got along fairly well. For the most part, anyway.

He wasn’t easy to ruffle, but when you did manage it – when your teasing hit just the right nerve, or when his calm, responsible act cracked for just a second – you felt victorious. He’d shoot back with some sharp remark, you’d bicker like siblings, and eventually, it would settle into that comfortable rhythm the two of you seemed to share.

But lately… something had shifted.

You told yourself it was stupid, that you were only noticing him this way because of his hair – longer now, tied back in that neat band, that stupid ponytail attracting your gaze far too often. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d been in a dry spell for months, and your mind was starved for any excuse to wander. Yeah. That had to be it.

Or maybe, just maybe, he was simply getting finer with age. No longer was he the broody, short-haired 19 year old you’d been paired with. Now, he was taller, shoulders broader, muscles a little more pronounced. And you… well, you weren’t blind.

And yet, the thought didn’t stick.

Because the image of him standing between you and that thing – unflinching, steady – played over and over in your head like a broken reel. The sharp swing of his blade, the exact way his shoulders squared, the rise and fall of his calm, precise breathing. That look in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before – focused, unshakable, like nothing in the world could touch him.

He hadn’t faltered. Not even for a second.

The chill of that moment hadn’t left your skin. If he hadn’t been there… if he hadn’t moved in front of you without hesitation, you wouldn’t have been leaning against this car window. Hell, you wouldn’t have been there at all.

He had saved your life.

The car finally rolled to a stop in front of the hotel, the soft hiss of the brakes jolting you out of the half-daze you’d fallen into. You blinked against the neon glow of Kyoto’s streets, the night pressing heavy and damp against the glass.

When the trunk popped, you climbed out with the others, dragging your legs like they weighed double what they should. Denji and Power shoved past each other, bickering about who was grabbing which bag, and you muttered something under your breath before reaching in to snag your own. The straps cut into your palms, the weight pulling you forward, and you nearly bumped shoulders with Aki as he pulled his suitcase free with practiced ease.

You didn’t look at him directly – not really – but you felt him there, just a little too close, quiet as always. The memory of his blade cutting through the dark flashed in your mind again, sharp as glass. You swallowed hard and told yourself not to think about it, not to think about him.

The automatic doors opened with a soft rush of cool air, and you followed behind your supervisor, the marble floor clicking beneath your boots. The lobby was bright, polished, almost too clean compared to the day you’d just had. You were still stuck replaying that moment when you overheard the conversation Aki was having with the receptionist.

“Sorry,” the desk clerk said, polite but firm, eyes flicking up from his computer. “We don’t have any reservations under that name.”

“Fuck, I never actually called, did I?” The young captain groaned, dropping his head against the surface of the counter. “Of course I fucking didn’t,” Then, raising his head up and pinching the bridge of his nose, he added, “Do you… uh… do you have any other rooms available?”

Himeno stepped forward from where she was standing, folding her arms over the counter and leaning forward as if she, too, were desperate to find anything, at this point in the evening.

A minute passed. An agonizing minute, filled with nothing but the sound of keys clicking. Then, the desk clerk pursed his lips. “Okay, yeah, we have some availability. Two rooms. I can do one with two full beds and a pullout, and one queen suite.”

“Is that all you have?” Aki sighed, clearly unsatisfied.

Before he could add anything more, Himeno interjected, “We’ll take it.”

Aki whipped his head around, glaring daggers into her head. “That won’t be enough room for all of us. Someone’s gonna have to share a bed.”

Himeno shrugged. “Two of us take the queen. Three of us take the double beds and the couch, and we should be good,” She paused, then added, “What’s our other option? Keep walking around ‘til we find somewhere to crash? Our phones are dead, Aki. You saw the situation. There’s nothing out here for a while. Suck it up.”

Good point.

“Fine,” Aki sighed, “We’ll take the rooms.”

“Fine,” Aki exhaled, resignation in the sound. “We’ll take the rooms.”

The clerk clicked around, tapped a few keys, then slid two plastic key cards across the counter with a tired smile. Himeno snatched one without hesitation.

“Oh, and I’m not sharing a bed,” she said breezily, already turning toward the elevators. “I’ll crash with the two dipshits. You’re with her.”

Your heart sank straight through the floor.

No…

“You’re joking,” Aki muttered, twirling the key around his finger like it might burn him. But Himeno didn’t even glance back – her laugh trailed behind her as she disappeared down the hall with Denji and Power.

That left you and him.

Don’t leave me alone with him, Himeno.

You tried to swallow the sudden tightness in your throat. “I’m… sure there’s a couch I can crash on. Normally, the rooms have one,” you murmured as the two of you headed toward the second elevator.

Aki pressed the up button with two fingers. “Bullshit. Like I’m letting you sleep on the couch.”

Ugh. You and your damn chivalry, you thought. Of course he wouldn’t.

Still, that wouldn’t stop you from trying.

He’d sooner suffer himself than allow you any discomfort. That was the kind of man he was, and the kind of man you found so frustratingly hard to be around. Because it made your chest tighten. It made you feel seen when you didn’t… want to be.

The elevator dinged softly, the doors parting with a slow drag. You both stepped inside, the air-conditioning in the lift almost too cold against your sweat-dampened skin. Your reflection flickered faintly in the brushed steel walls, your nerves painted across your face.

“Really, I don’t mind the couch,” you tried again as the doors sealed shut, the world outside cut off with a faint hiss. “Aki, you need rest. I’m fine, really.”

His gaze shifted toward you then, just for a second, before returning to the glowing floor numbers above. “And what kind of man would I be if I let that happen? You’re my partner.” His tone carried the weight of finality, but softer underneath, reluctant. “You take the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Your chest ached, a quiet ache you buried quickly before it could show.

The elevator slowed, jolted, and the doors creaked open onto your floor. The carpet muffled your steps as you trailed behind him, your pulse strangely loud in your ears. Aki slid the key into the lock and scanned it, the red light flicking to green with a soft beep.

You held your breath as he pushed the door open.

The room was… a setup. Clearly meant for lovers, not two co-workers stuck out of town after a bloody mission. The bedspread was pristine, two towel swans perched neatly on the duvet, their necks curved into the shape of a heart. The curtains were drawn just enough to reveal a wide city view – lights glittering against the darkness, neon signs bleeding colors into the night.

You blinked, stunned into silence.

Aki dropped his gaze to the room, his frown deepening. “No couch.”

Shit.

You turned slowly, scanning again as if one might magically appear if you looked hard enough. “…I guess not.” You pointed toward the tray left neatly on the counter. “They gave us a bottle of Merlot and the room service number, though. I’ll be nice and buzzed on the floor.”

That earned you a quiet sigh. He let his bag slide from his shoulder and hit the carpet with a dull thud. “I’m showering first. I feel like shit.”

Okay. Tough crowd.

You nodded quickly, anything to avoid meeting his eyes. “Go ahead.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just grabbed the handle of his bag and tugged it closer to the bathroom door before shutting himself inside. The sound of running water followed almost immediately, steady and muffled behind the wall.

You exhaled slowly, as if you’d been holding your breath since Himeno’s declaration downstairs. Your fingers busied themselves unpacking little things, laying them neatly on the counter by the TV: a mini first aid kit, lotion, the spare change of clothes you’d stuffed haphazardly in your bag. You lined them up like the order would keep you grounded, like if everything looked neat on the outside, your insides would stop feeling so messy.

The city lights spilled across the room in fractured patterns, a reminder of how far from home you were, how detached this moment felt. Just you. Just him. One bed.

You glanced toward the bathroom door, steam already beginning to cloud the edges of the mirror on the wall.

What were you supposed to do now?

The room was quiet enough that you could hear the faint hum of the vent, the deeper rush of water from behind the bathroom door. The steady stream of the shower should have been soothing. Instead, it only made you more aware of him. Aki. Just a wall away.

You turned toward the window, if only to distract yourself.

The curtains had been drawn to showcase the view, and it was a view worth pausing for. The city stretched out, streets glittering with headlights that streaked past in ribbons of red and white. Neon signs pulsed against the dark, broken occasionally by taller silhouettes of glass and steel. In the reflection, your face stared back, smudged with exhaustion, softened by the glow.

The rain was starting again. It hadn’t been more than a drizzle when you left the car, but now it pressed harder against the glass, the drops forming streaks that blurred the city lights into watercolor.

You leaned your forehead gently against the cool pane, closing your eyes.

One bed.

The thought circled back, unrelenting.

Of all the possible arrangements, of all of the ways things could’ve worked out, of course this was how it had to be. You cursed Himeno in your head, though some part of you knew she hadn’t done it entirely by accident. She liked to push, to prod, to stir things that might otherwise stay buried. And maybe she thought she was being clever, pairing you off, giving you an opportunity you’d never take yourself.

But she didn’t have to live in the skin of it. She didn’t have to sit with this tightness in her chest, the nervous awareness of every little detail: the sound of running water, the fact that Aki was right there…

You shifted away from the window, arms crossing over your chest. No use getting lost in that.

The steam was starting to seep from the bathroom, curling faintly at the corners of the mirror across the room. It fogged the edges, warping your reflection into something unrecognizable. You hated that it mirrored how you felt – blurry, muddled, not quite yourself.

You tried to focus on anything else. The ridiculous towel swans perched on the duvet, their curved necks touching in a heart. The unopened bottle of Merlot left with two glasses, like the hotel was mocking you. The silence of the room beyond the muffled water, pressing in so thick it almost had weight.

Your thoughts spun out in too many directions. What if he insisted again about the bed? What if he argued until you had no choice but to give in? What if you woke in the middle of the night, both of you too aware of the other’s presence? The possibilities all ended in the same place – your heart racing, your chest aching, your mind refusing to quiet.

You rubbed your hands down your face, frustrated with yourself. 

It was just one night. People shared rooms all the time. It didn’t mean anything. You could survive this without losing your composure.

But then you thought of him again. His voice was low, steady, even when he was irritated. His eyes were sharp but softened by exhaustion. The image of his shoulders tense beneath his coat as he’d argued with Himeno, fighting for something as simple as more space, as if even that was his responsibility to shoulder.

You pressed your palm against the cool glass once more, grounding yourself.

It didn’t matter. You wouldn’t let it matter.

Still, when the water shut off, your body went rigid. The silence that followed was even heavier than before, broken only by the faint scuff of feet against tile. The bathroom door clicked open, and a wave of steam spilled into the room.

Instead of looking back (like the more perverted part of you desperately wanted to), you kept your eyes out the window, trained on the view and definitely not the blurry reflection of his shadow in the window. The rain beat down against the clear panes, cooling your head.

“It’s coming down hard out there now,” You huffed out, breath fogging the glass. “Himeno was right. We would have been out there with no gas in the rain.”

The sound of a bag rustling behind you beckoned your attention. When you turned around, there he was, all six-feet-three-inches of your partner. He was damn near naked, wearing nothing more than a towel around his waist. His chest was bare, and you couldn’t peel your eyes away – again, you weren’t blind. The guy was fucking chiseled, well-defined muscles lining his scarred frame, and you observed him with a strange sort of hunger. Your eyes focused on a droplet of water that trickled down the swell of his broad chest, dripped down his abs and disappeared below the towel around his waist.

Holy fucking shit.

Aki scooped his damp, dark hair into the palm of his hand, slicking it back and out of his pretty face. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

You swallowed, licked your lips, and maybe it was just your hormones talking, but the temperature in the room seemed to climb a couple of notches. “Right,” You cleared your throat, peeling your eyes away from him. “Thanks.”

You weren’t looking. No, you definitely weren’t looking, which is why it was so strange that your mouth felt like it had been stuffed full of fucking cotton. 

Instead of unpacking what that was about, you plucked one of the neatly folded robes off of the bed and tossed it over your shoulder, casting your gaze to the carpeted floor and walking past him.

You closed the bathroom door quietly behind you, like you were scared to disrupt him, to make any sort of noise that indicated you were feeling any differently than you had been a few months prior, before these thoughts of yours had started.

The second you twisted the knob, steam filled the little space, curling against the mirror until it blurred your reflection into nothing. You stepped beneath the spray and tilted your head back, closing your eyes as the first rush of hot water slammed over you. It was almost too hot, almost painful, but that was what you wanted… something to burn away the grime and tension of the mission.

When you reached up to work the shampoo into your hair, a faint pink tint swirled down with the suds. You stilled, fingers pausing at your scalp, and watched as the water carried it away, diluted it, spun it into nothing more than a whisper of red before it vanished into the drain. Blood. Leftover, clinging to you from earlier, soaked deep into strands and hidden against your scalp.

The sight should not have unnerved you. It was part of the job. Every devil left some piece of itself behind. But standing there, watching the water run red, it felt… different than your post mission showers normally did. 

And, no, it wasn’t the hotel shampoo.

You thought of Aki again, the way he had stepped in front of you without hesitation when things went bad, the way his blade had cut through air and gore like it was second nature. The way he always put himself in the line first, as if his body were nothing more than a shield for the rest of you to hide behind.

Always the hero, even at the cost of his own life.

You pressed your fingers into your scalp, scrubbing until it stung. If you could just get clean – if you could just make the blood go away – maybe you could stop thinking about him like that. But even when the water finally ran clear, even when you had rinsed it all away, his face lingered, carved sharp in your mind.

Because he was perfect. The fact of the matter was that he was everything you could have wanted in a man. The fact that you couldn’t have him – even just a taste of him – pained you.

Gently, you lathered up your breasts, being sure to clean your nipple piercings with care. They weren’t new, not by any stretch – about three years old, in fact – but they were sensitive. Himeno had dared you to do them on a whim, and you had lost a bet.

You finished quickly, moving through the rest of your routine in a haze. Soap, conditioner, rinse. By the time you shut off the water, your skin was flushed pink from heat and your lungs felt heavy with steam.

Okay. This is normal.

It’s not like we’re naked, we just… don’t have pajamas.

Yeah. That’s it.

You towelled yourself dry in silence, dragging lotion across your arms and legs in deliberate strokes, like the ritual itself might anchor you back into your own body. Then you shrugged into the robe hanging on the back of the door and cinched it tight, tying the belt in a knot you didn’t trust your shaking hands to undo anytime soon.

When you finally stepped out, the hotel room was dim, shadows softened by the glow of the city bleeding in through the windows.

You spotted him instantly. Aki was outside, on the balcony, leaning against the railing, a cigarette caught between two fingers. The robe he wore hung loosely off his shoulders, the fabric belted low on his hips.

Be strong. You froze for a second too long, breath hitching before you forced yourself forward.

He’s off limits.

Crossing the room, you passed behind him on your way to the balcony. And, no, you didn’t gawk. You absolutely did not let your eyes linger on the broad line of his back, the muscles shifting beneath the robe when he lifted his arm to take another drag. You didn’t think about how solid he looked, how steady, how everything about him seemed carved out of something like stone, and fuck…

You kept your eyes forward. Definitely.

Still, your pulse fluttered like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

“I’m done,” you said softly as you slid the glass door open, stepping into the night air beside him.

Aki exhaled a plume of smoke, eyes tracking the storm beyond the balcony. “I was beginning to think you died in there,” he murmured, voice even, almost indifferent.

“Shut up,” You sighed. “You’ve only got so much hair to wash.”

It was colder out there, for sure, but you could feel the warmth radiating off of him in waves, and that was more than enough for you. You joined him, leaning against the balcony like you weren’t ogling him only a minute prior. Your eyes dropped down to the calm city streets below, to the gentle movement of traffic. 

“Just think. Somewhere in this hotel, Himeno and Denji are probably wrangling Power into the bathtub,” You commented, nudging his shoulder with yours.

I’m trying really hard to not focus on how strange this is.

He huffed out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Never thought about it that way.”

A gust of wind blew in from below, gently moving his hair. He looked prettier with it down, if that were even possible. It felt as if – the moment that damned ponytail came up, it was all strict business. Now, when it was just the two of you out there where no one else could see you, away from the devils, the city, all of it, the air felt thicker. He looked younger, calmer, and the dark strands framed his face like it was intentional.

He took your breath away.

“I think I’m so used to the chaos of their company that I almost… forgot what it felt like to not have to deal with it,” He added after a beat. His eyes flickered between a neighboring building and your face, sapphire pools catching the light of the moon just right. 

“She’s doing you a favor, believe me,” You said, clapping a hand down on your partner’s shoulder. “What do you say we crack open that bottle of wine and relax inside?”

He sighed again, shoulders dropping with the weight of it, “God, I could use a drink.”

He moved quickly after that, stubbing his cigarette out on the railing and flicking it out over the balcony. The two of you stepped inside of the room, closing the sliding door once you were indoors. 

Unceremoniously, you opened your arms and flopped onto the bed. The mattress was plush, soft, sinking beneath your weight. Fumbling around the nightstand, you reached for the TV remote and flicked it on.

In front of you, you heard the soft twist of metal against glass. Aki worked the cork out with steady hands, the faint pop sounding far louder than it should in the quiet. He poured with practiced ease, the deep red spilling into two glasses until the room smelled faintly of wine.

He crossed the room and handed you one, his fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary. You clinked them together with a small grin.

“Think they got any good movies on here?” you asked, flipping through the bland hotel channel menu, most of it pay-per-view garbage.

Aki settled onto the bed next to you with his own glass. He was a respectable distance away, of course, keeping a foot between the two of you and settling for leaning up against the headboard instead of laying down. There was a clear barrier between your body and his. A line that you weren’t ballsy enough to cross.

Still, it would have been so easy to reach over and…

He took a sip, the lamplight catching the flush of exhaustion still high on his cheekbones.

But your eyes stayed on the flickering TV, because looking too long at him in that quiet, dim-lit room felt… dangerous. He was remarkably beautiful, even now. The kind of pretty that made your heart ache – boyish features weighed down by years of stress, dark hair still damp from the shower, framing his face. From here, you could see the faint quirk in his lip as he grimaced at the taste of the wine.

“Doubt it,” he muttered, completely unaware of your plight. “You’re hard to please.”

When he relaxed against the headboard, slouched over ever-so-slightly, the fabric of his robe shifted over his chest, giving way to a glimpse of more skin. Despite feeling like an amish man, you reeled it in, trying not to stare at him.

Because, shit, you could think of one thing that would please you quite easily.

Don’t be stupid.

A laugh spilled forth from your lips before you could stop it – at his comment, at your thoughts, at the absurdity of this whole entire situation. You wound up clicking on some movie you only vaguely recognized the name of, deciding to hope that it would make a worthwhile distraction. If you kept your eyes on the screen, maybe you wouldn’t have to look at Aki. Maybe then your heart would stop its incessant racing.

“We should make a toast,” You commented, watching the black screen fade into starting credits. You swished the wine around in your glass mindlessly.

Aki didn’t look away from the television screen when he hummed, “Mission’s not finished yet.”

“So what?” You teased. Waving your glass around (rather haphazardly, considering the two of you were lounging on a pearly white bedspread and the wine was very red), you added, “Let’s toast… to… to not dying. How about that? A toast to one more day above ground?”

Shit, in Public Safety, every day above ground was something to toast to.

Aki chuckled tiredly, and it was single-handedly the most attractive thing you’d ever heard in your entire life. Still, he lifted his glass up. “To one more day above ground.”

Your glasses clinked when they met in the middle.

The food tray sat forgotten on the nightstand, a mess of half-eaten fries and skewered bits of chicken scattered like the remains of some small feast. Aki had ordered it without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you hadn’t argued. Drunk food always tasted better anyway.

Now, though, both your appetites had slowed. He was stretched out beside you on the bed, glass still in hand, his body sinking deeper into the mattress than you’d ever seen. Aki never really relaxed… at least, not around you, not in the way that counted, but tonight there was no mistaking it. His shoulders weren’t taut with tension, his jaw wasn’t set. His robe hung loose, the belt tied without much care, one edge falling open to expose the hard line of his chest.

You caught yourself staring. More than once. Okay, maybe even a handful of times. Hell, you were staring right now.

The wine had flushed his cheeks a soft pink, heat bleeding down his throat, and his eyes, normally so sharp, had softened into something half-lidded. He was drunk, though not nearly as much as you were. You could feel your head spinning slightly when you tried to sit up straighter, so you gave in and leaned back on the pillows instead, laughing at nothing in particular.

“You’re–” You snorted into your glass. “You’re way too composed. It’s not fair.”

Aki gave the wine in his glass a lazy swirl, watching the deep red catch the light. “Trust me. I’m feeling it.”

“Liar,” you shot back, nudging his leg with your knee. The contact lingered, neither of you moving away.

He didn’t answer immediately, just turned his head toward you, and for a moment the air went strangely quiet – just the faint hum of the TV. His gaze lingered long enough that you felt your face warm, though whether it was the alcohol or him, you couldn’t say.

For a moment, you had been able to forget about this whole… situation. You. Him. Two bottles of wine deep, sprawled out on a bed wearing only robes. It was ridiculous, by all means, and far too intimate of a predicament to be in with your supervisor.

Yet, there you were.

And when the screen flickered to another scene in the film 

And when the screen flickered to another scene in the film, you blinked up at it – then promptly choked on your sip of wine. Of course. A sex scene. The volume wasn’t even that high, but the moans still filled the room, echoing around the pristine hotel walls, and suddenly it felt like the air had thickened.

You shot Aki a sideways glance, but he was already trying very hard to look anywhere but the TV. His lips pressed together, his jaw tight, like if he didn’t move a muscle the moment would pass unnoticed.

It was so awkward you had to say something. Anything.

“She’s so faking it,” you blurted, gesturing toward the screen with your glass.

That got him. His mouth twitched, and then he snorted softly. “No shit. We’re not watching a porno.”

“You’re acting like girls don’t fake it in the pornos, too,” You giggled softly, “Hell, I’ve faked it before.”

Aki tilted his head, tufts of raven hair falling into his face as he did so. “Why bother?”

“Saves time,” You shrugged noncommittally. Pausing, you took a sip. “And ego.”

“Yours or theirs?” He sighed. In his hand, he swished the glass of wine around. You watched the blood red liquid lap at the sides, never quite daring to spill over. Controlled, just like everything else he did. His blue eyes were hazy, half-lidded, “I think… if I knew a girl had to fake it just to save my ego, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. I’d rather she just tell me it sucked.”

“Happens more often than you’d think,” You noted with a hum. Shifting your weight onto your side, you adjusted your body until you were fully facing him. Until the moans and clatter on the television screen faded into the background. “Most guys don’t even know what the clit is.”

It was too much. Far too much. You had crossed a line. That much was evident in the way Aki, who had just taken a sip of his wine, promptly choked on the liquid. 

You probably should have apologized for being so crass in front of your boss. However, given the fact that you were inebriated, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. “What? We’re all adults here.”

Great. Just dig the hole deeper, why don’t you?

“God, this is wrong. It’s… it’s completely inappropriate,” Aki rolled onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling. “You and I shouldn’t be in the same room… let alone the same bed. We shouldn’t be drinking, and we sure as hell shouldn’t be talking about anatomy.”

“Probably not,” You laughed. The world seemed to sway a bit when you did. “You’re one of those guys, aren’t you?”

You should probably stop asking him that.

“We should be following protocol,” He added, as if that would stop the onslaught of questions pouring from your mouth. “You should be asleep and I should be over there on the floor. Maybe even the bathtub. As far away from you as a captain should be.”

“You should be answering my question,” You tapped a finger against your glass impatiently. “...Unless you’re a virgin, captain.”

You’re gonna get fired. You thought.

But he didn’t fire you. Instead, he actually humored you.

Talk about how inappropriate that comment was and how theres a moment of silence where she holds her breath cuz she knows its out of pocket, but to her surprise aki answers her.

The words hung between you like smoke, heavier the longer the silence stretched.

Your heart stuttered, realization dawning far too late that you had just crossed a line. A dangerous one. Talking to your superior like that? In a hotel room, half-drunk, in robes? You might as well have signed your resignation letter on the dotted line. You swallowed, fighting the urge to backpedal, waiting for the reprimand, the sharp rebuke – maybe even the cold dismissal.

But none came.

Instead, Aki only looked at you. His eyes flickered briefly over your face, unreadable, the kind of silence that made your chest ache from holding your breath.

Then, slowly, he quirked a brow. “Definitely wouldn’t use that word to describe me,” he said at last, his voice dry, tinged with the faintest thread of humor. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Involuntarily celibate, maybe.”

He’s not a virgin.

You weren’t sure why the confession made you feel so strange. It’s not that you particularly expected him to have held off this long. Hell, he was 22. He was drop-dead gorgeous. You weren’t stupid. 

Still, the image of Aki’s lips on another woman’s neck, his hands reaching down beneath her skirt…

Fuck. It confused you. You didn’t know whether you wanted to know more or close your ears and pretend you hadn’t heard any of it. 

Still, you supposed you had been the one to breach the subject…

“Ha! I barely even have time to clean with all of this gun devil shit. The last thing I need is to get in bed and have to fake a good time with a guy I barely know,” You laughed aloud. “But you? I’m surprised.”

“About what?” He asked.

“About you being celibate,” You said. “You’re pretty enough. I’m surprised you don’t get more play.”

This whole conversation is ridiculous and should stop.

“It’s not that,” He corrected you, eyes following a crack in the paint on the ceiling. “Believe me when I tell you I’ve gotten more letters from secret admirers in my office mailbox than I’m willing to admit. I’m just not interested.”

You tilted your head, wine loosening your tongue. “You gay?”

His head turned sharply, eyes snapping to you, and the look he gave had you laughing before you could help it. Loud, unrestrained, spilling out of you as though it might cover how reckless that question had been.

And then, suddenly, he moved.

One second you were still laughing, the next his hand was brushing over your shoulder, catching the loose edge of your robe. He tugged it back into place with an uncharacteristic gentleness, straightening the fabric where it had slipped open.

Oh.

You froze.

The laughter died in your throat, leaving only the deafening silence that followed. He didn’t look away this time. His hand lingered just a beat too long on the knot at your waist, and when his eyes finally met yours, steady and unblinking, you forgot how to breathe.

The pause stretched, fragile and thin, and the air between you seemed to shift, thicken, like you were both suddenly too aware of how close you were, of the heat bleeding between you.

And then, just as abruptly, he cleared his throat and pulled back.

“It’s the same way for me,” he said quietly. “I haven’t found anyone worth keeping around. Maybe that’s harsh, I don’t know. Most girls I’ve gone out with have been… painfully boring. That, or they expect me to fall in love with them after one night.”

I hope I don’t bore him, You thought. Truthfully, though, you kept him on his toes enough to know that that simply wasn’t true.

No, you knew you stressed him the fuck out.

“From my experience, it’s usually the guys who can’t keep up a conversation,” You noted. Truthfully, you had carried more dates on your back than you were willing to admit. 

“We’re… holding a conversation right now, aren’t we?” He replied.

“Yeah, but you’re different.”

“How so?”

You’re so different, you don’t even know it. You thought. So different, in fact, that you hadn’t been able to look another man in the eyes since your… strange feelings towards Aki started.

Why? Well, because no one compared. No, in every pair of easy eyes, he was there. His ocean blue irises. His stern expression. His deep, commanding voice.

That was exactly the problem. In every man you tried to meet, every time you even tried to get the tension off, he was there.

Your eyes betrayed you, dropping down to the small patch of skin his robe revealed, to the dog tag necklace that rested on his chest.

“I don’t know, we just know each other well. We’re partners,” You waved your hand around in the air. “Maybe you’re just one of those guys who needs to really get to know someone before you feel comfortable around them.”

Aki quirked a perfectly arched brow at your words. “You telling me to fuck a friend?”

I mean, shitttt… You thought. It was depraved, of course, but something about the way the word fuck rolled off his tongue…

Dangerous.

“No, just someone you know,” You replied easily. “And I’m not used to hearing you use such debauched language, Captain. Watch your mouth, please.”

The conversation was breaching uncharted territory. You knew that. But, fuck, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Fuck off. You started it,” He took one final sip of his wine, then set the empty glass on the nightstand. “Plus, I don’t know many people who would want to get that involved with a Public Safety Officer. We’re good for one night stands, and that’s about it. Can’t have anything too permanent.”

“True that,” You stretched with a tired yawn. “We should probably stick to our kind, but that would get messy real fast.”

 “Very,” he replied. “That’s Himeno’s thing. Not mine.”

You turned your gaze back to the TV, not sure why you felt compelled to keep talking, to keep spilling. The sex scene was over, the two characters now lying in bed together, but the words kept coming anyway.

“That reminds me,” you said before you could stop yourself, “…I hooked up with this guy once who told me my head was bad.”

Aki arched that perfect brow, his expression deadpan. “He actually said that?”

You’re telling me.

“Yeah. Out loud. It’s always the dudes with trash game, too. Like, when I tell you he was biting me…” You polished off the rest of your own glass in one swig. “And then he had the nerve to tell me I was using too much teeth.”

“That’s audacious,” He uttered, and for a second, the words were just words – but there was a quiet weight to them, like he was thinking too much about it.

A beat of silence followed. The TV flickered, the movie continuing on-screen, but neither of you really watched. You knew it, and he knew it… you were avoiding something, tiptoeing around it in the dim hotel light.

Then, to your surprise, he added more. Lower this time, almost offhand, almost to himself: “I feel like going down on a girl would be easier than giving a blowjob.”

You froze mid-breath, eyes darting to the TV as though it could shield you from the words, but the heat crawling up your neck betrayed you. “…You’ve never gone… down?”

No response.

“…You’re kidding. A guy like you? Never?”

“Don’t start,” he snapped, but not harshly. More like warning you not to pry further. “Most of my escapades have been… rushed.”

Your mind spun. Rushed, sure– but…  “You could still give her something,” you murmured, before you could stop yourself. The words slipped out, soft, teasing, almost dangerous.

For a second, he looked at you, and something flickered in his gaze. That rare, unguarded side of him that came out only when you pushed just enough, only when the world outside wasn’t watching.

“Trust me, I do,” He answered, and for a moment, you swore his voice dropped just a notch. You swore you saw his eyes betray him, glancing down at your lips before meeting your gaze again. “But I guess you never know when someone’s faking it, do you?”

The words were enough to make you fucking bristle.

I cannot be imagining this tension.

“A lady shouldn’t have to ask for head,” You retorted.

“You try doing that when you have someone begging you to cut to the chase and give them what they want,” He answered right back. “Doesn’t mean I don’t give them theirs first. It’s all about how you use it.”

Your stomach clenched at the words. Yours first? You swallowed against the sudden heat rising to your cheeks, your mind flickering to images you weren’t supposed to be thinking about. You pictured him above you, the memory – or maybe the fantasy – playing like a private movie behind your eyes, and you felt your pulse spike.

God, you could picture him using it.

Yeah, his words paint a vivid image.

“You seem to have a high turnover rate,” you teased, pushing your words out with more confidence than you felt. “You sure you’re as good as you think?”

The grin that took over his face wasn’t quick. It was slow – perhaps a little tipsy, a subtle expression that graced his lips. Then, teasingly, he retorted, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Whatever,” you muttered to yourself.

It was not whatever.

You shifted, letting your arm stretch toward the nightstand. As you leaned over, your robe shifted just slightly, brushing against your skin in a way that made you hyperaware of him. You checked your phone, pretending that was the only reason for bending like that, but your gaze flicked up just enough to catch the faint trace of his eyes lingering – more than lingering – across your chest. More specifically, at the piercing bumps poking through the fabric.

He’s looking at my nipple piercings.

Before you could stop yourself, words tumbled out: “Do you want to see them?”

He blinked, almost caught off guard. “See what?”

“My piercings,” You added, as if that should have been obvious. (It should have).

Then, voice low and measured, a flicker of amusement in his tone: “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve just… I didn’t even know you could have piercings there.”

Heat pooled, your pulse jumping. You leaned back slightly, letting the robe settle but keeping just enough control to let him know you’d noticed the stare without giving away more than you meant to. The tension between you didn’t dissipate, though. It fucking thickened, charged with something you were a little too drunk to name.

And neither of you was making the slightest effort to stop it.

Oh, fuck it, you only live once.

“Give me your hand,” you said, voice low, teasing, letting the words slip out before your brain could intervene. You didn’t look at him directly, eyes tracing the shadowed corners of the hotel room instead, pretending the TV flicker was what kept your attention. But your chest tightened the moment his gaze flicked toward you.

“No,” he replied immediately, sharp, unyielding. The word sounded like a warning, but it only made your pulse spike.

“Gimme your hand,” you said again, a little firmer, a little bolder.

“This violates protocol. You know that, right?” he said, voice calm but carrying that unmistakable edge that made you bite back a laugh.

“I do,” you admitted, letting your lips curl into a smirk before you moved. Slowly, deliberately, you guided his hand into place – into your robe, letting it brush against your breast, ignoring the rapid beat of your own pulse. The moment his fingers touched your skin, a jolt ran through you, sudden and electric.

But he didn’t pull away.

His hand was gentle at first, almost careful, testing boundaries without crossing them. You felt the warmth radiating from him, the subtle pressure of his fingers against your piercing, his hand hot and warm against your skin. Your nipple stiffened up beneath his touch almost immediately, something you weren’t exactly proud of.

Why is this happening? you thought. It’s not supposed to feel so sensitive.

“Does...” he swallowed softly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, voice laced with a kind of hesitance you rarely saw. “Does it hurt?”

“No…” you trailed off, your voice barely audible, and you found yourself looking at him instead of the TV, even though you knew you shouldn’t. His eyes caught yours, steady, unwavering, and for a moment, everything else – the light, the shadows, the sound of the air conditioner – faded.

And he wouldn’t stop looking at you, peering into your eyes like he was trying to pick you apart piece by piece.

You leaned closer, just slightly, the air between you taut with unspoken electricity. “Can I tell you something?” you murmured.

“Yeah…” he breathed, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on you with that rare intensity that made your stomach flip.

“I’ve always thought you were… so fucking sexy. You know that?”

There. You said it. And the words hung between you, heavy and undeniable. Your stomach clenched, your chest felt too tight, and for a fleeting second, you wished you could take it back – but you didn’t.

His hand lingered. He hadn’t moved it, hadn’t pulled away, and every second it stayed there sent heat crawling along your skin, your pulse thrumming in rhythm with the dangerous tension between you.

But, then, wordlessly, his thumb caught on your piercing, brushing over your nipple in a way that was anything but accidental.

Oh, God, You shivered slightly, almost involuntarily, and the sound escaped your lips – a soft, shuddering noise you didn’t even realize you’d made.

“Fuck,” He jerked his hand back like he’d been burned, eyes wide and unfocused for a moment, but tinged with hunger. “We shouldn’t… this isn’t…”

“Aki, it’s okay,” you whispered, the words soft, steady, but firm enough to coax him. You leaned a little closer, daring, letting him see the challenge in your eyes, the teasing edge to your tone.

“If you think this is okay, then I have serious concerns about your relationship with authority,” He sighed, shaking his head, almost to himself. “I’m your supervisor.”

“You’re also hard,” you said, barely a murmur, teasing, daring, letting the words brush against the thin veil of propriety between you. As if to emphasize your point, you let your hand drop down to the tent that had begun to form at the front of his robe.

There’s no way this is really happening.

He blinked at you, as if startled by the movement – a little pent up, if anything, but he didn’t pull away. “Two things can be true at once,” he said, voice rougher now. 

“I think I like the one poking my leg more,” You grinned. You leaned a little closer again, heart thudding in your chest. “Could I… help you take care of it?” Your voice was soft, but your grin betrayed you.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble,” he said, tone warning, but you could hear the slight catch in his breath. His hand hovered, almost hesitant, over the space between you, and it made the air crackle with anticipation.

You saw it, now. He was just as repressed as you were.

“Has trouble ever looked this good?” you murmured, voice teasing, letting your eyes roam his face just long enough to watch the reaction flicker across his features.

“I don’t think I want Little Miss Trouble to bite my dick off,” he joked. You let out a quiet, breathy laugh.

“I just wasn’t… enthusiastic enough that time,” you murmured, voice low, teasing, but you were already crawling onto your hands and knees, already lowering yourself.

And he let you. He watched you with wide, dilated pupils as you crawled down the bed, nuzzling your head shamelessly into his crotch before looking up at him for approval.

You always had been a horny drunk. Still, you figured you would rather regret it in the morning.

“I’ll be good,” You cooed, “Promise. All you have to do is teach me.”

“We’re just drunk. You’re gonna get us in trouble.” His voice was low, steady, but you caught the catch in it, the way it stuttered just slightly like he didn’t fully believe what he was saying. His hand hovered, not quite touching, caught between restraint and need.

“Only if someone finds out,” you murmured, tilting your head, watching him too closely, savoring the shift in his expression. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running his tongue across his teeth like he needed something to bite down on. His gaze flicked away toward the ceiling before snapping back to you. “Fuck, this is a horrible idea.”

You grinned, emboldened by the fracture in his resolve, and reached for the belt of his robe, fingers brushing over the fabric. You didn’t even get the chance to tug… it was his hand that shot out, gripping your wrist firm enough to stop you. 

“Aki–” you started, but then he tugged. Not enough to hurt, just enough to jolt you. Then he sat up, dragging you half with him before letting go and standing.

You fell back against the pillows, wide-eyed, breathless, watching him.

“What…?” you began, but stopped yourself, the words dying when you saw the way he moved. He wasn’t leaving. He was deliberate, slow, fingers working at the knot in the front of his robe.

He came to the side of the bed, looking down at you with a gaze that pinned you in place. His jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling like he’d just fought off a losing battle. And then he spoke, voice rough, controlled, but edged with something dangerous.

“On your knees.”

The command made your stomach flip, heat rushing down your spine.

You blinked at him, lips parting, body already reacting before your mind could catch up. The sheets tangled around your legs as you slid down off the bed, the carpet cool against your knees. When you finally looked up at him, waiting, his hand tightened on the belt, knuckles pale.

“Teach me,” you breathed.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, softer this time, but no less sharp.

You peered up at him through your lashes, taking a moment to reel it in. He looked even prettier from below.

For a moment, he just looked at you. Then his free hand reached out, fingers sinking into your hair, tugging your head back just slightly until your breath hitched.

“Don’t look at me like that unless you’re ready to put your mouth to use,” He uttered, and the words made you squeeze your thighs together, nails biting into flesh like you needed something to hold onto.

His hand slipped out of your hair to cup your jaw, lift your gaze up. His thumb caressed your mouth, catching on your lower lip to tug it down ever-so-slightly. 

A wicked grin crossed your lips as you reached for the belt of his robe, “Sir, yes, sir.”

And this time, as you peered up at him through half-lidded eyes, the fabric loosened under your fingers, parting just enough to tease the shape of what waited beneath.

Fuck, he’s bigger than I thought.

The breath caught in your throat. Awe flickered across your features, chasing away your grin for just a heartbeat as your eyes roamed lower. The sight of him made your stomach clench, a dizzying mix of nerves and hunger flooding your veins. Your hands slid down his stomach, his abs, his v-line, and then his thighs.

His hand lingered against your jaw, thumb still brushing your lip as though daring you to back down. “What’s wrong? Scared?” he teased, low and sharp, like he relished watching you falter.

You blinked up at him. Mama didn’t raise a bitch.

No, you could take him. All… god, what was that, nine inches?

Then, with a sudden bout of unwarranted boldness, you gripped him by the base of his cock, keeping eye contact the whole time. 

He huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, tugging at your lip once more while telling you, “Open your mouth.”

You did exactly that, parting your lips without so much as another thought to make room for the thumb that pushed its way in. On instinct, you flattened your tongue.

“That’s it. Good girl,” He appraised you with a quiet hum. Pushed his thumb in a little deeper, just up against the back of your tongue. “Suck on it.”

Mindlessly, perhaps, you followed his command. You hollowed out your cheeks, sucking the digit into your mouth, coating it in your spit.

“You’re using teeth, pretty, open wider,” He leaned down a bit, staring down at you over the bridge of his nose like you were nothing. “Don’t make me pry it open for you.”

You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t like it – the nicknames, the threat, the condescending look on his face… all of it.

Before you could protest, bite back with some petty retort, he slipped his thumb out and inserted two fingers instead. They were longer – long enough to make you gag when they practically slid down your throat.

“Wrap those lips tighter, you can do better than that,” He tutted gently. He pulled the digits out before pushing them back in. You wrapped your lips a little tighter around them, even as you felt drool spill out the corner of your lips, even as they reached deeper, deeper. “Tongue over your bottom teeth.”

He’s so mean.

The sound that came out of your mouth wasn’t something you were proud of – not quite a gag, not quite a moan, but something in between. Your chin was wet with spit as he slipped his fingers out of your mouth just to plunge them in again.

“Messy already?” He teased, “It’s just my fingers. I thought you wanted me to teach you?”

Cruel, so cruel, even as he fucked your mouth with his fingers, spread the digits open and closed them.

“Use your tongue. Come on, don’t be lazy,” He cooed, “It’s only a taste of what’s coming.”

The digits were heavy on your tongue – heavier when he pressed them down. Still, you obeyed him, hollowing your cheeks and working up a rhythm while you sucked them in and out of your mouth.

“You want some more baby?” he asks as she pulls his fingers out of her mouth

Baby, you thought. Holy fuck, I’m gonna pass out.

You adjusted, following his rhythm, cheeks hollowing, breath warming his skin. There was weight in the way he held you there – not just physical, but in the quiet authority he carried.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. The intensity there nearly undid you; it wasn’t just dominance, but something like restrained hunger, thinly veiled behind composure.

“Don’t look away,” he said softly, almost like a warning.

He drew his hand back slightly, and your instinctive reach toward him made his mouth twitch in approval. Somewhere along the line, that careful control of his slipped. His breath caught, his jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, you could almost pretend you were sucking on something else.

“Keep going,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher at the edges. “I didn’t say stop.”

Fuck, yes.

Feeling a little more confident than you probably should have, you sucked the digits in deeper, feeling them touch the back of your throat. The sensation was foreign – if you added up the size of every less-than-impressive man you’d been with, they probably still couldn’t compete. So, it should have come with no surprise that you gagged the moment they went too deep.

“Pathetic,” He tsked, withdrawing his fingers entirely. “If you can’t handle my fingers, then you definitely can’t handle the rest of me.”

To be frank, you weren’t entirely sure why you felt the need to impress him, but you did. It wasn’t just about learning. You wanted to prove him wrong – you wanted to do it.

So, naturally, you took the liberty of wrapping your hand around him once more, this time shifting yourself a little closer to him on your knees until your breath fanned out against his warm skin. You glanced up at him, up over the pale scars that marred his muscled skin, up through your lashes like you needed him. Then, slowly – like a cat approaching its prey – you leaned forward.

He quirked a brow, peering down at you like he had all night. Like nothing could phase him.

Well, that is, until you stuck your tongue out and licked a long stripe from the base to his tip, placing a kiss over his slit, keeping eye contact the whole time.

His chest rose. Fell, releasing a sigh.

Then, gruffly, he muttered, “Open your mouth.”

Uncertainly, you opened it.

“Wider,” He added, “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

You did exactly that. In fact, you weren’t the slightest bit ashamed as you parted your lips and stuck your tongue out, eagerly awaiting his command. You felt utterly obscene, in fact, but you had never felt prettier in your entire life than you felt beneath his domineering gaze.

Gripping the base, Aki placed the tip of his dick right on your tongue. For a moment, you just felt the weight of it, but before long, you were licking at it – collecting some of that salty precum onto your tongue and letting it melt into your tastebuds. It was real – a reminder that you weren’t making any of this up.

You flattened your tongue against the tip a few more times, content to lavish it with kitten licks until Aki told you otherwise. You looked up at him through your lashes, feeling as debauched as you were careless. Yet, still, there was something almost religious about the way he looked at you – pupils dilated, lips just slightly parted to make room for a trembling breath, face dusted with a pretty pink hue from your touch and the wine. You had long since abandoned the Catholic church, but, shit… 

It was divine.

“That’s it, baby,” He cooed softly, reaching a hand down to tangle it in your hair. “Just the tip, just like that. Pretend it’s like an ice pop.”

It was so damn obscene. To think that such dirty words were pouring from your superior’s mouth and it was all your faultwas enough to have you pressing your thighs together.

You giggled, words slurred against his cock, “Like an ice pop?”

This time, you dared to wrap your lips around it, using the soft skin to tease him – all but making out with his cock. The reaction was instant: Aki whispered out a quiet, “Fuck,” beneath his breath.

It wasn’t loud, not by any means, but it was enough to spur you on. Before long, you were using lips and tongue – licking over the slit, sucking the tip into your mouth just enough for him to be able to feel your lips around him. More of that salty precum dripped out onto your tongue, only making it messier, but you were drunk on the taste of him.

Well, you were drunk, period, but that was besides the point.

Like an ice pop.

Gently, you licked the tip a few more times before sucking it into your mouth – like running your tongue up the shaft of a cold ice pop on a warm Summer day. When more of that sweet goodness melted off the top, dripping down over your fingers, you quickly lapped it up. To be frank, you weren’t sure where these skills were coming from – or if you were even doing it right, but he hadn’t said anything yet, and if the way he was looking at you was any sort of indicator…

“You’re doing such a good job,” He complimented you. “I’m gonna give you more, okay?”

Right, You thought. He was only one inch in.

Then, he was pushing his hips forward ever-so-slightly. Immediately, you felt the stretch of your lips as they tried to wrap around him, the sensation of his cock filling your mouth out like it was meant to stay there forever. Slowly, so slowly, he gave you more of him – more, more, until your eyes began to water. You weren’t proud of the way you gagged like a virgin.

“Take it deeper. All the way, don’t stop,” He breathed out, cupping your jaw and petting you with his thumb. “Take all of it.”

Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.

Sorry Denji.

You tried, but you found yourself struggling to catch your breath. You’d never been with a man so well endowed before, and it was showing.

“Breathe through your nose,” He added, “Breathe.”

Shutting your eyes to focus, you tried to breathe in. Not through your mouth (obviously), but through your nose. It was a little tricky, but once you got the hang of it, you were good to go.

That is, until he startled you by giving you the rest of him, pushing in all the way until you gagged a second time – louder,too. Loud enough to echo.

Stop embarrassing yourself.

To your surprise, however, Aki didn’t seem to mind. No, if anything, he seemed to enjoy it. The thumb that had just been petting your cheek was now wiping the tears away from your eye. “You choking already?” He hummed at you. “You asked for this, remember? Eyes up.”

His words were starting to get to you. He was stern on the battlefield, so you supposed you should have known he would be stern in the bedroom, but, still. There was just something about hearing pure sin coming from his mouth that made your core boil with desire, heat pooling deep in your gut.

“Eyes on me,” He reiterated. This time, you listened, craning your neck back a bit so you could peer up at him through half-lidded eyes. The task proved to be quite difficult. “Don’t you dare look away.”

For a moment, the two of you sat there, eyes locked, you didn’t move. Neither did he. There was nothing beyond this – beyond you and him, exploring each other’s bodies for the first time while a movie played on low on the TV. Nothing more than the way he was fucking looking at you – like you were everything. Hair loose in his face, eyes hazy with lust – It was enough to fill your stomach with butterflies.

You needed to please him.

“Don’t just sit there,” The faintest hint of a smirk graced his lips, “You can move.”

It was much easier before he had his dick shoved down your throat. But, still, like always, you wanted to try for him. Gently, not wanting to gag hard enough to puke, you moved your head back, then forth. Back, then forth again until you found a rhythm. You were struggling to fit all of him, but fuck, you were so turned on that your head was spinning. The look on his face was something you would have paid to see.

All the while, you maintained eye contact with him.

“That’s it, just like that,” He egged you on, and, fuck, the words carried you through the motions, tickled your fancy just fucking right.

You started slow, easing into it, careful not to rush. There had been a tremor beneath your skin, that mix of nerves and want that made your breath catch in the back of your throat. You pulled back, then pushed forward again, testing the rhythm until it settled into something steady, something that made your pulse thrum harder against your ribs.

Every movement drew a reaction out of him – quiet, subtle, but enough. The sharp inhale when you shifted just right. The slight tightening at his jaw. The way his gaze never faltered, locked on you like he was memorizing every second. It made your stomach twist, heat rising fast, dizzying.

You had looked up at him and stayed there, your eyes locked with his. There had been no room to hide in that stare. It pinned you, rooted you in place, and somehow pushed you forward all at once. He looked wrecked already, undone in a way that made your chest ache.

“Shit,” he breathed, low and deliberate, like he knew exactly what his voice did to you. The sound of it rolled through you, smooth and unhurried, coaxing you to keep going. So you did. You found your rhythm again – back, forth, back  – and the air between you tightened, humming with something neither of you said aloud. Every time you sucked him back into your mouth, you went lower, lower.

It was the way he watched you that undid you most of all. Not the praise, not the tension – just that look.

Once you got the hang of it, you felt like a pro. The weight of him, the taste of him, the scent of the hotel’s bodywash still clinging to his skin – you tried committing all of it to memory. Tomorrow, this would all be a mistake, but right now?

Oh, it was anything but.

“Fuck, you got it,” He cooed breathlessly. You sped up just a little – hollowed your cheeks and created some suction while your tongue worked around him –  and his head rolled back, exposing the column of his neck.

Before you knew it, Aki’s hand was gripping your hair by the end, wrapping it around his fist until he had it pulled taut in his fist. Then, once he had you, he began meeting you in the middle – thrusting his hips up just enough to slip in a little deeper. 

Feeling another gag coming on, you reached for his thighs, digging your nails into them for support. One hand smoothed up over his hip, his v-line, trying to put some distance between you and him. He pulled your hand away before you could succeed, gripping you by the wrist.

He looked down at you. “Keep your hands down,” he commanded. “You don’t need them.”

It hurt. It hurt so good. Your lips were stretched around his cock, which kept on hitting the back of your throat over and over again. Your gagging did not seem to deter him whatsoever, and neither did the tears that streamed down your face while he fucked your mouth.

No, he reached down and wiped a tear away, breathing, “You know, I always thought you’d look better with your mouth full. Crying on it…” Then, leaning down just enough to taunt you, he added, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

He thinks I’m perfect.

While you were busy letting your face warm (and your core grow wetter) at the compliment, you hadn’t realized that you were getting lazy, teeth unintentionally grazing his shaft.

Immediately, you felt the hand in your hair tighten. Aki pulled your head back until he was out of your mouth entirely. Until you were craning your head up to look at him. A string of spit connected your lips to the head of his dick. Above you, the muscles in his forearm flexed – something you shamelessly noticed.

“What happened to being good, hm?” He asked. Then, adjusting his grip on your hair, he added, “Watch your teeth.”

As the seconds ticked by, you only grew more desperate – desperate to please him, desperate to make him cum. It wasn’t that you were growing tired (though, admittedly, your jaw hurt. Just… not enough to make you care).

Besides, those fucking sounds he was making. He was getting closer. You could tell – something about the way his breath shuddered every time you fit him all the way into your mouth, being sure to mind your teeth.

The two of you were working in perfect synchrony. You were sucking him off like your life depended on it, and he was spewing more of that filth from his mouth that drove you fucking crazy.

“Look at you,” He moaned gently, “‘S like you were fucking made for it. Feels good, having your mouth fucked, hm?”

Your response was a gurgle – something between a moan and “yes”. He grinned down at you like he couldn’t have been more fucking proud.

“Keep going,” he murmured, voice rough with something between restraint and satisfaction. “Put that pretty mouth to use.”

You blinked up at him, flushed, breath uneven.

He chuckled low. “You like being told what to do, don’t you?”

A small sound escaped you – half breath, half… something.

“That’s what I thought,” he said quietly. “You listen well with your mouth full of me. I should’ve done this sooner.”

You looked down at his abs, trying to quell the burning in your face, but there was no use.

His thumb brushed your chin, tilting your face up. “Keep it right there. Don’t hide from me.”

Another beat. His voice dropped to a near whisper, a smirk audible in it. “If only you obeyed orders this well out on the field.”

He wrapped your hair around his fist tighter – tight enough to make your eyes fucking water. Then, he was encouraging your movements, bobbing your head back and forth to his liking. At some point, it got hard to keep up, so you simply relaxed your jaw and let him use you however he pleased. Like you were made to take it.

There was drool seeping out of the corner of your lips, dripping down your chin. You didn’t care, and neither did he. For a while, the two of you were lost in song – in the symphony of hushed moans, pants, and the faint ‘gluck’ sound your throat made every time he thrust in.

It felt degrading. It felt humiliating, letting your captain use your mouth like a fucktoy, but you were so fucking into it. It felt like you were getting sucked off instead of him – every time you pressed your thighs together, you could feel the warmth coiling up your core, the jolt of pleasure shooting through your clit every time he whined out your name.

You let the tears stream down your cheeks freely, since he seemed to enjoy seeing them so much. In response, he reached down and wiped them away. You followed his hand as he brought it up to his face, to his lips…

Then his tongue as he eagerly lapped up your tears.

God, he’s the fucking devil.

As you looked up at him, you saw a man on the brink of shattering – saw the way his eyes fluttered open and shut, lips parted around a gasp as he stared down at the mess you were making all over his cock. Over the tearstained mess you had become. 

“Shit,” He hissed, “You don’t even need my help.”

You flicked your tongue over the head of his dick. He whimpered, swaying slightly, like he was struggling to hold on.

Then, he broke.

“God– Fuck, I’m close,” he admitted, brows drawn together like it took everything he had to not finish right then and there. 

He pulled out, popping his cock out of your mouth and leaving you high and dry while he wrapped a large hand around it. You admired him from below for a moment – admired the way his muscles shifted, tensed, pulled taut with pleasure while he stroked himself languidly. The veins in his hand were more prominent now, and fuck– it was like something straight out of the pornos.

He gave some special attention to the head, stroking and twisting until he was gasping. As much as you enjoyed the sight (which was a lot, and you told yourself you would tuck this one into your spank bank), you really wanted a mouthful of his kids, so you pulled his hands away and sucked him right back into your mouth.

“Shit– ah,” He panted out, replacing his hand in your hair and letting you go to work. “You want it– hah– that badly? You fucking need it?” The words dripped from his lips like fucking honey, but his voice was shaking, a notch deeper than you ever remembered it being.

Yes, you thought. Give me all of it.

I need it.

Aki licked his lips slowly, like a predator watching its prey. “Take it, baby, it’s all yours,” His lashes fluttered shut. “Shit, I think ‘m gonna cum–” He whimpered, tightening his grip, tensing up. “Fuck–”

The only thing better than the sound of him cumming was the taste of it. Bitter, salty, but real. Much sweeter than any other man you’d ever been with (though there had been very few). The warmth hit your tongue in thick spurts, coating your tongue, the inside of your mouth – filling you up until it dripped out of the corner.

And still, you swallowed all of it. 

You needed to please him.

The two of you took a moment to regain your senses, to catch your breath. Now that your mouth was empty, you gasped for air – greedily sucking it down like a fish out of water. You didn’t even notice that you had gotten some of it on your face. 

At least, not until you felt Aki’s hand slide down to cup your face again, swiping the cum onto his finger. He looked down at you with the sort of breathlessness you only saw in movies – like he truly was on another planet.

Then, he tugged your lip down, smearing some of his juices onto your lower lip. Without thinking twice, you leaned forward, looking up at him through your lashes as you sucked his thumb into your mouth. You cleaned it off with your tongue like an obedient, good girl.

Not a drop to waste.

“Let me see. You swallow all of it?” He asked. 

In response, you opened wide and stuck your tongue out, letting him see just how much of it you’d swallowed. Then, you grinned – breathless and debauched, with kiss-swollen lips.

His thumb caressed your cheek gently, like you were made of porcelain. So, when he brought the hand down against the skin, slapping it light enough that it didn’t hurt, but just enough to make you choke on a moan.

“Good girl,” He panted, “Good fucking girl.”

Oh my god.

“You..” Your chest heaved as you struggled to breathe, “You’re fucking nasty, captain.”

“Yeah?” He grinned, reaching down and helping you to your (wobbly) feet. Then, before you could retort, he wrapped his hand around your throat, pulling you in close so that he could press his lips up to yours.

Your eyes widened. Is he really about to kiss me when I just swallowed his jizz?

He was. And he didn’t seem to give a damn about it. He maneuvered your head into an angle, licking at your lips for entry, and you wouldn’t dare to refuse him entry. So, there the two of you were, kissing – no, practically shoving your tongues down each other’s throats like a bunch of horny teens – while his fingers dug into your neck.

Maybe I’m lightheaded, you thought, But I think I’ll be able to die happy after this.

He guided you back, movements sure but not cruel, until the back of your knees met the edge of the bed. Then, he braced his hand on your chest and practically shoved you onto the mattress. You landed with a soft gasp, half dazed, staring up at him.

“What are you doing?” you breathed, voice almost lost.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, unreadable, a trace of that same teasing defiance in his tone as he crawled onto the bed.

“It’s a learning experience, right?” he said, burying his face into the crook of your neck and taking his sweet, precious time sucking on your sweet spot. “Teach me.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or catch your breath. “Teach you what?”

He pulled back to smile down at you. “Teach me how to make you cum.”

I’m dead.

I died and went to heaven.

You opened your mouth, something fumbling, trying to explain, but the words felt impossible to form. You’d never… not like this. Your chest rose and fell, heart hammering as he tilted his head, watching you struggle to speak.

Gently, like he was scared you would bite – or maybe that he would – he slid his hands down your chest, down to the little bow you’d tied on the front of the robe. He hooked a digit beneath it, tugging just enough to make the fabric shift, but not enough for it to come loose.

His eyes – the color of the deep sea – bore into yours with a fiery passion. Before you could tell him you wouldn’t have made a good teacher because, despite running your mouth, you had never had your pussy eaten before, he was already asking, “Can I undo this?”

Wait. Let’s put the brakes on this.

I’ve never let a man–

“Yes,” You were breathing out before you could stop the words. You didn’t know what to expect. All you knew was that the searing hot warmth in your belly seemed to drip down your core at the idea of him on his knees between your thighs.

And, just like that, you were letting his strong hands pinch the end of one of the tassels, tugging it until the whole bow came loose. Gravity did the rest of the work for him, making the fabric slide off of your breasts, fully revealing you to his ravenous gaze for the first time.

Your nakedness ran bone-deep, deeper than just surface-level. It wasn’t the lack of clothes that left you feeling vulnerable and bare. No, it was the way he was looking at you – not like any other hook up ever had, not like you were a quick, warm body, but like you were beautiful. Something that needed to be held, touched, revered. Like you were a canvas just waiting to be painted by his lips.

You watched his eyes trail over your entire body. Your lips, your chest, your pudgy belly, and then low enough to have your face burning.

He took another moment to appreciate your chest, hand reaching out like it was uncertain. “You know, maybe it’s because I’ve never stopped to admire before, but…” He trailed a finger down your sternum, stopping when he was right in the valley between your breasts. “You’ve got the prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.”

Me.

I’ve got the prettiest tits he’s ever seen. It was hard to not let that get to your head.

Instead, you turned your head to the side, avoiding his gaze. The sex, you could handle. You could handle the thought of him fucking you into the mattress, eating you until you couldn’t stand. You couldn’t handle the idea that this… whatever this was… was anything more than a drunk mistake in the making.

His hand was gentle – warm, but firm – as it cupped your chest. He massaged the skin between his fingers like he had all night to do so. Then, right when you least expected it, he pinched your piercing between his fingers.

The reaction was immediate. You jolted up, eyes flying open as you gasped. 

What the fuck was that?

He seemed to be more driven by genuine curiosity than anything else, if the way he asked, “Feel good?” while gently pinching, twisting, and rolling your nipple piercing beneath his fingertips was any indicator. 

“Mhm,” You shuddered. With a particularly bold pinch, you arched your back off of the bed.

Aki braced his weight onto his arms, leaning down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, and you would have been lying if you said you didn’t take a moment to appreciate the well-earned muscles rippling beneath his skin. While he gently flattened his tongue over one sensitive bud, he rolled the other between his index finger and his thumb. 

Oh my god. You thought. Every pinch, every lick went straight to your core, throbbing with pure need. The piercings certainly didn’t help. No, if anything, they only made you more sensitive.

“Aki,” You breathed out, voice breaking. 

Aki’s eyes darted up at the sound of his name coming from your mouth – slivers of blue beneath the dim lighting – but he didn’t stop pleasing you. Not Captain. Not Hayakawa, but Aki.

The sensation was like anything you’d ever experienced, and if he was that much of a natural with your tits, you couldn’t imagine how he’d feel when he…

“Fuck,” You gasped.

You were dripping wet. You could feel it. Every time you shifted your hips up, tried to chase some of that friction, only to be met with nothing, you could feel it. 

A moment later, Aki’s lips strayed from your chest. He began to trail lower, pressing a kiss to your ribs, your stomach, then a little lower. Blush bloomed wherever he kissed, blood vessels expanding beneath his delicate touch.

And then, just when you felt his warm lips brush up against your navel, felt his hands gently part your thighs like he was unwrapping a present, you stopped him. You reached a hand down and pushed back against his head. 

“Aki, wait, I’ve never…” You trailed off, embarrassed by the admission.

Aki tilted his head at you. “What?”

“I’ve never had that… happen to me before,” You gritted out.

“That’s alright,” He shifted down on the bed, already lowering his head down between your thighs, “Just tell me what feels good.”

You stopped him again, “Aki, wait… I’m nervous. I don’t– I don’t think I can teach you.”

“I don’t know,” He teased, a wicked grin crossing his features. “With such a high turnover rate, I think you’re right. I need some instruction.”

Hayakawa, you petty bastard. You thought. Right when you were about to object, right when you were about to make some snide remark, you felt his breath – warm and gentle – up against the place you needed him the most. Felt his hands spread your legs further apart.

“Tell me how you like to be touched, tasted,” He breathed out once your dripping cunt was bared to him. Seemingly aware of the way you wiggled beneath his gaze, he puffed out a sharp gust of air right against your clit, one that made you squirm. Then, looking up at you through his lashes like he was hungry, he added, “How you like to be fucked. Teach me how to please you.”

Oh my god.

Am I getting laid tonight?

“You– You’ve got a potty mouth, sir,” You continued running your mouth, because that’s what you did best.

“Have I ever told you how much it turns me on when you call me that?” He grinned. 

You thought of all the times you called him “sir” on the field. Of all the times he would turn away from you, a mysterious glint in his eye.

Yeah. That checked out.

“Shut up and lick me already,” You tutted.

To your surprise, he did exactly that, bringing his head close enough to flatten his tongue against your pussy and lick a long, hot stripe from the bottom to the top. You choked on a moan – louder than you appreciated. 

Holy fucking shit.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” Aki licked his lips. “Don’t be shy, sensei, keep going.”

He’s thought about this before. I’m gonna pass out.

“Keep licking,” You commanded him. Gently, he obeyed, lavishing your pussy with soft kitten-licks. It was enough to have your legs trembling, toes curling into the sheets. “Yes, just like that–”

Aki kept up a languid pace, alternating between licking you up and down and focusing just on your clit. Slowly, his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, folding your legs in until they were pressed against your stomach. The angle shifted just enough that the sensations felt stronger.

You reached up above your head, tangling your fingers in the sheets, arching your back. “Oh god.”

He lingered lower, his breath tracing patterns along your skin – warm, teasing, impossibly gentle. Each pass made you shiver, not just from the sensation but from the way it rippled through you, sharp and tender at once. You felt your muscles tighten, a laugh nearly slipping out, but it dissolved into something quieter, a longing sigh of his name, “Aki…”

He moaned in response, keeping up the pace until you could feel the arousal dripping out of you. 

“Put– Put your mouth on my… my clit,” You gasped out, too lost in the sensations to care about how debauched you sounded. 

“Up… here…?” Aki played dumb with a coy little smile, moving his tongue up until the tip of it pressed right up against the most sensitive part of you. Then, without needing to be told twice, he sucked the nub into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it.

You threw your head back, feet coming up off the bed while he sucked on your clit like a fucking lollipop. Your eyes fluttered shut, rolled back, and your thighs quaked. Aki handled your legs with his hands, hooking them over his shoulders while he stayed glued to your pussy.

It was a life changing experience. It felt like he was undoing you bit by bit. His tongue was soft, then hard, and his mouth was so fucking warm that you couldn’t wrap your head around it.

“Tell me how it feels,” He panted, voice slurred against your skin.

You moaned, “Fuck, God, ‘s so good,” the sound high-pitched and loud. Loud enough to be heard over the movie, and you didn’t even care.

He spat on it, sucked on it, and the sound was so dirty that you worried someone could hear. Though, realistically, no one was hearing anything over the sinful whines and moans that his ministrations pulled from your chest.

He doesn’t need a fucking teacher, You thought. That was fucking bullshit.

It took a great deal of effort to actually speak. But, when you reached down and tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging with a cry of, “More,” the message got across.

He understood. Of course he did. He always did.

His movements slowed, deliberate, like he wanted to draw out the space between each breath, each touch. You could feel the steadiness in him – that quiet control that only made you fall further apart. The warmth of his breath ghosted across your aching cunt.

No, you weren’t in control. You never had been.

You weren’t sure what you wanted anymore – only that you needed him to stay like this, to keep on sucking you off the bone like he had nowhere else to be in the morning.

He lifted his head slightly, eyes meeting yours for a long, steady moment. You couldn’t read what he was thinking – only that he looked at you like you were something he shouldn’t touch but couldn’t stop himself from wanting to. His hand lingered where it had been, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your side, as if reminding you to breathe.

You swallowed, still breathless, your pulse unsteady. You were embarrassingly close, and he hadn’t even been eating you out for very long.

Then, he was teasing a finger up and down your entrance, slipping it inside with no resistance at all. Though not unwelcome, the intrusion caught you by surprise, making you arch your back up into him. He inserted another shortly after. The stretch only burned for a moment, but it was hard to focus on that when he was eating you so sweetly, so perfectly. His fingers pumped in and out of you at a slow pace. He crooked them up, searching around for your g-spot.

And, shit, when he found it…

“Fuck!” You cried out, tugging his hair harder. Being stimulated with his mouth was one thing, but his fingers were another. They were long and thick, talented enough to find that place deep inside that made you fucking drip and stay there. “Oh my fucking god, I–”

This time, when you tugged at Aki’s hair, the sound he made in response startled you – low, unguarded, and real. It wasn’t the kind of noise you’d ever imagined he was capable of. It carried a rough edge that spoke of all the composure he’d been fighting to hold onto.

He’s kinky.

I love it.

He didn’t stop; he couldn’t. The rhythm of his lips shifted, his fingertips drawing slow shapes inside of you, gently undoing the strings of your orgasm second by second. It was all maddeningly tender – the kind of touch that wasn’t meant to take, but to learn. 

You gasped, sobbing, “Aki–”  through it, and felt his breath catch against your cunt as though he’d absorbed the sound into himself. The muscles in his shoulders moved with the rhythm of his breathing – steady, deliberate, but trembling faintly, like he was holding back.

When you looked down at him, his hair was a dark spill over your skin, and his eyes had gone soft – unfocused in that way that comes from wanting too much. You could see it, the strain in his expression, the way his jaw tightened every time you made another small sound.

Then, he reached up, using his free hand to toy with your piercing, and you were fucking screwed. When his fingers brushed against the small piece of metal in your nipple, the world tilted. The touch was featherlight, almost teasing, but it sent a pulse through you that made your breath stutter. 

But that fleeting spark didn’t fade… it grew, rolling through you like a tide that wouldn’t stop. Each tiny touch combined with the stimulation to both your clit and your g-spot sent shockwaves you hadn’t expected, waves that built on one another, rising faster, sharper, until it seemed like your body couldn’t contain it.

“I think ‘m close,” You panted. Then, when more warmth pooled in your belly, you added. “Shit, I think I’m gonna cum–”

Aki didn’t answer, keeping up that same pace – not slower, not faster, but he moved with more purpose.

And then, there it was.

You gasped, shivering as every nerve lit up at once. Your fingers gripped the sheets harder, nails biting into the fabric, trying to hold yourself steady. Your stomach twisted, your ribs tingled, and for a moment the world narrowed to just the space between the two of you.

The waves didn’t come in one single rush, but in rolling surges, one after another. Each one left you breathless and trembling, your mind teetering on the edge of losing itself completely. Sounds slipped from your lips, half-words, half-gasped fragments, echoing in the room and pressing into him as you came hard.

The heat pooled low in your chest, spiraled up through your limbs, and rolled through every part of you, a crescendo of feeling that left you trembling, light-headed, and utterly undone. Your vision blurred at the edges, your senses narrowed to the press of his fingers, the warmth of his mouth, the soft, impossibly careful way he licked you through it.

When your orgasm finally receded, you sagged into the sheets, but he wasn’t finished with you.

You tried to pull back, every instinct in your body screaming that it was too much, that you couldn’t take another second. Your hands pressed against him lightly, but he didn’t move away. He stayed, licking, sucking, like he was doing it for his enjoyment.

Your chest heaved. Your muscles shook. “I can’t–” you squirmed, tears beginning to stream down your face from the sensation, but the words caught in your throat.

He didn’t pause. He just kept on eating you, like he couldn’t bear the thought of not tasting you. Even as your body screamed with sensitivity, even as you pushed lightly, lightly, against him, he held his ground. The quiet intensity in his eyes told you he didn’t want to stop.

But, eventually, he did.

By the time you finally sank against the sheets, breathless and trembling, it wasn’t just your body that had been pushed – it was everything. For a long moment, you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak – only feel. Aki stayed there too, his forehead resting lightly against you, his breath hot and steady, letting you ride the aftermath with him. The room was quiet except for the sound of your shared breathing.

You looked down at him affectionately, wiping the tears from your eyes. He smiled back at you, breathlessly, face soakedwith your juices.

“Was I good?” He asked, but the shit-eating grin on his face told you that he already knew the answer.

You laughed slightly, still caught between pleasure and breathlessness. “It was alright, I guess,” you lied, voice shaky, your chest still tight from the intensity of what had just fucking happened.

He leaned closer, eyes dark with amusement and something unspoken. “Just alright? That won’t do,” he murmured, tilting his head. “I can make you feel even better than just alright.”

Your stomach fluttered at the words, your senses suddenly acute. His gaze held yours, commanding and magnetic.

“What are you suggesting, hmm?” You huffed, completely out of breath. “Surely not a violation of protocol.”

“Of course not,” He replied. “I’m suggesting that you turn around and put your hands against that headboard over there, if you think you can take a little more.”

You grinned, “Not sure there’s anything little about what you want to give me.”

That got a chuckle out of him.

Still, you obeyed, because you would be damned if you passed up on the opportunity you’d been waiting for. You rolled unceremoniously onto your stomach, shifting your weight onto your hands and knees. Then, crawling up the bed, you leaned back into the prettiest arch you could muster.

“There we go,” he said softly, and there was no hurry in his tone, only that quiet authority that made it impossible to resist. His hand came down hard against your ass, the sound reverberating through the room as his palm made contact with your skin. “Such an obedient slut, aren’t you?”

Why am I so into this? Your pulse spiked, your hands moving instinctively to brace against the headboard. He stayed close behind you, letting the anticipation stretch out.

“Why is this taking so long?” you asked, breath uneven, your pulse still racing.

He leaned in, close enough that the warmth of him brushed against your ear, voice low and smooth. “Patience,” He cooed, “If you want it, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you protested, shaking your head, though your voice betrayed the tiniest tremor.

He leaned closer, voice low and deliberate, eyes glinting with that same teasing intensity. “I’m not giving you anything until you behave and ask nicely,” he said, letting the words stretch between you like a slow burn.

“What do you want me to do, beg?” you said, trying to keep your tone steady, but it came out uncertain.

His grin widened, a dangerous curve that made your pulse jump. “Exactly that,” he murmured. “Beg for it. Show me that you mean it. Beg me to fuck you.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. The air between you thickened, almost tangible, as if waiting for your next words. Your hands tightened instinctively against the headboard. “Please…,” you whispered, the single word trembling at first, “please… I need it…”

“Need what, pretty girl?” He teased.

“I…” You put your head down, shamefully admitting, “I need you to fuck me, sir.”

His eyes softened for the briefest second, but the teasing spark never left them. “Good,” he said, voice low, slow, savoring the sound. “Such a good girl. Move your hips back for me.”

Once you were situated the way he wanted you, he reached for something off to the side. Then, gently, he wrapped his discarded tie from earlier around one wrist, followed by the other. He wound the material in between, tying your hands together in front of you and, consequentially, forcing you down into a deeper arch.

His lips were on the back of your neck before you could ask him what he was doing, pressing tender kisses there like he was reveling in the tension. His kisses strayed, trailing down your neck, your spine, until they stopped just above your hips. 

“You ever done it without a condom before?” He asked you, voice a whole lot deeper than you had anticipated. “Because I’m assuming you didn’t happen to bring any with you.”

“No, but I’m clean,” You wiggled your hips back.

“That’s not the only risk at hand here,” he chuckled. 

“I know,” You replied. “Just pull out, okay? We’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

“Famous last words. Fuck, this is a bad idea,” Aki paused, like he was debating whether or not this was a good idea. Then, as if making up his mind, he shifted his weight onto his knees behind you, lining himself up with your dripping hole until you could feel the tip pressed right up against you. “Take a deep breath in for me, okay?”

You exhaled the breath you were holding, then breathed another breath in. Out. In. 

Out–

The feeling of Aki pushing in was enough to knock the wind out of you. He didn’t give you all of it – not yet. He gave you just enough for you to be able to feel the stretch. Your fingers dug into the sheets as you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the burn away.

“Just breathe, keep going,” He cooed, rubbing his thumb over your hip before he gave you a little more. “‘Atta girl.”

You couldn’t help the way you held your breath right up until his hips met your skin – right up until he was buried as deep inside of you as he could go, and the two of you moaned with relief at the exact same time.

After a moment, Aki asked, “You okay?”

“Mhm,” You nodded. “Just need a ‘min.”

Holy fucking shit, he’s big.

For a moment, everything stilled. The room felt quiet, broken only by the uneven rhythm of your breathing and the background noise of the movie you’d long since forgotten about. You kept your eyes shut, trying to steady the flutter in your chest, grounding yourself. 

He didn’t rush you; his hand stayed firm against your hip, waiting, patient, steady as stone.

You inhaled, slow and trembling, until the tension, the stretch, started to melt away. When you finally found your voice again, it came out soft, barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” you murmured, opening your eyes. “You can move.”

He didn’t speak right away – just let out a slow exhale, like he’d been holding his breath, too. Then, slowly, he pulled out just a bit. This time, when he rolled his hips into yours, you clenched down on him – the bizarre mix of pleasure and pain was hard to digest. 

Out, then in. Out, then in.

“Don’t tense up. I got you,” He breathed out, the words trembling as they fell from his lips, “You can take it.”

That was all it took. Just like that, the pain melted away, replaced by something beautiful – something truly unexpected. The kind of pleasure you’d only dreamt about when dealing with guys of… smaller stature.

“Oh God,” You gasped out. Your chest felt like it was on fire – a slow, deep warmth that crept down your stomach and into your core, spread across your face. It was the strangest thing. Each time Aki rolled his hips into yours, each time his dick slipped against your inner walls, the sensation was overwhelming – a stretch, a sharp jolt of pleasure. A warm, rippling feeling that rolled over you in waves.

“There you go, just like that,” He exhaled, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

That’s an understatement. When he thrust his full length into you again, your eyes damn near rolled back into your skull. The steady, low moans that poured from your mouth were purely pornographic.

“Look at you,” He commented, bringing his hands down your back to settle on your hips as he drew out, pushed back in. “Falling apart already, and I’ve barely even started with you.”

“Fuck me–” You practically sobbed into the pillow, “Faster, please–”

“Yeah?” He panted, “Think you can take it?”

“I can– fuck, ‘promise–” You begged him shamelessly, rutting your hips back to get a little more of that delicioussensation, chasing the promise of pleasure, meeting his strokes in the middle.

You gasped when something hit your ass – hard. A hand. 

“I never said you could move,” He reprimanded you. “I’ll take care of you. Just relax.”

“Hah,” You gasped. You wanted to reach back, to hold his hand, something, but you couldn’t. Your hands were (literally) tied.

The slick dripping down the back of your thighs made it easy for him to slip in and out of you at a maddening pace. He sped up when he felt like it, driving his hips into you a little faster. Not hard, but faster.

You gripped the sheets, practically melting at the feeling, “Aki– fuck…”

He groaned at the sound of his name, adjusting his grip on your hips like he had been holding back for you. “Shit, you feel fucking amazing.”

Your body trembled beneath his touch, the air between you thick and charged. Every movement, every breath felt drawn out, deliberate. His voice dropped lower, gravel roughened by restraint he was barely holding onto.

“You like when I talk to you like this, don’t you?” he murmured, his breath ghosting against your ear. You swallowed hard, unable to trust your own voice, but the answer was already written all over you – in the way you couldn’t stay still, in how your body betrayed you.

He huffed out a laugh, the sound dark and soft. “Can’t even hide it. You’re shaking, pretty girl.” His hand traced the edge of your spine, steadying you even as the tremor ran through your legs.

You let out a broken sigh, gripping the sheets tighter as if that could anchor you. He leaned closer, his words brushing over your skin like heat while his hips drove into you a little deeper, brushing up against spots you didn’t even know existed. 

“Such a mess,” he whispered, the tone more reverent than cruel, “but still trying to be good for me.”

You nodded weakly, your breath catching when he adjusted his hold, guiding you back into rhythm, holding you down and making you take his strokes, which grew harsher by the second. Before you could stop it, you were biting down on the pillow, trying to stay quiet.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his tone stern. “Stay still. Don’t run from it.”

Every time your ass met his hips, the sound of skin on skin echoed throughout the room. Your moans were muffled by the pillow, but were still pitchy in nature. Aki was eating them up.

Aki gave you more, more, more – fucking you hard enough that the bed began to shake with the force of it, hard enough that you couldn’t think of anything else but his fucking name.

“Aki, please–” You cried out, “Fuck, I can’t take it–”

The brutal pace of his strokes had you babbling nonsense into the pillow. You allowed yourself to get lost in the feeling because, fuck, if you were going to regret it in the morning, you might as well have a fond memory to look back on. Aki’s hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise.

At least, until one of them began to wander – began to slide up your back, trail across your spine and leave goosebumps in its wake. He took your hair up in his hand, wrapping it around his fist like he fucking owned you, and you were gone. He used the leverage to crane your head up, force you to look back at him.

The image that waited for you was one you would never forget. Aki, buried to the hilt in your needy cunt, sweat dripping down his chest, his necklace, rolling down his abs, sticking his hair to his forehead. The blush had spread over his face. His eyes were wild with desire, pupils blown wide. 

With a devilish little grin, he said, “Look where running that mouth got you. You say you can’t take it but you’re gushingall over me.”

You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. You’d never been that wet before – not for anyone. The evidence of your arousal was warm and slick, coating your inner thighs and making it all too easy for Aki to slide in.

It felt like he belonged there, which was a dangerous thought.

You know… considering he was your captain, and all.

Keeping his fist in your hair, he steered your head forward, driving into you with the kind of force that had your legs folding up, toes curling into the air. Each and every time he fucked into you, the tip of his dick pressed right up against that spot so deep inside of you that you saw stars – the spot that sent jolts of searing-hot pleasure up and down your spine. He all but plowed you into the mattress – at such an unforgiving pace and depth, it was hard to say anything.

Except his name, that was.

“Aki–!” The sound was ripped from you. “Aki… Aki…”

“Fuck, you keep squeezing me,” He panted. “I can feel you, Baby, Can you fucking feel me?”

You could feel him, alright. Feel him stuffing you so full that you couldn’t even wrap your fucking head around it. “Mhm! I feel it,” Came your debauched reply, “Fuck, I can feel it, Aki–”

His dick wasn’t the only thing you could feel inside of you. In fact, as he kept on hitting that same fucking spot over and over again – until you were drooling all over the pillow – you felt something else coming.

“I’m so close,” You shuddered, spreading your legs a bit to change the angle and, fuck, it only nudged you closer to the promise of sweet, sweet release. 

Aki leaned down, bracing his weight onto his hands, practically pounding you into the fucking mattress. You were being fucked within an inch of your life.

“You’re not cumming until I say you can,” He managed to grit out. 

Fucking asshole.

You were close. Dangerously close. Close enough that you had to physically squeeze your eyes shut to stave off your impending orgasm. It was no easy task, not by a stretch, but you wanted to be good for him.

It was no use.

Your orgasm was coming, and it was coming fast. You could feel it brewing deep inside of you – that dangerous, low, bubbling warmth that curled around your core.

Deciding to throw your morals out the window for the sake of finishing, you turned your head, peering back at him through watery eyes. 

“Please–” You begged, 

“Please, what?” He taunted right back, seemingly reveling in the sight of  you begging for him to let you cum.

“Please, sir–” You tried again. This time, you couldn’t blink the tears away. Instead, you let them fall. “Please, Aki, fuck, I need it–”

“What do you need, Angel?” He asked you, voice layered with faux sympathy. 

“I need to cum, please,” You pleaded, “Please, let me cum.”

“That’s better,” He smiled. “You’ve been so good for me. Go ahead, Angel. Cum for me.”

“Aki–” You didn’t need to be told twice. You buried your face deep into the pillow, letting the orgasm hit you with the strength of a fucking freight train, roll over you in waves. Aki never stopped, never stilled – just kept on fucking you through it at a languid pace, like he was trying to draw it out of you. Your body tensed, released all over him while you rutted your hips back. “Oh, fuck, Aki!”

He stayed close, breathing hard against your neck as you trembled beneath him. Every muscle in your body fluttered with the aftershocks, your breath stuttering out in soft, uneven sounds. 

His hand steadied your hip, grounding you, keeping you from slipping too far into the haze. You could barely move, your chest rising and falling as the tension slowly melted away. He brushed his lips over your shoulder – light, fleeting – like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts.

Once he felt you were ready, he pulled out and rolled you sideways onto your back. Your head leaning ever-so-slightly off the edge of the bed, but if he didn’t care, then neither did you. You were too fucked out to care.

But, then, just when you thought he was done with you, his lips were back on your neck. A little rougher, this time, stopping to suck on the place that made you purr like a kitten. They traveled down, accompanied this time by the gentle scrape of his canines against your warm, sensitive skin. The aftereffects of your orgasm still thrummed in your pulse, your veins.

He stopped to appreciate your chest. In some places, he bit down. In others, he sucked until you knew there would be marks. You just couldn’t bring yourself to give a shit.

No, in fact, there was something almost primal about him marking you up like you belonged to him. Something that you weren’t entirely sure you hated.

He slipped one of your nipple piercings into his mouth when you weren’t paying attention, tongue flicking against the oversensitive bud until you were shaking like a fucking leaf.

No, he’s not done with me yet.

As if on cue, you could feel him swiping the tip of his cock – still achingly hard – through your folds, collecting some more of that warm slick onto the head before pushing back in.

You gasped at the intrusion, back arching off of the bed, “Shi-it–”

He moaned through a mouthful of your tit, sliding right in until he was pressed flush up against you. The new angle had your vision going white at the edges – overstimulation combining with pleasure to make for a breathtaking experience.

Aki moved away from your nipple, though he didn’t go far, biting down on the skin right next to it just enough to make you cry out. With pleasure or pain, you weren’t sure – maybe a little of both.

Your hands, still tied, flopped uselessly above your head, dangling off of the edge of the bed. 

This time, when Aki fucked you, he reached a hand down to rub your clit. As if you weren’t already overstimulated, you yelped at the sensation – as always, your body melted beneath his touch, creaming all over him without shame.

Fuck me, you thought.

“‘S good, So good..” You repeated like it was some sort of mantra. “So good, Aki–”

“Fuck, keep saying my name,” He growled, rolling his hips into yours at just the right pace, just the right angle to make your eyes roll back.

You were overstimulated beyond comprehension.

“You like that, don’t you?” he muttered between gritted teeth, his breath hot against your neck. “You sound so good when you say it.”

You tried to speak, to breathe, but the words barely made it past your lips. “Aki–”

“Yeah?” he cut in, his tone dark, teasing. “That’s it. Say it again.” He shifted, his rhythm relentless, hitting the same spot over and over until your whole body went taut. “Can’t even think straight, can you?”

Your hands grabbed at nothing, a strangled sound caught in your throat. You shook your head, but he only laughed under his breath, low and amused. “Look at you,” he said, voice rough with something between praise and possession. “So sensitive… you’re shaking, Baby.”

Baby.

And I’m supposed to just move on after this?

“Aki, I–” You tried again, your voice trembling.

He leaned in, his words cutting through your thoughts. “You’re not tapping out on me now, are you?”

You couldn’t answer. Everything inside you was too loud, too much. He caught your jaw, forcing your gaze forward, his breath still ragged. “Come on. Give me more, I know you can do it.”

You whimpered, trying to find air, to find words, but your body was already unraveling. It was too much – every nerve inside of you felt fucking raw. His name tore from your throat again.

“Stop fucking running,” He murmured, low and filthy, his tone dark and coaxing. “You wanted this, right? Take it.”

You twisted, breath stuttering, pushing at his chest as you slipped from his grasp, subconsciously trying to get away from the overstimulation.

But it was futile. Aki’s hands were on your hips before you could fall off the bed, pulling you right back onto the bed with him. Except, this time, he paused to reach behind him, pulling out a pillow and sliding it beneath your lower back. The angle changed again. This time, your hips were elevated.

You could just barely see him – face flushed and eyes hazy, hair tousled and all over his face as he pulled you closer by one of your legs. Once he was satisfied, he took that same leg and hooked it over his shoulder.

Oh, God, what is he–

He thrust in – giving you all of him at once – and you gasped out a whole lot louder than you were proud of. Your eyes, wide and uncertain, gawked up at him. 

Aki only grinned at you, grabbing your calf and pressing a sinful little kiss to your ankle.

“You’re–” You huffed, “You’re the fuckin’ devil.”

“You gonna kill me then, rookie?” He teased. “I’d like to see you try.”

You wanted to answer, to bite something back, but the way he was looking at you made your brain short out. That steady, unflinching stare – blue eyes focused like he was reading every flicker that crossed your face – made your words die in your throat.

He resumed what he was doing, moving like he hadn’t even heard your protest, calm and in control. His breathing was heavier now, but his composure didn’t crack; it never did. You could see the faint tension in his jaw, the muscle that twitched when he was holding himself back. The sight made your pulse race.

“Still with me?” he asked you quietly. There wasn’t mockery in that – just that same quiet authority he carried everywhere, even now.

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see the gesture, or maybe you just didn’t want him to see how much you were struggling to keep up. “Yeah,” you managed, your voice thin.

“Good,” he muttered. “Don’t start spacing out on me now.”

There was something about his tone – firm but controlled, a little rough around the edges – that made your stomach twist. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“You talk too much,” you muttered. It came out weaker than you meant it to, a half-breath between irritation and surrender.

Aki laughed softly, low in his throat, not cruel but amused. “You don’t even know the half of it,” he said. “Most people don’t get this kind of attention from me.”

You scoffed, trying to disguise the tremor in your voice. “Oh, please. You probably say that to everyone.”

He tilted his head slightly, that same lazy half-smile crossing his face. “Do I look like someone who wastes my words?”

No. I know you’re not.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t, really – not when he said it like that, like it was an irrefutable fact. He was impossible to argue with when he slipped into that tone, calm and infuriatingly sure of himself.

And it was even more impossible to argue when the angle he was fucking you at had you going dumb. Your jaw dropped, making room for more of those fucking sounds that seemed to spur him on. You all but screamed his name on a particularly harsh stroke; “Aki!”

The neighbors– you thought.

But, shit, it didn’t bother you enough to make you stop.

He grabbed you firmly by the neck, forcing your gaze upward, and locked his eyes onto yours. “Look at me,” he said, voice low and commanding.

You did, even though your head was spinning and your limbs felt like they were floating. The world around you had narrowed until it was just him, just his eyes, steady and unyielding, holding you in place. Your eyes trailed up to his necklace, watching as it thumped rhythmically against his chest, swinging in your face.

When he relaxed his fingers, you greedily sucked down more air – alternating between panting and screaming bloody murder. You’d never felt anything like it before. 

It felt better than anything you’d ever experienced in your entire life.

Aki used his thumb to tug your mouth open. You peered up into his eyes through your lashes, uncertain about what his next move could possibly have been.

Then, he spat in your mouth. The worst part? You didn’t even have to be told – you swallowed on instinct.

Aki huffed out something between a laugh and a moan, “God, you’re fucking dirty.”

Without warning, he bent slightly and lifted you with careful strength, guiding you into his lap. The sudden motion made your chest flutter, but his hands stayed firm and steady on your sides, anchoring you. 

Then, he began to move your hips back and forth, up and down.

The rhythm wasn’t gentle this time. It was demanding. His grip guided your hips with a rough precision that made your heart stutter. You felt the strain in his arms as he held you, his fingers pressing into your sides like he needed to feel every part of you. The sound of your breathing mixed with his – ragged, heavy, filling the space between you until the air felt too thick to swallow.

Threw your bound wrists around his neck, searching for something solid, but he was already everywhere – his breath hot against your neck, his chest firm against yours, his hands dragging you up and down in a rhythm that had you sobbing. 

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Every small noise he made – every low groan, every nasty little curse whispered against your skin – sent a shiver down your spine. 

He was close enough now that you could feel every exhale on your neck, every twitch of his muscles beneath your hands. His touch wasn’t careful anymore; it was hungry, like he’d been holding back and finally stopped trying.

You moved with him now, meeting his rhythm in the middle without even realizing it. His hands slipped lower, gripping your ass, bouncing you harder, faster. You could feel the heat rise under your skin, the ache in your shaking thighs, the sharp catch of his breath when you rolled your hips in circles, testing him.

That was when he snapped. His grip tightened, and a low sound left his throat – half a growl, half your name. “Don’t stop,” he breathed, voice low and rough. “Just like that, Good fucking girl, shit.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. 

The world blurred around the edges. The only thing that felt real was him – his hands, his voice, the raw, desperate rhythm that neither of you could seem to control anymore. You felt his forehead press against your collarbone, his breath coming out harsh and unsteady, and for a second, the intensity was too much.

You held on to him like you might fall apart if you didn’t. Every motion was sharper now, every exhale louder, the rhythm turning frantic before slowing again, just enough to draw it out.

You knew you looked wild – hair a mess, bouncing wildly in your Captain’s lap like a bitch in heat – but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. All that mattered was Aki, Aki, Aki.

“‘M close,” You gasped out for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Aki heard you, but he’d busied himself with sucking and biting at your chest again. “Me too, shit…”

“Aki–” You shuddered, feeling that unbearable warmth crawl its way up your spine for the third time that night. “Aki, I’m gonna cum–” You added, “Don’t pull out. I want you to cum inside of me.”

“Shit,” he gasped.

Aki’s hand moved quicker than you were able to pick up on – slipping down through the sweaty junction between your body and his and finding your clit with ease. The circles he rubbed were frantic – more spit than finesse, but it was enough to push you over the edge.

The rhythm broke all at once.  It hit like a wave – strong, intense. For a second, the world felt suspended; your heartbeat, his voice, the tremor that ran through both of you – everything collided as the two of you came at the same time.

At the same time that your body clenched down on him, Aki buried himself as deep inside of you as he could fit and let go, shooting searing, white-hot warmth into your core. You gasped at the sensation of him filling you up.

You came close to him without thinking, fingernails digging into his back, and he caught you just as tight, his chest rising against yours in quick, uneven bursts. 

His forehead pressed to yours, your mouths brushing but not quite meeting, both of you gasping, trying to catch the air you’d lost. You could feel him shaking slightly beneath you, the tension still running through his shoulders, his breath coming out in short, broken sounds.

Then, not thinking twice about it, you kissed him. He made a sound against your lips – small, unsteady, almost like a whimper – before melting into it.

He kissed you back like he didn’t know how to stop himself, the warmth of it spreading until it felt like your whole body was pulsing with it. His hand came up to the side of your neck, thumb brushing over your jaw as though he was memorizing the shape of you, trying to steady the mess of feeling behind the kiss. 

When you finally broke away, it wasn’t really breaking – your lips hovered close, still chasing his breath, your noses brushing. Neither of you said anything. You could feel his chest rising and falling against yours, his breathing ragged, the heat between you not quite fading.

Aki reached behind his back and situated your hands in front of him before untying your wrists. Then he exhaled, shuddering a little, and buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. His breath came out uneven, warm against your skin. You could feel the tension leaving him, his body softening as though the fight had finally gone out of him.

The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing, the faint creak of the mattress beneath you, the heartbeat still thrumming wildly in both of you. You didn’t move for a long time. 

When you finally looked up, he met your gaze through the dim light – eyes half-lidded, expression raw, something softer lingering there that he didn’t try to hide this time. You were both still breathing hard, chests pressed together, but there was nothing left to say. 

That actually just happened.

One minute, you were looking at his pretty face, and the next, Aki was turning the two of you over, laying you down gently on the bed. He got up and left (and you totally didn’t giggle at his butt when he walked off).

Before you could be disappointed, he returned with a wet washcloth in his hand. He dropped down onto his knees, spreading your legs apart and using the warm, damp fabric to clean you up. 

He tossed it haphazardly onto the nightstand, then flopped down beside you, pulling the blanket up and over the two of you.

The room felt small again – dim, hazy, the TV frozen on some screen that just said replay or exit. He reached toward the nightstand, flicked a lighter, and the sharp scratch of the flame lit his face for a second before fading into smoke.

“I don’t think this is a smoking room,” you murmured, voice hoarse from what the two of you had done. “They’re gonna charge you extra.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he said, taking a slow drag before glancing over at you. “You want one?”

You hesitated, then nodded anyway. He passed it over, and you took a small drag, the burn catching at the back of your throat immediately. You coughed, grimaced. “God, that’s disgusting,” you muttered, handing it back.

He smirked around the filter. “Yeah, it is.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The TV hummed quietly in the background, throwing dull light across the sheets. Your pulse was still too fast, your head still too full. Finally, you broke the silence. “Should we… talk about this?”

He exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, lips parting on a sigh before he stubbed the cigarette out in a half-empty cup on the nightstand. “Tomorrow,” he said.. Then, he leaned in, pressing a faint kiss to your forehead. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. We have to be up early.”

You didn’t argue. You just let yourself curl against his chest, feeling the slow rhythm of his breathing under your cheek. The room still smelled faintly of smoke and warmth and whatever was left of the night. Somewhere behind the hum of the TV, the world kept going. 

Fuck, he’s got good pecs.

You let your eyes fall shut, sinking into the steady beat of his heart until sleep finally took you. Yeah. Tomorrow.

You woke to the faint scratch of light cutting through the blinds and the quiet sound of movement beside you. For a second, you forgot where you were. 

When your eyes finally opened, he was already looking at you, his expression soft in a way that didn’t match him. His hair was still a little disheveled, but it suited him.

 “Morning,” he murmured, voice rough and low, like it hadn’t been used yet.

You blinked up at him, still half-asleep. “Morning.”

He leaned down before you could say anything else, his lips brushing yours once – a quiet test – then again, deeper this time, until your breath caught somewhere in the middle of it. 

His hand slid up to your jaw, thumb tracing small, lazy circles there as the kiss deepened. He didn’t rush it. Just let it unfold, one soft press at a time, until your body started to wake up under the weight of it. You kissed him back without thinking, chasing his breath when he started to pull away, and he gave a quiet laugh against your lips – the kind that vibrated in his chest more than it came out as sound.

Then he trailed downward – a faint line of kisses along your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the place where your pulse fluttered at your throat. You felt his breath when he spoke, a barely-there murmur against your skin. “You sleep okay?”

You nodded, though it came out more like a sigh. “Mm-hmm.”

He hummed, lips ghosting lower, finding that spot just below your ear that made your stomach twist. You laughed quietly, the sound breaking through the quiet. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer – just smiled against your skin, slow and secretive, the kind of smile that said you already know. His lips trailed lower, lower, pressing kisses to your stomach.

And then his lips pressed one last kiss just above your navel before he threw the sheets over his head and disappeared.

Just when you were about to ask what he was planning, you felt his hands grip your hips, scooting you closer to his face. Then, his tongue, drawing a line up your slit in a way that had you arching off of the bed.

“Oh, shit,” You moaned out loud, losing yourself in the sensation. “Good– Good morning to you, too.”

Aki groaned in response, although the noise was muffled by your thighs. His grip was like a vice, strong hands digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

When he’d run his tongue over the most sensitive part of you, your whole body would twitch. Your hips were his handles. Your body bent to his will, careening into his touch. 

He sucked gently on your clit, making you arch up high off of the bed. Pressing open-mouthed kisses to your pussy, his tongue found its way down towards your dripping hole.

Leaving not a moment to waste, you gripped his hair by the root, pushing his head in deep enough for the tongue to slide right in – like it was meant to be there.

“Please,” You pleaded. “Mnnnh-”

And, just to tease you, he withdrew, replacing his tongue with two damp fingers. “Feel good, sweetheart?” You heard him murmur softly beneath the sheets.

With a gasp and a desperate rut of your hips against his mouth, against the low vibration of his voice, you sent a message as clear as day. 

Yes, yes, yes.

He made no effort to stop you. Instead, adjusting his hands to grip the meat of your ass, he allowed you to shamelessly ride his face. Your hips jumped up and down, rubbing your clit across his lips, his nose, smearing your juices all over his face. You shuddered, opening your legs even further, and arched into him.

Your smooth legs clamped shut over his ears. He huffed a satisfied little laugh before prying them apart and continuing to make a ruin out of you.

Unfortunately, as he was only one man, he had to pull away for some air. He plunged two digits back into you, though, curling them up against that spot that made you purr.

Moving forward to continue lapping at your clit like it physically hurt him to move away from you, he tried sucking in more air without having to stop. You could feel your body dripping for him, dripping down his chin.

You took his fingers so well, sucking them in and then clenching around them like you never wanted to let go. 

With a gasp, he pulled back. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You taste so fucking good.”

You carded a trembling hand through his hair, taking some of it into your fist and tugging on it. 

“Please,” You begged again. 

Though his fingers never stopped, he paused his desperate licking to draw the moment out even longer. He was in perfect tune with the rhythm of your body, every arch, every stutter of your hips spurring him on. He rubbed the point of his index finger over your sweet spot, pulling you apart from the inside. “Use your words, Angel.”

Judging by the way your walls were beginning to spasm around his fingers, fun time was about to be cut short. 

What? A man can nut too fast but when a woman does it, it’s different?

Your eyes rolled back, slurred words and broken moans pouring out of your mouth a mile a minute while you struggled to hold on.

Aki dove back into you, parting your lips with his nose and then forming a light suction seal over your clit. He had to readjust himself to fit his fingers and his mouth in such a small space.

You gasped, “Aki, wait, ‘m gonna cum.”

His lips departed from your dripping wet cunt, but only to roughly slide your ass closer to his face. Then, completely disregarding your previous pleas, he devoured you. 

“Say my name like that again,” He practically moaned, running his hands up and down your trembling thighs. “Say my name while you ride my face, baby.”

“Mmmfuck– wait,” You gasped. Your body, however, sent a different signal. You yanked his hair – hard, too – and trapped his head between your thighs. Those pretty little noises you were making increased in pitch, and became more frequent. You were near the breaking point, broken pleas of his name tumbling from your devilish lips. “Wait, wait… Aki, baby.”

Aki moaned against your abused clit while his lips and tongue alternated applying pressure on it. The pleasure coursing through your veins was enough to drive you wild. You were getting loud.

Head thrown back, hand gripping his dark tresses like a vice, back arched up off of the bed while the sheets slipped further off of your hips, you knew you were a sight to behold. You tugged the sheets back, getting a good look at him buried between your thighs.

His tongue swapped places with his fingers.

Your guts were clenching around his tongue like you needed more. He removed his mouth from your dripping cunt, allowing his fingers to work you open – an obscene mix of your juices and his spit glistening as it ran down his chin. Somehow, he found the strength to utter the words, “I need you to cum for me.”

He had power over you in that moment, you knew he did. He had you rocking your hips back on his fingers like a desperate whore, chasing that sweet release you so desperately craved. When you slapped your hand over your mouth to keep quiet – because you had gotten a bit louder, to say the least…

“Let me hear you, Angel,” He panted. “Let the whole building know who’s making you feel good.”

And he continued the downright slaughter of your pussy with his mouth this time. 

“Fuck, just like that,” you mewled, curling into yourself. 

It slipped out. It must have. Yet, still, when his fingers curled up against a particularly sensitive spot with all of the ease of a harpist plucking at the strings of your core, your lips spilled praise of his name. “Aki!”

His smirk only grew. He licked some of you off of his lips, and then hummed, twisting his fingers around. “That’s it, pretty. Such a good girl for me.”

“Baby,” she mewled. “Oh, fuck, cumming!”

The coil of your release snapped, slamming into you at full force. Your hips jolted up against his fingers and his tongue, lips chanting his name like a mantra while savoring the slow strokes of his long fingers against your gummy walls. You could feel the shock tear through you in waves, ripping trembling gasps from your lungs while you clenched around him. 

He slid his fingers out of you slowly, savoring the way your pussy clenched over his fingers one last time before pulling out. 

Taking the soaked digits up to his lips, he sucked them clean. The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed higher, the faint strain of muscle beneath his skin catching your attention before you could look away. You tried, but your gaze lingered, and the heat in your face gave you away.

He noticed – of course he did. A small, knowing smile curved at the corner of his mouth before he leaned in, catching your chin in his hand. The world went quiet.

Then he kissed you, his mouth still soaked with your arousal.

It wasn’t gentle, not exactly, but steady – his lips warm, his breath unsteady, the taste of you on his tongue. You could feel your heart pounding against your ribs, your embarrassment mixing with something else entirely as he deepened it just a little, enough to make your head spin.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead brushed yours, the air still thick between you, his voice rough when he spoke. “You okay?”

You nodded, breathless.

He smiled again, softer this time, and whispered, “Good,” before kissing you once more.

He stretched once, long and languid. You watched him pull the clothes off the ottoman, slip his legs into his pants, the faint crease of his back muscles moving under his skin, and your stomach twisted in that familiar, fluttering way.

The sight was ridiculous, really – him, completely oblivious to how much you noticed. But you couldn’t help it. He glanced over at you, caught your eyes lingering, and smirked, that faint quirk of his mouth that said he knew exactly what he was doing and enjoyed it.

You shifted yourself upright, reaching for your own clothes, bending slightly to pick them up, tugging your bra and panties into place and leaving your shirt undone for now. The movement felt self-conscious, even though he wasn’t paying that much attention. Or maybe he was, and that thought made your pulse spike.

The faint trickle of water signaled he was already in the bathroom. You padded across the carpet, slipping in behind him. The hotel toothpaste was that weird chalky mint kind, but neither of you cared. You brushed your teeth side by side, elbows almost brushing, and your shoulder nudged his occasionally. It was accidental, but your chest still tightened each time because, fuck, there was nothing casual about it.

You caught his reflection in the mirror – his tie looped awkwardly around his neck, the one you remembered him using to bind your wrists a few hours prior. Then, you caught wind of the marks on your chest, red and prominent.

He was carding his hair back with one hand, adjusting the collar with the other, eyes narrowed in concentration that didn’t match the way his mouth had quirked just for you that morning.

“Here,” you sighed, stepping closer, voice soft. “You’re doing it wrong.”

He didn’t argue, only glanced at you through the mirror, that small, teasing eyebrow raising slightly. His lips curled, half-amused, half-challenging, and you felt that flutter in your chest again. Your fingers brushed his collarbone as you took the tie from him, adjusting the knot. 

He hummed softly, a low sound that traveled straight down to your stomach. “Mm, perfect. Guess I owe you,” he murmured, voice rough, almost gravelly.

“Yeah, you do,” you answered, leaning in a little closer than necessary. You couldn’t help yourself. The heat of him standing so close was too much to bear. You felt your fingers brush over his belt buckle as you stepped closer, instinctive, the small tug pulling him toward you.

His lips found yours before you realized what you were doing, soft at first, then a little harder. The kiss carried all the residue of the night before: the small ache, the memory of him so deep inside of you… knowing nothing else would be said. His hand slid to your waist as your own fingers curled around his neck.

You were done, the knot perfect, but he didn’t move away. “All set,” you murmured, brushing imaginary lint off his shirt.

He smirked, one side of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Thanks, rookie,” he said, voice low, teasing, but there was something in the way his chest rose and fell that told you he meant more than just the tie.

You stepped closer, instinctive, catching his belt buckle with your hand, the teasing smirk fading into something warmer, heavier. He met your eyes, the mirror reflecting heat back at you, and then you were kissing him again. 

Your hands drifted, his fingers brushed against your sides, and for a moment, it was like the night never ended. In fact, when you shifted your leg against his, you felt a little something else standing at attention like the night never ended.

You grinned, “You’re hard again.”

“You look good in uniform,” He retorted. “I think I like you better without it on, though.”

You leaned closer, closer, until your noses were pressed right up against one another. “Pity we’re running late, or I’d show you.”

Aki’s grin widened, “We’d only be missing breakfast.”

You tilted your head back, teasing him with the faintest brush of your lips, and he hummed low, almost a growl, lips pressing a fraction harder. Your hands found his shoulders, curling into the fabric of his shirt, and you could feel the tension in him, that coiled, slow-burning energy that always made your stomach twist.

With a gasp, you felt your body move – he lifted you onto the bathroom sink, parting your legs and slotting himself in between them.

“You’re not about to break protocol again, are you?” you asked, voice light, teasing, but the heat in your chest betrayed you.

He pulled back just enough to smirk, eyes dark and sharp. “Fuck protocol,” he murmured, and leaned in for another kiss.

What have I started? You thought.

But, for reference, he absolutely did throw caution to the wind with protocol. Right there, up against the bathroom mirror, with your panties pulled to the side.

Himeno and Denji were already there, seated at a corner table by the window. Himeno’s posture was casual, arms folded loosely across her chest, but the gleam in her eyes was sharper than usual. Denji was halfway through a pile of pancakes, oblivious as ever, but his ears perked up slightly when he noticed you, the fork pausing mid-air.

Aki’s hand brushed yours as you walked past him toward the table. It was subtle, almost innocent, but enough to make your stomach tighten and your pulse spike. He smirked down at you, that small, knowing tilt of his lips, and you felt yourself flush.

“Morning,” Himeno said, voice light, almost teasing. She didn’t comment outright, but the way her eyes flicked from you to him – and lingered there – spoke volumes.

You slid into the chair beside Aki, Himeno perched across from you, arms folded casually – but her gaze wasn’t on Denji. It was on Aki. Sharp, calculating.You noticed it immediately, the way her eyes lingered a second too long, the faint curve of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Aki shifted slightly in his seat, catching the look out of the corner of his eye. You felt it too.

He cleared his throat, a small, deliberate sound that made your stomach tighten, and then slid out of the chair.

“I’m gonna get some coffee,” he muttered, voice neutral, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. He moved with that same slow, controlled grace, each step deliberate, aware that Himeno was watching him, studying him.

Himeno hummed softly, almost to herself, though you were sure it was loud enough for you to hear. “Busy night?” she said lightly, casual in tone, but sharp as a knife in the way her eyes flicked between you and him.

“Late night,” You corrected, “Couldn’t sleep.”

She hummed softly, almost to herself, and tilted her head, letting her eyes linger on you longer than necessary. “You’re awfully… chipper for someone who’s had such a late night,” she said lightly, casual, but the undertone was sharp, playful. Her fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup, her gaze flicking between you and the empty space where Aki had just gone to get coffee.

You froze, hiding a flush behind the mug in your hands. “Uh… just ready for breakfast,” you muttered, voice tighter than you intended. Himeno’s smirk deepened, subtle but cutting, and she leaned back, tilting her head with the ease of someone who’d already read every page of your story without you saying a word.

“Where’s Power?” You asked.

“Bathroom.”

On cue, Aki returned with a mug of coffee in hand and slid into the chair beside you, his presence immediately grounding the charged tension that had been simmering across the table. You let out a small, relieved breath, curling just slightly toward him, hiding the residual flush from Himeno’s teasing.

Denji continued obliviously shoveling pancakes into his mouth, eyes occasionally darting around but never quite catching on, while Himeno’s smirk remained faint, sharp, knowing.

A silence fell over the table. Not uncomfortable, exactly, just the kind of quiet that leaves space for thoughts to spiral, for cheeks to warm, for your pulse to hammer.

Then, with all the theatrical timing of someone who’d waited just long enough, Power returned from the bathroom. She paused in the doorway dramatically. “Good risings, mortals,” she announced, voice dripping with mock grandeur. You glanced at her, barely able to suppress a laugh, while Aki’s eyebrow twitched ever so slightly.

She slid into her chair, shoulders back, a faint smirk curling her lips. And then she sniffed. Just once, subtle, but it was enough. Her gaze immediately locked on Aki. “Oh,” she said softly, pointing a single finger at him like she’d discovered a crime scene. “There it is. I smell it. The… mating scent.”

Aki choked on his coffee, sputtering violently into his mug, eyes wide, liquid threatening to spill across the table. Himeno’s smirk deepened, unrepentant, and Denji’s fork froze mid-air, pancakes abandoned as he looked between all of you, utterly confused.

“Excuse me?” Aki croaked, trying to regain composure, coughing through the coffee, glaring at Power but unable to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

Denji, completely missing subtlety, blurted out loudly, “Wait– you two banged?!” Then, he turned to Himeno, “I fucking told you that would happen!”

Aki’s eyes went wide, and without thinking, he kicked Denji under the table with enough force to make him yelp, sending the fork clattering to the floor. “Shut the hell up,” Aki hissed, voice low and dangerous, though it came out more like a strangled growl.

You cleared your throat, trying to rescue the situation, and said evenly, “I’m gonna get a waffle.”

You had never speedwalked so quickly in your entire life.

a/n: happy halloween sluts ;)

creds: i don't own csm obv. the banner was done by the illustrious @mrshayakawaa, who i adore. credits unknown for banner art! if you know pls lmk. x

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @acethebrave , @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @mrshayakawaa, @xxpr3ttyk173rxx

wanna join the taglist?

[songsomi]

Where Winds Meet (2025) dev. Everstone Studio Assassin Tian Ying

[saintestly]

CONTENT : Bf! Jabber headcanons, just funny stuff

NOTE : tis my first time posting something so I hope you guys like it or I’ll kms, I’ve been obsessed with Gachiakuta so I gotta share my obsession with y’all teehee.

Bf! Jabber the type to say “it’s ‘cuz I’m black isn’t it?” To piss you off even more.

Bf! Jabber the type to box the air around you and going “uss uss uss”

Bf! Jabber the type to fiddle with his rings while staring at you with hooded eyes as you speak.

Bf! Jabber the type to smirk when you get mad and pull you by your belt towards his lap, saying “I’m sorry ma, forgive me, yeah?”

Bf! Jabber the type to moan loud in public if you swat him playfully.

Bf! Jabber the type to look at you with the nastiest side eye during a serious situation, you both trying your best not to laugh.

Bf! Jabber the type to say “take me out to dinner first.” If you grab his thigh while he’s driving.

Bf! Jabber the type to give you nicknames like “ma”, “lil’ lady”, “ma’am”, “my girl”

Bf! Jabber the type to twirl you around after you put on the most cuntiest outfit.

Bf! Jabber the type to press his knees to the back of your knees to see you fold.

Bf! Jabber the type to grab you by the waist, pressing his cold ring fingers on your exposed skin just to see you shudder.

Bf! Jabber the type to take a fat ass chunk of your food after you asked him if he wanted a small bite.

Bf! Jabber the type to kick his feet while he texts you and say “girl you play too muchhhh” in his empty room while giggling.

Bf! Jabber the type to slap your ass as he passes through.

Bf! Jabber the type to rest his head between your thighs as he scrolls through his phone.

Bf! Jabber the type to shut up with the biggest smile when you tell him to shut up.

Bf! Jabber the type to laugh so loud at your joke just to go serious all of a sudden and say “it’s not that funny.”

Bf! Jabber the type to say something smart while you give him the most obvious question. “What are you cooking?” “Food.” “Jabber, I know IT’S FUCKING FOOD.”

Bf! Jabber the type to hit the dougie while you’re mid scolding him.

[feyrinnn]

silver springs

ex-fiancée!gojo x f!reader x rebound!choso

synopsis being the lead singer of a popular rock band was your dream, but now that you and the lead guitarist have broken up and the world isn't ready to know just yet, you're left seeking comfort from another bandmate.

content mdni!, fleetwood mac inspired au, yearning, angst, pining, longing, eventual fluff, jealousy, break ups, eventual smut, multiple povs, multiple endings

main masterlist ✧ ao3 ✧ playlist

chapter 1 little lies

chapter 2 the chain

chapter 3 say you love me

chapter 4 second hand news

chapter 5 rumours

interlude as long as you follow

chapter 6 everywhere

chapter 7 landslide

chapter 8 go your own way

chapter 9 walk a thin line

chapter 10 world turning

chapter 11 peacekeeper

chapter 12 gold dust woman

chapter 13 dreams

ending 1 ....

ending 2 ....

                                            Time cast a spell on you but you won't forget me                I know I could have loved you but you would not let me

[rainrot4me]

You And Your Friends - Part 3

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

──────────────────────────── hearing damage - thom yorke

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: When your name appears in your late great-uncle’s will, you sell your house and move out to the Estate. A victorian manor, an endless garden, and too many candles to keep up with now belong to you—and so do the groundskeepers that come with it. But behind all the intricate furniture and shiny tile, you find that all things have secrets—even the handsome ones.

✦ . Characters: Tim Wright/Masky & Brian Thomas/Hoodie & Ticci Toby x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Lore/canon-adjacent, gardener!Tim, woodworker!Toby, maintenance!Brian, fear, intense gore and violence, romantic tension, descriptive violence, blood, injuries, guns and weapons, medical sutures, needles, pain, nausea, burning bodies, burn injuries, love confessions, good ending I promise

✦ . Words: 28k

✦ . Note: Oh my god, finally. Like insanely, stupidly long. Not crazy proud of the ending, but I have a bonus chapter in the work (it's mostly smut lol) that will wrap everything up in a nice little bow!! Mind the tags, very descriptive violence! Enjoy!!!

────────────────────────────────────────────

Toby’s stitches were finally starting to knit into something less raw, less frightening.

The wound still looked angry when you peeled back the bandages, but the edges were cleaner now, tighter, healing in messy curves of tissue and skin. He’d taken to staying on the long couch in the grand sitting room, the one angled toward the fireplace—his lanky frame stretched out beneath the tall windows and winding spindrals, a blanket usually kicked halfway off as though he couldn’t be bothered to stay still. He didn’t wear that patch on his face anymore, and you were growing more accustomed to the sight of it.

It became a kind of ritual: you kneeling by the couch, rolling the fabric of his shirt back to check the line of his abdomen, fingertips brushing skin as you cleaned and wrapped him anew. Toby, of course, never sat still like he was supposed to. He cracked jokes, tapped his foot, winced only at the thought of stitches pulling rather than the sting itself. Sometimes, he’d make faces at you just to see if he could make you huff in exasperation, and sometimes… sometimes he went still, watching you with a kind of quiet curiosity you pretended not to notice.

“Don’t tear them again,” you scolded one evening, taping the last piece of gauze down with medical tape from the clunky first aid kit.

He smirked, leaning his head back against the arm of the couch. “What, you’d m-miss patchin’ me up too much?”

“You’d bleed out on my rug,” you shot back, trying to sound irritated, though the warmth that rose to your cheeks betrayed you.

The fire crackled at your side, and that was usually the moment Tim or Brian would drift through the room.

Tim leaned against the doorframe more often than not, cigarette tucked behind his ear, watching you and Toby with that sharp, unreadable gaze. “Christ, Laundress,” he muttered once, flicking ash into the tray on the side table, “you’re gonna spoil him. Next thing you know, he won’t even put his boots on himself.”

Brian was subtler, though no less present. He’d perch on the edge of the window seat, book in hand but eyes flicking up too often to pretend he wasn’t paying attention. When you pressed a cloth against Toby’s side and he hissed out a laugh through clenched teeth, Brian’s knuckles tightened just slightly on the spine of the book. “You’d think a man with no sense of pain could at least sit still,” he commented one afternoon, voice mild but tinged with something sharp beneath it.

And Toby, of course, noticed. He grinned wider, his shoulders relaxing whenever the other two made a remark, like he was playing a game only he understood. “What, jealous?” he tossed out, flashing them both with that crooked grin before turning his attention back to you. “Don’t li-listen to ‘em. You’re doin’ great, d-doc.”

The air was shifting between all of you. You felt it each time you laid your hands against Toby’s skin, each time Tim’s comments drew your attention, each time Brian’s silence grew too thick in the corners of the room. What had once been fear and suspicion was tilting into something else entirely—a tension not easily defined, not easily dismissed.

The manor, too, felt different. Less haunted, less hollow. The rain washed the grounds clean day after day, and when the clouds broke, the sun spilled through the tall windows and painted everything in gold. It felt like a new beginning, the opening of a chapter where you weren’t locked in your room or fleeing across the lawn, but living here—among them—just like you had before.

But it wasn’t the haven it had been when you first stepped through its doors, either. Now it was both. A home and a reminder. A shelter and a cage.

You still caught yourself flinching at every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the wind through the trees. You still double-checked the locks at night, your palms sweating as you touched the old brass handles, eyes darting to the dark stretch of lawn just beyond the curtains you always shut tight. When you lay in bed, you kept a candle flickering on the dresser—not because you needed the light, but because the dark pressed too close otherwise.

The rakes were always in your mind, crouched somewhere just beyond your line of sight. You had seen too much to ever unsee it.

And then there were the boys.

It didn’t take you long to notice the pattern. When Toby lit the fireplace at dusk, you knew you could settle into bed with some semblance of peace. But the nights when the hearth stayed cold… those were the nights your stomach dropped. Those were the nights they were gone, slipping into the fog-soaked woods to do the things you couldn’t bear to think about.

You hated those nights most.

Sometimes you crept down from your room, too restless to stay still, hoping maybe you’d see Toby stretched across the couch or Tim scowling over a cigarette in the kitchen—but the rooms were always empty, the silence pressing too heavy against your chest. All you had was the chill stone, the yawning dark of the windows, and the gnawing knowledge that they were out there somewhere, putting themselves in danger because of you.

So you built your own rituals. You left a pot simmering on the stove, food waiting for when they dragged themselves back in. You pulled the first aid kit out onto the counter, everything laid out in neat rows, ready for whatever wounds they might bring through your door. And you paced. Sometimes you curled in front of the dead fireplace with a blanket pulled around you, ears straining for any sound outside.

But you didn’t rest. You couldn’t—not until you heard the door open, the heavy thud of boots on wood, the low voices of men returning. Not until you knew they were back within these walls, where at least you could see them, touch them, patch them back together if you had to.

The manor was yours. But it was theirs too now, in ways you hadn’t asked for, in ways you couldn’t escape.

And you realized… you didn’t want to.

── .✦

The weekend rolled around, and for once the manor was quiet. No gunshots in the distance. No heavy boots leaving through the fog. Just the steady drizzle of rain easing into mist by morning.

The crunch of gravel outside stirred you from the stillness. Through the kitchen window, you spotted Tim’s old pickup rumbling into view, its bed loaded down with crates and bags—groceries. A weekend run into town.

You hesitated only a moment before grabbing your sweater and pushing through the back door, the damp air clinging to your skin. Tim was already hoisting a sack of potatoes over one shoulder when he noticed you.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

You rolled your eyes and moved to take one of the bags from the truck bed. “You could just say you’re glad I’m helping.”

“Not my style,” he said, but let you wrestle the bag free anyway.

As the two of you carried the first load inside, your gaze snagged on the driver-side window on the truck—the one Toby had shattered that night. It was covered now with a tarp stretched tight and sealed with strips of duct tape, the plastic crinkling in the breeze. The sight made your stomach lurch.

“Classy,” you said, forcing your voice light as you nodded toward it. “I’m sure the car junkies in town were jealous.”

Tim snorted, setting his sack down with a heavy thud on the counter. “If we had car junkies, maybe. We’re lucky it’s holding. Brian’s fix was more ‘keep the rain out’ than ‘look nice.’”

“Think the mechanics would drive out here?” you asked, brushing your hands off on your jeans.

“Not a chance. We’ll get it sorted eventually.” His voice softened just a touch, enough that you glanced at him. “For now, don’t worry about it. You’ve got enough rattling around in your head.”

You swallowed, lips pressing tight. He wasn’t wrong.

The two of you went back for another round, your steps crunching across the damp gravel, the silence between you filled with the soft hum of cicadas and the drip of rain from the eaves. You caught yourself glancing back at the tarp again as you walked, the memory of that night flashing sharp across your mind.

Tim noticed. He didn’t comment, but when he passed you the next crate—this one full of fresh bread wrapped in paper—his fingers lingered against yours a second longer than necessary, grounding you without words.

The kitchen was starting to grow full again. You both worked, setting jars on shelves, stacking bread in the pantry, sliding cold cartons into the icebox. It felt… normal. Almost too normal, considering how much blood had stained these same floorboards less than a week ago.

Tim busied himself with the heavier crates, his sleeves pushed up, forearms streaked with damp grit of the garden. You kept to the lighter things, sorting them into neat rows, but all the while your mind spun in that strange in-between place.

You chattered idly while you worked, more to fill the air than anything. “I think you bought every bag of flour in town.”

“Close,” Tim said, straight-faced. “Bread’s worth its weight in gold.”

“You and Brian already eat like kings,” you teased, sliding a paper-wrapped loaf onto the counter. “Toby’s the one who goes through all the snacks.”

“That’s because the kid’s part raccoon,” he shot back.

The banter pulled a small laugh from you, quick and surprised. For a fleeting moment, the house felt warm, like the storm hadn’t ever touched it. Like you hadn’t watched them drag Toby’s limp body up those stairs.

You leaned against the counter as he shoved the last of the vegetables into the pantry, studying him. Out of all of them, Tim had always been the hardest to pin down. Toby distracted you—his restless chatter, the way he filled silence with ridiculous jokes and endless stories until your brain was too tangled to remember what you’d been worrying about. Brian, for all his rough edges, had a way of smoothing the corners off your fear—gentle where you least expected it, grounding you in small comforts. But Tim?

Tim always pulled you out of yourself. He never let you sit too long in the safety of your own head. He dragged you into the sunlight even when you wanted to hide. Like that morning in the garden—the dirt still damp, the first fragile sprouts trembling in the breeze. He hadn’t asked if you wanted to see them; he’d just brought you out, made you look, made you breathe again.

You swallowed, your throat tightening with something half gratitude, half ache. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Tim glanced over his shoulder. “For what?”

You shrugged, eyes dropping to the loaf of bread you were unwrapping. “For… things.”

“That’s vague,” he said, a faint smirk tugging his mouth.

You could’ve left it there. Toby would’ve let you. Brian too, maybe. They’d let you keep your secrets, your half-answers. But Tim wasn’t like that. He set down the jar he’d been holding and crossed the kitchen in three measured steps, deliberate, steady, like he always was.

Suddenly, he was standing in front of you, close enough that you had to lean back against the counter to breathe, anchoring you in place. His height shadowed you, the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes, and his gaze—sharp, unwavering—found yours.

“Go on. Speak up,” he said, low and even. “I don’t like it when you go all quiet.”

Your breath caught.

This was how he always was with you—pushing, pressing, making you face the things you’d rather bury. He was the weight you couldn’t wiggle away from, the hand that pulled you up when you dug your heels in. And maybe that was why, even though your stomach knotted tight, your chest ached warm. You blinked up at him, words caught on your tongue. The difference between him and the others throbbed in your mind: Toby distracted your fear. Brian softened it. Tim made you walk through it, even when you hated him for it in the moment. They all had their ways.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Just a shaky breath.

He leaned in, bracing a hand against the counter near your hip, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth. His voice was steadier than your heartbeat. “Say what you mean.”

The silence stretched. You could feel it, the sharp edge of his demand and the coax beneath it. The way he wanted you to grow, not crumble. You bit your lip, looking anywhere but at him, until finally you whispered, “I mean… thank you for not letting me fall apart.”

The words hung there, fragile and raw. Tim’s eyes softened just enough to show he’d heard you. Really heard you. But still, his stance didn’t ease. He stayed there, in your space, not letting you retreat into half-truths or walls. You expected him to press again, to push you further, but instead, Tim’s expression shifted—sternness folding into something quieter.

“Good,” he said, voice low but sure. “That’s strength. Saying it out loud. Owning it.” His eyes stayed steady on yours, almost searching. “You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than most people I’ve met.”

Heat bloomed in your chest, so sudden it stole your breath. You tried to laugh it off, shaking your head. “You make it sound like I’m out there wrestling monsters too.”

The corner of his mouth tugged into that rare, wry grin. “You are. Just different ones.” His hand shifted, braced on the counter. “Though for the record, if you ever do wanna wrestle a monster… I’m a killer. You’d have to watch your back.”

It was half a joke, half a brutal truth, and it startled a giggle out of you anyway—light, unguarded, breaking the tension like sunlight through a stormcloud. The sound made him pause, made him really look at you like he hadn’t in days. He moved in closer, not sudden, not forceful. Just steady, sure, giving you time to lean back if you wanted. You didn’t.

“You act so tough,” you whispered, your voice catching in the space between your chests. “But you’re really just a big softie, aren’t you?”

For a second, you thought he’d bristle, deny it. But instead, Tim’s smile deepened, quiet and real, a face that you’d only seen once before when you all drank together on the big sofa in the sitting room.  He dipped his head, slow enough that your breath mingled before your lips did, and then you kissed. Not the sharp, hungry kind that had burned through you before—but slow, easy. The kind that didn’t rattle your bones but soothed them.

His hand shifted from the counter to your waist, resting there gently, anchoring but not trapping. Your palms slid up his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt as though holding onto the warmth itself.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just held each other, the wind whipping softly against the tall window, the faint smell of earth and produce grounding you in the present.

Tim exhaled when he pulled back, a quiet rumble of a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh. “Told you,” he murmured. “Stronger than you think.”

You leaned into him again, ready for the safety of his hold, the ease of that soft kiss. But the sound of boots in the hallway snapped the moment in half. Your body tensed before you could help it, breath catching in your throat.

Tim noticed—of course he noticed. His hand gave your hip the faintest squeeze before he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek and stepped back, casual as though nothing had happened. He grabbed the nearest bag of groceries, sliding a carton of eggs into the icebox with the same measured calm he always wore like armor.

You were still trying to settle your pulse when Toby’s voice carried in ahead of him. “Knew I sm-smelled bread,” he announced, appearing in the doorway with his hair messy and sticking out at odd angles, obvious that he had been napping on the couch. “C’mon, don’t hog i-it all.”

Tim didn’t look up, just grunted, “No.”

Toby rolled his eyes, grinning. “You’re stingy as hell, y’know th-that?” Then his gaze slid to you, and in a blink he was across the kitchen. His fingers wrapped lightly around your arm, tugging before you even realized he’d decided something.

“What are you doing?” you asked, startled.

“C’mon.” His tone was chipper, but there was a thread of stubbornness beneath it. “Living room’s c-cold. Can’t sleep. N-Need company while I chop wood.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re not supposed to be chopping anything. You still have stitches, Toby.”

He put a finger to his lips and made an exaggerated “shhh” sound, then tugged again. “Don’t ruin i-it. Just come.”

You glanced toward Tim, almost on instinct, and your eyes met across the kitchen. He had paused mid-motion, a loaf of bread in one hand, and though his face was unreadable, his gaze lingered long enough that warmth crawled up your neck. Then Toby gave a more insistent tug, grinning crookedly like he always did, and you let him pull you toward the back door. The afternoon air spilled in, cool and damp, as the two of you stepped out into the dark.

Behind you, you swore you still felt Tim’s eyes following.

── .✦

The air outside was a bit sharper than you expected, cool and damp from the earlier rain. You tugged your sweater tighter around yourself, rubbing your arms as you followed Toby toward the treeline.

He didn’t miss it. With a shrug, he peeled off his jacket and tossed it over your shoulders before you could protest. “You’re shivering,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Then, grinning, “Can’t have y-you catching cold when I-I dragged y-you out here.”

The jacket was warm, smelling of woodsmoke and cedar and so him, and you found yourself hugging it closer even as he moved on to heft the hatchet. He still has his wrinkled t-shirt underneath, quietly laughing at it.

The familiar thunk of blade meeting wood echoed through the damp air. Toby’s grin widened, rolling his shoulders of the tension there. You kept catching yourself watching the spot under his shirt where Brian’s neat stitches pulled skin together, waiting for a drop of red, a sign that he was undoing all your careful tending.

“Alright,” you said finally, crossing your arms. “Show me.”

He blinked, then laughed, dropping the hatchet against the chopping block. “Show y-you what?”

“You know what.” You gestured at his shirt. “Lift it. Let me see if you’re bleeding.”

Rolling his eyes, he pinched the hem of his shirt and tugged it up, revealing the bandages and pale freckled skin underneath. They were still intact—no fresh stains, no tearing.

“See? Perfectly fine,” he said, smirking as he let the fabric fall and picked up the hatchet again. “Y-Your bedside manner’s bossy a-as hell, y’know.”

You glared at him, though the edge was softened by the way his grin made your lips twitch. “Every couple chops, you check. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a mock salute, then swung the hatchet again, the sound cracking through the night air.

You sat on the edge of a flattened stump nearby, wrapping his jacket tighter around yourself as you watched. You wanted to relax, but your eyes kept dragging back to that spot under his shirt, listening for the sound of his breathing, waiting for any stumble. He wouldn’t feel it if they did tear, so you’d have to be sure.

After a few more chops, Toby broke the silence, voice casual. “Didn’t k-know you and Tim were s-so friendly.”

Your head snapped up, heat crawling into your cheeks. “Toby—”

He chuckled, tossing another log onto the block. “Relax, I’m just joking.” His grin was sharp in the moonlight. “I mean, go-good for him. Good for y-you.”

You shook your head quickly, pressing your lips together. “Hush.”

He only grinned wider, swinging the hatchet down with another clean crack. “Alright, alright. You’re n-no fun.” But the way his eyes lingered on you before he bent to grab the split wood told you the joke wasn’t as light as he made it sound. Your chest tightened at his words, at the way his smirk carried something unspoken under it. You thought back to that night—you kissing him, your panic afterward—and the silence that followed. He must’ve thought you’d moved on. That it meant nothing.

“It’s not what you think,” you blurted out, nerves twisting in your gut.

Toby stilled for half a second, the hatchet loose in his grip. Then he shook his head, grinning crookedly. “Don’t need an explanation, ma-ma’am.”

You frowned. “Toby—”

“Really,” he cut in, glancing back at the chopping block. “You don’t owe m-me anything.”

But you weren’t about to let it slide. “I want to explain.”

That smirk crawled back onto his lips, a teasing gleam in his eyes as he swung the hatchet down again, clean through the log, the crack causing you to flinch. “You do-don’t have to, princess.”

The nickname made your cheeks burn hotter, but you weren’t sure if it was a compliment or a jab. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” he said, grin widening as he set another log in place. “But m-me? I’m not worried. I know w-who you kissed first.”

Your throat tightened, heat rising under your skin. “Shut up.”

Instead of answering, he split the log in one sharp crack, then set the hatchet aside. He lifted his shirt, exposing his pale torso, the patch still covering his abdomen neatly.

“Speaking of,” he drawled, strolling toward you, “I think I need m-my nurse to check t-these over.”

Your eyes betrayed you—dragging down his chest, over the faint muscle lines, the curve of his abs. Your breath caught as he stepped close, his grin sharp and knowing. Slowly, reluctantly, you reached up, fingertips brushing the edge of the bandages. You checked for blood, for swelling—feeling the heat of his skin under your touch. For a moment, you forgot to breathe. Your fingertip brushed his skin—

And Toby tilted his head back and let out the most exaggerated, fake moan you’d ever heard.

Your hand jerked back like you’d been burned, face blazing. “Toby!”

He doubled over laughing, nearly clutching his side. “Oh, God—your face!” His laughter rang loud through the damp air, warm and unrestrained. You crossed your arms, glaring, though your lips threatened to betray you.

“See?” he wheezed, still grinning like a devil. “Told y-you. I’m not worried.”

You stepped back, tugging lightly at his jacket tugged over your shoulders as if the chill might excuse your retreat. “Alright, that’s enough wood for the fireplace,” you said, voice half-serious.

Before you could turn fully, Toby’s hand shot out and caught your arm, tugging you gently but firmly back toward him. “Oh, I don’t think s-so,” he said, grinning, eyes gleaming. “Y-You can’t just leave wh-when things are getting… fun.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “Fun? Chopping wood isn’t—”

“You’re flustered,” he interrupted, voice teasing as he leaned closer, the faint smell of wood chips clinging to him. “I can s-see it. Always so easily flustered.”

You swatted at his chest, hitting him lightly, but he caught your hand in a quick motion. Before you could pull away, he pressed a gentle kiss to your palm, lingering just long enough to make your heart skip. Your eyes flicked down to the gaping scar on his cheek, the hole where he’d gnawed and torn at himself. It still took getting used to, but you didn’t flinch at the sight of it anymore. Somehow, that small vulnerability, unhidden and raw, fit perfectly with his brash, teasing energy. It was so him.

“Quit it,” you murmured, but your tone wavered, unsure if you were angry or caught in the tension of his proximity.

He only chuckled, dark and low, brushing his lips up your arm, feather-light kisses teasing along the skin that peeked from the jacket. His jacket around your shoulders, him in your space—the feel of him was surrounding you. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist, drawing you flush against him, the press of his chest firm and grounding. “See? This is better,” he whispered. “I’ll keep y-you warm.”

You swore you could feel his heart skittering through his chest against yours. “Toby—”

“Mm,” he murmured, tilting his head as he pressed close. “Shouldn’t m-my nurse kiss me better? Quit actin’ like you do-don’t want to.”

The request was playful, but there was an edge of certainty, a teasing insistence that left you breathless and unsteady. Your heart thudded in your chest, caught somewhere between panic and desire, and you found yourself leaning in, caught in the pull of him—the rough, reckless, impossible Toby who always jumbled your thoughts faster than you could process them.

Your mind stuttered mid-thought, caught between guilt and desire. You literally just kissed Tim… but Toby didn’t give you the chance to dwell.

“You’ve o-only ever kissed me when I-I’m drunk,” he murmured, voice low, teasing but edged with something more serious. “I wanna feel i-it again.”

Your cheeks flamed immediately, and you opened your mouth to protest, but he was already closing the space between you. “And,” he added, pressing a finger between you, touching against the patch on his abdomen, “I promise n-not to tear these,” gesturing to his stitches.

You flinched slightly at the thought, then melted under the earnestness in his eyes. Before you could reply, he leaned in, and his lips found yours. This time, it was different—hungrier than the soft kiss with Tim, nippy and excited, sharp edges of longing running along it. His hands threaded into your hair and along your back, pressing you closer, leaning just enough to test your balance.

You clutched his shoulders, heart hammering, fingers digging into the fabric to keep from bending too far back. The jacket he’d tossed over your sweater fell slightly with the press of your bodies, brushing your sides as he tilted your head with one hand. The kiss deepened, playful and urgent all at once, his teeth grazing lightly over your bottom lip, making you gasp and cling tighter. Toby’s energy was reckless and alive, pulling you into the moment entirely, leaving no room for hesitation or second-guessing.

When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours, his grin was wicked and victorious. “See? Sober f-feels better, huh?”

You could barely find words, chest heaving, cheeks burning. “Yeah… yeah,” you whispered, still clutching his shoulders as if letting go would unravel the world.

Toby’s grin hadn’t left his face as he pressed his lips again to your neck, light pecks that sent shivers down your spine and made your knees wobble. His hands roamed the sides of your torso lightly, lingering at the small of your back, drawing you closer without any pressure to let go.

“Hey…” he murmured, just at the edge of a whisper, lips brushing your ear. “You thinkin’… ma-maybe… I could come see y-you tonight—”

A stark, sharp crack tore through the air, slicing through the quiet like a knife. Toby froze mid-sentence, lips hovering near your skin, eyes snapping toward the treeline beyond the clearing. The sound was heavy, hardened—like wood being cleaved, but too thick, too powerful to be a mere log falling. Your stomach twisted, adrenaline spiking instantly, and without thinking, you clutched at him, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, holding him as if he were your anchor to reality.

The Rake, the Rake, the Rake—your mind spiraled.

Toby’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as they scanned the dense shadows between the trees. The faint sunlight through dense clouds illuminated nothing but swaying branches and wet leaves glinting with rain. Each crackle from the forest set him further on edge, alert in a way that made your chest constrict.

“Stay close,” he murmured, voice low and taut, not breaking eye contact with the woods. You nodded wordlessly, still clinging to him, heart hammering as if it wanted to escape your ribcage.

It was terrifying how fast he could go from playful and flirty to a honed machine ready to protect you.

“What—what was that?” you whispered, eyes flicking between him and the trees.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let his gaze sweep slowly across the shadows, scanning every shifting shape and subtle movement. Finally, he gave you a short, clipped order, “Grab the wood.”

Your fingers hesitated for only a moment before obeying, hands shaking slightly as you lifted the chopped logs from the ground. Toby released you, stepping back enough to grab his own portion, muscles coiling beneath his shirt as he hefted the wood, making sure his grip on his hatchet was firm in his free hand.

The two of you moved together, silently, every rustle of leaves or snap of a branch making you flinch, chest tight, but Toby’s presence grounded you—an unspoken promise that whatever was out there, he’d face it first.

Step by careful step, you made your way back across the wet grass, balancing the heavy logs while keeping your eyes darting to the treeline. Toby’s boots made firm, sure sounds behind you, confident and steady. His occasional glance back caught your fear, a silent acknowledgment that he saw you, and it was enough to make you cling a little tighter to the warmth of the jacket he’d thrown over your shoulders.

Finally, you reached the edge of the porch, splashes of dirt and sawdust dampening the hem of your sweater. Toby ran a hand through his messy hair, eyes flicking once more toward the dark treeline. “Stay p-put inside after this,” he said quietly, voice carrying just enough authority to leave no room for argument. “Don’t e-even think about sneaking around.”

The manor swallowed you instantly once you stepped inside, warm air washing over you as Toby and you carried the logs across the slick, rain-specked floors. In the kitchen, Brian had been adjusting a flickering light, fingers deftly working the wiry connections. He looked up the instant he noticed you, eyes narrowing.

“Here,” he said immediately, stepping around the counter and taking the logs from your hands without a word. His movements were careful, but there was an edge to his tone. “Why do you two look spooked?”

Toby let out a long, humorless sigh, already moving toward the sitting room, logs hoisted onto his shoulder. “Cutting wood n-near the trees and heard so-somethin’ big. Bigger than normal,” he grumbled, Brian following behind. “Got her o-out of there b-before I could see what.”

You followed, slipping in close to both of them, almost instinctively holding onto Toby’s arm while Brian kept a steady pace at your side, shadowing you as you moved. The familiarity of their presence was grounding, but the thought of something near your home made you shiver.

Toby dropped the logs in the hearth in the grand sitting room and set to work lighting the fire as he normally did, snapping kindling like a habit. The flames caught quickly, spreading warmth across the room, dancing off the high ceilings and polished wood, painting the space in amber light.

Brian set his load of wood near the mouth, glancing at you. “You okay?” he asked softly, eyes searching yours for the lingering tremor.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

Toby scoffed from the hearth, glancing back at you with mock irritation. “Wouldn’t have l-let anything happen to her,” he muttered, half-proud, half-offended.

Brian rolled his eyes, shooting a look at Toby. “Quit joking.”

“Hm,” Toby groaned, snapping another log into the flames. “Nothing happened. I k-kept her safe.”

The two began bickering lightly, voices bouncing off the walls—Toby’s brash, teasing tone against Brian’s steady, measured corrections. You quietly slipped away, heading to the kitchen to start dinner, grateful for the excuse to put distance between yourself and their playful tension while your nerves slowly calmed.

From the sitting room, their conversation carried faintly. Toby’s voice dropped lower, more serious this time. “…Rakes are getting t-too close a-again. We’ll have to go out tonight, make sure they k-know this place isn’t easy pickings.”

Brian’s response was calm but firm. “We’ll handle it. We just need to make sure everything inside is ready… she shouldn’t have to see any of it if we can avoid it.”

You froze mid-step, knife in hand, realizing the duality of your life here—the warmth, the comfort, the teasing and familiarity, and the raw, dangerous reality that pressed in from the woods every night.

You busied yourself to keep from spiraling.

You chopped vegetables quickly, trying to focus on the rhythm of the knife, the smell of garlic and onions filling the kitchen. Tonight’s dinner had to be good—you knew it might be their last meal at the manor for hours if they went out to hunt again.

Tim stepped in from the back door, shaking the dew from his jacket and immediately inhaling the aroma wafting from the stove. “Smells good,” he said, nodding as he looked at you, brows knitting at the sight of your weary expression. “What’s wrong?”

You flinched at the reminder, but shook your head stiffly. “Toby heard one of those things near the trees. He said you’re going to have to go back out tonight.”

Tim grunted, shedding his jacket and setting it on the back of his chair.

Toby and Brian appeared a moment later, finishing their work in the sitting room, the fire casting flickering light across their backs. Toby plopped down on a stool near the counter, smirking as he flexed his hands. Brian leaned against the counter quietly, eyes scanning the kitchen, hands brushing sawdust from his palms.

“You all need to eat before tonight,” you said, voice firmer than you felt, slicing bell peppers and sliding them into a sizzling pan. “And we’re eating together. No arguments.”

They settled in, the three of them close but not too overwhelming, watching you while you cooked. Tim hummed under his breath as he leaned against the counter, tugging at his gloves. Toby whistled softly, eyes flicking to the fire. Brian’s gaze lingered on you, patient, careful, always unreadable.

“So…” Toby began, casual, voice low, “what’s the plan f-for tonight? We’re talking big patrol, or j-just a sweep around t-the courtyard?”

Brian spoke next. “We’ll need to check the east treeline first where you heard it, then the northern woods. Don’t think they’ve noticed us yet, but… better safe than sorry.”

You froze mid-stir, spoon hovering over the pan as your mind flashed with images you didn’t want to see: them hunting, swinging hatchets, rifles roaring, blood, claws, dark shapes moving through the blood-soaked forest. You swallowed hard, trying to ground yourself in the mundane act of stirring the vegetables.

“I… can you guys—please?” you said, voice trembling slightly. “Talk about something different. Anything else. I can’t—”

Toby’s eyes flicked to yours, instantly softening, and he leaned back on the counter, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, alright,” he said, voice teasing but quiet. “How about we a-argue about whose turn i-it is to cut firewood later? Very no-normal, very civilized.”

Tim chuckled low, shaking his head. “Or who gets to chase the buzzards off when they try to eat my crops. Very normal farm problems.”

Brian’s lips twitched at the corner, almost imperceptible. “I can weigh in on whose turn it is to go all the way down to the basement to flip the breaker. Highly conventional.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the tension easing just enough for you to refocus on the pan in front of you. The knives clattered against the cutting board, the aroma of cooking vegetables filling the room, and the haze from the setting sun through the windows played across their faces.

Eventually, the last bite of dinner disappeared from the pan, the clatter of plates and silverware echoing softly against the walls. Laughter lingered in the kitchen as Toby and Tim debated—loud, playful, inconsequential—but you caught yourself glancing at the clock, counting the minutes until the sun finally dipped below the horizon. By the time the last streaks of amber vanished from the sky, the manor had sunk into that familiar gloom. Shadows pooled in corners, the flicker of candlelight barely pushing back the darkness. You moved through the rooms with methodical precision, cleaning up after dinner while the boys prepared to leave.

The office room had become their staging ground—you had pushed all their gear inside, arranging rifles, shotguns, knives, and ammunition in neat rows. The sight of their weapons and equipment didn’t comfort you yet—it was a stark reminder of what lurked in the woods. You weren’t sure whether it was a blessing or a curse that you finally understood just how close to the edge of danger the boys operated.

When the cleaning was finished, you pulled a blanket around your shoulders and collapsed into the couch in the sitting room. A steaming cup of coffee in your hands offered some semblance of warmth and normalcy, but you knew sleep would not come. The familiar dread hung low in your chest, a steady pulse reminding you of the night ahead, and how’d you’d be awake for any moment of danger.

Outside, you could hear them now: boots scuffing against wet earth, voices carrying in heated argument. Toby and Tim, clearly bickering over who would take which section of the woods tonight, their words sharp but familiar. You hugged your knees to your chest, listening, clinging to the sounds that tethered you to reality. To them.

Then, the soft, chopped echo of boots down the hall drew your attention back. Brian slipped into the sitting room, mask pushed up above his eyebrows, framing his soft eyes. The rifle slung over his shoulder felt heavier than usual in your chest. He nodded once at you, voice low and calm, “We’ll be back in the morning.”

You sipped your coffee quietly, eyes flitting to the fire, to the shadows, to the doorway. Every instinct screamed for you to follow them, to run, to check the treeline yourself—but you knew better now. You stayed on the couch, wrapped in your blanket, watching, feeling the tension coil tight in your stomach as the three of them moved out of your reach.

Brian looked sideways at you. “You’ll be alright here? On the couch all night?”

You wrapped your arms around your knees, forcing a small smile. “I’ll be fine. Honestly, I think I’m doing better here than you three are out there.”

He chuckled low, the sound almost caught in his throat, and nodded once. “Alright… just… don’t stress yourself.”

He turned to leave, but the instant his back was to you, a sudden wave of fear hit your chest. You scrambled off the couch, quick and unsteady, voice shaking. “Brian—wait!”

He froze and pivoted, brow furrowed in concern.

“I—just—be safe. Look out for each other. Don’t… don’t get yourselves killed.” Your words tumbled out in a rush, frantic, desperate.

He nodded, more seriously now, the weight of what you were saying clearly registering. “We will. Don’t worry about us, okay?” He swallowed, then nodded slowly, as though committing your words to memory. “We’ll come back. You’ll see.”

Without thinking, you stepped forward, wrapping your arms tightly around him, holding him as if you could somehow keep him safe through sheer force. Your chest pressed against his, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you, the smell of rain-damp clothing and faint woodsmoke clinging to him.

Then it hit—the stress, the fear, the helplessness—and you started sniffling. A little at first, then your chest shook as the tears spilled, hot and unrelenting.

Brian stiffened immediately, panic flickering in his eyes. “Hey—hey, look at me!” he said sharply, his hands moving to your shoulders. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

You clung to him tighter, trying to calm yourself, but your sobs only caught more violently. Brian’s usual calm demeanor cracked, his heart hammering. He bent slightly, letting you lean against him, murmuring reassurances in that low, steady voice. “You’re safe. You’re here. We’re… we’re coming back, I promise. Just… breathe. Please.”

You nodded shakily against him, trying to take the advice, letting the tears soak into the fabric of his hoodie. For a moment, the monsters outside, the looming darkness, the memories of every bad night—all of it—faded to the background. The only thing that existed was this moment, him holding you, steady and present, keeping you from being swallowed by your fear. He let you cry, hands resting firm and reassuring on your back, whispering over and over that they’d all come back, that you weren’t alone. And slowly, inch by inch, your sobs quieted, leaving behind shaky breaths and the faint taste of tears.

You cling to him like if you let go the world will unravel.

Brian’s cheek settles against your temple, warm and solid. The contact steadies something inside you; the breath that had been jagged finds a rhythm again against his shoulder. You press your face into the curve of his neck and, before either of you can think better of it, you tilt up and kiss his cheek—soft, urgent, wet with the salt of tears.

His eyes go closed for half a second, and in that sliver of silence something shifts. He doesn’t pull away. He lets you have that small, trembling thing you need to hold onto right now.

“Kill them all,” you whisper into his hoodie, words ragged with anger and fear. “Kill every last one so you don’t have to go out again. Don’t leave me here alone.”

Brian’s breath hitches. You feel him swallow, the muscle at his throat working. For a heartbeat he’s only the man holding you, all careful lines and steady hands—the person who had slipped from the hallway minutes ago with a rifle on his shoulder. He doesn’t speak it. Instead his fingers curl into the back of your sweater and he turns his face to kiss you. It isn’t boastful or hungry. It’s a soft press at first, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when your lips tremble into his, it deepens with the ache of wanting to make things right, of wanting to be the shore you can come back to. There’s longing there—quiet, fierce—and a sadness that lubricates the tenderness. You both taste of smoke and salt and leftover fear.

For a long, suspended moment you are only that kiss: two people folding into each other between panic and desperate steadiness. Your arms twist around his neck; his hands cradle your face and then slide to your waist as if to keep you from being carried away. The world outside the manor—the treeline, the rain, the rakes and the blood—hangs at the edge of the glass, remote and unbearable. In the small circle of warmth, it feels possible, for an instant, that everything could be held together.

When you finally break apart, the air between you is thin and wet with the tremor of your breaths. Your cheeks streak with tears and you press the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to blink them away. Brian’s face is solemn; there’s an unspooling of something like resolve in his mouth.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You nod, but the nod is small and the next inhale brings a new hitch of fear. “Promise me,” you whisper. “Please—come back.”

He meets your gaze, and for the first time since you met him in the attic, there’s an unguarded thing in his eyes—an answer that is equal parts oath and plea. “I promise,” he says. It isn’t boastful. It’s not a rope to cling to blindly. It’s the quiet vow of someone who has already chosen his line in the dark. “We’ve come back every time. This one is no different.”

You wrap your arms around him one last time, clinging as if the hug could slow the night. He holds you like you’re both fragile and unbreakable at once, like this is how they’ll leave and how they’ll return—bruised, beaten, hanging by their bones.

When he finally steps back, there’s a small, shaky smile that does not reach his eyes. He straightens, the rifle goes back onto his shoulder, the practiced motion of a man who lives with danger calling his name.

“Stay here,” he says one last time, softer than an order. “Lock up. Don’t come out—no matter what.”

You nod, lips pressed tight. He leans forward and presses one more light, lingering kiss to your forehead—a goodbye threaded with longing—then turns and walks toward the door. Each step he takes feels an awful, necessary distance.

You stand rooted on the rug as the back door opens, the manor inhaling the cold night air when it swings. The muted echo of his boots recedes down the drive and into the fog. Tim and Toby file in at his side, the three aiming for the treeline. Outside, the world is a damp, vast quiet. Inside, the candlelight shivers, and you are left with the echo of his promise on your lips and the new, complicated ache that ties you to all three of them.

── .✦

The manor shudders with the storm of the woods outside.

Howls echo in the treeline, sharper and nearer than you’ve ever heard them. Gunshots pop like fireworks across the yard, rattling the glass in their frames. The distant shouts of men—your men—cut through in bursts, muffled by fog and rain. Every sound coils inside you like a spring about to snap.

You force yourself not to look out the window. You’ve learned that seeing is worse—that the shapes your mind supplies when you only hear the noise are safer than what’s really out there. So instead you keep your hands busy.

The broom swishes across the kitchen floor for the third time tonight, even though the wood gleams clean already. You rearrange the cushions on the sitting room couch, then again, then again, until the fabric feels worn beneath your palms. You scrub the counter, polish silver, fold blankets. None of it drowns out the war happening beyond the walls.

Your chest tight, you grab a candleholder and light the wick. The flame flickers in the draft of the hall as you climb the stairs quietly. You push open the door to your uncle’s study—the one room you’ve avoided since learning the truth. Dust and leather greet you, the scent like old paper and something faintly molded that’s seeped into the wood. You set the candleholder on his desk, its light haloing across the spread of his old things. Sketches. Journals. Binders of loose pages tied with string.

Your fingers hover before you dare touch them. 

Maybe there’s something in here that can help them.

You reach.

The first book creaks open. Drawings sketched in frantic pencil spill across the page—long-limbed figures, jaws stretched open in impossible ways. The Rake. The same thing you saw drag itself across your yard, the same thing that nearly tore Toby in half. The longer you stare, the more your chest knots, but you flip to the next page anyway.

Notes scrawled in your uncle’s hand run across the margins: sightings increase after rainfall… behavior more erratic near the manor… Operator’s presence holds them at bay but not for long.

You swallow hard, tracing the shaky ink as if the words themselves might answer you.

You find another sketch—this one half-finished, the rake drawn crouched beside the silhouette of a person. No face. No details. Just black scratches where the head should be. Your stomach turns, but you press on, flipping further. More notes, more strange symbols that sting your eyes if you look too long. Mentions of “wards,” of “boundaries.” Pages about how the manor itself was meant to be a line in the sand—a safe harbor.

The howling outside rises again. Your candle flickers, its shadow stretching the sketches into moving things on the walls. You slam the book shut, pulse hammering, and clutch the edge of the desk just to steady yourself.

Your uncle had known. He had written it all down. And he hadn’t survived it.

And now you’re here, sitting in his chair, teetering on the edge of facing the same fate. Of your friends facing the same fate.

You grab another book.

This one feels heavier, its leather cover worn smooth with use. When you open it, the script inside is tighter, more methodical than the frantic scrawls of the last. Almost like your uncle had been gathering his thoughts, preparing something final. The first page nearly slips the page from your fingers.

Fire.

The word is underlined three times, written so deep it’s nearly carved into the paper. Below it:

Fire melts their skin and chars their bones. I’ve never seen them react so frantically as when I’m holding a flame. They’re afraid. They fear it.

Your pulse spikes, but you keep reading. The pages are littered with half-finished sketches of rakes caught in torchlight, their forms writhing as flames lick up their limbs. Notes scrawled around the drawings:

Too fast for torches. Too aware for open flames. They flee when they sense it. They will not approach fire willingly. Must trap them. Must bind them to the place first.

You sit back, clutching the book to your chest. That’s why every encounter ends in blood. That’s why no matter how many bullets Tim and Brian unload, no matter how hard Toby swings that hatchet, they never feel close to ending this. It always feels like there’s a hundred more to follow.

Your uncle knew it. He’d been trying to make something—pages stitched with designs, half-formed schematics, scrawls about “fuel lines” and “fixtures in every hall.” You flip through quickly, breath catching as you recognize what he meant. The manor itself.

Your eyes lift, darting around the study. The candle on the desk. The sconces on the walls. The hearth downstairs. The candles. The fires. Always burning. Always lit.

Your uncle hadn’t just been eccentric, hadn’t just left candles scattered in every corner of this place for the gothic look. It had been a design, a defense he’d never finished.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as memory clicks into place: Toby lighting the fireplace for you each night, even in the warmth of summer storms. His job, his ritual. Not just comfort. Not just habit. Protection.

You stand so fast the chair tips behind you. The candleholder rattles in your grip as you pace the study, every nerve bristling with urgency.

He was building something in this house. He was making the manor itself into a ward.

Your uncle had failed, but you—your fists clench—you could finish it. You have to. Because it’s not just a home anymore, it’s the line between life and death, between keeping those three alive and letting them be torn apart every night.

You spin toward the shelves, yanking down more ledgers, more crumbling binders. Schematics. Lists of supplies. Half-finished rituals woven between architectural notes. Your hands shake as you spread them across the desk, candlelight dancing over your frantic movements.

“I can finish this,” you whisper to the empty room, to the flame that quivers as though it hears you. “I have to.”

The howls outside grow sharper, closer, almost angry—as if the things in the woods can feel the fire’s promise stirring inside the manor again.

Good.

── .✦

The slam of the back door jolts you so hard the candle flame nearly gutters out. You’d been bent over your uncle’s spread of papers all night, hands smudged with old ink, eyes burning from reading the same words again and again. But the sound—boots on the floor, the groan of wet coats peeled from shoulders—snaps you upright. You hadn’t even noticed the early rising sun filtering through the curtained window behind you.

They’re back.

You nearly trip over yourself on the way down, sketchbooks clutched in one hand, the other dragging along the banister as you fly down the stairs. The second you step into the kitchen, the smell hits you—wet earth, iron tang, gunpowder. They look like hell.

Brian first—mask pushed up around his brow, hair plastered to his forehead, rifle still slung over one shoulder. Tim behind him, pale under the dirt, favoring one arm but steady as ever. And then Toby, staggering in between them, eyes nearly blinking out of sync, dried blood marking one sleeve.

“God—” You’re already moving toward them, sketchbooks set aside, hands fumbling over coats and clothes. “Are you hurt? Let me see—”

Toby slouches into you like dead weight, his head knocking against your shoulder as if gravity itself had given up on him. “Hiya, princess,” he mumbles, giggling faintly. You press your palm against his abdomen anyway, checking the bandages, finding them mostly intact. Relief floods you, but your throat feels tight.

Tim’s eyes catch yours, rimmed red and ringed with exhaustion, and he gives you that small tilt of his chin—they’re fine, don’t panic. Brian, wordless, trudges toward the counter and starts a pot of coffee, motions slow and mechanical.

But your heart is still hammering. The papers upstairs are seared into your brain, the word fire etched across the back of your eyes. “You have to come see—” Your words tumble out too fast, too bright against the heaviness in the room. “What I found, it’s in my uncle’s study, it’s—”

All three pairs of eyes turn to you. Tired. Hollow. Not angry, but unbearably weary. Tim drags a hand over his face. Brian pours water into the machine like he’s running on autopilot. Toby just leans heavier into you, lips quirking as he slurs, “She’s go-got homework for us.”

And suddenly you feel foolish. They’ve been out there all night, bleeding and fighting, surviving things you can barely let yourself imagine. And you—you’ve been up in the study, yes, working, but in the safety of candlelight.

You swallow hard, tucking Toby’s arm tighter around your shoulder, guiding him toward the table. “Nevermind. It can wait.”

Tim shoots you a small, grateful look. Brian hums low under his breath, sliding mugs across the counter. And Toby rests his head against your hair, giggling faintly before drifting toward something like sleep, the warmth of his weight pinning you in place.

Breakfast. Coffee. Sleep. That’s what they need. Not another word about rakes. Not yet.

The kitchen smelled like eggs and bread before long, and you found yourself moving on instinct—pan hot, coffee steaming, the quiet clatter of plates muffled under the exhaustion pressing down on the house. They had all shed their gear in the hall, rifles leaned against the wall, coats dripping into a haphazard pile. The silence between them was heavy, but not sharp; more the kind of silence that came when words cost too much to muster.

One by one, they file into the sitting room—Tim first, shoulders slouched, muttering about his back as he sinks onto the couch. Brian follows, cup of black coffee in hand, half-lidded eyes scanning the fire that Toby immediately reset the moment he stumbled in. And Toby himself, sprawled across the rug, legs stretched out, head tipped back against the sofa like he might slip into unconsciousness at any second.

They mumble half-hearted conversation—bits of teasing, complaints about the rain, a tired laugh or two. But their voices sound softer in this space, muffled by the crackle of the fire and the scrape of cutlery as you carry in plates. You set the food down on the low table in front of them, and they dig in without ceremony, chewing like it’s the first proper meal they’ve had in days.

You hesitate, then slip away for the sketchbook. By the time you return, they’re still eating, heads bowed over their plates, too tired to hide how worn they are. You sit cross-legged in the chair opposite them, the book open across your lap.

“I found something,” you begin, fingers brushing the yellowed page. Their eyes flicker toward you, not sharp or suspicious—just weary, but listening. “My uncle… he wrote about them. About the rakes, y’know. He figured out what hurts them. Fire. It burns them down to nothing.”

Tim leans back, a fork still in his hand. He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “Yeah. We know.”

Brian’s voice is low, steady, but heavy. “Your uncle tried. More than once. He even rigged up some homemade flamethrower—looked like something out of a bad war movie. Nearly took the east wing of the house down with it. There’s still char marks on the ceiling.”

You blink at him, throat tightening. “But if he knew—”

“They’re fast,” Tim cuts in, words clipped. He sets his plate down, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s remembering. “Faster than fire. They don’t charge in like they used to—they’ve learned. They scatter, circle, wait for you to get close enough to burn yourself instead. They’re not just animals.”

Toby chuckles, though it’s hollow, head tipping against the sofa cushion. “Yeah, saw h-him try once when I wa-was working. Thought it was hi-hil-hilarious until I realized the whole damn forest c-could’ve gone up. Rakes are smart. Fire hurts them, but they’re n-not stupid enough t-to stand in it.”

Brian pushes his empty plate aside, folding his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Bullets—that’s what keeps them back. It doesn’t kill them clean, but it slows them down enough to finish the job.” His gaze cuts to you, steady but not unkind. “It’s ugly, but it’s the only thing that works.”

The fire pops in the hearth, showering sparks up the flue. You glance between them, the weight of their words pressing on your chest. You’d spent the whole night convincing yourself you’d found an answer, that you’d pieced together the one thing your uncle couldn’t. But sitting here now, you realize they already knew. They’ve known all along.

Your hands tighten around the edges of the sketchbook, the faded leather worn soft beneath your palms. The three of them just watch you—slouched, heavy-eyed, so damn tired—but you don’t let yourself fold under that exhaustion pressing in on all sides.

“Then… then maybe we don’t need fire the way he tried to use it,” you say, leaning forward, voice picking up momentum the longer you talk. “Not a giant flamethrower, not a bonfire that risks the whole house. He had the right idea, just… the wrong execution. Look.” You thumb through the pages, finding the half-finished diagrams, the notations about candles and hearths, the way your uncle kept circling back to controlled flame. “What if it’s smaller, contained? Something we can set fast, lure them into, choke them with smoke before they even realize what’s happening?”

Tim’s head tips against the back of the couch. He regards you with that sharp, assessing stare, though his lids are heavy. “Traps.”

“Yes,” you say, heart leaping. “Traps. Systems. Maybe we can use the manor itself—if it’s always been a beacon, then maybe it can be a weapon too.”

Brian rubs a hand over his face, smearing soot and blood. “We’d need time. Materials. And brains. Not half-dead ones like we’ve got right now.”

“Still,” Toby mumbles around a yawn, one arm slung over his eyes, “not the worst i-idea I’ve heard. Better than Tim’s ‘let’s hunt th-them with kitchen knives’ bullshit.”

Tim grunts. “Hush.”

You close the book, clutching it to your chest, the spark of determination lighting you up from the inside. For the first time in weeks, the fear doesn’t feel bigger than you. For the first time, there’s a direction.

Tim watches you a second longer before speaking again, quieter this time. “Alright. Maybe you’re onto something. But…” His voice drops further, softer, almost careful. “Can we talk about it after we’ve had a few hours? None of us are good for thinking straight right now.”

Brian nods, already pushing himself up from the table with a groan. “We’ll need our heads if we’re gonna make anything out of this.”

Toby lets out a dramatic sigh from the couch, rolling to his side and tugging a throw pillow under his head. “Wake me up when i-it’s my turn to blow something u-up.”

They’re teasing, Tim and Brian dragging themselves out the back door to their own cabins, but you can see it in their faces: the tiniest flicker of hope, even through their exhaustion.

── .✦

The study was heavy with quiet—the kind that felt alive, humming with your heartbeat and the scratch of paper against paper. Afternoon light slanted in through the tall curtainless window, catching in the dust motes that drifted lazily across the air. You sat hunched over the desk, shoulders tight, chin propped up by one hand, the other still curled around a pen that hadn’t moved in minutes. The page in front of you blurred, your eyes dragging over the same paragraph again and again, words turning to nothing.

Your uncle’s notes were spread everywhere: diagrams, frantic scribbles, half-burned pages tucked into ledgers. You’d been piecing them together for hours, refusing to stop, refusing to let yourself give in to that gnawing dread in your stomach. If you just knew enough—if you just understood—then maybe it would stop being so terrifying.

You didn’t hear the door creak, didn’t hear the boots across the floor. You only stirred when the edge of the desk dipped slightly under another hand bracing against it.

“…You’re not even reading anymore.”

Your head snapped up, eyes bleary. Brian was leaning over the desk, his eyes scanning the spread of papers before dragging back to you. “You’re just staring through the page.”

“I’m—” you started, voice scratchy from disuse, “—I’m fine. I was just… thinking.”

Brian raised his brows, his usual quiet skepticism loud enough to fill the room. He reached out, gently pressing two fingers against the top of the book you’d been pretending to read, lowering it flat to the desk. “Thinking with your eyes closed, huh?”

You blinked hard, trying to force some alertness into your body, but the truth betrayed you—the ache in your spine, the twitch in your hand still curled around the pen, the weight dragging your head toward your chest. Thirty hours awake and even the four cups of coffee hadn’t been enough.

“I can’t sleep yet,” you whispered, fighting yourself as much as him. “If I just—if I can learn enough about them, I won’t be afraid anymore. I won’t freeze if they show up again. I’ll know what to do.”

Brian studied you for a long, quiet moment, the dust-filled light cutting across his face, making the dark smudges under his eyes more obvious. Finally, he pulled out the chair beside you and sat, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You don’t have to erase the fear,” he said carefully. “You just have to survive it.” His eyes flicked to the pages, then back to you. “And you won’t survive much of anything if you fall over from exhaustion.”

The words should’ve sounded stern, but instead they softened, threaded with humor. He tilted his head, catching your tired gaze. “You’ve done more than enough for one day. Let the rest of it wait.”

The study felt different then, quieter still. Brian didn’t argue anymore after that. He just watched you for a long moment, quiet as the dust drifting in the golden light, then leaned forward and slipped the pen from your hand. You didn’t even resist—your fingers let go as if they’d been waiting for someone else to carry the weight.

“Come on,” he said, voice low, almost rough from fatigue. “Enough.”

You started to shake your head, mumbling some half-formed protest, but then his hand was at the small of your back, steady and warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. The contact made your throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He gave the lightest push, coaxing you out of the chair, and you found yourself standing before you’d even decided to.

“Brian, I—”

“You’re done for the day,” he cut in, but it wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was careful. Like he was afraid you’d shatter if he spoke too loudly. He guided you toward the door, his palm never leaving that steady place at your lower back.

The manor was dim and hushed as he led you down the hall, the only sound being your soft footsteps and his thumping boots beside you. You glanced at him once, catching the weariness in his face—the bloodshot eyes, the damp hair clinging to his forehead where it looked like he’d taken a shower—but his focus stayed on you. Like his exhaustion didn’t matter if it meant you got to rest.

When you reached your bedroom, he nudged the door open with his shoulder and steered you inside. The bed looked impossibly inviting, covers still rumpled from your restless night. You hesitated, turning to him, but he was already tugging back the comforter with one hand, still steadying you with the other.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered, though your knees ached to buckle. “You don’t have to—”

He gave the faintest smile, tired but real, and rubbed lightly at your back. “Yeah, I do.”

You sat because you had no strength left to keep standing, sinking into the edge of the mattress. He stepped back, his hand finally leaving you, the room feeling colder for it.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “The books will still be there when you wake up.”

You sank deeper into the mattress, blankets pulled up under your chin, the weight of exhaustion dragging at your eyes. Brian lingered by the bedside, one hand braced against the headboard like he wasn’t sure if he should leave or stay.

Through a fog of half-consciousness, you whispered, “Brian… do you think… we can really kill them all?”

He didn’t hesitate. He pulled the chair from your desk closer and sat beside you, leaning his elbows on his knees. His eyes softened when they found yours, though fatigue lined his face. He gave a firm nod.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and certain. “We can. Because we’ve got you now. You keep us going. We’ve got something to fight for.”

Your lips twitched into the faintest smile, too tired to hold it, but it still warmed your face. Slowly, you reached out from beneath the blanket, fingers trembling more from exhaustion than nerves, and found his hand.

Brian froze for a second, looking at your smaller hand clutching his, before he closed his fingers around yours and gave a slow, grounding squeeze. Your breathing evened out almost instantly, the comfort of his words and his presence pulling you under. The last thing you registered was his thumb brushing once across the back of your hand, steady, like he was promising to keep it there until you woke again.

── .✦

The study’s dust and coffee tang still lingered in your nose, but it wasn’t the moonlight through the curtains that pulled you from sleep—it was the low scrape of metal against earth, the muffled clang of something heavy being dropped, and voices that didn’t belong to dreams.

You blinked, blearily taking in the warm glow of your room. The candles by your bedside had been lit, their flames soft and steady. Brian must’ve done it, you thought—the realization making your chest ache in some quiet way. You rolled over, expecting maybe he’d still be in the chair, maybe nodding off the way Toby sometimes did on the couch. But the chair was empty. The room was empty. It was the middle of the night.

And the sound outside was louder now.

You pushed the blankets off, sluggish from sleep but unsettled, swinging your legs down to the rug. You didn’t bother with shoes, seeing your sweater tossed at the end of the bed and pulling it tight around yourself before padding across the floor. When you pressed to the window, careful to keep your body in the shadow of the curtain, your breath caught.

Out in the courtyard, under the pale glow of a swollen moon, were the boys.

Tim was hauling coils of barbed wire out of the bed of the truck, the metal unspooling in harsh glints, his shoulders rigid with the effort. Brian crouched low near one of the hedges, hammering something into the ground with rattling blows. Toby was half in shadow, shirt already discarded as he dug furiously into the damp earth with a spade, dirt spraying behind him like he’d been at it for hours.

And then it hit you—they were building traps. Your suggestions. The very sketches you’d shoved into their hands earlier that morning, babbling about strategy, about fire, about something to fight back with. They hadn’t dismissed you. They hadn’t rolled their eyes and gone off to bed, the way exhaustion had begged them to. They’d listened.

Your chest squeezed so tightly it hurt.

Before you could think better of it, you were already bolting for the door. Your bare feet hit against the cold wood of the stairs, your sweater barely shielding you from the damp chill that seeped through the manor’s giant walls. The back door creaked when you pushed it open, and a rush of night air slammed into you, thick with the smell of earth and iron and rain not long past.

The grass was wet and icy under your feet, but you didn’t care. You rushed into the yard, heart pounding, the sound of the hammer and spade and wire growing louder until it filled your ears. “What are you doing?”

The words ripped out of you, higher and sharper than you meant, and all three froze. Toby’s spade hit the ground with a heavy thud. Brian’s hammer paused mid-swing. Tim straightened, barbed wire hanging from his gloves like a tangle of thorns, and all three of their eyes cut toward you in the half-light.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

And then Brian sighed, smiling at you through the sweat on his brow. “You aren’t supposed to be up.”

“I heard you,” you snapped, breath catching in the cold. “You’re—” your eyes flicked from the raw wire cutting into Tim’s gloves, to the half-dug pit Toby was already climbing out of, to the hammer still clutched in Brian’s fist. “You’re setting traps. My—my idea. You actually…”

Tim’s mouth quirked into something tired, something that might’ve been a smirk on another night. “You thought we weren’t listening?”

“I thought you thought I was insane.”

Toby wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, streaking dirt and sweat across his temple, before tossing you a lopsided grin. “We already k-know you’re insane, princess. Doesn’t me-mean you’re wrong.”

Your heart stuttered.

Brian shoved the hammer into the ground and stood, stretching his back, his hair plastered damp to his forehead. “You wanted to help. This is how we let you.” His tone was simple, matter-of-fact, but his gaze lingered on you in a way that was careful. As if he could see how badly you were shaking, how your hands had knotted in the hem of your sweater.

“I—” you faltered, hugging yourself tighter. “You should’ve… told me. You should’ve woken me.”

Tim shook his head, stepping toward you with steady, slow steps. “You needed rest. Up all night trying to memorize this shit.” He let the barbed wire fall from his gloves, metal hitting the dirt with a dull thump, and stopped a few feet in front of you. “We’ve got this. You don’t have to kill yourself trying to figure it all out.”

But you couldn’t stop looking at them—at the mud streaked up Tim’s jacket, at the worn calluses on Brian’s hands, at Toby’s bandages now speckled with fresh dirt where he’d leaned too hard against the shovel. Your throat tightened.

You’d been so scared of them once. Now all you could think was how tired they looked. How stubborn. How utterly willing to throw themselves into the dark just so you wouldn’t have to. And something inside you cracked, like ice giving way.

Your voice shook as you whispered, “I don’t want you to do this alone.”

Tim’s jaw flexed. Brian’s eyes softened. Toby’s grin fell into something quieter, something more sincere.

The night air pressed heavy around you, cold and damp and smelling of iron. The manor loomed at your back, the woods looming even darker ahead. And between those two worlds, it was just you and them—your bare feet in the grass, their shoulders bowed under weight you still barely understood.

But for the first time since the night you learned the truth, you didn’t feel entirely powerless. You’d asked them to fight. And now they were proving they’d fight with everything they had.

── .✦

The next week passed in a blur.

Your days became a cycle of work, dirt, and ink-stained fingers—wake to the sound of boots thudding across the manor, eat something quick (or cook it yourself, because the boys would happily go on black coffee and adrenaline if you didn’t intervene), then dive headlong into the endless grind of preparation.

When you weren’t in your uncle’s study with his crumbling journals and sketches spread across every flat surface, you were out in the yard with muddy boots laced tight, helping them haul crates of supplies, laying down barbed wire, or threading jars of accelerant into carefully dug trenches. The traps were crude but effective—tripwires hidden under brush that triggered firewalls, shallow pits that could snap legs, and lines of oil-soaked cloth ready to be lit in an instant.

Brian was the one with the steady hands, crouched low as he measured angles, hammered stakes, and muttered calculations under his breath. He never let you carry the heaviest things, though—you’d reach for a box and he’d simply appear, smile tilted, quietly taking it out of your hands with a shake of his head.

Tim worked with a grim sort of determination, unrolling wire, digging trenches, his jaw always tight. But he cracked when you teased him about being too serious, his dry humor slipping through in little one-liners—like when you tripped over a coil of wire and he deadpanned, “Guess that trap works.” He’d smirk at your laugh, then go right back to work.

And Toby… Toby made it impossible to stay focused. He was loud and messy, shirt always half off, mud streaked through dirt on his chest as he swung an axe or dug with a spade. He’d throw flirty comments over his shoulder, or drop something heavy just so you’d fuss over his stitches, smirking when your hands brushed his skin. He made the work feel like chaos, but he kept you smiling.

And in the cracks between all that—between the fire and schematics and long nights by candlelight—you felt yourself spiraling.

Because every morning, when you set breakfast on the table, you’d have Tim sitting across from you with that watchful, steady look that made your chest twist. Brian would quietly take the mug out of your hand to pour the coffee himself, brushing your fingers, his silence louder than words. And Toby would flop into the chair beside you, grin crooked, knees bumping yours on purpose while he stole toast off your plate.

Lunch was the same. Dinner too. Every glance, every laugh, every touch—it was building into something impossible to ignore. And lying awake at night, listening to them move through the halls or hearing their voices low outside your window as they worked, you felt that impossible weight pressing harder.

Because you knew—sooner or later—you were going to have to choose.

And God, you didn’t know if you could.

── .✦

By the time the last rays of sun began sliding behind the treeline at the end of the week, the manor was no longer just a house—it was a fortress, a gauntlet, a trap meticulously laid.

From the edge of the forest to the first stretch of lawn, tripwires were strung with almost invisible barbed wire, glinting faintly in the dying light. Little pits had been camouflaged with dirt and brush, ready to ensnare anything foolish enough to step too close. Fire lures—jars of accelerant with wicks precariously balanced on stakes—were planted strategically near choke points along the treeline. Even the open patches of the yard were carefully calculated, the perfect corridors to funnel the rakes closer, to make them predictable.

You stood at the highest point of the veranda, the wind tugging at your sweater, eyes bright as you tried to take in the enormity of what you’d helped build. The sheer amount of wire alone made you dizzy—you couldn’t tell which way to step without tripping over something. Every shadow of the garden looked deliberate now, every pile of leaves, every stone placed, seemed charged with intent.

Tim surveyed along the edges, testing the traps with small sticks, muttering low to himself, double-checking angles and tension. Toby was tossing logs near the deep pits he had dug along the yard, ready for them to catch fire and sear a wall of flame, but every few moments he’d glance toward the forest with that alert, predatory attention that made your heart race. Brian leaned over a map spread out on a bench, pointing and marking, making sure nothing had been missed.

You stepped back and took a deep breath, realizing the gravity of it all. This wasn’t just preparation—it was war—silly as it seemed. And if there had ever been a perfect moment to test all of this, it was now, with the sun dipping low, the shadows long, and the forest just waiting beyond the edges of the property.

You looked at them—Toby’s grin was tight, almost feral in the fading light; Tim’s eyes were cold, sharp; Brian’s posture steady, unyielding. You felt the weight of your own fear and adrenaline, the ache of worry for them, and the strange, dangerous pull of having been part of this, of helping shape the battlefield.

The first stars were beginning to prick the sky, and you knew instinctively: once night truly fell, there would be no turning back. This was the moment. This is what every step here had been leading to.

Right…?

You watch them methodically, each motion precise and practiced, almost ritualistic in its familiarity. Toby tightens the straps of his gear with one hand while checking the sharp edge of his hatchet with the other, glancing at you only once, letting a small smirk slip. Tim moves silently, adjusting his mask and gloves, the tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring, his eyes flicking toward the treeline as if reading the forest itself. Brian, steady and unshakable as ever, checks his rifle and flashlight, muttering quiet notes to himself as he goes through the motions he’s repeated countless times.

You watch them. Tim’s pale mask, cracked slightly above his temple, dark eyes and lips hiding his usually stern complexion. Brian pulled his balaclava over his face, the deep red frown covering his toothy grin and soft eyes. And Toby, his goggles and muzzle strapped tight around his head, obscuring that goofy face he always gave you.

Monsters, killers—but you weren’t afraid of them.

They come together at the door, voices low but firm. Toby leans back slightly, eyes meeting yours through the orange-tinted glass, “Listen… whatever y-you hear, whatever moves you s-see—stay inside. Do not step o-out. Don’t even think about it.” Tim nods in agreement, tone clipped and serious, “It doesn’t matter how close they get. Don’t come outside. You’ll just put yourself in more danger.” Brian steps forward, calm but insistent, “We’ve got this. You’ve done your part—now let us do ours. Keep the mansion safe. Stay behind the doors, stay quiet, and trust us.”

You nod, trying to steady your voice, to convey more courage than you feel. Your fingers twitch at your side, heart hammering as you take in the sight of them—so prepared, so dangerous, so utterly unflinching. They look like hunters, not men, and the forest beyond looks alive with a darkness you can feel pressing in.

Tim moves closer, catching your hands in his own gloved ones. He reaches behind his back, unclipping something from his belt, and placing it into your hands. He positions your fingers around a pistol, guiding you gently, the heavy weight of it startling you. “Steady. Grip it like this… you’ve got this. You’ve been planning this as much as we have. Tonight, you’re as ready as any of us.” His thumb brushes yours, brief and grounding, but you can feel the weight of the weapon, the seriousness of what’s about to happen.

You breathe through it, nodding again. “Okay. I… I’m ready.”

Toby smirks again, ruffling your hair, but there’s a sharp edge in his gaze as he steps back. “Don’t worry. We’ll han-handle the rest. Just… stay put, y-yeah?”

Brian gives a small, reassuring nod, and with a few words of final instruction, the three of them pivot toward the night, their movements silent but purposeful as they disappear toward the forest edge, leaving you standing at the threshold, pistol in hand, heart hammering. The mansion suddenly feels heavier, charged with anticipation. The traps you helped set, the fire, the tripwires—they’re all waiting. And so are you.

You settle onto the couch in the sitting room first, the weight of the pistol heavy in your hands, knuckles white around the grip. The familiar cushions feel grounding, yet the silence of the manor presses against you, thick and almost suffocating. Every tick of the old clock, every groan of the wooden floors seems louder than normal, like the house itself is holding its breath. Your heart hammers in your chest as your eyes flick to the window. Against your better judgment, you rise, the pistol clutched tightly in both hands. You draw back the thick curtains, the fabric slipping through your fingers like water, and your gaze is immediately drawn to the garden, then further out, to the edge of the treeline.

Through the dim light of the moon, you can see them. Toby, Tim, and Brian, spread out across the yard in careful positions, each one poised and ready. Their stances are measured, familiar yet strange in their intensity. The way Toby shifts slightly, gripping his hatchet; Tim scanning the forest with his mask and shotgun; Brian adjusting his rifle and crouching by a fire lure—they all look like predators, more dangerous than anything you’ve ever seen.

You swallow, trying to steady yourself. Even knowing they’re there to protect you, your chest tightens, fear mingling with admiration and an aching, inexplicable longing. Your fingers flex on the trigger, not from intent but instinct, as your eyes follow every careful movement, noting how the traps you helped set gleam faintly in the low light, and realizing how meticulously everything has been laid.

The manor behind you feels almost alive, its candles flickering faintly in the interior shadows, casting the sitting room in a warm glow that does nothing to ease the chill crawling up your spine. You take a shuddering breath, reminding yourself that this is the plan, that you are ready, that you are a part of this. Yet your mind keeps flashing to the Rakes lurking just beyond the edge of sight, and your pulse refuses to slow. You clutch the pistol tighter, leaning forward slightly against the window frame, watching, waiting.

You see Brian raise his rifle into the air, aiming right above the treetops. Three sharp cracks split the night air, each shot echoing off the distant trees. The sound makes your chest jerk violently with each report, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself. The manor seems to shiver with the recoil of the shots, as if even the walls themselves are aware of the danger you can’t yet see. Tiny vibrations run through the window frame beneath your fingertips, forcing you to take a step back, heart hammering.

Then, almost immediately, the night stills. The rustling leaves have gone silent. The wind seems to hold its breath. For a suspended moment, you feel like the world itself is waiting, listening. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a frantic drum against the quiet, and you realize that you’re not even breathing—you can’t. Your eyes dart to the edge of the treeline, to the darkness just beyond the manicured garden, trying to pierce the shadow that now feels like a wall of malice.

Time stretches and warps; minutes feel like hours. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of grass makes you flinch, gripping the pistol so tightly it aches. And then—

A scream.

It doesn’t just pierce the night. It rips through it, tearing your chest open with fear. Your stomach drops, your spine stiffens, and every hair on your body stands on end. It’s guttural, inhuman, a sound that seems to crawl into the manor with you, echoing off walls, bouncing in every corner, and you can’t help but jerk back from the window.

Then movement—two figures flash across the treeline. Rakes. Too fast, impossibly thin, limbs bending at unnatural angles, heads tilting unnervingly as they move. Shadows leap through the trees with an almost predatory grace, muscles coiling, bodies taut. The world seems to slow around them, every detail sharp: their pale, glistening skin catching the faint moonlight, their claws scraping branches, their faces twisted in a mockery of human features.

You press your forehead to the glass, hands trembling, feeling your pulse thrum like a drumbeat of panic. The garden stretches out between you and the edge of the forest, the traps you helped set gleaming faintly, lines of barbed wire taut and ready. You want to move, to yell, to warn them—but you can’t. You’re frozen, watching them, every instinct screaming to run and every rational thought screaming that running would get you killed.

And then, faintly, you hear it: the quiet coordination of your boys. Toby’s hatchet swinging, the snap of wood under his boots, the steady handiness of Tim’s shotgun being readied, Brian’s voice barking orders. Their presence is almost invisible, but it anchors you, a fragile lifeline in the chaos of sound and shadow. Your fingers tighten on the pistol, your teeth grit against your fear, and you realize you’re completely, utterly at the mercy of what’s coming—but you’re not powerless. You are watching. You are armed. You are part of this. And the rakes are already moving into your carefully prepared traps.

The first rake’s attention locks onto Toby almost instantly—its lean, pale frame elongating unnaturally as it hurls itself toward him, claws scraping at the ground, head cocked in a predatory tilt. You hold your breath, gripping the pistol so tightly it aches, willing him to see it before it’s too late.

Then, chaos. It lunges forward, breaking the treeline, only for its outstretched limb to snag on a tripwire you helped set, and the reaction is immediate. A container tipped over, doused in accelerant, catches a small spark from the pre-set lighter Toby had rigged along the wire. A sudden burst of flame leaps into the air, licking the rake’s side. Its scream pierces the night—ear-shattering, inhuman—a noise that sends shivers crawling up your spine and makes you press your face into the glass. You can see the fire licking its thin body, the way its claws flail against the flames as it twists in midair, smoke curling around its form.

The second rake’s attention is drawn immediately to the commotion. You barely have time to process its direction when it charges blindly, aiming for the opposite side of the yard. It doesn’t notice the pit trap until it’s too late. The creature tumbles headlong into the hole, limbs flailing, and becomes entangled in the barbed wire and jagged logs set to capture them. It screams, thrashing violently, struggling to free itself, but it’s caught—and that’s when Tim moves. You see him raise the shotgun, his eyes narrowed, body rigid against the tension. The flash of the gun, the loud report, and the second rake goes still, its head shattered by the well-aimed shot. You feel your stomach lurch, your chest tight with relief, fear, and adrenaline all at once.

Toby lands a few feet away, his hatchet still in hand, smoke curling around him, a jumpy, satisfied energy escaping him despite the chaos. He’s unharmed, though singed slightly, and you can see him scanning the treeline for any other movement. The fire dances along the first rake’s body, slowing its movements but not entirely consuming it yet, and you realize the battle has truly begun—but for the first time, your plan is working.

At first, the rakes appear in trickles—shadows darting at the edges of the treeline, cautious and scattered—but soon they swarm, their elongated limbs and jagged, unnatural angles making them almost impossible to track. You can feel the panic building inside them; they’re disoriented by the fire, the barbed wire, the pits. Yet despite the traps, they’re still trying to reach the manor, scrambling over obstacles, clawing at anything in their way. There’s more than a handful of them, but the boys manage.

Toby moves like a storm, swinging his hatchet, driving them away from the house. Tim’s shotgun roars intermittently, each crack of the gun echoing across the yard as rakes topple into traps or get pinned between barbed wire and sharpened logs. Brian’s rifle pierces the night, precise shots hitting the creatures in the head or chest, sending them crashing into the flames or tangled in wires. You watch, heart hammering, the pistol in your hands feeling both heavy and insignificant—each movement of your friends fills you with awe, and terror, and desperation.

The rakes shriek and scramble, their pale limbs snagging, bodies igniting in the small fires you’d set, skin melting slightly in the heat, smoke curling in grotesque clouds as the flames lick along their torsos. One struggles against a pit trap, screaming in that high, unnatural pitch, thrashing wildly as Tim pumps another shell into it, sending it still. Another slams into the barbed wire, its claws slicing through the material, leaving behind shredded cloth and jagged marks before Toby swings down, splitting its spine with a single strike. Your stomach churns, but you can’t look away—you know it’s them or the rakes.

You’ve been staring at the sketches for hours, memorizing every crooked limb, every twisted angle, every detail that made them horrifying. It’s helped you recognize them, anticipate their movements, but your stomach still drops at every scream, every sharp jerk aimed at your friends. You’re no longer scared for yourself—you’re terrified for them.

Then it happens. One of the rakes, faster than the rest, more desperate, somehow clears a pit that had trapped another. You see it leap over, limbs coiling unnaturally as it arcs through the air—and your breath catches in your throat. Its eyes, pale and glinting in the firelight, lock onto Tim. It’s inhuman, precise, and terrifyingly strong.

Before Tim can react, it latches onto his shoulder with a clawed hand, slamming him into the wet, muddy ground with a brutal force that makes you gasp. He coils, the impact sending mud and rainwater spraying around him, and the rake hisses, twisting to keep him pinned. You feel a scream clawing up your throat as Toby and Brian explode into motion, weapons raised, the firelight casting long, frantic shadows across the chaos.

Your hands grip the pistol so tightly it aches, knuckles tight, and you take in the scene—the desperate scramble, the flames, the screams, the rain-slicked ground—and realize that the battle is no longer controlled. It’s survival now, raw and terrifying, and your entire chest tightens with fear for your friends. The world narrows to the sound of your own heartbeat, the thick smoke curling into the air and the distant screeches of death echoing through the yard. Toby gets to Tim, shouting curses and swinging his hatchet as the creature twists to follow him. Brian is farther back, picking off stragglers, his rifle flashes bright against the darkness.

Tim scrambles, getting the shotgun up just in time, pumping a round high into the rake’s skull. The shot lands perfectly. The rake’s limbs twitch violently before collapsing into the mud, slick with ichor and firelight. You feel a surge of relief—but it’s fleeting. Relief never lasts in this house.

Toby drops to his knees beside Tim, gripping his shoulder, murmuring harsh, clipped words as he checks him over, and for a heartbeat, you dare to hope. Then, from the shadowed treeline, another rake bursts through. It’s bigger, faster, impossibly long-limbed, and its movements are precise—aimed straight for the three of them.

Your chest tightens, panic spiking like a live wire through your veins. The pistol in your hands feels like nothing against what’s charging, and you realize they can’t see it yet. You lunge for the window, throwing it open with all your strength, the smoke-dense air immediately clogging your senses.

“Toby! Tim! Brian!” Your voice cuts through the storm, raw and frantic, echoing across the yard. “Fuck—LOOK OUT—”

The moment your voice tears through the night, the rake’s head jerks unnaturally, eyes like twin voids locking directly on you. Its shriek splits the storm, and before the boys can even redirect their fire, it pivots away from them—away from Toby’s hatchet, from Brian’s rifle sight, from Tim’s shotgun barrel—and comes straight for the manor. Straight for you.

Your stomach drops.

“Shit—” The curse rips out of you as your hands yank the window closed so hard the glass rattles in the frame. The lock barely clicks before you’re stumbling back, heart hammering so violently it aches in your ribs. The creature’s scream follows, closer, closer, and you don’t think, you just run. Your shoes slam against the hardwood as you sprint through the hall, hair whipping around your face. You take the stairs two, three at a time, lungs seizing as you drag yourself upward. Behind you—far too close—you hear the glass shatter, an explosion of shards and wood splinters as the rake tears through the sitting room window. The manor groans under its weight.

The boys’ voices cut through the chaos—Toby’s especially. You’ve never heard him scream like that, pure fury and desperation echoing your name.

Your legs are jelly, but adrenaline keeps you moving, claws of panic scraping your spine. You stumble into your room, slam the heavy door, fingers scrambling for the bolt. It slides into place with a solid, metallic thunk just as the floorboards below shudder with impact. You press your back against the door, breath ragged, every nerve in your body electrified. The house feels alive around you—walls shaking, echoes of the rake’s shrieks bouncing up the stairwell. Something smashes below, the sound of furniture being overturned, Toby’s voice roaring in reply.

And then you hear it. The Rake. Snarling, dragging its claws over the floorboards as it searches, as it climbs.

It’s in the house.

And Toby—god, Toby’s voice rips through again, closer this time, full of fire and teeth, “Ugly fucker—!”

You backpedal until your shoulders meet cold glass, the candlelight trembling in its holders as your room shakes with every crash from the hall. The pistol is slick in your grip, your hands trembling so hard you can hear the tiny scrape of your finger stuttering against the trigger guard. Your breaths come short, sharp, chest rising and falling like you’re drowning on dry air.

From beyond the door, it’s chaos. Toby’s voice rises in a snarl, matched by the inhuman screech of the rake. You hear them slam into the wall hard enough to rattle plaster dust from the ceiling. The manor screams around you—columns cracking, beams groaning, paintings torn from the walls and hitting the floor with a splintering crash.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, heart hammering as you try to steady the barrel with both hands. Your uncle’s journals, the sketches, the warnings about how fast these things move—it all swirls in your head until you’re sick. But the sound of gunfire outside snaps you back. Sharp, relentless cracks from Brian’s rifle, followed by Tim’s shotgun blasts. They’re still out there, holding back the swarm.

You can’t think about them. You have to think about this one.

The world narrows, breath hissing between your teeth as you aim at the door. And then it comes—

A slam that nearly tears the hinges loose. The wood groans, warping under the sheer force. The bolt lock screeches against the impact, metal grinding against metal. You bite back a sob, adjusting your stance, trying to find enough steadiness in your knees to keep the gun pointed straight.

“TOBY—” you cry.

Another slam—this one harder, shaking the entire frame. Dust and splinters rain from the top of the door. The snarl on the other side is guttural, primal, rattling every nerve in your body until you feel like you’ll shatter with it.

You can hear Toby too—scrambling closer, angry and desperate, his voice breaking with every curse. He’s still fighting, but the rake isn’t stopping. Not for him. Not when it knows you’re here.

The door doesn’t just break—it explodes. Wood and splinters spray across your floor as the rake barrels through, a blur of pale limbs and teeth. You barely have time to register before instinct takes over—one, two shots fired point-blank, the recoil jolting up your arms. Both rounds hit, you know they do—you saw the impact—but the thing doesn’t falter. Doesn’t even twitch.

Your stomach drops.

It comes at you with a shriek that feels like it’s ripping out your spine. You stumble sideways, shoes sliding on the wood, scrambling out of its path as it smashes into the tall window where you stood. The glass shudders under its weight, a spiderweb of cracks spreading in a single heartbeat. Cold night air knifes through the room.

You barely get your breath when the doorframe shakes again—and this time it’s Toby.

He slams into the rake without hesitation, shoulder meeting its chest with a sickening crack, driving it away from you. He doesn’t even glance in your direction—doesn’t have to—his entire focus is pinning the creature, keeping it away from where you cower with the pistol clutched uselessly in your hands.

For a moment, it works. They crash together across the room, tearing at each other, knocking furniture aside like toys. But the rake twists, viciously fast, claws slicing down Toby’s shoulder as it wrestles him to the ground. His hatchet goes skittering across the floorboards, spinning out of reach.

You scream his name, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even breathe. His entire body strains against the rake’s weight, arms trembling as claws pin down his shoulders. For a split second you think it’s over—

And then Toby snarls, driving his knee up hard, boot slamming into the rake’s leg. The sound is like a branch snapping under too much weight. The creature screeches, staggering just enough. Toby rolls, crawling desperately across the floor, fingers outstretched until they close around the hatchet’s worn handle.

He twists his whole body, throwing his arm. He swings. The blade buries itself into the back of the rake’s skull with a wet, cracking sound. It convulses, jerks, but Toby doesn’t stop. He climbs to his feet. He swings again. And again. Five, six brutal arcs, each one crunching louder than the last, until the floor is slick and the walls echo with his ragged growls.

You shout his name—once, twice, louder each time, until your throat burns. “Toby!”

Finally—finally—his arm stops. The hatchet clatters from his grip, bouncing once against the blood-streaked floorboards. His chest heaves, sweat and blood slicking his hair to his face as he takes shaky steps back away from the creature. Only then does he look at you.

His muzzle and goggles hit the floor hard, rattling against the ruined wood as Toby tears them off. In three strides he’s on you. His hands slam to either side of your face, rough palms trembling as he forces you to look at him.

“W-W-What the fu-fuck were you t-thinking?” His voice cracks, sharp and angry, words punching through the sound of your own sobs beginning to break through. “Yelling o-out the window li-like that? Y-You could’ve—” His jaw tightens, throat bobbing as he swallows whatever image flashes through his head. “Jesus—fuck.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out—just broken little hiccups of breath, the tears streaming too fast down your cheeks, adrenaline thrumming through your body.

And then his anger folds. Crumples. His arms slide around your head, pulling you in hard, crushing you against his chest. You’re sobbing into his torn jacket before you can even think, fists knotting into the fabric. His chin drops to the crown of your head, the stubble of his jaw brushing your hair as he holds you like he’ll never let go. He smells so strongly of bonfire smoke.

When he finally leans back, he keeps your face caged in his hands, thumbs swiping at your wet cheeks even though they just keep filling again. His gaze burns into yours, frantic, desperate. “You’re o-okay?” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Tell m-me you’re okay. J-Just—say it.”

Your eyes catch on his shoulder—the ugly tear in his jacket, blood seeping dark down the sleeve. “Toby—your shoulder—”

“Forget it.” He cuts you off, shaking his head hard, wild curls bouncing. “It’s nothing. Doesn’t m-ma-matter. Not if you’re—”

A sound from outside interrupts him—a shrill scream, followed by gunfire, followed by Brian’s voice shouting something you can’t make out.

Toby freezes, head whipping toward the broken window. His jaw sets like stone. In a single motion, he grabs his hatchet off the floor with one hand and your wrist with the other, yanking you up to your feet.

“Come on.” His grip is firm, unrelenting, pulling you with him as he drags you out of the wreckage of your room. “Y-You can’t stay in here.”

Toby’s grip on your wrist is iron, dragging you fast, your heels skipping to keep up. The stairwell rattles under your weight, boards groaning, shards of shattered door crunching beneath your shoes.

The manor doesn’t look like your manor anymore. Not the home you’d been trying so hard to breathe life back into. The sitting room—your sanctuary—is torn apart, claw marks gouged deep into the walls and across the floorboards like some furious script. The couch, your couch—the one where you all sat together, laughing, fighting, eating—has been shredded straight through, fabric spilling its guts of cotton batting. Every painting lining the hallway hangs crooked or torn, frames cracked. The elegant wooden bannister you’ve brushed your fingers along every morning has a brutal, jagged split, as though the house itself had taken a wound.

You can’t help the sound that leaves your throat. A strangled little noise, grief tangled with terror. Your manor—your uncle’s manor—is bleeding with you.

Toby doesn’t let you linger. His broad back blocks your view as he hustles you through the kitchen, one hand clamped hard to his hatchet, his other dragging you tight against him. Every inch of him screams urgency, but you can feel the way he angles his body to shield yours.

The moment he shouldered through the back door, night swallowed you both whole. And it’s worse than before.

Gunshots crack in quick, merciless rhythm, Brian’s rifle spitting fire at the treeline. Sparks flare each time a round hits metal or stone. Tim is beside him, shotgun braced tight against his shoulder, reloading with grim efficiency, smoke curling off the barrel.

And then you see them.

The treeline churns with pale, sinewy shapes. A dozen—more than a dozen—skittering and darting between the shadows, their screams splitting the night. Their eyes glint white when the muzzle flares catch them, their long limbs tangled in wire, some singed from fires sputtering in the pits. Still, they keep coming, their bodies writhing and snapping against the traps like animals too furious to retreat.

The traps hold some at bay, but others push closer, throwing themselves toward the boys, toward the manor, toward you.

Brian doesn’t turn, doesn’t look back—just shouts through his mask, his voice raw and loud enough to slice through the gunfire. “They’re breaching! Hold the damn line!” Tim racks his shotgun, body clenched, and fires again. The recoil throws his shoulders back, but the rake in his sights drops like a felled tree. Toby tenses in front of you, muscles stiff, and you can feel his ribs expand with each ragged breath. He keeps you glued against him, his stance wide, his hatchet gleaming faintly in the gunfire’s light.

And there it is—standing at the threshold of the back steps, your house at your back, the woods screaming ahead of you—you realize you’re no longer an onlooker behind glass. 

Toby’s arm is a vice around your waist as he pulls you across the slick grass, boots pounding through mud. The air smells like copper and gunpowder, thick with smoke from fires burning low at the treeline. Every scream makes your blood freeze, every flash of pale limbs twisting in the dark sends a surge of panic through your chest, but Toby doesn’t falter. He keeps you tight against him, dragging you forward with his frame cutting a path, hatchet ready if another rake tries to break through.

By the time you reach the center of the yard, Tim and Brian whip toward you. Both of them clock you instantly, and their fury is almost louder than the gunfire.

Tim shoves his mask up, his anger-cracked voice breaking through the night. “The fuck, kid?!” He’s already storming toward you, shotgun slung to his side, boots splashing mud. “Why the hell would you bring her out here?”

Brian doesn’t even spare him a glance—he’s too busy pivoting, rifle raised, firing two consecutive shots that drop another pair of rakes clawing their way past the traps. Sparks flare across his mask, his voice muffled but sharp with rage. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?!”

Toby snarls back, pulling you tighter to his side even as he turns in a half-circle to keep the yard scanned. “She’d b-be dead if I left h-her inside! Window’s g-gone—thing was in t-the house!”

Before you can even breathe, Tim’s hands are on you, gripping your shoulders hard. He yanks you out of Toby’s hold like you’re being pulled between two tides, his body shielding yours immediately, his shotgun slung awkwardly against your side as he braces you. His voice drops lower when he sees your face, sees the trembling pistol clutched in your hands. “Hey. Hey, look at me. You’re alright, yeah? You’re good.”

Your throat works, but no words come out. The pistol feels like it weighs more than your body, your hands shaking so badly the barrel wavers.

Toby’s chest heaves, blood still seeping from his shoulder where the rake had gotten him earlier. He’s pacing, muttering, his hatchet twitching in his grip as he keeps his eyes glued to the treeline. “Didn’t h-have a choice. Didn’t have a fu-fucking choice.”

The fight is chaos all around you—the shrieks of rakes tearing through the treeline, the thunder of gunfire, the sharp metallic smell of blood and smoke—but Tim’s voice cuts through it like a blade.

“We’re done,” he snaps, chest heaving. His eyes slash over Brian and Toby, then down to you still shaking beside him. “She doesn’t stay out here another second. She’s leaving.”

It’s like time stops. Brian stiffens, his rifle lowering slightly as if he can’t believe he heard him right. Toby jerks his head toward him, eyes wide and shaky, rage flashing hot across his face. But neither of them argue. Neither of them deny it. Instead, silence rolls in heavy, broken only by the growls in the woods.

Your heart seizes. “No—no, I’m not going anywhere—” you shout, voice ragged, raw with tears. “You can’t—you can’t make me—”

But Tim doesn’t let you finish. He hooks his arm around your waist, dragging you hard against him as he barrels across the yard. Your boots skid in the wet grass, your body thrashing, but his grip is unrelenting. Every step forward is a war as you claw at him, cry against him, your pistol nearly slipping from your hands.

“Tim, stop!” Your voice cracks, your chest heaving. “I’m not leaving you—I’m not—”

“You are,” he bites out, hauling you through mud and into the gravel drive. The truck waits there like some looming salvation, headlights dark, windshield streaked with rain tracks, that tarp still covering the window. Every step he takes feels like betrayal twisting deeper into your chest.

“I’m not—” You fight harder, shoving at him, tugging his jacket, but he spins on you, his hands gripping your arms so hard you flinch. His voice is thunder now, ripped from the depths of his lungs, desperate and sharp.

“If you don’t leave—if you don’t drive far, far from here—you’re going to die tonight.” His face is inches from yours, sweat dripping off his jaw, eyes wild and hardened. “You’ll get ripped apart out here, you hear me? They’ll tear you to shreds.”

You shake your head violently, tears blurring your sight. “I don’t care—I don’t care, I’m not leaving you—”

“Yes, you do.” His grip loosens, but only so he can rip open the door and shove you into the driver’s seat. The old leather squeals under your weight as you land, disoriented, your hands scrambling for anything to hold. You drop the pistol onto the floor, it clattering near the petal. Tim rips the door wider, leaning inside just long enough to snatch the keys from the cupholder. His jaw locks as he shoves them into the ignition, the metallic click echoing finality.

You’re sobbing now, gripping the steering wheel like it might hold you down, keep you from floating away from everything you’ve come to know. “Please, Tim—please don’t make me—” And then he does something that steals the last of your breath. 

He grabs your face. Both hands, rough gloved palms warm against your tear-soaked cheeks, forcing you to look at him. His eyes bore into yours, wild and raw and so unbearably human. His voice drops low, almost breaking.

“It’s better this way,” he tells you. “We’re dangerous. We’re nasty. We’ve never deserved you—not for a single goddamn second. You’re going to leave, and you’re going to stay away from here, or I’m going to kill you myself.”

It feels like the world caves in.

Before you can speak, before you can cling to him, before you can make him see you’re not afraid—he pulls away. His hands fall from your face, his body turning, the door slamming so hard it rattles the frame around you. And then he’s gone, boots pounding back through mud, shotgun raised, swallowed by the night and the chaos as you sit there, shaking, staring through tears at his retreating form.

The steering wheel is cold beneath your palms, the leather cracked from years of use. You can still feel the imprint of Tim’s hands on your cheeks, the warmth of his touch fading too quickly as the night swallows him whole. Your chest heaves, and it feels like your ribs are going to split apart.

Everything crashes over you at once.

The sitting room with its worn couches and candles, the warmth of Toby’s laugh when you’d change his bandages, Brian’s steady hands guiding you to bed when you wouldn’t stop studying, Tim’s quiet reassurances in the kitchen at dawn when sleep never came. You remember the alcohol, the meals, the flirting that turned into something deeper—something unspoken but heavy, binding. You think about the traps, the days of work under the sun, the sweat, the calloused hands reaching for yours, the jokes they made even when exhaustion clung to their shoulders. You think about your fear of them, your lust for them, your overwhelming need to be in their presence no matter how terrified you were of everything else. No matter how many things you’ve been through, it’s all come back to you and your friends.

And now—Tim is gone, swallowed into the night. Toby’s blood is still fresh in your memory, streaked across his shoulder when he held your face. Brian’s rifle cracks still echo like thunder. They are out there fighting, bleeding, killing, dying.

And you’re here—alone in a truck with the keys in the ignition.

The sobs rip through you violently, shaking you until your chest aches. You bury your face in the steering wheel first, muffling the sound against leather. Then your head slips sideways, forehead pressing into the console. The smell of dust and old oil fills your nose, sharp and bitter. You cry until your throat burns, until your vision swims, until the only thing you can hear besides your own breaking breaths are the shrieks of the rakes and the crack of rifles outside. You’re useless, that voice inside you whispers. You’ll just be dead weight. Tim’s right. You don’t belong here. You’ll die.

But—

Something catches your eye. In the corner of your blurred vision, tucked against the back seat, there’s a mess. A mess that isn’t random. Gasoline cans. A jug of accelerant. A bundle of barbed wire tangled in rope. Even a couple small logs tossed carelessly, remnants of the trap-building. All of it shoved into the cab in a hurry, forgotten when the fighting started.

Your sobs stutter, catching in your chest. Slowly, you lift your head, vision sharpening on the pile. It’s ugly and sharp and dangerous—and it’s everything your uncle ever wrote about. Everything he used. Everything that works.

An idea blossoms. A horrible, terrifying, perfect idea.

Your hand trembles as you reach back, fingertips brushing the cold plastic of the gas can. You drag it closer, the slosh of liquid inside sending shivers down your spine. Your brain starts moving faster than your fear, connecting dots you hadn’t dared to before. Gasoline. Accelerant. Wire. The truck itself.

It’s a weapon.

You choke on a laugh through your tears, the sound wet, broken, almost hysterical. Because suddenly, for the first time tonight, you’re not powerless. You can do something. Your uncle wanted fire. He wanted to burn them. And now—you can. Not one, not two, but dozens. All of them.

You press your palm hard over your mouth, trying to steady yourself, because the thought is so violent, so insane, it terrifies you. But it’s there. And it’s growing.

You don’t have to leave them. You don’t have to abandon the manor. You don’t have to run. You can end this.

Your eyes flick to the windshield, catching the shapes darting in the yard, the blur of claws and teeth and screaming, the flash of muzzle fire. You see Toby swinging his hatchet again, blood on his face. Brian crouched low, reloading. Tim’s silhouette just at the edge of the light, turning back toward the fight after shoving you in here.

And it hits you like a revelation: If you’re going to die, you’ll die with them. But not useless. Not helpless.

With fire. With teeth of your own.

Your knuckles are white on the steering wheel as you slam the truck into drive. Gravel spits like shrapnel behind you, tires shrieking in protest as you rocket across the yard. Your heart hammers so violently you can barely hear yourself breathe, every nerve screaming that this is suicide—but you press harder on the gas.

The boys blur in your peripheral. Tim’s head whips toward you, his mask pushed halfway up, his mouth moving as he yells—but his voice doesn’t reach you. Toby shouts, swinging his hatchet down into something that crumples at his feet, then jerks toward the truck, his goggles reflecting the headlights. Brian fires another shot, then spins as the roar of the engine rattles the ground.

They’re all shouting, all moving toward you—but you’re gone before they can stop you.

The truck bucks and jolts as you tear past them, the yard disappearing in streaks of shadow and firelight. You weave between broken patches of barbed wire, rattling teeth-clenched over the uneven ground. A gap opens—just two trees lashed with twisted strands of wire—and you gun it, slamming through, metal squealing as wire scrapes down the sides.

The treeline swallows you whole. Branches whip at the hood, clawing the windshield, but you don’t stop. You keep your eyes on the rearview. 

They’re following.

The first few rakes dart from the shadows, spindly limbs glinting pale in the moonlight. Then more. You count six. Eight. A dozen. Their bodies move in jerks, in blurs, sprinting low to the ground as they give chase, pulled from the manor by the thunder of your engine, by the prey you’ve made yourself. Your chest is ice and fire all at once. You keep driving, pushing them deeper, deeper, until the glow of the manor is gone and the forest swallows every sound. Only your heartbeat and the guttural screams echo through the trees.

You slam the brake. The truck screeches, fishtailing slightly before jerking to a violent stop. Your body flings forward into the belt, breath knocked out of you, but you don’t hesitate. You slam it into park.

Move. Move. Move.

You scramble into the back seat, fumbling with shaking hands until you yank a gas can into your lap. The slosh of fuel inside is deafening. You yank the lid and it glugs out, splattering over the upholstery, the windows, the seatbelt buckle slick with it. The smell burns your nose and stings your eyes. You clamber out the door, boots slipping in damp grass, and start dousing the outside. You splash gasoline down the sides, the hood, the bed. You pour it over the tires, dark rivulets running into the dirt. Another can—accelerant, sticky and chemical—goes over the hood, into the engine seams, dripping in fat trails down the chrome. You’re shaking so violently you almost drop the container, your fingers numb, but you don’t stop. You stumble around the truck, splashing more onto the grass, soaking a wide circle. The earth drinks it hungrily, the fumes heavy and cloying in the still night air.

Behind you, in the distance, the screams are louder. Branches snap. The rakes are coming.

You slam the last can down, chest heaving, eyes darting back to the truck. It gleams slick and wet under the moonlight, reeking like a bomb waiting for a match.

This is it. This is all you’ve got left.

Your breath is ragged, lungs screaming for air, but your hands move without thought. You dive back into the cab of the truck, knees slamming the seat as you stretch across the console. Your trembling fingers fumble until they close around cold steel—your pistol, half-buried on the floor where you dropped it earlier. You grip it so tight your knuckles ache, dragging it up into your lap.

Then you slam your other hand down onto the horn. The truck wails, a long, broken scream that shudders through the trees. The sound rips the stillness apart, echoing like a challenge through the black forest.

Every hair on your body rises. You can hear them answer. Distant at first—skittering claws against bark, shrieks splitting the silence. Then closer. Branches snapping. Leaves tearing. The forest moving toward you.

You don’t let go. You keep your hand pressed down, the horn’s mechanical scream mixing with your own voice as you shout into the dark. “Come on! Right here!” You slam the horn one more time, and the wheel jams, the sound blasting infinitely.

They’re coming. Fast.

Your pulse spikes until you think you’ll faint. The first shadow cuts between two trees, pale and feral, its limbs jerking with that unnatural gait. You don’t wait. You shove the door open, boots hitting damp earth, and sprint in the opposite direction. The horn still wails behind you, the truck’s scream dragging them closer. You dart into the dark, lungs burning, and throw yourself against the thick trunk of a tree. You press your back to the bark, trying to still your heaving chest, breathing through your nose in shallow pulls.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t—

Another shriek. You chance a glance, just enough to see through the undergrowth.

They’re on it.

One rake leaps at the truck, spindly limbs slamming against the driver’s side, claws tearing through the tarped window like paper. Glass explodes, and the thing shoves its head inside, screaming at the smell of fuel and the constant horn. Another bounds after it, claws catching the hood, ripping it back with a metallic screech. A third scrambles across the roof, hammering at it, desperate. They’re swarming, nearly all of them either bounding their way towards it, or already jumping it. Six, seven—ten—fourteen.

Your hand shakes so violently you almost drop the gun, but you lift it anyway. You raise the pistol, line up the sights, every muscle taut with the fear that you’ll miss. The engine grill gleams faintly in the dark, slick with accelerant.

You suck in one shallow, trembling breath—

And squeeze the trigger—once, twice, three times. The pistol bucks, the sound sharp and unnatural against the chaos. Sparks flash from the grill, metal pinging as the rounds punch through. The engine coughs. Pops. Smoke belches out in thick, oily coils, hissing up into the night.

For a beat, nothing.

The rakes pause mid-snarling frenzy, their elongated heads twisting toward you in perfect, awful unison. Their bodies still, claws flexing against the mangled truck. The forest itself seems to stop breathing.

“Shit—” you hiss, breath catching. One of them crouches, muscles bunching.

And then the world ends.

BOOM.

The truck erupts like a warhead. A fireball rips through the night, so bright it blinds you, swallowing the trees in a split-second flare. The explosion climbs skyward, a burning column that makes the treetops glow. The blast hits you like a wall, knocking your hair back, searing the skin on your face, your arms.

The rakes don’t scream right away. Not until the fire eats them. You see them flail—bodies twisted and jerking as the flames seize their pale skin, clinging like the fire itself was made for them. Their shrieks rip the forest apart, the sound so loud it rattles your bones. They thrash, tearing at themselves, clawing at the earth, at each other, anything to get it off—but the fire doesn’t burn like normal. It races, eating faster, hotter, like their bodies are accelerants feeding it.

One collapses on the hood, its torso splitting open as fire pours out from within, hollowing it. Another stumbles into the grass, convulsing, before it just—crumbles. Ash in seconds.

You can’t move. You can’t breathe. Your pistol hangs limp at your side as you stare into the inferno. The smell of scorched earth, of meat, of something wrong hits you in waves. The sound—those screams—they burrow straight into your chest. You don’t even realize you’re crying until the tears scald down your hot cheeks.

The air is thick with burning—so hot your lungs can barely drag in breath. The horn is still shrieking from the twisted ruin of the truck, its note warped and fizzling, a maddening siren wailing over the sound of screaming things dying. They’re everywhere, writhing in the flames. Fifteen of them—every rake that had closed in on the manor—rolling, thrashing, their pale bodies blackening and cracking as the fire devours them from the inside out. You did it. You killed them all. It’s over—

Movement.

Your eyes snap right—just in time to see one hurl itself from the fire. It’s nothing but bone and flame, skin sloughing off in wet strips as it skitters toward you. Its mouth stretches wide, fangs glowing red in the heat, flesh dripping from its skull like candle wax.

“Fuck—!” you scream, raising the pistol.

You fire once, twice, three times. Bullets crack its skull, but it doesn’t fall—it just stumbles, lunging again. Your heel catches on roots, and you spin, but it’s already there, claws catching your thigh. White-hot pain erupts as it drags you down, talons sinking deep. You scream, kicking, shoving, but the rake claws higher, ripping into your waist.

“NO—GET OFF!”

You jam the pistol against its jaw and fire. The recoil almost knocks it free. Blackened flesh bursts, bone splintering—but the thing doesn’t stop. Its face is melting, dripping, its mouth opening wide to clamp down on you. The heat is so excruciating, marring your skin the closer it gets, charring your clothes and burning your senses. Terror overtakes you—feral, animal terror. You’re sobbing, kicking, clawing at the dirt, trying to wrench free, your legs slipping in ash and mud. Your finger spasms, pulling the trigger until the pistol clicks empty, muzzle flashing with each desperate shot.

The world is nothing but heat and screaming.

You can’t breathe, you can’t think—your ears ring from the horn and the sound of things dying, high-pitched and keening like a thousand nails on glass. It smells like scorched meat and copper, your own blood slick under you as the rake drags you closer to the flames. Its claws rake higher, tearing into your thigh, your hip, your chest—and the pain is so sharp you nearly black out. You’re choking on your own sobs, on smoke, on fear. This is hell. This is hell.

It pulls one claw free, rearing back to drive it straight into your ribs, and that’s when something inside you snaps.

If you’re going to die, it’s going to be by your own hand—not theirs.

With a broken scream you reach forward into its mouth. Heat sears your palms instantly, the stink of burning flesh curling up from your own skin, but you keep going, jamming your fingers between its fangs. It’s slick and wet and sticky with half-melted tissue. You grip hard and pull.

The sound it makes is not human. Wet cartilage and sinew tear, a crunching, stringy rip that vibrates up your arms. The jaw splits down the middle, skin peeling like paper. You’re screaming with it now, your palms blistering, but you don’t stop until the entire bottom jaw hangs loose in your hands and the thing lets out a gurgling hiss, collapsing half on top of you.

With one last heave—like Toby did in the manor—you kick it. Hard. Its head snaps back, the ruined jaw lolling, and it stumbles just enough for you to roll. You roll and roll, over blood, over ash, until you’re free from its claws. You scramble to your knees, teeth bared, hair plastered to your face, and before it can reach again, you grab a jagged branch from the ground and drive it into the hole where its throat used to be. You push until it cracks.

It convulses once. Twice. Then it’s still.

The horn keeps blaring. The forest keeps burning. Your hands are shaking, blistered and bloody, smoke curling off your skin. But the thing is dead. You killed it. And for a second—just a second—there’s no sound but your heartbeat. Smoke rolls over the clearing like a serpent, thick and oily, turning the now rising sun into a dull smear of orange. Everything smells of ash, iron, and gasoline. The grass where you’re kneeling is black and fraying, melted into tar by the heat. The truck is nothing but a burning husk, its horn still blaring and then sputtering out in a long, warped whine.

You blink, trying to focus. The edges of your vision shudder, the color gone. You see shapes—shapes of charred bodies, rakes twisted and writhing in their last spasms, claws still curled—but your eyes keep sliding off them. It’s too much. All of it.

You push your palms against the ground to stand, and it’s like pressing your hands into coals. Blisters have already burst; the skin is tacky and raw, peeling where you touched the rake’s jaw. A tremor rips up your arms and into your chest. You stagger upright, but the pain follows everywhere. Your thigh burns where its claws dug in, warmth running down your leg in thick, sticky rivulets. Your ribs… god, your ribs. Every breath feels like a knife slipping between them, hot and wet, like there’s liquid where your lungs should be. You can taste it in your mouth—copper, smoke, and something chalky you can’t name.

The world tilts. You blink again, hard. For a heartbeat you’re sure you’re already dead. You’re standing in the middle of a graveyard of monsters, and you’re just one more corpse swaying before it hits the ground.

But then, like a blessing, you hear your name being shouted by three distinct voices. Three familiar, lovely voices. They’re frantic, and they’re panicked, but you couldn’t be more happy to hear them. You turn, wobbly, to where the forest breaks. Three figures are tearing toward you through the haze, guns slung, faces pale under smeared masks. The moment they clear the smoke, they slow. They stop.

You take one step toward them, then another, clutching your ribs where the warmth gushes, your fingers coming away slick. The smell of your own blood is louder than the fire now.

They’re staring. They’re not even moving anymore. You try to smile, your lips cracking under the soot. “I…” your voice breaks, a rasp. “I did it.”

For a moment the world is quiet, even the horn dying out at last. You take one more step. Your knees give. Your vision blurs into streaks of red and grey. The taste of iron floods your mouth. You think you hear them shouting again, sprinting, but it’s far away, like an echo in water. You hit the ground hard, cheek pressed into scorched earth. The last thing you feel is the warmth spilling from your ribs, the sting of blisters on your hands, the ache of every claw mark and burn along your skin.

Then—black—like falling into a lake.

── .✦

It’s hard to make it all out.

The world tilts and shivers around you, fragments of sight and sound snapping in and out like static. You feel weightless, yet every nerve is screaming. Brian’s arms are under you, solid, unyielding, carrying you like you’re both lighter and heavier than air at once. His mask is off, and glimpses of his face flicker through your hazy awareness—grim, focused, terrified.

The heat of the burning truck fades behind you, but the ache in your chest and legs is relentless, pulsing with every heartbeat. You try to speak, a hoarse laugh, a joke, anything to ease the tension of everything burning and screaming, but Toby’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and steady, “Shut u-up. I-It’s gonna b-be fine.”

You catch his eyes, goggles up, muzzle down, hands on your head, cradling you as if you’re made entirely of fragile glass. You try to reach for him, to tell him you’re okay—or at least that you’re still alive—but his hands guide you gently, and you sink back into Brian’s arms because they’re so comforting.

Tim is on your other side, pulling at your shoes, his movements brisk but careful, peeling away the soaked, torn fabric over your thigh. You feel the cool night air touch the raw skin, and a stab of pain makes you gasp. You try to speak again, to tell him it’s okay, that you can handle it, but he doesn’t look at you. He won’t let you meet his eyes. You can feel his concentration, his fear, the way his hands linger just long enough to be steadying without hurting.

You slip in and out of consciousness, flashes of the forest, the flames, the exploding truck, all bleeding into the warm, familiar glow of your manor. Brian’s arms, Toby’s hands, Tim’s careful motions—they are everywhere and nowhere all at once. The chaos, the heat, the horror of it all, it mixes into a dizzying haze. And then—finally—the main thing you remember is the smell of the manor, soot and candle wax, woodsmoke and dust, mingling with the faint, reassuring scent of the boys themselves. You feel the crash of the back door, the shift of weight, then the terrible stiffness of the kitchen table under your back.

The fluorescent light overhead hums softly, harsh and stark against the shadows of the room. You’re laid out on the hard surface, the same way you once watched Toby, clutching his hands while the world seemed to tilt, though now the terror is painfully real. Now it’s your turn, only you get to feel every minute of the pain, unlike him.

Toby is at your head, leaning over you, voice low and steady. “Hey… look a-at me, princess. It’s okay. You’re s-still here.” His fingers brush against your cheek, gentle, grounding, and you instinctively reach for him, clutching the fabric of his jacket. But then your eyes drift down to your hands—the blood, the scorched skin, the scalded blisters and abrasions—and you can’t stop the sudden flood. Tears stream down your cheeks, hot and sticky against the ache of your wounds.

Toby presses his lips to your palms, one after the other, softly. “It’s gon-gonna be f-fine,” he murmurs, his voice a tether holding you to the present, pulling you from the edges of panic.

Brian and Tim move around you efficiently, silently commanding the space. Brian pulls out every piece of medical gear in the kitchen: scissors, gauze, antiseptic, bandages, sutures. Tim starts ripping open your torn clothing, cleaning off the soaked fabric, disinfecting the worst of the blood before Brian can work. You try to joke, teasing them about getting you undressed, but they don’t laugh—they’re focused, intense, unwavering in their attention to you.

You feel everything—the sting of disinfectant, the pressure of hands cleaning your wounds, the way your skin burns from scrubbing, the soreness in muscles that barely had a chance to recover. Your consciousness starts swimming, flickering between moments: you can see the rakes, the burning truck, the manor in chaos, and then it’s Brian’s hands on you, Tim’s careful motions, Toby’s warm presence anchoring your head.

Toby leans closer, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, eyes locked on yours. “Breathe f-for me. Focus here. You’re ok-okay, sweet girl, we’ve g-got you.” His voice is soft, coaxing, a shield against the fire and pain still echoing through your body. You cling to him, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palms, the steadiness of him, the assurance that despite everything, you’re not alone. Your vision swims, tears still blurring it, but in the midst of all the pain, the chaos, the horror you’ve survived, there’s a tether—a line of warmth and protection that only they provide. Toby keeps talking, quietly, softly, a gentle rhythm to your panic, a constant reminder that you’re alive, that you made it through, that somehow, in this hellish moment, you are safe.

The kitchen smells sharp and acrid, antiseptic mixing with the lingering smoke from the manor and the burnt earth outside. Your body is cold against the table, legs splayed, chest heaving, burns sizzling along your shoulders and collarbone, skin blistered, blackened in some places, raw and tender in others. The claw gashes along your thighs dig deep, uneven, jagged, ragged from the rake’s grip. Your ribs throb with every breath, the skin split and bloodied where its claws tore across your side.

Brian kneels beside you first, gloved hands moving swiftly. He sprays antiseptic, the sting shocking you into a hiss, and your hands clamp onto the edge of the table, knuckles white. He murmurs apologies, trying to soothe the sting as he gently spreads your skin to stitch jagged cuts closed. Each needle tears at your flesh, leaving streaks of crimson, and your stomach twists. You cry out, a raw sound, half panic, half pain.

Tim crouches near your other side, soaking gauze and cleaning away the soot and blood, his fingers pressing firmly but carefully into raw burns and gouges. Every brush of the fabric over your blistered skin makes you hiss, jerking away, tears running freely. “Breathe,” he says, voice firm but calm, and you try, even as the stinging keeps you hyperventilating. He swears under his breath, hissing when a particularly deep gouge bleeds more than expected.

Toby is at your head, steadying you as you thrash. He murmurs encouragement, keeping your attention. “Look at m-me, look a-at me. You were so br-brave tonight—you figured out a-a plan, y-you saved us all. That’s what matters. Y-You’re amazing, princess.” You squeeze his hands, voice broken and cracking, trying to ask him if it’s bad, if the damage is too much, but he shakes his head. “No. None of th-that matters now. Just hold o-on. Focus on m-me.”

You feel Brian and Tim’s movements on your body, one stitching a jagged gash along your ribcage while the other cleans and dresses a raw claw mark across your thigh. The sting of antiseptic, the tug of the needle, the pressure of bandages pressed against burnt and split skin—it’s all overwhelming. You scream, cry, hiss, and wriggle under their hands, unable to process how much of yourself is ruined. Tim growls when a particularly deep cut gags you with pain; Brian’s face is tight, apologetic but methodical as he clamps and sutures. Toby keeps you tethered, whispering, joking lightly, pressing kisses to your hands, your cheeks, murmuring how brilliant you were, how much courage it took to do what you did. “Y-You’re going to be fine, sweet g-girl.” You cling to him, nails digging into his arms, rocking slightly, as the others continue their work, their own faces straining with concentration and worry.

Every stitch, every swipe of cloth, every careful bandaging of burnt and clawed flesh is agonizing. Your chest feels tight, ribs pulsing with pain, thighs burning, shoulders screaming, and yet Toby’s presence grounds you. “Look at me,” he repeats again and again, voice low, coaxing, pulling you back from the spiraling haze of pain. You cry against him, wet and broken, body wracked, but through it, you can’t help but be glad that you’re in their hands.

Brian bends beside you, gloves damp with blood, eyes scanning the jagged tear along your ribs. “I’m going to have to lift you,” he says softly, but you hear the steel underneath—the necessity.

Toby steps sideways to your head and torso, pressing his arm under your neck and lifting, angling your ruined ribs towards Brian. Tim grips your legs and hips, holding you tight, keeping you from thrashing as every muscle in your body screams in pain. You scream anyway, nails digging into their arms, tearing at their clothes, jerking and shaking against them. Every breath sends stabs of agony through your ribs, every move sets fire through the fresh burns on your chest and shoulders.

Brian moves carefully, the needle threaded and ready, but even he hesitates for a heartbeat, staring at the raw flesh exposed through the tear in your side. You hiccup between sobs, reaching out for him, your fingers brushing against his forearm. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry we weren’t there sooner. I swear, you’ll be alright.”

Toby hums low against your temple, pressing gentle kisses into your hair, murmuring words to keep you tethered to the moment. “Hold on, ok-okay? Breathe with me. Focus h-here.” His hands tighten slightly, bracing your torso as Tim adjusts his grip on your hips to lift just enough to let Brian work.

Brian’s needle pierces the skin, dragging thread carefully, painfully across the tear. The sting is unbearable, and you let out a ragged scream, eyes watering, body arching instinctively. Tim and Toby hold you steady, muscles straining, watching with horror at every motion. Your chest heaves, burns flaring anew as the fabric of your life—your skin—comes together stitch by stitch. You hiccup again, shivering through the pain, reaching for Brian’s hands. “I… I can’t…” you gasp, words swallowed by sobs. He leans closer, whispering against your ear, “You can. You’re so brave. I promise. Just a little more. Almost done.”

Toby’s voice cuts through the haze, low and firm, “Just b-breathe, princess. Just breathe.” Tim murmurs something similar, though quieter, keeping your lower body steady as your ribs flex painfully.

Every second stretches into eternity—the pull of the needle, the sting of antiseptic on torn skin, the heat of burns, the ache of claw gashes. But slowly, agonizingly, Brian works through the tear, bringing the wound together. You cling to Toby, fingers digging into his arms, tears soaking your cheeks, shaking and whimpering. His hands never leave you, gentle but unyielding, a lifeline through the storm of pain. By the time Brian pulls the last stitch through, you’re exhausted, trembling, and completely soaked in sweat and tears. Your body feels like it belongs to someone else, every inch screaming, but Toby presses his forehead to yours, murmuring, “It’s over… you’re al-alive… you made i-it.” Tim loosens his grip slightly, still close, and you finally feel the faintest thread of relief through the agony.

They move slowly, carefully, each of them hyper-aware of every flinch, every groan. You feel the sting of the antiseptic as they clean the burns on your shoulders, chest, and arms, the raw, tender skin protesting with every wipe. The claw gouges on your thighs and ribs throb with a burning ache, and the heat from the scraped, exposed patches of skin makes your head spin. Adrenaline crashes through you, leaving your body trembling and weak, and every heartbeat is a sharp reminder of how close you came.

Tim’s hands are gentle as he lifts your chin, pressing a hard, planting kiss to your forehead. The warmth of him contrasts with the icy sting of your injuries, and for a moment your chest aches in a different way. Brian bends, holding your hands between his, brushing his lips over your knuckles, murmuring quiet reassurances that blur into your dizzy, pain-riddled mind. Toby’s arms wrap around you from behind, steadying, firm, holding you as though he’s keeping your very body from falling apart. His hands press into your ribs and shoulders, hugging you so tightly that it both hurts and comforts in equal measure.

You can barely think. The sensation of their care, the intimacy of their touch, hits you all at once—so warm, so safe, so overwhelmingly tender, but contrasted against the searing pain of your wounds and the cold emptiness left by adrenaline fading. You try to speak, to tell them how much you love them, how much this moment, these hands, these voices, mean to you—but the words stick in your throat. The room tilts, your vision softening at the edges, and the weight of everything—pain, relief, exhaustion, and the love you’ve been holding in—is too much. Toby’s arms tighten instinctively, Tim’s kiss lingers against your burning skin, Brian’s lips warm your chilled hands—and the mixture of sensations is overpowering. Then, as if your body finally gives up, you let go. Darkness seeps in at the edges of your vision, your knees buckle slightly, and the last thing you feel before slipping away is their warmth surrounding you.

── .✦

You wake slowly, the sunlight stabbing through the jagged remnants of your curtains and the shattered glass along the window frame. The warmth of the day clashes with the chill in your body, but your head is pounding, every throb syncing with the raw ache radiating through your chest and ribs. Your mouth is parched, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, and your stomach churns in sickly rebellion. Every movement makes your skin scream.

You try to sit up and fail, wincing as pain spikes along your thighs, hips, and sides. The covers press against you, heavy with the memory of the night before, the heat from the fire still lingering faintly in the fabric. You manage to push the blanket down, shivering as the air hits your exposed skin, and notice you aren’t wearing your own shirt—but a large, soft one, far too big, falling loosely around your shoulders. One of the boys must have dressed you while you slept.

You lift the fabric carefully, the motion sending shocks of pain through your ribs and shoulders, and your stomach twists at the sight. Stitches litter your skin like a harsh constellation, jagged lines crisscrossing through burned and clawed areas. Between them, smaller cuts still scab over, bruises in purples and yellows bloom across your body, and your thighs are sore from where the rakes clawed and you fought. Even your arms and neck bear the marks of the chaos, tender to touch, throbbing with a dull ache that refuses to fade.

The room itself is in disarray. Broken glass glints in the sunlight across the floor. Torn curtains flap slightly in the breeze that sneaks through gaps in the panes. Your desk is overturned, papers scattered and smeared with dirt and blood that’s thankfully been cleaned in part. The dresser drawer is half-open, its contents spilling onto the floor. The scent of antiseptic and scorched wood lingers faintly, mixing with the normal mustiness of the manor, reminding you of every moment of horror and survival from the night before. The rake that was lying dead in the middle of this room the last time you saw is gone now, nothing but a bad memory.

Even lying here, you feel the weight of every movement: every rib that shifts, every stretch of skin over torn flesh, every tender burn that the air touches. Your chest rises and falls with labored breaths, your muscles tense, and you realize just how thoroughly your body has been punished. Yet, somehow, you’re alive—and the soft fabric of the shirt, the quiet morning light, and the faint warmth of the room are proof that someone was there, taking care of you while you were gone. Your body screams in pain, but your mind reels from gratitude, exhaustion, and the remnants of terror that still cling to your skin.

You shift slightly, wincing as every muscle protests, trying to sit up just enough to get a better look at your hands. The blisters across your palms and the burned, singed patches along your forearms make you flinch, and memories of the heat, the flames, the clawing pain, and the raw struggle surge unbidden. Your stomach knots, and your chest tightens, but you force your eyes to the water on your nightstand. Reaching for it feels impossible—the movement sends sharp jolts of pain through your ribs, thighs, and shoulders.

Before you can even attempt it again, the door opens. Brian steps in, quiet but alert, and freezes when he sees you, frail and trembling, attempting to stretch for the glass. His eyes soften immediately, and without a word, he crosses the room, picking up the water and handing it to you. Relief floods you, but when you open your mouth to thank him, nothing comes out. Your voice is gone, hoarse and cracked from screaming and exhaustion. Brian notices instantly, his hands gentle as he nudges the glass closer. “Drink,” he says softly, his tone firm yet caring. He also presses a small cup toward your lips. Medicine. You hesitate, swallowing hard, but he guides it for you. The liquid slides down roughly, making you cough a little, tingling your throat—but you manage it.

Once you’ve swallowed, he doesn’t let go. He gently helps you shift, guiding your body upright just enough that you can sit on the edge of the bed. His hands linger to support your back, steadying you while he visually inspects your arms, chest, and thighs. Every bruise, blister, and stitch catches his attention, and you can feel his concern radiating in the way he moves, the careful, methodical way he assesses you without forcing any additional pain. You shiver from the effort, but his presence is grounding, a tether as you try to process the ache coursing through every part of your body.

Your voice is raspy, croaky, but it comes out finally, a weak sound that still surprises you. “Th-thank you,” you manage, blinking at him. “Where… where are the others?”

“They’re cleaning up outside,” Brian says quietly, his eyes distant and tired. “Clearing the… the bodies.” You nod slowly, letting the image settle in your mind.

You swallow, wincing as your ribs protest even the small movement. “How… how bad was it? Did I… look worse than I felt?” You try to laugh, try to smile, but it comes across awkward.

He exhales sharply, a low, weary sound. “You looked… like a falling-apart zombie,” he admits, voice heavy with emotion. “I… I’ve never been so terrified. Toby, Tim, all of us—we… we could literally see your ribs poking through your skin. I was so scared… scared I was watching you die.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. There’s so much pain in his expression, exhaustion, fear, and something else—something like relief that you’re alive. And he stares back, unflinching, unashamed.

A small, trembling breath escapes you, and you whisper, “Sit… sit next to me.”

Without hesitation, he climbs onto the bed, careful of your injuries, and sits close, back against the headboard. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting yourself feel the warmth and steadiness of him there. For the first time since the explosion, the chaos and fear recede just enough that you can breathe, your body trembling against him as he holds space for you silently, letting you rest your aching head while he absorbs the weight of the night along with you.

The room feels almost surreal in its quiet, the sunlight slanting through torn curtains and casting long lines across the mess of your bedroom. You shift slightly against Brian’s shoulder, wincing as your ribs protest, but the steady warmth of him keeps you rooted. He hums softly, the sound grounding you, as if just by existing there beside you, he’s telling you it’s okay to breathe.

“You did… amazing,” Brian murmurs, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead. “I mean… surviving, thinking, acting so quick… all of it. You… you kept yourself alive.”

You manage a weak laugh, hoarse and shaky, but it’s something. “I… I just…” Your voice trails off, croaky from the fevered night and exhaustion. 

Then the bedroom door bursts open, and Toby and Tim are there, rushing across the floor, worry etched into every line of their bodies. Toby’s eyes are wide, frantic, but soft when he sees you. Tim’s jaw is tight, stern, but relief softens his gaze as he sees you leaning against Brian.

You try to speak, your throat raw, “I… I’m sorry. I… for—”

Tim cuts you off gently but firmly, gripping your shoulders. “Stop,” he says. “Stop apologizing. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Toby rushes to your side, hands trembling as he cups your face, checking your injuries like he still can’t believe you’re alive. “Still t-the prettiest girl I know,” he whispers, voice cracking with relief.

You try again, choking back tears, “I—I ruined your truck… the manor… everything…”

They both move closer, one on each side, Brian’s hand still holding yours. “You didn’t ruin anything,” Toby says urgently, his voice shaking. “You saved u-us, you saved the fuckin’ p-place—you saved everything. That truck? That’s nothing. T-That’s fine. We’re fine.”

Tim leans in, voice steady but fierce, “There’s not a rake left, not a thing out there. You’ve done more than anyone could’ve. It’s perfect. Just… now you rest, okay?”

The three of them—Toby, Tim, Brian—clamp around you, and despite the aching of your body, the raw heat of your wounds, the weight of everything that’s happened, a sense of relief and safety blooms in your chest. You’re alive. They’re alive. The rakes are gone. And for the first time in days, the terror eases, leaving only the slow, grounding warmth of being held, of being home.

You close your eyes, letting yourself melt into their arms, sobbing softly but knowing, finally, that the nightmare is over.

── .✦

Healing is probably worse than the injury itself, you think.

The week unfolds slowly, each day a small victory. On day one, you’re mostly resting, moving little beyond the minimal shifts in bed to adjust your position. Brian is almost constantly by your side, checking your stitches, applying ointments, helping you sip water, making sure you eat something. Tim and Toby rotate their visits, bringing blankets, quiet conversations, and teasing smiles to keep your spirits from breaking. Their presence is a balm—you’re still in pain, still bruised and blistered, but the terror of the rakes is behind you.

By day two, you’re able to sit up longer, leaning back against pillows as the boys keep conversation going—Brian pointing out books, Toby joking about mundane things, Tim gently pressing you to talk about your body, your feelings, anything that’s stuck in you. The pain is still raw, but the act of being upright feels like the first small reclaiming of yourself. Toby tries to make you dinner, and Brian has to throw it away and start over.

On day three, you manage to crawl out of bed with Brian’s steady hands guiding you. Your legs tremble, your ribs ache with every motion, but the joy of movement, however tentative, is intoxicating. Toby hovers with his usual jittering hands, while Tim gives careful, encouraging instructions. They’re almost like anchors, holding you steady as you regain your independence bit by bit. The stitches and bruises on your body are gnarly, but they’re no longer raw.

Day four is a milestone—you walk down the stairs, slow, careful, holding onto the railing. Each step reminds you of the horror of the rakes, of how you ran down these steps nights ago, but also the comfort of the manor, of the boys’ unwavering protection. They follow behind, beside you, keeping pace, and every laugh, every small joke from Toby, every quiet reminder from Tim or Brian feels like a thread stitching you back together. They’ve been working on the manor, on cleaning, on repairing what the rakes had destroyed.

Through days five to seven, you begin to spend more time out of bed. You sit in the sitting room, wrapped in blankets, and watch the boys clean the manor and yard. Windows are wiped down, splintered wood repaired, furniture shifted back into place. They work in coordinated chaos—Tim hauling debris, Brian rearranging broken furniture, Toby starting fires in fireplaces, chopping wood, ensuring the warmth of the house returns.

You’re able to assist in small ways—handing them tools, fetching water, bringing food or coffee. The boys alternate time with you: one sits quietly at your side reading to you, another keeps you distracted with jokes, and the third hovers between action and conversation, ensuring you don’t overexert yourself. Pain is still present, a dull throb beneath the surface, but manageable now, as every day brings more strength.

By the end of the week, you’re walking steadily, moving through the house, helping in the kitchen, observing the yard, your hands brushing over railings, counters, and wood as if memorizing them again. You can feel your body responding, your lungs filling without pain, your muscles returning. The manor itself, though still scarred from the battle, seems to breathe again with you—its warmth, its chaos, and the careful, constant attention of the boys slowly restoring not just the building, but your sense of home.

You sink into the quiet of your restored bedroom, the sunlight filtering through the torn-but-cleaned curtains, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself truly think. The fear that gripped you—the terror of those monsters, the terror of losing them—still lingers like a ghost in your chest. But it’s different now. It’s smaller. It doesn’t own you.

You realize how much you’ve grown. Every moment in the yard, every trap you helped build, every shot fired, every fire ignited—it wasn’t just survival. It was courage, fierce and raw. You faced something beyond comprehension, stared down death, and came out of it alive. Not just alive, but unbroken. You are stronger than the forest and all its nightmares. Braver than any creature that dared cross the manor’s threshold. And this is your home. You’ve claimed it, defended it, and now it pulses with your energy just as much as it does with theirs.

And then there’s them. Your friends. Your boys. The thought of them makes your heart stutter—not with fear, not with hesitation, but with longing, warmth, and something deeper. You’ve seen their bravery, their strength, their devotion. You’ve seen how they care for you when the world is fire and claws and chaos, and you’ve seen how they love you, in their own chaotic, dangerous ways. And you want all of them. Every single one.

You don’t feel afraid of that anymore. You don’t feel guilty. You don’t feel torn. You’ve looked death in the face, you’ve held it in your hands, and nothing could shake you—so why should feelings for these boys? You don’t have to choose, you don’t have to hide, you don’t have to suppress anything. You know what you want, and you know who you want it with. The forest is still there, dark and whispering, but it doesn’t scare you the way it did. The rakes won’t return, not after this. And you won’t hide. Not anymore. Not from the world, not from them, not from yourself.

You close your eyes and breathe in the warmth of the manor, the weight of the sun, the quiet safety that now fills the space you fought for. You are alive. You are whole. You are theirs, and they are yours—and this time, fear won’t get in the way.

── .✦

The morning is soft and cool, the sky pale blue and streaked with drifting clouds. You step out onto the grass barefoot, sweater hanging loose over your frame, sleeves draping over your hands. It’s the first time you’ve been outside since that night, and it feels like a completely different life. The dew wets your toes instantly, and you close your eyes just for a second, breathing it in—the smell of cut grass, smoke no longer lingering faintly from the scorched treeline, the sound of the forest so eerily quiet now.

When you open your eyes, they’re all there. Brian and Tim are rolling up the last lengths of barbed wire, gloves dirty, boots caked with mud. Toby is dragging a stripped log to the side, goggles pushed up, muzzle hanging loose at his neck. They look up at you almost at the same time, and their expressions change—Brian’s goes soft, worried; Tim’s stern gaze falters; Toby stops mid-step.

Brian is the first to speak. “Careful,” he calls, wiping his hands on his pants. “You’re still healing—don’t push it.”

But you shake your head gently, a small smile curling your lips. “I’m okay,” you say, your voice still hoarse but clear. “Really.”

They exchange a look before they start walking toward you, boots crushing the grass, slowing as they get close—like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they move too fast. They circle around you instinctively, close but not crowding, three different kinds of presence: Brian steady and solid, Tim tall and sharp-eyed, Toby restless but watchful.

You take them in. One by one. The differences between them, the marks of everything that’s happened—their faces more worn now, eyes more tired but also more alive. The faint scars you recognize on their knuckles, the way they stand near each other without needing to speak. They’re not the same boys you first met, and neither are you.

You smile at them, something breaking loose in your chest. “I love you,” you say simply.

It’s like a pause in the world. Brian blinks, his brow furrowing slightly. Tim’s mouth parts just a little, as though he’s about to say something but doesn’t. Toby actually stops fidgeting, staring at you wide-eyed. They’re all stunned—but you keep going, making sure they understand.

“I want you. All of you. Each one. I’ve been fighting with it, trying to figure it out, trying not to ruin what we have. But I’m done sitting back. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m taking it. I want this. I want you. Together or not at all.”

You start to explain further, voice trembling but sure, but Tim raises a hand and cuts you off. “It’s about time,” he says, a faint smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth.

You blink at him, confused. “What?”

He chuckles dryly, glancing at the other two. “Ever since you kissed Toby that first night we drank together, we’ve known.”

Your face warms. “You—knew?”

Tim tilts his head toward Toby. “Yeah. Kid can’t keep his damn mouth shut. He spilled to us the next day.”

Toby scratches the back of his neck, sheepish but not denying it. Brian looks down at you, eyes softer now than you’ve ever seen them.

Tim’s voice is low but steady as he goes on. “We’re no strangers to sharing. And after what we’ve been through—there’s no way we’re going on without each other. Not now.”

You laugh, a little breathless, the sound carrying across the wet grass. “I had a whole speech ready,” you admit, shaking your head, smiling at how ridiculous it all feels. “And…well, nothing ever goes smoothly anyway, right? Why should this be any different?”

Without another thought, you step forward, letting the cool morning grass tickle your skin, and grab Toby and Brian by their shoulders. You nudge them closer together, with Tim naturally in the middle, and pull them into a tight, encompassing hug. You feel the warmth of each of them—the solidity of Brian, the quiet steadiness of Tim, the restless energy of Toby—and it fits, like puzzle pieces you never thought could align.

They all hug back instinctively, a tangle of arms and warmth, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the comfort of being together. You press a quick kiss to each of their cheeks, and almost immediately, each of them mirrors you, pressing one to your cheeks in return. It’s soft, gentle, and infinitely sweet. You tilt your head back slightly, letting out a giggle that shakes the last tension from your shoulders. The ache in your body, all the soreness, the burns, the stitches—they’re still there, but for the first time in what feels like forever, your chest feels full of something stronger than pain. The warmth of them, their steady presence, and the laughter bubbling up from you all—it overtakes everything else.

The three of them pull back slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes softened, a quiet kind of reverence in the way they hold themselves. You grin, cheeks flushed, and feel it: this is your home, your people, your life now—and nothing, not fear, not monsters, not even pain, could ever take this from you.

Tim squeezes your hand gently, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve got something to show you,” he says, and you nod, leaning on them as they guide you through the garden. The path winds between tall hedges, dappled sunlight filtering through, glinting off dew on the leaves. Each step is careful—you stumble a little on a stone, and Brian immediately steadies you, while Toby hums something light and teasing, just enough to make you giggle through your nerves.

They move slowly, giving you space but never letting you fall behind, letting you walk on your own. The air smells sweet, warm earth mixed with greenery and something floral. 

Finally, they arrive at the sunflowers you and Tim planted together. Their thick stems sway slightly in the afternoon breeze, the golden heads nodding toward the sun, towering nearly to your knees. You pause, breath catching in your throat. The sight is breathtaking—not just because of the flowers, but because of everything they represent.

You feel tears prickling your eyes as you take it in, the months of chaos, fear, and pain all leading to this moment. The manor behind you, battered but alive. The boys around you, battered but alive. The garden, the blooms, the sun, the calm after all the storms—they’ve all come together.

You finally let yourself smile fully, a little shaky, almost crying, and whisper, “Everything…everything turned out right in the end.”

Toby nudges your shoulder with his own, his grin soft, teasing. Brian stands quietly, eyes gentle, content, while Tim folds his arms, chest swelling just slightly with pride. And you know—truly—that in this moment, everything is perfect. The sunflowers sway gently, like nods of approval, and for the first time in months, you feel completely at peace, surrounded by those you love, in a world you’ve fought tooth and nail to protect.

For a long moment, no one speaks. The chaos, the fear, the nights of blood and fire, the exhaustion—all of it seems distant here, softened by the warmth of the sun and the closeness of the three boys beside you. You smile at them, a small, bright thing that grows with every heartbeat. The ache and the fear are still there, a shadow in the corners, but it no longer rules you. This—right here—is yours. Your home. You and your friends.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of all you’ve survived, and the warmth of all you’ve loved. “I love you,” you whisper again, softly, almost reverently. They hear you, feel you, and you feel them in return. No hesitation. No fear. Just the quiet, unshakable certainty of being together.

Tim clears his throat, breaking the silence with a grin that makes your heart lurch in a good way. “So…about my truck you blew up?” he says, half serious, half teasing. “I’m thinking you owe me a new one.”

You can’t help it—you laugh, a full, unburdened laugh, the sound ringing out through the garden, mingling with the wind and the rustle of sunflowers. Toby chuckles beside you, Brian smiles softly, and Tim just smirks, satisfied that he’s lightened the moment just enough.

You walk with them back toward the manor, the three of them flanking you like guardians, steady and reassuring. Their steps crunch softly over the gravel, the evening air cool against your bare arms, the golden light of the setting sun stretching long shadows across the lawn. They each slip inside first, each settling into their home too, the warmth of the house spilling into the twilight.

You linger at the threshold, your hand resting briefly on the doorframe, taking in the sight of the distant treeline. The forest looks calm, almost untouched—no movement, no whisper of danger. For the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn’t look threatening. Your chest lifts slightly with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the tension of months slowly releasing.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touches your lips. The manor behind you is safe, the yard silent, and the boys—your boys—inside. You let your eyes roam over the treeline one last time, committing it to memory: peaceful, quiet, conquered.

And then, with a final glance and a deep exhale, you turn, crossing the threshold yourself. The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, enclosing you in warmth, safety, and the quiet certainty that, for now, this is home—and it finally feels like it.

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

๑ to part one

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[rainrot4me]

It's Just Your Imagination

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────── full moon - the black ghosts

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Having an imaginary friend is a very normal part of childhood. What isn't normal, though, is when that imaginary friend begins to show up in the corners of your vision, leaving you presents and an uneasy feeling. What happens when babysitting a little boy turns into fending off his protector? The worst part? He thinks you're very, very pretty.

✦ . Characters: Laughing Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Horror, fear, imaginary friend!Laughing Jack, non-canon characters, stalking, obsession, plot heavy, inexperienced sex, virginity, monster fucking, inhumanly long tongue, cunnilingus, rough oral sex, vaginal sex, biting, scratching, hair pulling, rough sex, virgin!Laughing Jack, mentions of murder, creampie, breeding

✦ . Words: 21.5k

✦ . Note: Longest fic to date, I think! This was so incredibly fun to write, and I grew so attached to the characters I created during it! Jack is less clownish and more so child-mind figment in this, so don’t take anything I say as canon. Anyway! Very rough, very sloppy, very rewarding, please enjoy!!

────────────────────────────────────────────

It was a nice home. At least, it was set up that way.

You were pretty sure the paint was still wet on the fence when you pulled up. It had that high-gloss shimmer that caught in the early evening sun, and the whole house looked like someone had tried very hard to make it look like nothing bad had ever happened there. Suburban. White picket fence. Wind chimes that jangled sweetly in the breeze. It was the kind of place meant to be welcoming—but somehow, it just felt…staged. Like a movie set.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder and knocked twice on the blue door, ignoring the simplistic door knocker that probably wasn’t actually meant to be used.

It opened immediately. A woman in her early thirties greeted you, brushing auburn hair behind one ear and offering a tight, polite smile.

“You must be the sitter,” she said, a little breathlessly, like she’d jogged to the door. “Come in, come in—thank you again for being available on such short notice. I’m Mrs. Dalton—we talked on the phone.”

You stepped inside, the scent of lavender and lemon cleaner hitting you all at once. Everything was tidy, even too tidy. Not a toy out of place, not a speck of dust on the mantle. But there was a strange hum in the air, like something unseen had been recently disturbed and hadn’t quite settled.

“No problem at all,” you replied with a friendly smile. “You said you needed a sitter for a few days?”

She nodded. “Just five evenings, from around five-thirty to ten. I work the late shift at the hospital this week, and with my husband out of town…”

Her voice trailed off. You caught the way her eyes flicked down the hallway behind you before she forced another smile.

“Anyway, it’s just my son, Oliver. He’s six. He’s a good kid. A little…imaginative. Which reminds me—before you meet him, there’s something I should mention.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Let me guess—he’s got an imaginary friend?”

Her smile froze a little. “Friends. Plural. But yes.”

“Totally normal for that age.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” she murmured, and the tension in her voice was so brief and well-hidden you almost missed it. “Just… humor him. If he talks about them, just go along with it. Especially if he mentions Laughing Jack.”

Now that gave you pause. You tilted your head. “Laughing Jack?”

She waved her hand like she was brushing it away. “It’s just a name. He draws him a lot—some freaky clown… you know, spooky stuff kids get from cartoons.”

“I’m not scared of imaginary friends,” you joked.

“Good,” she said, too quickly. “Great. Let me introduce you.”

She led you down the hall to a bedroom on the left. Posters of dinosaurs and planets were taped unevenly on the walls, and crayons were scattered across the carpet. In the middle of the room, a little boy sat cross-legged in front of a coloring book, his brown hair messy, lips moving silently like he was in the middle of a conversation.

“Oliver?” his mother called gently. “Honey, this is your new babysitter. She’s going to stay with you while I’m at work, remember?”

Oliver looked up, wide blue eyes blinking at you. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just stared.

“…He likes you,” he said after a pause.

You glanced at his mother. She gave you an awkward little shrug.

“Nice to meet you, Oliver,” you said kindly, kneeling beside him. “Whatcha drawing?”

He flipped the page and showed you. The lines were shaky and crude, the colors bright and chaotic, but it was clearly a figure in black and white stripes with long arms and what looked like sharp teeth drawn in red crayon.

“This is Laughing Jack,” Oliver said solemnly. “He’s my best friend. He lives in the closet.”

You chuckled, trying to keep it light. “Well, that’s a very cool drawing. You’re really creative.”

“Laughing Jack likes it when I draw him,” Oliver added. “He likes to laugh. He doesn’t like when people are mean to me.”

That little prickle hit the back of your neck—the kind you get when you think someone’s standing behind you even though you know you’re alone.

You smiled a little too tightly. “Does he always stay in the closet?”

Oliver shook his head. “No. Sometimes he sits on my bed. Or hides under it.”

Mrs. Dalton cleared her throat. “Okay, sweetie. Why don’t you show her your space toys?”

He nodded and scuttled over to a plastic tub, pulling out spaceships and planets. You followed, asking him about them, listening to his explanations. He was articulate for a six-year-old, bright-eyed, and yes, wildly imaginative. But there was something in the way he paused mid-sentence like he was listening to someone you couldn’t hear. Occasionally, his eyes would flick to the shadowed corner of the room, near the closet door.

You figured maybe he was just shy. Or had a vivid inner world. You’d babysat dozens of kids. This wasn’t new.

But still, when he tugged at your sleeve fifteen minutes later and said, “Laughing Jack thinks you’re very pretty,” you couldn’t help the chill that spidered up your spine.

“…What?” you asked with a light laugh, trying not to sound weirded out.

“He said it just now,” Oliver replied simply, blinking up at you. “He said you smell nice, too. Like strawberries.”

You had used strawberry-scented shampoo that morning.

The closet door creaked slightly behind you—probably just the wind, or maybe the floor settling—and you turned toward it instinctively.

Nothing. Oliver just smiled and went back to coloring.

His mom gave you a final run-down before leaving: bedtime at eight-thirty, no sugar after dinner, TV only if homework was finished. She was quick, but not rushed—like she wanted to get out the door before you could change your mind and leave first.

She kissed Oliver on the top of his head. He barely reacted, still scribbling in his coloring book. Then she turned to you with a tight smile, and the kind of eyes that said thank you, but also good luck.

“If he has trouble sleeping,” she said softly near the door, “just read to him. He has a nightlight in case he gets scared. But… he probably won’t.”

“Got it,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “Have a good shift.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, the house suddenly felt too quiet. Like it had been holding its breath. You turned back toward the living room. “Alright, kiddo. You got any homework?”

Oliver groaned and flopped dramatically onto the couch. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Math. It’s dumb.”

You chuckled and dropped your bag by the coat rack. “C’mon, let’s knock it out. Then we can do something fun. You like grilled cheese?”

He nodded.

“I make the best grilled cheese. You finish your worksheet, and I’ll prove it.”

Oliver eyed you suspiciously. “Better than Mom’s?”

“I’ll let you be the judge.”

He didn’t smile—still hadn’t, actually—but there was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes as he retrieved his workbook and a pencil from his backpack.

You helped him through subtraction problems while he kicked his legs restlessly and talked about Jupiter like it was his summer home. He was sharp, creative, and a little unsettling in the way only kids can be—matter-of-fact and unfiltered.

While he worked, you started pulling together dinner: grilled cheese, carrot sticks, and a cup of apple juice. You moved around the kitchen like you were trying to own the space, but the house still felt a little foreign—like it knew you weren’t part of it.

“Who’s eating with us?” Oliver asked suddenly from his seat at the table.

You looked up from the skillet. “You mean besides us?”

He nodded. “Laughing Jack’s hungry. And he says Charlie and Mr. Gumball might come too.”

You blinked. “Are those more of your friends?”

“Uh-huh. Charlie only has one eye. But he sees everything.”

“And Mr. Gumball?”

“He’s a skeleton with no teeth. He tells me secrets.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out a little thin. “Well, I hope they like grilled cheese.”

“They can’t eat,” Oliver said plainly. “But they like to watch.”

You set the plates down gently. “…Good to know.”

Dinner passed with more chatter—some of it directed at you, some at people who weren’t there. Oliver had a habit of pausing mid-sentence like he was listening to a reply. You tried to ignore how often his eyes flicked just past your shoulder. You made him brush his teeth after, and he complied with the stoic attitude of a six-year-old facing grave injustice.

It was nearing eight-thirty when you tucked him into bed.

His room was dimly lit now, a soft glow from the rocket-shaped nightlight pulsing across the walls. You sat on the edge of his mattress and reached for the storybook he picked: Where the Sidewalk Ends.

“Okay,” you said, flipping to a random page. “One poem, and then sleep.”

“Can I ask something first?” he said suddenly, eyes wide and serious.

You paused. “Of course.”

Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think my dad is still in the basement?”

You blinked. “…What?”

He fidgeted with the edge of his blanket. “Mom says he left. But Jack says he didn’t. Jack says he screamed for a long time, but I couldn’t hear it because I was asleep.”

Your mouth went dry.

“…Oliver, your dad’s not here anymore?”

He shook his head. “He yelled a lot. At Mom and me. Jack didn’t like him, so he said he would keep me safe.”

“…What do you mean?”

Oliver looked at you calmly. “He said he made him into soup.”

Your throat tightened. The air in the room suddenly felt thick and unmoving. You forced a little laugh. “That’s…an intense imagination you’ve got.”

“I didn’t make it up,” Oliver said seriously. “Jack doesn’t lie.”

You glanced toward the closet, door slightly ajar. The shadows seemed longer than before. You tried not to show the absolute unease that twisted your features.

“Okay, time to sleep,” you said gently, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “You had a long day.”

Oliver didn’t argue. He rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

“Jack says you smell like strawberries because you’re sweet,” he murmured sleepily. “He thinks you’d make a really good friend.”

You stared at him. “…What?”

But Oliver was already drifting off. And somewhere in the corner of the room, the closet creaked.

── .✦

You got used to the routine pretty quickly.

Oliver’s mom would greet you with that same polite smile, say something like, “He’s been good today,” or “You know where everything is,” then slip out the door before you could even mention his dad. She never lingered. Her shift always started exactly on time.

And every night, it was the same: Help Oliver with homework. Make dinner. Talk about his “friends.” Pretend not to be freaked out. Read him a story. Tuck him in. Repeat.

On the second night, he told you Jack liked how “soft” your voice was—that he thought it would be “a very pretty singing voice.” You laughed it off. Said, “That’s a weird thing for Jack to say,” and Oliver just smiled.

It was becoming easy to convince yourself that Oliver was using Jack as a beacon. Kids did that. They had a hard time saying what they really meant, so it was easier to pretend someone else was saying it instead. It just made sense.

Later that same evening, you found one of Oliver’s drawings tucked inside your coat pocket when you were leaving. You didn’t remember him slipping it in. You weren’t even sure he’d touched your coat. But the paper was there—crayon scrawled in jagged loops, a picture of you sitting on the couch.

Behind you, in thick black strokes, was the striped figure of Laughing Jack, grinning with blood-red teeth.

You almost threw it out. You didn’t. You weren’t sure why.

By the third night, something had changed.

It started with how quiet the house felt when you walked in. Not the normal suburban calm—too quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.

Oliver had already set up his math homework by the time you got there.

“I knew you were coming,” he said without looking up. “Jack told me.”

You frowned. “Did he also tell you to get started on your math?”

“No,” Oliver said. “That was Charlie. He said if I don’t do my work, Jack gets bored. I don’t like it when Jack gets bored.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but found yourself unsure what to say.

Dinner was tense. Oliver ate quietly. You caught him glancing over your shoulder several times, like he was watching something just behind you. You turned once. Nothing there. Just a flickering lightbulb in the hallway.

After dinner, he started drawing again. You sat nearby, flipping through your phone, half-distracted.

“You’re really pretty,” Oliver said suddenly.

You looked up. “Thanks, bud. That’s sweet.”

“Jack says pretty things break easier.”

You stared at him.

“…You know that’s not a nice thing to say, right?”

He blinked. “But it’s true.”

That night, you tucked him in like usual. Read another poem. Turned on the rocket-shaped nightlight. Said goodnight, sweet dreams, and stepped into the hallway, already pulling your phone from your back pocket.

You’d left your water bottle in the kitchen.

You padded down the hallway barefoot, the wooden floors creaking softly beneath your steps. The house was dim except for the sliver of gold-orange from Oliver’s room behind you and the low hum of the fridge up ahead.

You reached the kitchen, grabbed the bottle, and twisted the cap open.

Then you heard it. Your name. Soft. Almost sing-song.

You paused mid-sip. You turned toward the hallway.

“Oliver?” you called gently. “What is it, bud?”

Silence. You waited. No answer.

You set the water down and walked quietly back toward the room, heart ticking up a little faster now.

“Hey, kiddo—did you call me?” you asked as you pushed open his door.

Oliver was fast asleep. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. Arms tucked under the blanket. Lips slightly parted. Dead to the world.

You stared at him. You know you heard it.

Then you noticed the closet door was open an inch wider than you remembered. You crossed the room, flinging the door open, eyes scanning the shadows just beyond it—but there was nothing. Just clothes, toys, and a few drawings taped to the inside wall.

But when you turned back toward Oliver’s bed… you stopped cold.

There was a new drawing on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there before. You would’ve seen it.

It showed a hallway—the same hallway you’d just walked down. You were in it—drawn in red crayon. And behind you, grinning impossibly wide, was a tall, striped figure with long arms and white, dead eyes.

You slowly looked back down the hall. Nothing. But that feeling—that cold press on the back of your neck—was suddenly very real.

And somewhere deeper in the house… You swore you heard something shuffling.

It's just your imagination.

── .✦

You showed up early on the fourth night—twenty minutes ahead of schedule, ice cream tub in hand. Cookies and cream. And a tiny container of rainbow sherbet.

You figured, why not? After the past few days, Oliver deserved a surprise. And you deserved something to lift the mood. The tension that had crept into your shoulders every time you walked through that door was becoming a near-constant weight.

Maybe a little sugar would lighten the air.

The front door opened before you even knocked. Oliver’s mom blinked at you in surprise, tugging her coat tight across her chest.

“Oh—you’re early,” she said, glancing over her shoulder into the house like she wasn’t sure she wanted you inside just yet.

You smiled, holding up the bag. “I brought a treat. Don’t worry, no caffeine or craziness. Just ice cream.”

Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something—but then she just nodded. “That’s… nice of you. He’ll like that.” She squeezed past you and gave the same parting words she always did—“He’s in the living room, bedtime at eight-thirty”—but her eyes lingered on yours this time. Something flickered behind them. Like maybe she wanted to say more—but didn’t.

You turned and stepped into the house. The moment the door closed behind you, that hush fell again. That wrong quiet, like the walls were listening. Oliver was on the floor, surrounded by crayons, drawing what looked like a carnival tent in dark, scribbled loops of red and black.

“Hey,” you said gently. “Guess what I brought?”

He looked up. Eyes wide. And then—

He smiled. For the first time since you met him, Oliver truly smiled.

His teeth were small and slightly crooked, but it was the size of it that made your heart skip a beat. So wide. Like his little face wasn’t used to the muscles it took.

You blinked, suddenly unsure why it unnerved you so much.

“Is it for me?” he asked breathlessly.

You laughed softly, kneeling beside him. “Of course it is. Who else would it be for?”

Oliver clapped his hands. “Jack’s going to be so happy!”

You stiffened. He kept babbling as you carried the containers into the kitchen and pulled out two small bowls.

“Jack loves ice cream. His favorite is mint chocolate chip. He says he hasn’t had any in a long time because Mom doesn’t like it when he eats stuff. She says it makes him act funny. But he says he’ll be real good if I give him some.”

You scooped slowly, the plastic spoon dragging through the frozen swirl.

“He told me that once he shared a sundae with a girl who screamed so hard her eyes popped,” Oliver continued dreamily. “He said her voice made the cherry melt.”

You didn’t answer.

When you turned to hand him the bowl— You saw it.

Just behind Oliver, standing beside the hallway door. A flash. A flicker. Something moved. It was fast. A blur of black and white. Tall. Like the edge of a curtain being yanked back—but thicker. A sliver of fabric retreating around the corner.

And just for a heartbeat, a feather—dark and oil-slicked—fluttered down and landed near Oliver’s foot. You hardly blinked—just a jerk of your eyes from panic—and it was gone.

You dropped the spoon. Oliver didn’t notice.

It’s just your imagination, it’s just your imagination—

“Jack says he likes you,” he said happily, licking sherbet from his lip. “He says you’re the nicest girl he’s met in a long time.”

You stepped back, pulse pounding.

You had to talk to his mother. Now.

── .✦

You waited by the door until she came home.

No more letting her breeze out before the headlights could cool. No more smiling and waving like this was a normal babysitting gig.

When Mrs. Dalton stepped in—coat damp from the night air, purse slung over one shoulder—you met her with a look so serious she stopped mid-step.

“…What is it?”

“I need to ask you something,” you said. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

She froze. “…Is this about Oliver?”

You nodded. “And Jack. And the things he’s been saying. The things I’ve seen.”

She closed the door behind her slowly. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes—tired, hollow—met yours.

And this time, she didn’t try to pretend. She just said quietly, “You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?”

The words hung heavy in the entryway. You felt like a stone just dropped into your stomach, the air stalling around you.

You stared at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”

Oliver’s mother exhaled—long, slow—like she’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure. She set her purse on the table and finally, finally, let the cracks show. “Come with me.”

She led you to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. You sat across from her, the light above flickering with that faint buzz it always seemed to carry after dark. She rubbed her hands together like they were cold, even though the house was warm.

Her voice was quiet. Distant. “I didn’t believe it either. At first. Kids say strange things. They draw monsters, they have nightmares. It’s normal. I told myself it was all in his head.”

You didn’t interrupt. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table.

She continued. “Then the drawings changed. They started getting more detailed. More specific. I saw things in them that—” her breath hitched, “—he shouldn’t have known. Things that happened when I was younger. Things that happened in this house. And the stories he told me about Jack…” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “They started getting darker.”

You thought of the shuffling. The flash of stripes. The feather. Your name being called down the empty hallway.

“What happened?” you asked.

She looked up. “…His dad.”

The room chilled, like suddenly the AC had been turned on. Goosebumps ran up your arms.

She swallowed. “My husband…he was not a good man. Charming, at first. But underneath that, there was something broken. And when he got angry…” Her jaw clenched. “Oliver was never his. That’s something I never told him. I think he knew—or guessed.”

Your stomach twisted.

“He hurt both of us,” she said. “Not every night, but enough. Enough that I kept a bag packed and hid it in Oliver’s closet.”

Silence stretched long between you.

“And then?” you whispered.

Her eyes met yours—and in them, you saw something haunted. Something ancient. “Then Oliver started talking to Jack.”

You shivered, glancing around the room, eyes catching all the dark spots and shadowed corners.

“At first I thought it was just comfort—a defense. But the way he described him…it wasn’t like a normal imaginary friend. He knew things. Jack told Oliver where to hide, when to run. He told him I was strong. That I was brave. He told him…” Her voice caught. “…That he could make it stop.”

You didn’t move. You hardly breathed.

“One night, my husband came home drunk. Worse than usual. He was screaming, kicking doors. Oliver, somehow, slept through all of it. I locked the bedroom door. I thought I could hold him off.” Her hands trembled now. “But I didn’t have to.”

You leaned in.

“I heard him coming down the hallway, calling my name. Then I heard something else. A laugh. This horrible, joyful laugh. Like a child and an animal at the same time. I thought I was losing my mind.”

You whispered, “Jack.”

She nodded.

“I came out of the room after the screaming stopped. And…he was gone. My husband. Just gone. No blood. No mess. Just the front door wide open, swinging in the wind.”

Your blood ran cold. “And Oliver?”

She gave a soft, broken smile. “Curled up on his bed. Drawing. With Jack.”

You recoiled.

“But I didn’t see him,” she said quickly. “I only ever felt him. Heard him. Sometimes saw things out of the corner of my eye. But Oliver? He always said Jack made him feel safe. That Jack protected him when no one else could. I think he… bonded to that. Jack is a part of him now. Jack has never really liked babysitters—before you, I suppose.”

You sat back, trying to process it all. The drawings. The feathers. The whisper of your name.

“…He’s real. But he’s not…human,” you murmured.

She nodded once. “He manifested through Oliver’s fear, I think. And maybe mine, too. I don’t understand all of it. But Oliver says Jack protects him, says he’s here to keep him safe. So I don’t mess with it.

“And the last babysitter?”

Oliver’s mom froze.

“…She said she didn’t believe in ‘feeding delusions.’ That Oliver needed ‘structure.’ She lasted four nights. Left in the middle of the fifth. Didn’t tell me. Just… left. I never heard from her again.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“And now?” you whispered. “Jack’s… what? Attached to me?”

Her voice cracked. “I think he likes you. I think he’s curious. I don’t know.”

The light bulb sizzled above your head, the acrid scent of burnt metal curling into the air. You stared across the kitchen table at Oliver’s mom—chest tight, stomach coiled with the kind of dread that prickled under your skin like a thousand little claws.

“…You knew this could happen,” you said, voice low. “You knew.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands trembled in her lap. “I hoped he wouldn’t fixate again,” she murmured. “You were so good with him. He was happy. I thought maybe it would be different this time.”

“Different?” Your voice cracked, rising. “You mean you thought Jack might not try to kill me?”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, suddenly panicked. “Please—don’t say things like that out loud.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped, pushing your chair back. “Are we worried the invisible friend might get mad?”

She flinched.

You stood up, dizzy with rage and the adrenaline rush that always comes after denial shatters into cold, sharp clarity. “You let me walk into this. Without telling me. Without warning. What if he didn’t like me, huh? What if I pushed too hard, or said the wrong thing, or—God forbid—told him to go to bed early?”

“I didn’t know—!”

“Yes, you did,” you cut her off, voice trembling. “You did. That’s why you never stayed long. Why you left before I could ask about his dad. Why you didn’t even mention a last sitter until now.”

You saw it then—how hollow her eyes had become. How sleep-starved and strung out she looked under the dim light. This wasn’t just guilt. This was fear—the kind you live with.

“You were testing me,” you whispered. “You weren’t sure if Jack would like me, and you didn’t care if he didn’t. I was just…just another one to try.”

She didn’t deny it.

You stormed past her, grabbing your coat, shoving your phone into your pocket with shaking hands.

And then you saw him. Oliver. Standing at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t angry. He just watched you—expression blank, head tilted slightly to the side like someone listening to music only he could hear.

“Oliver—” his mother started, but you were already yanking the door open.

You didn’t say goodbye.

── .✦

The first call came the next morning.

You didn’t answer.

Then a text.

MRS. DALTON I’m sorry. I should have told you. Please, call me.

Then:

MRS. DALTON He’s not sleeping. He won’t eat. Oliver’s scared.

Another day passed.

MRS. DALTON He’s asking for you. Please. He just needs to see you one more time. He keeps asking for you.

The texts got more frantic.

MRS. DALTON He’s not talking anymore. He just whispers. Jack this, Jack that. Please. I haven’t slept. I’m losing him. I don’t know what he’ll do if you don’t come back.

And finally:

MRS. DALTON Just for one night. Please. Just stay with him. Help him sleep. You stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering above the reply button. Because even though your head screamed no, your gut twisted with something worse than fear.

Guilt.

And something in the back of your mind—the part that had seen the stripes, the feather, the way Oliver had looked at you—was already whispering that you didn’t really have a choice. Even if this was all imaginary, some make-believe story, you were causing an innocent boy his mental health.

Sadly, your guilt outweighed your fear.

── .✦

You stood on the doorstep longer than you meant to.

The house loomed in front of you—quieter than it should’ve been. Even with the porch light buzzing faintly overhead, everything about it looked… different. More gray. As if all the warmth had drained out with you the night you stormed off.

But you were here now.

You knocked on the door, the thick sound echoing through the walls, and for a moment, you half-expected no one to answer.

Then the lock clicked. The door cracked open.

Mrs. Dalton looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was pulled up in a limp, uneven knot, and her eyes had that swollen red look of someone who had been crying on and off for hours. Her relief was instant—but brittle.

“Oh thank God,” she breathed. “Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”

You stepped past her without a word. She didn’t stop you. Just nodded shakily and grabbed her keys. “I’ll be back by sunrise,” she said, already backing out. “Don’t let him stay up too late. If he gets upset, just… just sit with him. That’s usually enough. And if anything happens—”

You stopped at the hallway, turning just enough to meet her eyes. “I remember.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She gave a small, pained nod. And just like that—she was gone. The door clicked shut. The house swallowed you whole.

The air inside felt heavier than it ever had.

You noticed it almost immediately—how the wallpaper looked a little more faded, how the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, almost like fruit that had gone sour. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was dense, like the house was holding its breath.

You made your way down the hallway, floorboards creaking beneath your feet. Oliver’s room was cracked open just slightly, light from his bedside lamp spilling across the floor. You pushed the door open gently.

“Oliver?” you called softly.

The little boy was curled into a ball on his bed, facing the wall. When he turned to look at you, his eyes were already wet, his cheeks blotchy with tears. The second he saw you, he gasped—and scrambled into your arms with a cry that shattered you from the inside out.

“You came back,” he whimpered, clutching your shirt like a lifeline. “I didn’t think you would. Jack said you were mad.”

Your arms wrapped around him instinctively. “I…I’m not mad, buddy. I was just scared.”

“Jack’s sad,” Oliver sniffled. “And mad. But not at me. At you. He said you said mean things. That you don’t like him.”

You froze. He wasn’t accusing you. He sounded… worried. Like he wanted to protect you from Jack’s disappointment.

Your hands smoothed down his back gently. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Jack’s probably just confused.”

“Can you tell him you’re not mad anymore?” Oliver asked, lifting his head, eyes wide. “Please?”

You hesitated. “…Okay,” you whispered. “Jack, if you’re listening, I’m not mad. I didn’t mean what I said.”

You glanced around the room.

Nothing. No feathers. No footsteps. No whisper in your ear. Just the soft hum of the bedside lamp and Oliver’s quiet sniffles.

Maybe it was all in your head.

Maybe—

Oliver let out a tiny yawn, nuzzling into your side. “Will you stay in bed with me?”

“Of course.”

It didn’t take long, he was asleep in minutes. Once his breathing evened out, you gently pulled away and tucked him in. His hand reached out once, blindly, and you took it for a second, giving it a small squeeze.

Then you stood, walked to the door, turned off the light, and stepped into the hallway.

The living room was dim. You kept the corner lamp on, curling up into the same armchair you’d claimed the other nights—blanket over your legs, a book in your lap you weren’t really reading. Every noise made you twitch.

The house didn’t feel empty.

You tried to tell yourself it was just the guilt—the nerves, the sleep deprivation. That it was all explainable. That this was just a messed-up situation and you were being kind, nothing more. This was just a mentally ill mother and an imaginative child who has gotten you stirred up—that’s all it was.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—especially when the heater kicked on. Especially when the shadows in the hallway didn’t quite stay still. You told yourself not to look.

You were halfway through a paragraph when you heard it. Shuffling from the hallway. You sat up straight.

“Oliver?” you called, voice shaky.

No answer.

You stood slowly, shoving the blanket and book to the side. The hallway looked longer than it had earlier—darker, the overhead bulb at the far end flickering like it was gasping for power.

You took a step toward it. Then another.

“Oliver, are you up?” you called again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

But the shuffling continued—dragging, almost wet-sounding footsteps. Too slow. Too heavy.

You swallowed, walked toward his room, and pushed the door open.

Oliver was asleep—tucked under his blankets, breathing slow and even. His face slack with dreams. The shuffling stopped.

You stood there in the doorway, heart thudding in your chest.

Nothing moved. No laughter. No whispers. No feathers. Just your own breath in the dark. You were about to turn around when a soft, warbling giggle echoed—Low. Sweet. And hungry.

You whirled around, heart leaping into your throat—but there was nothing there. Just the hallway. Just that flickering bulb overhead, casting twitching shadows that crawled like spiders up the walls.

“Hello?” you called, voice cracking.

No answer.

But your skin was already crawling—hairs prickling, stomach twisting itself into a tight, nauseous knot. You ducked back into Oliver’s room, barely daring to breathe.

Still asleep. Still peaceful.

You crossed the floor in three quick steps and yanked open his closet. Clothes, shoes, a collapsed cardboard box. You dropped to your knees, lifted the comforter, and checked under the bed.

Empty.

You sat back on your heels, hand pressed over your pounding chest.

Nothing’s there. Nothing’s there. It’s just your—

A feather floated down in front of your face. You stared at it. Silky and black as night, it drifted lazily downward, slow as falling ash, until it landed between your knees.

You blinked at it, blood roaring in your ears.

And that was when you heard the groan—like something heavy shifting against wood.

You glanced up from your spot on the floor.

Behind Oliver’s bed—not behind the wall, but within it, like the cracks of the old plaster had given way—something emerged. Something wrong.

It spilled out from the dark like a shadow cast by a body that didn’t exist. Its limbs unfolded long and slow, impossibly long, like they were uncoiling from another place entirely. One arm—lanky, striped in twisted sleeves of faded black and white—reached over the headboard. Then another. Then a hunched, too-tall figure pulled itself into the dim bedside light.

Laughing Jack.

No more imagination. No more stories. He was here, right in front of you.

His skin—or what passed for it—was stretched porcelain, marred with seams and hairline fractures. Wild black hair exploded from his scalp in a disheveled mess, curled like tinsel soaked in ink. His outfit was a tattered parody of a circus costume—black and white stripes clinging to impossibly long limbs, the fabric grimy and fraying at the seams like it had been rotting over time. Suspenders hung loose over bandages wrapped tight around his waist, showing the unnatural form of him. A wide ruff collar sagged around his neck, drooping unevenly with yellowed lace, and tufts of wiry feathers jutted from his shoulders, some of them loose—like the one you’d seen float to your feet earlier. His sleeves were the same mismatched black and white, stretched tight over arms that ended in long, sharpened claws—stained faintly with something dark and dry. His nose was pointed, like a spike protruding that swirled with black and white stripes. His mouth—oh God—his mouth stretched too wide across his face, cracked at the corners, his lips painted like a clown’s but split by sharp, pearly teeth that didn’t belong in any child’s fantasy. His eyes were deep, glassy voids—so black they swallowed light—but the emotion in them was unmistakable—Rage. Sadness. Defense.

Jack’s head twitched toward you. His neck snapped with an audible crack as he cocked it to the side.

His voice rasped low, warped, like he was speaking through a filter, “You said you weren’t mad, sweet girl.”

You staggered back a step.

Jack’s arms bent and contorted as he crawled over Oliver—crawled, like some horrid insect parody of a man, his striped limbs jointed all wrong. And still, the boy didn’t stir. Not a flutter of his lashes. Not even a twitch.

“You lied to him,” Jack hissed. “You lied to me.”

“Don’t—” your breath hitched. “Don’t touch him.”

Jack’s grin widened. It reached toward his ears. “Oh, I won’t,” he cooed. “But you? You’re mine now.”

Before you could scream, he lunged. Jack’s hands closed around your ankles and yanked. You hit the hardwood with a sickening thud, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pain shot up your back. You scrambled, flailing to grab the doorframe, anything, but Jack dragged you backwards—down the hallway with supernatural strength, his body lurching and rattling like a marionette in fast-forward.

“No—! Oliver! Oliver!”

He didn’t wake.

The house didn’t help.

You were pulled past the living room, down the longer hallway that led to the master bedroom—Mrs. Dalton’s room. Your fingernails scraped against the floorboards, legs kicking violently as Jack growled above you.

“You were sweet,” he snarled. “Kind. Gentle. I liked you.” His voice cracked on the last word, somewhere in the rage was hurt.

Jack reached the bedroom door and kicked it open. The hinges screamed. Inside, it was darker than the rest of the house. A stifling kind of dark, where the shadows didn’t shift—they waited. The room smelled faintly of old perfume and wilted flowers.

Jack tossed you inside. You hit the carpet, rolled, and choked on air. When you sat up, he was already in the doorway—looming. His arms stretched to the sides, fingers twitching, clawlike.

The door slammed shut behind him like a gunshot. The bang rattled the windows. The frame trembled under the weight of it.

You jerked, stumbling back toward the dresser, chest heaving—but there was no time to run. Not anymore. Jack was across the room in a blink, moving with the erratic, jerky rhythm of something barely stitched together—more puppet than man. His hands, long-fingered and claw-tipped, twitched at his sides.

His expression twisted. He looked… devastated.

But behind the grief, behind the dripping sadness that curled at the corners of his stretched mouth and shimmered in the pitch-black glass of his eyes—there was rage.

“You ruined everything,” he hissed, voice cracking like an old vinyl record. “He was sleeping. He was happy. We were fine. And then you—you had to come in and whisper poison into his head.”

“I didn’t—!”

“You said I wasn’t real,” Jack roared, and the lights flickered. “You said I was dangerous! You made him doubt me!”

He surged forward.

You screamed—too late. Jack lunged, grabbing your arm and lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, fists pounding at his chest—but it was like striking a wall of felt and iron. He held you up, inches from his face. That face. That—

God.

Porcelain skin. Cracks lining his jaw like spiderwebs. Painted features half-worn, like a long-loved doll soaked in tears. Teeth so sharp he could barely contain them in his mouth. And beneath the smeared black grin, beneath the clownish facepaint—a man. A sadness. A fury so human it broke your heart.

His glassy black eyes swallowed you whole.

“Do you know what happens,” he whispered, “to people who tell little boys I’m not real?”

Your breath hitched. He rattled you, hard. Enough to make your teeth clack. You felt his claws press into your sides, not breaking the skin—but close. One more breath and he might snap you like a doll in his hands.

But then—You saw it. That tiny tremble in his jaw. The way his grip shook. His bottom lip quivered. He was angry. He was hurting. And beneath it all—he was protecting Oliver.

That’s when you acted. You reached up—fingers trembling—and gripped his face.

Jack froze.

His eyes went wide as your fingers smeared white greasepaint from his cheekbones, your hands coming away streaked like you’d dipped them in some kind of sick frosting. But under the paint—skin. Cold, clammy, too-pale skin. And real. Not a mask. Not an imaginary friend.

“You did it to protect him,” you whispered.

Jack’s brow twitched, eyes wide.

“You made his dad go away,” you said. “Didn’t you?”

His hands tensed—but he didn’t shake you.

“You chased off the last babysitter. Because she was mean. You saw it. You saw what he needed. And no one else was helping him. Not even his mom. So you… you stayed. You took care of him.”

Jack’s mouth parted. His head tilted, glassy eyes flicking across your face like he didn’t understand what he was seeing.

“I get it, Jack,” you whispered, still holding his face. “I know what you are. You’re not here to hurt him. You’re not a monster to him. You’re his only friend.”

His claws slipped from your sides.

“I don’t hate you, I’m not mad,” you said, voice cracking. “I was just scared.”

Silence.

For a moment, Jack stood perfectly still, arms trembling.

And then—his knees gave.

He sank to the floor, pulling you with him, but gently now. Carefully. Like you were something delicate and precious compared to moments before. His arms slid around you, pulling you against his lanky frame as his body curled over itself, shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I just wanted you to stay. You were good to him. You were good to me.”

You were crying now too—maybe out of pity, but mostly from the adrenaline that was quickly crashing.

In the pitch-black of Mrs. Dalton’s bedroom, cradled in the arms of something that shouldn’t exist, you held a creature that had killed to protect a child, and now clung to you like a broken toy terrified of being discarded.

Jack shuddered, “Please don’t leave again.”

Jack didn’t let go. Even as you gasped, trying to squirm back—your breath still hitching with fear, your hands trembling—he clutched you tighter, curling around you like a spider weaving something precious into its web. His lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and waist, his striped sleeves smelling faintly of old fabric and something sweet and rotting, like sugar left in the rain.

Your face was smooshed against the bristling ruff of feathers at his collar.

You shoved at him, fingers pressing into his chest. “Jack—Jack, let me go, I—I need a second, please—”

But he only made a soft sound—like a whimper. And his hold tightened. He wasn’t trying to hurt you—not anymore—but it was like he was starving for you.

His head dipped down beside yours, buried in your neck, and you felt the tremble of his breath—shallow, rapid. Desperate. The way Oliver breathed when he was on the edge of a panic attack. The way he had clung to you just hours before, his tiny fists gripping your shirt like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

It was the same.

You froze.

And suddenly—it all started to click. The way Jack reacted when Oliver cried. The way he went silent when Oliver was calm. The way his moods seemed to mirror the child’s—like strings pulling a puppet in the shadows.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart hammering. “You’re not just his imaginary friend… you’re protecting him.”

Jack didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breathing hitched—a confirmation, quiet and raw.

“You exist for him, don’t you?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Like, a manifestation of his fears—or something. A guardian.”

His face, pressed near your cheek, nodded.

Your throat tightened. “So when he’s sad, or scared, or… when someone threatens him…”

“I fix it,” Jack whispered. His voice was softer now. Like wet velvet. Like a child defending a wounded pet. “I fixed his dad. I fixed the mean sitter. I made him laugh again. I keep him safe.”

You swallowed, slowly easing your hands up between the two of you, not to shove—but to gently, cautiously press them to either side of his face again.

“And now that I’m not a threat anymore…” you said, your voice cracking, “now you want something else.”

Jack nodded again, almost imperceptibly. “I want to be close,” he said, and his voice broke. “Like he is. I want the things you give him.”

You stared into his face—paint-smeared, cracked, but so achingly human beneath it all. His sharp grin trembled with something soft. His eyes, once pools of black malice, now glistened like a child about to cry.

“You want comfort,” you breathed.

His forehead pressed gently to yours. “I want you,” he whispered. “And I don’t know why.”

You should’ve been terrified. But instead—you felt cold. Cold from the adrenaline, the fear, the leftover edge of what could’ve been your last night. And yet…

His arms were warm—too warm—like a fever curling around you.

And for the first time… you saw him not as a nightmare, but as something made from one. Born of a child’s desperation. Kept alive by love and terror alike.

So you let him hold you—just for a moment.

And in that moment, Jack went still—so still you could swear he wasn’t breathing. As if the second you pulled away, he might vanish into the cracks again.

The room was dark except for the sliver of hallway light bleeding in from under the door, casting crooked shadows across the carpet. Jack was still—unnaturally so—as if afraid a single wrong twitch would make you bolt. But then, slowly, his fingers twitched against your waist.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a broken thread. “For earlier. For scaring you. For being so… mean.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could. You were still sitting half in his lap, his arms loosely curled around your back like he was holding something fragile he didn’t know how to fix.

Jack’s head tilted, the long arc of his nose brushing against your temple as he sniffed—gently, like he didn’t want you to notice.

“You do smell like strawberries,” he murmured, voice distant and dreamy now. “I told him you did. Oliver didn’t believe me.” A smile crept into his words, soft and crooked. “But I was right. I always know.”

You felt your breath catch as his fingers slipped a little lower, curling lightly at the hem of your shirt. Not rough—just needy. Clingy.

“You’re so pretty,” Jack sighed, nose nudging into your hair. “So pretty it makes me feel funny—right here.” One hand lifted, curled into a fist, and thumped lightly over where his heart should’ve been. “It tickles. Like butterflies trying to get out. Like I’m gonna burst.”

You shivered, frozen in place. Jack noticed. His arms tensed again.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said quickly, softly, almost pleading. “I’m not! I promise—I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to leave.”

You felt him shift under you—then suddenly you were being pulled into him, lifted like a doll and placed squarely in his lap, your legs folded awkwardly over one of his long, gangly thighs. His claws were gentle, but firm, curling around your arms, keeping you in place. His face buried into your shoulder again, his striped sleeves brushing your cheeks like the wings of some grotesque moth. He was trembling.

“They all like you,” he murmured into your shirt. “All the others. Charlie. Mr. Gumball. Even the quiet ones in the closet. They said you’re kind. That you talk to them even when you don’t believe they’re real.”

You blinked.

Charlie? Mr. Gumball?

Jack chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. They won’t come out unless Oliver says it’s okay. But they watch. And they like you. They all do.” He pulled back just far enough to look at you—his inhuman eyes wide and wet, paint cracked around the edges from where he’d rubbed at his face. His lips were still stained dark, parted like he wanted to ask something he didn’t know how to say, his jagged teeth splitting the seam.

“But I…” His voice hitched. “I like you the most.”

You tried to pull back—just a little, just enough to breathe—but he leaned forward again, brushing his forehead against yours.

“I felt it,” he whispered. “The way you talked to Oliver. The way you hugged him. You’re so soft. So good. I never had that before. I want it all the time, all to myself.”

His claws flexed against your sides again—not hurting, not even tight—but possessive. Needy.

“I want you all the time.”

And you realized, in that moment, Jack had no idea what boundaries were. No idea how much was too much. Because all he knew… was what Oliver gave him. And now—without having to worry about the kid—he was able to express those wants himself.

Jack’s fingers twitched again where they curled around your waist. His breathing slowed, the chaotic heat of him ebbing into something that almost resembled peace.

But he stilled. And his hands moved.

In an instant, Jack dragged one clawed hand up the side of your torso, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he went. You gasped, trying to pull away, but he was already pushing the hem higher, exposing skin.

“Wait—Jack—what are you—?” you stammered, hands flying down to stop him.

“I hurt you,” he hissed, panicked—his voice cracking like a snapped piano wire. “I didn’t mean to—look what I did!” His blackened fingers trembled as he hovered just above the faint red indents curving along your side, the shallow grooves from when he’d gripped you too tightly. They weren’t bleeding. Barely bruised. But Jack looked horrified.

His eyes widened as he stared, claws twitching helplessly.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t even feel—why do I always break things I like?” he rasped, voice warping between a whimper and a growl. “Why did I grab you so hard? You’re so soft, I didn’t mean to squeeze—I didn’t mean to!”

“Jack—Jack, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice soft and trembling as you tried to pull your shirt back down. “I’m fine, it’s nothing, I swear—”

But he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t want to believe it. His claws brushed the marks again—then slid gently against your skin, tracing the curves of your ribs, reverent and curious. He sucked in a shaky breath.

“You’re so little,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So small in my hands. I could snap you like a toothpick…”

You froze—but before panic could take hold, Jack’s eyes darted up to meet yours again. “…but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re too pretty to break.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. Jack tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, your hair, the way your hands clutched your shirt in nervous fists. His lips twitched—like he was smiling, but didn’t understand why.

“I like your skin,” he said. “I like the way it smells. The way it warms up when you’re scared.”

You tried to pull back again, flushing deeper, but Jack suddenly scooped you up.

“Jack—!”

He didn’t give you time to finish.

In one smooth, eerily graceful motion, he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms like you weighed nothing. Like you were a toy, something light and delicate he could cradle in his gangly, striped limbs. Your legs dangled uselessly, your arms half-wrapped around his neck in pure reflex.

He started toward the bed.

“You’re way past bedtime,” he announced, in a singsong voice that didn’t quite match the manic glint in his eyes. “Too many big feelings for a little human like you. You need to relax.”

“I—I don’t need to sleep, Jack, I’m fine, really—!”

But he was already lowering you onto the covers, setting you down so carefully it made your head spin. He crouched at your side immediately, looming with limbs that bent in all the wrong ways, his scruffy feathered collar brushing your knees, his black eyes locked onto you with a predator’s focus—and a child’s confusion.

“You make Oliver feel safe,” he murmured, crawling a little closer. “But now I want to feel that too. I want you to make me feel like that.”

His hand slid over your knee, his claws curling over your thigh with a grip just shy of too tight. “And you will, won’t you?” he asked softly. “Because you like me now.”

The air was too thick to breathe. Too hot. Too sweet. Too close.

And all you could do… was nod.

Jack’s claws didn’t stay still. They roamed. Fidgeted. Brushed the hem of your shirt, tangled briefly in your hair, crept over your shorts like he didn’t know what he was looking for—but was desperate to find it.

You shifted nervously on the bed, your hands trying to keep his at bay, but he was already pressing closer.

“I like it better when you talk soft to me,” he said suddenly, his voice catching somewhere between a purr and a whine. “Like you do with Oliver. You don’t yell. You don’t scream. You’re so nice.”

Your breath hitched as his hands slid down your arms—grabbing your wrists. “But you left.” His voice cracked. “You left. You said those things. About me. To her.”

“Jack, I didn’t know—” you started, gently.

“I didn’t want you to be scared,” he cut in. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to make your heart jump. “I just wanted to show you I could keep you safe. Like I did for Oliver. Like I do.”

He moved quickly. One fluid motion and you were beneath him, your wrists pinned gently—but unyieldingly—against the bedspread. His lanky body stretched over yours, striped limbs bracketing you, hair brushing your forehead.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

“Jack,” you said softly, careful not to let your fear show. “Let me up.”

“But you’re here.” He blinked down at you, wide-eyed. “You came back. That means you want to be here. That means I can touch you.”

Your breath caught.

“It doesn’t work like that,” you whispered, trying to sit up, but he pressed you back down again—still not hurting you, but clearly not understanding the line he was crossing.

“But you smell so good,” Jack murmured, almost dreamily, long nose brushing along your cheek. “And you look so soft. I never got to be this close to anyone before. Never wanted to until I saw you.”

You swallowed thickly, pulse thundering in your ears. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you, Jack,” you said, carefully, voice like glass. “I’ll sit with you. I’ll stay. But you have to calm down. You’re scaring me.”

Something in his face twitched. His hold faltered. Just slightly. But he didn’t let go.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he mumbled, nuzzling clumsily against your shoulder, like a child seeking comfort in something they didn’t know how to ask for. “It’s just… when you talk, and when you look at me—right there.” His fingers brushed your cheekbone. “I get this… tight, fluttery thing in my chest. Like when Oliver’s happy. Like when he hugs his bear. It makes me feel like I’m gonna burst.”

Your eyes welled a little. You weren’t sure if it was fear or pity or the sheer strangeness of the moment.

“Jack,” you whispered, softer now, “that feeling? That’s… that’s called affection. Or maybe—maybe even love.”

He stilled. “Love?” he echoed, almost awed.

You nodded shakily. “And if you want to show it,” you added, breath trembling, “you have to listen to the people you care about. You have to ask before touching. And let them go when they say they’re scared.”

Jack blinked down at you, still straddling your lap, still holding your wrists. But this time—slowly—his claws released you.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“…Did I do it wrong?” he asked after a long pause, his voice smaller now. “Did I mess it up?”

You sat up slowly, touching your wrists, feeling the pulse still hammering through you.

“No,” you whispered. “You just have to let me teach you.”

And Jack, in all his mismatched limbs and smeared makeup and feathered ruff, nodded like a child eager for a bedtime story.

“…Then teach me,” he said.

The silence that followed was heavy—syrupy and thick like it was meant to trap breath in your throat. Jack sat cross-legged now, long limbs folded awkwardly on the bedspread like some gothic marionette, waiting for your strings to pull him into place. His eyes—huge and shining beneath streaked face paint—were locked on you, searching your face like he wanted to memorize it.

You swallowed.

“Jack,” you said slowly, brushing your palms down the front of your shirt, trying to ignore the heat still lingering where his claws had been. “You can’t just… take what you want. People don’t work like that. You have to let them come to you.”

His shoulders slumped, his striped arms wrapping loosely around his waist as he rocked once—twice.

“I thought… if I held you right, maybe you’d feel it too,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath. “The fluttering. The warm thing. Like the way Oliver gets when you tuck him in and smile.”

You softened—just a little. “Jack, I do care. But you can’t scare me into staying,” you said gently. “You need to trust me to come back. Just like Oliver does.”

That earned a sharp jolt through his expression. His head tilted, the bells in his costume softly chiming as he blinked. “Oliver…”

He turned his head suddenly—eyes fixed on the hallway.

You froze.

“What?” you asked, voice tight.

He sniffed the air. One deep inhale.

“He’s waking up,” Jack murmured. “He’s crying.”

You didn’t even wait. You were already scrambling off the bed, nearly stumbling into the hallway barefoot. Jack was behind you, eerily quiet despite his frame, close enough that his sleeves fluttered in the air beside you like shadows with feathers. Oliver’s room was dark, but you heard the sniffles before you even touched the door. You pushed it open gently.

“Oliver?” you whispered, stepping in.

The little boy was curled beneath the blankets, arms tightly wrapped around his pillow, tears tracking down his cheeks as he whimpered softly.

“Nightmare,” he hiccupped. “You… You weren’t here when I woke up. Jack was gone. I thought—”

“I’m right here,” you said quickly, sliding into the bed beside him. He immediately reached for you, pressing his face into your shirt, small hands clinging tightly.

“I was scared you left again,” Oliver murmured, muffled. “He got so sad last time. I got so lonely.”

You looked up—and Jack was there, crouched beside the bed, half-shrouded in shadow. The glow from the hallway lit one half of his face—the sadness there was nearly human.

“I didn’t understand him,” you said, brushing Oliver’s hair gently. “But I think I do now.”

Oliver sniffled. “He says he likes you.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?” you whispered.

“He says you make us feel happy.” Oliver’s lashes fluttered. “He says you smell like strawberries, but I don’t think so.”

You tried to laugh but it came out soft and broken. “I’ll stay,” you said quietly, folding Oliver into your arms. “I’ll stay the rest of the night. Okay?”

“Okay.”

You felt Jack settle beside the bed, curled around the two of you like a skeletal gargoyle. He didn’t speak, didn’t reach—he just watched, his limbs folded protectively under him, his eyes more calm now. As Oliver’s breathing slowed, you felt a cold hand brush against yours under the blanket—long fingers lacing between yours like he needed to feel your pulse to believe you were real.

“Jack?” you whispered.

“Hm?”

You didn’t look at him—just kept your eyes on the ceiling. “…We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

The hand squeezed yours once. Then came his whisper—low, skittish.

“Can you bring more ice cream?”

── .✦

The sun had just barely started to rise, stretching faint golden streaks across the cream-colored walls of Oliver’s bedroom. You stirred slowly, blinking against the light trickling through the curtains, a heavy warmth pressed against your side.

Oliver was still asleep, curled into you with one small hand tangled in the hem of your shirt. His cheeks were soft with sleep, lips parted slightly as he murmured something inaudible in a dream. You exhaled quietly, slipping your hand from his to tuck the blanket up over his shoulder.

Clink.

The sound of keys in the door jolted your attention.

Careful not to wake him, you slid from the bed, casting one last glance at Jack’s usual corner toward the closet. Nothing. No flicker, no feather, no eerie reflection. But the air was thick. You felt him. Watching. Resting.

Downstairs, the front door creaked open just as you reached the end of the hallway. Mrs. Dalton froze in the entryway, still dressed in her scrubs, her expression visibly softening when she saw you. “You’re still here…”

“I stayed the night,” you said simply, grabbing your jacket from the back of the couch. “He had a nightmare.”

Mrs. Dalton’s eyes searched yours carefully, cautiously. “And you stayed.”

“I’m coming back tonight, too.”

Her brows furrowed. “Wait. Why?”

You shrugged the coat on. “Because Oliver needs me.”

She frowned. “I know he does. But you—this isn’t your responsibility. I should’ve never let it get that far.”

You gave a small, tired smile. “I’m not doing it because I have to.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, something deeper—maybe the truth behind her eyes—but you were already halfway out the door. The cold morning air nipped at your cheeks, and just as you reached the sidewalk—

Fwwt.

A small feather, light gray and black-striped, fluttered past your face and landed by your foot.

You didn’t pick it up. You didn’t have to. Instead, you stepped over it, heart skipping, and walked to your car.

── .✦

The sky had settled into its deep, navy blue—stars peeking out between the clouds as you walked up the front steps, a familiar white paper bag tucked beneath your arm. You could already hear Oliver inside, thudding softly around the living room, maybe looking for something—or someone.

You knocked once before letting yourself in, calling gently, “Hey, Oliver?”

The little boy’s head popped over the couch, eyes widening when he saw the ice cream. His smile—real and unfiltered this time—was radiant. It made your heart stutter for a beat.

“You came back!” he called, running around the furniture. “You came back!”

You caught him as he leapt into your arms, ice cream threatening to topple.

“Of course I did,” you said, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

He nodded into your shoulder, voice muffled. “He’s really happy.”

You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to.

As you stepped further into the house, shadows curled slightly at the edge of the ceiling—just out of reach. Like fingers brushing the walls. You pretended not to notice, but you felt it—the way the house exhaled when you walked in. And the flicker of something behind you that didn’t belong to the light.

The night unfolded in familiar motions—yet something had shifted. Subtle, warm, like the slow turning of a tide.

You and Oliver ate your ice cream on the living room floor, cross-legged, the television flickering softly in the background with an old cartoon. He babbled between bites, chocolate smeared at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

“Jack says strawberry is his favorite flavor now, not mint chocolate chip anymore,” he said suddenly, licking the spoon.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, quirking a brow and handing him a napkin. “How does he even eat it? He doesn’t have a tongue, does he?”

Oliver laughed—really laughed. The kind that crinkled his nose and made his shoulders shake. “He does! It’s just black! And super long!”

You felt your eye twitch.

“Well that makes sense,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Big clowns, big tongues, big appetite for ice cream.”

He nodded sagely, like you were in on something sacred. “He said you smell like strawberries again.”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t let it show. “That’s probably because of my lotion.”

“Nope,” Oliver said simply, digging back into the tub. “He says it’s your skin.”

You blinked. “Gross.”

More laughter.

The evening continued like that—pillow forts, coloring pages, made-up bedtime riddles. And you answered all of Oliver’s strange little statements like they were part of the game. 

When he mentioned how the other imaginary friends whispered to him at night? You told him to tell them to use their inside voices.

When he said Jack got sad when the window was closed? You cracked it an inch and said, “There. For airflow and imaginary friends.”

And when he curled into your side with a book, his eyes drooping, his hand clutching your wrist like an anchor—you didn’t even hesitate. You read aloud. Soft, slow, your voice steady as his breaths evened. One page. Two. A lullaby wrapped in ink and warmth. Until his lashes fluttered and finally stilled.

You tucked him in gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and whispered, “Goodnight, buddy.”

The hallway light flickered once as you closed the door.

You padded down to the living room and coiled onto the couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow. The silence of the house was a blanket in itself—one that buzzed slightly at the edges. Hums of something just out of sight.

Still, you let your eyes close. “Jack…” The word was soft, a half-whimper from the empty room.

Then again, more urgent. “Jack…”

You sat up slowly, breath held, listening. The house didn’t answer. No creak of footsteps, no flutter of feathers. Only a long, heavy stillness. You exhaled through your nose and pushed up to stand—only for something cold to slip over your shoulders.

Claws.

Long, jointed fingers, talon-tipped, coiling like ribbons of shadow. You felt them press lightly into your collarbones, grazing the top of your chest—not painful, but possessive, circling from behind you.

And then—his voice. Low. Fractured velvet. Warm like a whisper down your spine. “You came back.”

You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. Just sat, back straight, breathing shallow. The claws curled tighter.

“I was scared you wouldn’t,” Jack murmured, his chin lowering until you could feel the weight of his presence against your shoulder. “But he asked for you. Needed you. So I waited. I was so good.”

You turned your head slowly—his feathers brushing your cheek—and finally looked at him.

Jack’s face rested next to yours, chin tucked onto your shoulder where he stood behind the couch. Pale. Painted. Cracked like porcelain, streaked slightly at the edges from where your hands had once smeared him. His mouth, sharp and black, curled into something between a smile and a snarl.

“I was very good,” he said again, almost pleading.

Your voice came quieter than you expected. “You were.”

He inhaled your scent like it grounded him. And then—his claws uncurled from your shoulders and slid down your arms, lingering at your wrists like manacles of silk and bone.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

With graceful ease, one long gangly leg lifted over the back of the couch like he was stepping over a fence, then the other, before sitting cross-legged down beside you. He faced you, head tilted like a curious, waiting beast, his black-tinted claws twitching with thought. His wide eyes flicked over your face, down your throat, to your hands where they rested in your lap, still and warm. The poor cushions nearly buckled under the weight of him.

“Why,” he murmured, almost to himself, “why does it do that?”

You looked over at him, brows furrowing. “Do what?”

His chest rose sharply, a frustrated mimicry of breath. “This… fluttering.” He pressed a clawed hand flat against the center of his chest. “It’s like I’m hollow and full at the same time.”

Your lips parted—your brain stumbling to meet his intensity. “Remember what I said about love?”

Jack blinked, confused. “Love.”

“It’s… complicated,” you offered gently. “It can feel really good and really terrible at the same time. It makes you care too much. Makes you do things. Say things. Want things.”

Jack’s head tilted, and he shuffled closer on all fours—lanky limbs folding with unnatural grace. “Want?” His voice dipped, that awful little smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I do want.”

You leaned back slightly as he reached for you, his claws brushing your legs, your hips, then curling possessively around your waist as he pulled you into his lap again. You let him—more out of dazed submission than invitation. His body was warm beneath all the feathers and fabric, and the way he tucked you against him made you feel like a doll, a thing made for touch.

“You feel soft,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over your back with surprising gentleness for something so sharp. “You smell like the way I imagine dreams do. And when you talk… it gets louder in here.” He tapped the side of his temple.

“I think that’s still love,” you said softly, trying not to tremble as he leaned forward. You didn’t really think that—but the way he looked at you—there was little you could do to no appease him.

Jack’s nose brushed your neck, and he inhaled like he was starving. Then, unexpectedly, he dragged the tip of his tongue up the line of your throat—inhumanly long, textured like velvet. Oliver was right, it was black—and long. You gasped, clutching his arms.

His head tilted. “You tasted… good. But not enough. There’s something else I’ve seen people do. Something Oliver’s parents did with mouths.”

You flushed. “A… kiss?”

Jack’s eyes lit up like a light bulb flaring. “Yes. That. Show me.”

You hesitated—but something in his expression, his wide pupils and fluttering lashes, made your chest ache. He was so bright—despite the monochromatics of him. There were wild colors and energy behind his sad eyes.

So you leaned forward and whispered, “It’s when two people press their lips together. Gentle, sometimes. Or… not.”

Jack didn’t wait. He surged forward with a suddenness that made you gasp, pressing his mouth to yours clumsily at first—like he didn’t quite know how hard to push or how much to take. His lips were cold, but the space between you burned. And when he groaned softly into it, something cracked wide open in your chest.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t delicate. But it was real.

And when he pulled back, body jittering with energy, his eyes searched yours like you held the answer to everything.

“That,” he whispered, claws trembling where they gripped your sides. “Do that again. Please.”

Your lips tingled from the pressure of him—his mouth too cold, too soft, and too eager all at once. The taste of him lingered like sugar laced with something acrid, like old candy or sugar water. His nose brushed yours as he hovered, barely breathing, barely holding back.

And he was holding back. Barely.

“Do it again,” Jack breathed, his voice cracking with need. “Please—again. Just one more—”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have time.

Jack surged forward, kissing you again, messier this time—teeth knocking against yours in his desperation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, tangling like he never wanted to let go. His other arm was tight around your waist, claws digging just enough to make you feel it.

You gasped into his mouth when his tongue—too long, too strange—flicked over your bottom lip, tasting you like you were spun sugar and heat. He moaned—moaned, like he didn’t understand how else to deal with the rush curling through him.

“You’re real,” he whispered into your mouth, dragging you closer, your legs tangled where he held you in his lap. “You see me. You let me touch you. You don’t scream—you don’t run—”

“I was terrified of you,” you said, breathing uneven. “I still kind of am.”

Jack paused. His brows pinched. “Then why did you come back?”

“Because Oliver isn’t the only one who needs me.”

With a shuddering sound full of teeth and snarls, Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply—obscene and greedy—and you could feel his whole body tremble beneath yours. Then his hands—those long, strange hands—slid under your thighs, and in one effortless motion, he scooped you up.

You yelped, arms flying around his neck as he lifted you like you were made of nothing.

“Jack—!”

“Shhh…” he cooed, walking—no, gliding—through the hallway. “I can only keep Ollie asleep for so long, sweet girl. We need to be quiet.”

You squirmed a little, heart hammering, your voice caught somewhere between rationality and surrender. “W-We can sit down. We don’t have to—”

“You’re warm,” he murmured, cutting you off. “And when I touch you, it makes me feel good. I think… I think this is what people mean when they talk about loving someone.” He leaned down, brushing his nose across your cheek. “I want to be good at it. For you.”

The hallway was lit only by the dim nightlight near Oliver’s room, casting everything in shadow and silver. Jack’s body moved soundlessly, his boots not making a single creak on the old wood.

And then he reached Mrs. Dalton’s room.

You stiffened. “Jack, no. We can’t—this is her room—”

But he didn’t stop. He pressed the door open with his foot—which had a little bell at the top, jingling—and carried you over the threshold, and nudged it shut behind him. He walked you to the bed like he’d been there before—like he’d waited for this exact moment. And when he set you down, he was slow. Careful. His claws ghosted over your sides as he released you, reverent, almost trembling.

“You fit,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed like a knight before an altar. “I don’t know why. But you fit. And I don’t want you to go.”

You sat there, breathing hard, watching as he tilted his head—those eyes wide, flickering with too many things—Adoration. Madness. Hope. And something like love.

He didn’t lunge again. Not this time. But you knew—this night, this quiet, this eerie stillness—it wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning—of your doom, your love—you weren’t sure.

Jack’s head tilted again, just slightly, enough for the bell at his collar to chime softly. The tiny sound filled the stillness between you like a warning, or maybe a plea.

“I don’t want you to go,” he repeated, almost childlike, hands resting on your knees—clawed fingers splayed wide, thumbs rubbing tiny, distracted circles into the soft fabric of your pants. “They always go. All of them. After a while. Even when I like them.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Jack…”

“I didn’t like the others like I like you. They didn’t make me feel like this.”

He leaned forward again, feathered collar brushing your arms, the scent of sweets and wrapping around you. His face hovered close, and for the first time… he looked serious.

“I get big feelings when you touch me,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “When you talk soft. When you look at me like I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, reaching a cautious hand up—fingers threading through the messy dark strands of his hair. “You’re not wrong, Jack. You’re just… not like us. And that’s okay. Some people don’t deserve you.”

He whimpered, the sound sharp and fragile as his hands suddenly moved to your waist—claws careful but firm, gripping you like he thought you might vanish again.

“Why does it hurt when you leave?” His voice cracked, nose brushing yours, his weight pushing forward until you had to brace yourself back on your elbows. “Why does it ache?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You just let your other hand come up, smoothing over the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing a smear of dried white face paint. “Because you’re learning to care. And that hurts sometimes.”

Jack leaned into your touch like a dog starved for affection. “Is that what this is?” he rasped. “Is this love?”

You froze.

His claws slipped beneath your shirt again, up your sides—not cruelly, but with that same aching hunger he didn’t know how to soothe. The pads of his fingers found the faint indents he’d left the night before, and he shuddered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder with a broken sound.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “I just wanted you to see me.”

“I do see you,” you whispered, unsure if you were shaking from nerves or something deeper.

He looked up suddenly, lifting himself slightly to meet your gaze again. “And you still came back.”

“I told you I would.”

Jack didn’t like that answer. His mouth twisted—unhappy, needy—and his arms curled around your back, pulling you forward until your body pressed against his chest, your legs falling open around his wide hips.

“You wanted to come back,” he corrected, nose pressed into your hair. “Didn’t you?”

You closed your eyes. “I did.”

Silence fell.

Then Jack giggled—softly, sweetly, but with something strained and high-pitched underneath. “I knew it. I knew you were different. That you weren’t scared like the rest.”

“Jack…”

That’s all it takes for his lips to be crashing onto yours, biting back a little whimper at the messy clash of teeth, of spit, because one taste of your lips and he was already so addicted. One kiss wasn’t enough, neither was two.

Your breath caught when he shifted his weight, a knee sliding between your thighs as he loomed over you, long hair falling like a shadowy curtain around your face. That enormous feathered collar fanned around his neck, brushing your shoulders like wings, trapping you beneath him.

“You said love feels fluttery, right?” he asked, voice rough, cracking slightly. “It feels like you can’t breathe, like everything is spinning and hot and tight.”

You nodded—your throat too dry to speak.

“Then I’m in love,” he declared, eyes glassy and intense. “Because I can’t stop feeling.”

He pressed his nose to your collarbone, inhaling deeply, then let his tongue graze across your skin—warm and impossibly long, like silk and static. You shivered, your hand instinctively grabbing at the front of his suspender shirt, fingers curling into that ridiculous fabric ruffle beneath his throat.

He smiled at that, manic and pleased. “You like this, don’t you? Even if you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you lied, voice tight.

That earned a laugh—soft and delighted, as if he could feel the war in your chest.

“You’re shaking,” he said, claws slipping lower, curved around your hips now, pulling you flush against his frame. “But not like before. Not like when you wanted to run. Now you’re trembling like… like I make your chest flutter, too.”

You didn’t answer, but your body did—arching when his hips settled against yours.

Jesus fucking Christ. You felt the boneyness of his hips, the slimness of his torso, and the absolutely—devastatingly, mouthwateringly—curve of his erection against his hip. Your hips jerked immediately at the feeling, eyes shooting wide when you felt him grind down just the slighted bit. There was no fucking way.

Jack groaned low, almost surprised by his own reaction, his clawed hand catching your thigh and hiking it up around his waist. “So little,” he hissed, voice shaking with something deeper now. “So small and warm in my hands…”

His head dipped, tongue trailing up your throat, stopping just beneath your jaw. “Want to taste your skin again. Is that okay? You said I need to ask permission.”

You managed a nod, your fingers still clinging to him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the manic glee that bloomed across his face was both terrifying and beautiful.

There was nothing gentle about it.

Jack kissed like a creature who’d only just discovered the act existed and couldn’t fathom living without it—which was mostly true. His mouth was hot and desperate, his tongue curling past your lips like he needed to taste everything you’d ever spoken. He moaned against you—guttural, starved—as he dragged your hips closer into his, arms caging you in completely.

The room spun, your senses burning, and when he finally pulled back for air, a string of spit clung between your mouths. His chest rose and fell like he’d run miles, pupils blown wide with something that wasn’t entirely sane.

“I want more,” he whispered. “Let me have more.” Jack gasps, chasing hotly after your lips. Eyes half-lidded to watch the snapping of those delicate strings of saliva, “You’re— you’re so—” And he’s way too impatient to get out his words, licking heatedly at the slit of your mouth, over and over and over. “I can’t help it.”

And the both of you are stuck on the way Jack’s moving again, hips fucking up in jagged, mindless little grinds. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like he didn’t even feel the way his twitching erection was smearing along the insides of your thighs. You’re erratic, entire body shaking every time the tip of his cock catches your clit through layers of clothes. How was this even happening?

“I remember—” Jack started, tugging his hips off of you, leaning back, your legs still spread wide around his hips. “I remember what Ollie’s parents used to do. I remember seeing it. I think that was the first time I felt like this.” His voice is shaky, like he’s barely containing something running rampant behind those stripes and monochrome.

“What do you—”

Jack’s claws ran under your shirt, pushing the fabric all the way up until it bunched under your chin. You seized, hands letting go of his shirt and moving to cover your chest, bra slightly askew from all the prior movement. Jack didn’t like that—he wrapped a hand around your wrists, tugging them away with a huff. “I want to show you.”

He pushes your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere against the wall, before he’s snagging one long, sharp finger under the main band of your bra. Your breath catches, hand wrapping around his wrist—before he’s snapping it up.

Your tits fall free, bra bunched onto your chest, nipples hard from the chilled air and rampant energy of your body. You shuffle in embarrassment, pressing your arm over your chest, “Jack—”

He stalks towards your trembling figure as if hypnotized, “Oh, you look even prettier this way.”

You don’t even have time to react. Jack’s painted lips are latching onto one nipple, giant claw snagging the other. You can fill the pinprick of his jagged teeth against your skin, and it elicits goosebumps all over. He’s groaning, humming sweetly against your nipple as that bastardous tongue laps and snakes against the nub.

“Jack—hah—oh god—”

His bright eyes meet yours through heavy lids, chittery little grumbles as he sucks and swirls and makes your head dizzy. Your hands curl into his hair, brushing the strands from his face as he pops off one tit and immediately locks onto the other. A thin ring of black circles your nipple, evidence of his dark lips that sucked a red spot onto your skin. You can hardly catch your breath, arching up into the feeling.

“Tastes… so good. You’re so sweet…” he moans against you, licking a thick stripe across one mound, then to the other. But he’s back up at your lips before you know it, slipping that tongue through your teeth and messing with your own. He forces his way into your mouth, dragging the muscle across your inner cheeks like he’s trying to memorize it.

You feel him slipping down, dragging your hips with him in a firm hold, until you hear the thud of his knees hitting the carpet at the side of the bed. He smacks one, hard kiss across your lips before retreating down your jaw, then to your throat. You gasp out, craning your neck as he nips and sears his teeth across your veins.

Then you feel the tug of your pants, thick claws snagging the fabric and pulling them down your thighs. You try to maneuver, moving to grab his shoulders, but Jack retreats—leaving your mouth and throat alone.

“O-Oh.”

Jack settles between your spread legs, tugging your waistband down your knees and off your ankles. You have enough mind to lean up onto your elbows, unclasping your bra and tugging it off your chest before it becomes too uncomfortable.

Despite your thoughts, despite the way your heart hammered so violently in your chest—Laughing Jack looked so pretty when he knelt obediently at the edge of the bed. A thin sliver of sweat sliding down his temple, breaths coming out in heated gusts, clawed hands balling into a fist and shivering once you smear your legs open just a fraction more. Twitching, white-knuckled like he was forcing himself to not just ruin you right then and there. 

“Let me taste you.” Jack said sternly, an edge of hesitation in his voice. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know what to do. Let me show you.” His words got faster as he spoke, frantic. Like if he couldn’t convince you in this moment, you’d up and leave. Your thighs shook, mind dizzy between right and wrong.

But the sight of him there, claws sneaking up to brush against the inside of your calf as your legs dangled off the side of the bed—not your bed, you’d have to make sure to tidy up. There was no point in stopping now.

“Okay.” You’re nodding, and the very action is enough for him to snap his eyes down where your cotton panties were starting to dampen and swallow. “Please—please—be gentle.”

With so much pent-up eagerness, Jack’s lips twist into a sleazy grin—crawling himself the few inches it was to stuff himself nose-deep between your pretty legs. First it was the tiniest tug on your restless hips, then it was a sniff—and then it was a bite of his sharp, pearly whites over the waistband of your underwear. A throaty groan snarling through his teeth, “Oh, sweet girl, I promise.”

Quick as a flash, he’s snagging his teeth on the flimsy fabric of your panties and all but tearing it off of you. Ripping to simply push its tatters to the side, Jack doesn’t even fully take it off before he was simply drooling. 

“Sweet,” he gasps out, tongue flicking past his lips to taste the air. You shrieked, gripping your fingers tight into the sheets, but he just smiled lazily, “So sweet.”

The fattened pad of his thumb sears down on your swollen folds and spreads you wide open, cock twitching at the deafening wet squelch that chimes.

“And mine.”

“Oh— oh fuck—” You’re shrilling out a syrupy moan once his singing tongue flicks at your clit like a lollipop, taking extra care to press down hard so that it has you thrashing.

“There? S’that good?” He’s roaming his mouth over your puffed-up lips eagerly, yearning, not knowing what he was doing, just addicted. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. S’this for me? A-All for me?”

The only answer he’s getting is a few soft gasps of oh! and yes! You couldn’t help but nod your head down and admire just how drunk Jack was as he’s sucked away on your twitching clit. The hollows of his pale cheeks sucked-in, spit-glossed mouth wrapped snugly around your sensitive nub. “So… so good…”

Your legs try to clamp around his head.

“E-Easy, Jack—” You mewl out in a tone that makes his tensed hips rut forward like an animal, immediately grinding against the firm base of the bedframe. You snake a hand down to intertwine with his messy hair, tugging the strands until his eyes snap up to meet yours. “Easy.”

Jack nods against your cunt, lips bumping your clit and smearing your arousal across your folds. You try to tug his head off, just to give yourself a moment—

“I want it.” He grumbles, popping off your clit, hanging his head back as he pants into the air. His eyes are so glassy, the tip of his tongue flashing across his bottom lip—until it’s not the tip anymore—wait—

The curly, dark end of it stingingly slaps down on your thigh, Jack’s tongue is so long enough that he can lace it all over your shivering leg and wrench them further and further open. You nearly faint.

“I want in.”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart—just a few solid, thorough inches of Jack’s slimy tongue burrowing past your puffy folds, keeping your jolting legs pinned firmly by his sharp claws digging in. Your head slams back against the mattress, hands taking a blinding hold on Jack’s hair. You’re being rendered utterly stupid by the jerky flicks of his pointed muscle stirring up your insides, wriggling in circular patterns around and around your gummy walls. Scarfing you down until his tongue reaches the very gooey bottom of your cunt and kisses your cervix so hard that you’re pushed up the mattress and he’s forced to reel you back down again. 

“What— oh…oh my god—” Tears drip down from your heavy lids, wailing whimpers breaking off from your lips at every smack he left on that spongy end, further pushing aside your panties. Then it’s retracting all the way back out, only to thrust in again. “Jack— it’s so big— your tongue—”

He grumbles his agreement, smacking his lips back against your folds, sucking your clit. He’s slashing his tongue almost aggressively inside, knocking your g-spot in-between his journey to fuck you with his tongue. You could feel the ridges of his tongue, feel how it had to bend and curve to fit all of it inside of you. It angled to the shape of your walls, making you feel so full.

“N-ngh please!” You could feel your resolve breaking, nearly hear the sound of your fear shattering and getting rebuilt into uncontrollable lust. You can’t help but rock into every second of his frenzied cadence, creeping down one of your hands to hook on the underside of his jaw, angling his head so that he could go even deeper, “I-it’s so good— don’t stop, don’t stop.”

And the look in Jack’s shiny eyes is the most raw glint of disbelief that you’ve ever seen.

His thighs clench as he hits his erection against the wooden board of the bed and grinds, unwilling to yank the button of his pants down, unwilling to take his hands off of you for a mere second.

He throws your thighs over his shoulder, your trembly hands guided through his sweaty scalp, mouth hungry. You nearly scream every time the sharp ends of his fangs snag on your clit, tongue fucking into your sopping cunt like he’s addicted to the mere taste and sounds of it—because he is.

Your noises, your smell, your taste. How did he go so long without you?

“Fuck- fuck, you’re making such a mess, Jack.”

“Mhmmmm—”

“I can’t— I can’t—” And you don’t know whether it’s the sight of slicked saliva falling from Jack’s mouth or the sheer overstimulation that has you jumbling up your syllables—but it’s enough to make Jack grin against your folds. “S’too much— hold on—”

Your brain’s fuzzily numb by the time you finally recognize that familiar twist at the bottom of your gut. Blubbering out an unsteady, “H-Hold on— Just give—agh— give me a minute.”

“I know— I know I know I know— make a mess.” He’s tugging his tongue out, letting a wad of saliva stream straight down your slit and licking it all up before he returns to probe your entrance fully, swirling every fold of his tongue until it was like he was stuffing you with his taste buds.

Tears pool from your eyes, hands jerks two thick strands of his hair and pulling—and your body absolutely shatters under him.

Jack picks it up immediately—keenly aware of the way your walls clamp down with a searing grip on his lashing tongue, flooding his tastes with such a sweet, sweet taste. You could practically see the fireworks exploding behind his eyes, eyelashing fluttering and lips twitching as he only shoves his jaw closer to your skin.

Your hips roll at the primal way Jack’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each eager swallow. Thin lines of sappy slick falling from the black, puckered corners of his lips and waterfalling all down the side of his throat. 

“Good— Good girl—” His sopping wet tongue drags up and down your open folds to pull you through your euphoria, every lolling flick of the curled end jostling against your thoroughly-stuffed cunt. “This— this is all for me?” He’s crooning out, dazed, letting his jaw fall open with every quiver you’re instinctively clenching with your cunt, “All for me. More— more, sweetheart.”

The waves of absolute pleasure ran through your gut, through your legs, until it slowly fizzled into sharp, jerking twitches of your legs clamping around his head. Jack let you, too busy tasting your orgasm to worry about his head getting squished between your shaky thighs. He wasn’t stopping, his tongue making it a point to clean every inch of your insides, to taste every sweet drop.

His tongue kept thrusting, lips continually sucking on your weeping clit. Your eyes rolled back, hips jerking off the bed and slamming back down into the sheets with every curl of the muscle inside you.

It wasn’t until you were hitting your fist against his head and pressing the bottoms of your feet against his shoulders that he flicked his eyes up at you, catching the absolutely fucked-out expression that lay before him.

“Jack— s’too much, too much—”

And he’s perking his head up like the thought didn’t even occur to him—slowly retracting his tongue from your folds and back to his own mouth. His glistening tongue licks his lips, catching all the spit and slick that got absolutely everywhere all over his face. His eyes are locked into yours, despite you rapidly blinking away tears. He smiled, innocently, all sharp teeth and giddy eyes, “Was that good?”

Your eyes flicked back and forth between his face and your body—your inner thighs and center absolutely covered in smears of white and black facepaint. You could see where a black O shape circled right around your cunt, where his cheekbones has pressed right into the meat of your thighs. It was an absolute mess—and that wasn’t even counting all the drool and slick accompanying it. But your eyes flicked back to his face.

Fuck. He was pretty.

Granted, you always saw him in the shade of shadows or in faint passing, but right now—with Jack’s dark strands of hair hooding his half-lidded gaze, what little you could see of his eyes gleaming, chest rising and falling rapidly—he was dreamy.

One gangly limb after the other, Jack crawls back up into the bed—well, grinds right between your legs so that he’s putting pressure on your throbbing cunt. He doesn’t even look like he knows that he’s doing it, not when he’s gripping your flushed cheeks in one claw and puffing your lips together.

Looming over top of you, his other claw grips into the askew bedding near your head, face quickly lowering toward yours as he catches your mouth again.

It’s all spit and tongues and the taste of you on his lips. You’re both panting into each other’s mouth’s, his sharp teeth catching against your lips and making you hiss. He grinds down again, making your hands grip into his ruffled collar, rutting his hips and dampening the front of his trousers with your wetness.

He’s whimpering into your mouth, eyes clenched tightly shut as you feel the head of his cocktip smear through your folds over thin layers of fabric. Your hands move before your brain does, fishing for the waistband of his trousers and finding the metal clasp that holds the layers together.

Jack feels your hands against stomach, knuckles running across those bandages tight around his waist, and angles his hips upwards. He can’t figure out why he feels so warm, why the fluttering in his chest has traveled south—but when your fingers latch on and snag the clasp open, feeling as his length bobs out from behind the fabric and smacks against your belly-button—it’s like he just touched a live-wire.

“What—” he started, popping off your lips to look at the space between you. His face is twitching, like he can’t pinpoint what expression he’s supposed to have, watching at his cock twitches and smears pre-cum against your stomach. It’s only when you let go of the fabric of his pants, mindlessly darting over to swipe your thumb across a pearly bead of pre that glistened on his slit—that Jack’s hips jerk at the feeling, chasing your hand.

“O-oh.” Jack grunts at the look on your gorgeous face once your hand wraps around the head of his cock, twisting slowly. His hips stutter, brow knotting as you slowly stroke your hand on his tip, smearing his arousal on his bulbous head. “No one’s ever touched me like this—hah!” You pump your hand lower, gaping at the way your fingers have to separate to get a grip on him, jerking his cock lazily while you drool over the sight.

“It’s okay, Jack— Mm, does that feel good?” You hum, shuffling up to press a wet kiss against his jaw, his eyes still glued on your hand.

“Ye-Yeah. Really—hnm—really good.”

“Yeah?”

He’s nodding frantically, rolling his hips until his tip is knocking against your stomach. He’s so long, so thick that you can see exactly where he’s going to end up inside of you, see exactly where the tip of his goes past your belly-button. Your stomach rolled with excitement.

You push against his shoulder, minding the ruffles and feathers, and wrap your leg onto his hip, rolling the two of you over.

“Oh.” He’s gasping—you settle on top of him, legs bracketing his hips as his length sits heavy against the curve of your ass. You’re completely naked above him except for the shredded remnants of your torn panties still hanging on. You couldn’t care less about them, not when he’s panting underneath you, staring up with wide, anxious eyes.

“Jack…” You’re sliding the curve of your ass gingerly against his aching hot length, shudders skittering down your spine at the sheer size of him pressing up against you. “Y-you’re so big. I don’t know if it’ll fit.”

“Fit? F-Fit where?” He’s whispering, in awe. Watching with damply bated breath as you reach between your legs, gripping the base of him—fingers not even close to touching—and dragging him to point that curved, bulbous tip right between your folds and sliding it up and down, collecting all your sweet arousal. Jack nearly snaps his hips up, if not for the weight of you on top of him.

“Right here,” you purr, grinding your clit against his weeping slit.

“Am—Am I really that b-big?” He’s panting at the first squeeze of his reddened, blushing tip against your entrance, his chittery voice wavers almost as much as his heavy eyelids, falling apart with just that first taste of your perfect cunt. “You got it—uh huh, yeah, you got it—Show me how good it feels.” Jack’s voice cracks with a whimper at that snug resistance, “You can take it—you can take it. I’ll make it fit.”

“Oh—oh my god—Jack, Jac—!”

“Is it too big for my sweet girl? Hm?” He giggles under you, claws latching tight onto your waist, pushing you down each and every time Jack jerks his hips off the bed and pushes just to fit in. “Sweetheart—” Jack gasps as you throw your head back with a mewl at the sheer size of him, planting your hands into his forearms.

His painfully-aching cock was so big that just the mere first inch being bullied inside was enough to make your vision blotch with black specs. His rounded head was stretching your slick-flooded walls so bad it burned, “I’m sorry, sweet girl— M’sorry I’m so big. But you’re my girl— my girl can take it— you can…you can take it.”

You can’t even move, let alone think very hard. Where all your teasing was prominent moments ago, it all fissiled the second Jack learned what he was meant to do, realized he could feel good too. You’re just limp in his hands down, stuttering fucked-out whimpers and tears dripping down your chin onto his frilly clothes. It was pathetic.

He had to be almost in—he had to be.

Your heart nearly fell to your ass when you looked down, eyes cracking open just enough to see when the two of you were connected—and realize he was hardly half way.

“Jack— oh my god— oh my god.”

“So tight, so tight, so— so warm— tight—”

“Mhm—” And you’re just letting out the cutest cry once he finally eases himself all the way in, practically impaling you. Your cunt gushes around him, thighs trembling as you feel both of your bodies untense.

Tenderly caressing your palm down his chest, you whine, “I-it’s in?” Your hitched tone makes his eyes flutter shut, and yet, he’s fighting to bring them back open and watch as you grind against him. “It’s in. O-oh my god, I can feel you— so deep.”

“It burns,” he whines, clamping his claws tight around your waist as he begins to haul you up, the bells on his clothes jingling as he shifts you higher on his length. He’s stretching you so wide, rubbing against every curve and sensitive spot inside of you, making you dizzy. “Need’a move.” You’re jostled ever-so-slightly on top of him as he’s sucking in a deep breath.

One jerk of his hips has you falling forward, draping across his long body, you’re nothing against his over eight foot height. He takes advantage of the angle, wraps his gangly arms around your back, and thrusts.

You feel the wind knock out of your lungs, feel your spine arch at the sheer fullness that erupts your thoughts. “Jack—” you cry out, gazing up to see his gleaming teeth on display, a feral snarl painting his features.

“Sweet girl—” Planting a rattling thrust you’re feeling all the way in your chest, his twitching length is so widely thick that Jack has to bite down on his lips and manhandle you for his thrusts to move to and fro, fighting the sheer tightness of your walls.

“Nghhh—Jack! Fuck, y-you’re in so deep—”

He nods, painfully so, and reaches to wrap a claw around your jaw, forcing you to lean up to him. “Kiss me, please.”

“Should’ve— should’ve done this sooner—” He hisses out through a narrowed pant, tongue flashing angrily across his lips as he pushes the tip between your lips. “Should’a had you like this from the start.”

“O-oh fuck fuck fuck—” The backs of your thighs ache after every slamming thrust you’re bouncing back into his bony hips, pounding away like he was crazed, every jackhammer only makes Jack grow more feral. The sounds, the absolute vulgarness of your skin slapping together.

His rummaging, fat-tipped shaft was so large that you could feel the way his ridged cockhead scraped your cervix, bumping against the end like he desperately needed to get deeper, impossibly deeper.

Facepaint practically smearing down his cheeks now, “Should’ve fuh-fucked you the moment I—hnngh—saw you. Should’ve dragged you into that closet— sh-should’ve—” You’re squealing once his sharp claws dart down to toy and pull at the curve of your ass. “I knew from that first night— Yeah, I knew it— You’re perfect.”

Oh, he’s babbling. 

Cooing, you slither one of your hands through the tangled strands of his dark hair, “Awww– it’s okay, I’m here. You’ve—hah—you’ve got me now.”

“Yes.” He’s seething, heaving thick swallows of air against your lips. Your smell was driving him mad, he can’t help but bite against your lips and pull. “Are you feeling good, too?”

Pace growing sloppier by the minute, he barely even noticed when you nodded, too worried about tugging you lips open with his jagged teeth and shoving his tongue back into your mouth. It’s almost as if you didn’t know if it was you bouncing back on his cock on him thrusting up into you, only fucked dumb with every sharp jut. His cock curved just right, targeting your g-spot over and over with his bruising tip.

You could barely breathe, especially when his tongue was yawning in your mouth, pushing to the tightness of your throat. It took your hand on his face, pushing his forehead back before you could gag. “I-I’m so close—” You’re hiccuping through your salty tears, brows scrunching at the overwhelming coil at the base of your gut. “F-fuck! Jack m’gonna cum.”

“Again? Hah— again?” His response comes out guttural, and it’s just so cute the way that he’s forced to gnaw on his bottom lip to stop himself from shoving his tongue back into your pretty mouth.

You’re nodding frantically, pressing your hands into his chest to raise yourself, fucking your hips back to match the unrelenting pace Jack was setting into your weeping cunt. The sounds had grown more lewd, slick and arousal coating your inner thighs, nails dragging along the bandaged wrap of his waist. Shocked, Jack sounds as if he could still barely even believe this was all real. “That feeling— the, the fluttering,” he whines, legs kicking out from under you like he’s trying to get away from some foreign feeling, “It’s worse—hah—it hurts, it hurts—”

His claws sear against your skin, pace faltering as his brow twists with unease, eyes flickering to your face and your cunt with panic. You reach to grab his face, forcing his shaky eyes on you, your fingernails pressing into his white-coated face.

“Don’t stop. Jack—aghh— don’t stop.” You’re grinning like wild, tear-heavy lashes fluttering so fast your vision blurs with flashes of monochrome. “You’re gonna cum. Inside— please, inside.”

“Ah—Alright— Oh, sweet girl. Oh, goodness.” You could feel the rumbling under his skin as his teeth pull back into a primal snarl, tear-glinted eyes locked permanently where his red, swollen cock was disappearing between your legs. “It hurts, it hurts. Need it to come out—hah—need it.”

But between all of his babbling and all of his jittery movements, Jack doesn’t even realize it—doesn’t even remember to breathe the very moment you’re creaming all down his monstrous cock. Violent twitches take over your body as you shut your eyes and ride it all out. 

The sheer amount of slick that pools out of your cunt is mind-numbing, every drop coating Jack’s cock for him to piston even faster up into you. You fall limp in his hands, your orgasm shattering every ounce of willpower you had left, reduced to nothing but a drooling fucktoy on his chest.

And, god, he cums. So thick, so much, straight into the gummy walls that constricted around him like a vice. He gnashed his teeth, claws scratching down your sides and gripping hard into the meat of your ass as he holds you there, forcing you to sit and feel every shot of cum that pumps into your cervix. He’s whimpering, teeth chattering so hard you were afraid he’d pass out.

And you’re just tapering off from your own orgasm, finally mustering enough energy to look up at him, you slur your words, “Didn’t that feel good? Ah— good job, good job, Jack.”

He’s not listening.

“Again. Again, again, again—” Urgent, rapidly he’s flipping the two of you immediately over to hover on top of you and rut like an animal. You’re gasping once your back slams down on the soft bedding, heels struggling to cling onto Jack’s slim hips until he’s wrapping his long arms underneath your knees and hauling them over his shoulders. You feel your back bend, and bend, and bend—

He had you manhandled like some toy into a mating press. All the air gets pressed out of your lungs as your heels hook onto his shoulders, ruffled feathers on his collar tickling your bare skin. You’re so open, so powerless, so… braindead.

“Need to make you cum again—” Growling through the tiniest gaps of his grit teeth, he presses his forehead to yours, his striped nose poking against your cheek, and inhales that sweet scent of yours still permeating the thick air. The straps of his suspenders rub against your skin as he begins to move again, searing his hips back to thrust back into you again. He laughs, rough and low and tired, chittering his teeth, “I want to feel it over and over. Want to make my sweet girl feel good again.”

He struggles to even focus his eyes on you properly, and Jack’s teeth grit at the lead squelch your pussy makes once he sinks all the way back in, drools of cum and slick pooling onto the mattress below. 

He picks up a brutal pace again, planting his claws on either side of your head, your hands wrapping around his wrists as you try to hold on for dear fucking life. The angle, the position, the sheer force of his hips have your jaw going slack, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Jack’s length bumps into your g-spot so bruisingly that with only a few more strokes you’re cumming again. 

It’s only when you cry out, a shrill noise bubbling out of your throat, that Jack realizes it. A wide smile paints his face, every sharp tooth shining in the dim light as he watches every twist and turn of your expression, refusing to slow his pace even when fat tears roll down your cheeks. “Yes. Yeah, yeah, yeah— Yes, sweet girl. Give it to me, give it to me—”

He can’t even finish the damn sentence before he’s following right behind you, your cunt clenching so tight that he can’t thrust again before he’s spilling into you—even more. You can tell he’s sensitive, can feel the way his hips fight his mind to pull out, whimpering so pitifully as he fucks him cum into the already stuffed cavern of your walls.

“So good for me— so good. Feel how full you are, so full and— and warm…” He was practically twitching, trembling. “It’s so hot inside…”

You couldn’t even move without feeling cum slip down the curve of your ass, spilling onto the bed. You prayed Mrs. Dalton’s comforter was washable.

Yelping, your legs struggle to shut once his sloppy cadence turns even sloppier. Lazier. Heels slipping off of his shoulders and crooking onto his elbows. “O-one more—” Jack’s whining, black tongue lolling between his teeth, licking up the drool that pools onto his lips, “Keep— keep those pretty legs open f’me. M’begging— take it, sweetheart.”

One claw wiggles its way under your back, arching your body off the bed and pressing your chest to his, face-first into the ruffles of his collar. The other claw plants at the top of your head, and pushes you down.

“Jack—!” Your legs were shaking so violently every snap of his hips made you weep openly. So overstimulated, you could barely even be touched without lighting cracking through your veins. 

“Yeah? Feel good? S’all for you— only for you—” Purposefully pressing up close so that your poor clit gets rubbed over by the wrap of bandages that stop at his pelvis, the rough fabric tugging the sensitive bud. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, totally focused on making you as full as possible.

He was fucking you like he couldn’t get enough—would never possibly be able to get enough. Every thrust had him pushing you down once more after the stuttering recoil, grinding your bodies against each other because Jack couldn’t bear to part. “You’re never leaving again—never—Need you all the time.”

You can’t help but nod, can’t even think straight, mind completely full of the skin slapping and the strong smells and the horrible way you knew you were going to be so bruised after this. This was going to hurt so bad tomorrow.

“Cum. Cum on me, sweetheart. All over me.”

“Jack— please—” you cry, mouth falling into an obscene O shape as you feel your legs going numb.

“Now.” You could hear the grit in his voice, hear the absolute need. But more than that, more than his voice, you could feel the heavy tongue that slithered across your throat, across your shoulders, all the way into your mouth and to the back of your throat—choking you.

Feel it as you squirt.

“Yes.”

Simply spraying him with a searing flood of your sweet, soaking juices. Jack has the mindless audacity to crane his head and look between you, wide eyes catching just as your wetness sprays onto his hips and trousers and just everywhere.

“Fuuuck…” You feel like you’ve been dragged through the 6 rings of hell with the way your body absolutely burns. Gushing and gushing—it’s almost embarrassing how much you’re leaking around Jack’s creamy base. 

Jack didn’t seem to think so, though.

He was mesmerized, hypnotized. A glistening few droplets of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he just watched himself get drenched in all your gushing orgasm whilst he cums for who knows how many times.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes—” Jack is absolutely losing his mind, every languid pump of his flinching cock sending massive shockwaves through both of you. He can’t even draw his hips back anymore, can’t even thrust, “Yes.”

He just grinds, just pumps you full again, this round of cum not even trying to fit into your cunt and just spilling out. Jack falls limp on top of you, muttering yes, yes, yes like a mantra, like his mouth can’t form another word. You both just lay there for a moment, all heaving breaths and shaky limbs, clinging to each other like you never want to let go.

“So full… Jack… soo full…” You mumble against his chest, tears and spit staining the white fabric. He nods against your hair, taking deep breaths of the sweet smell of you. 

The room was still heavy with heat and haze, the air thick and sweet as your chest rose and fell beneath him. Jack’s weight was heavy, his long, wild hair a curtain around your flushed face, his hands still curled loosely at either side of your head, claws twitching with the remnants of adrenaline.

You were boneless beneath him, throat raw from panting, lips swollen from being kissed breathless. Every inch of you felt claimed—touched, tasted, adored in that chaotic, frenzied way only he could manage.

Jack licked his lips, then leaned down to nose against your neck, humming softly to himself, as though delighted by the sheen of sweat on your skin. “You were… so good,” he murmured, voice thick with pride and possessive warmth. “So warm. So soft. I didn’t know… I didn’t know anything could feel that good.”

You swallowed hard, heart still hammering in your chest as you tried to blink the daze from your eyes. His tongue flicked out, dragging slowly along your collarbone, tasting you again. “Jack—” you breathed, trying to lift your hand, but he caught it midair, pressing it to his chest like a treasure.

He slowly lifted his hips, pushing your legs open so he could ease out of you with the least amount of pain possible. It was useless, your hips still stuttered upwards when the head of him caught in your entrance, snagging a shrill cry from your lips that he immediately swallowed up.

His cum gushed out of you, thick globs of him pulling out of you and pooling onto the bedding below. You felt your whole body shiver, felt Jack’s eyes rove over every curve and surge of your body.

“You felt good,” he repeated, more urgently now, almost reverent. “Like magic. Like you were made for me. Were you?”

Your throat tightened. “I… don’t know.”

“You are now.” He leaned down again, licking along the swell of your breast before trailing down your ribs, slow and unhurried, as though savoring the salt of your skin. His voice was muffled, cheek pressed against your stomach. “Mine now. Can’t give you back. Won’t.”

You twitched when his tongue dipped a little lower, lazily tracing over the marks he’d left. His claws gently held your thighs open as he worked, less frenzied now—just curious, affectionate. Worshipful. He pressed the thick curve of his tongue through your folds, across your lips, careful not to let your hips jerk away from him. 

You squirmed under him, both flushed and too sensitive to bear it. “Jack—enough, please—”

He huffed, nuzzling your hip as if reluctant to stop. “But you taste like strawberries,” he whined. “And you let me, didn’t you? You let me do everything.”

“I was trying to help you understand,” you said, voice thin and shaky, though you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Trying to make sense of… whatever this is.”

Jack blinked, resting his chin on your belly, his eyes wide and unusually soft.

“I don’t want to make sense of it anymore,” he murmured. “I just want you.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I love you.”

You felt your throat choke up.

“I love you,” His tongue moved easily, cleaning your inner thighs, cleaning your cunt, careful not to hurt you when he pressed the muscle against your entrance and into your pitiful walls. “I love you, I love you,” he muffled against your center. You squealed, tears hot and heavy against your cheeks. But Jack held your thighs, swiped his thumbs over your skin in comfort, easy as he cleaned every curve and slope of your cunt. “Mm love you.”

When you felt lightheaded, when you didn’t know if you would be able to open your eyes every time you blinked—Jack finally let up, licking his maw, and planting one, gentle kiss against your spoiled clit.

His hands slid up, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you up against him again. You collapsed into his chest, exhausted and limp, your fingers curling into the soft, ruffled fabric of his shirt. Jack purred in his throat, the vibration sinking into your bones.

“I— hah—” you whispered. “I love you, Jack.”

Jack hissed quietly, pleased by the mention—but he didn’t stir you. He only curled tighter around you, his limbs tangling with yours like string and shadow, pressing soft, lazy kisses into your temple.

And as you lay there, sleep creeping in at the corners of your mind, you realized something terrifying: You didn’t feel scared anymore. You felt claimed.

── .✦

The first rays of sunrise spilled through the curtains in delicate streaks of gold, turning the bedroom air hazy and warm. You blinked groggily into the soft morning light, eyelids heavy, body sore in all the places that had been handled—held, touched, claimed.

But when you moved, it was with a jarring realization: Your clothes were back on. Neat. Clean. Smoothed over your skin as if nothing had happened at all.

The bedding beneath you was immaculate too—fluffed and freshly tucked like someone had come in during the night and changed the sheets around your sleeping body. There was no trace of feathers, no smudges of face paint, no claw marks in the mattress. No lingering shadow in the corners.

No Jack.

You sat up too fast. A bolt of dizziness slammed through you, your legs swinging over the side of the bed on instinct, your feet hitting the floor—only for your knees to buckle immediately, muscles trembling from the night before.

“Shit—!”

You pitched forward, panic flooding your chest, the carpet rushing up to meet you—

—but something caught you.

Sharp claws—long as branches, strong as iron. They snaked around your waist mid-fall and reeled you back up into the air like a ragdoll. You let out a yelp, twisting in surprise.

“Careful, sweetheart!” Jack’s voice cooed near your ear, syrupy with delight. “Can’t have you break yourself again so soon. I just put you back together.”

You looked up, heart hammering against your ribs. He held you easily in his arms, your feet dangling slightly above the floor as he giggled—a glittering grin splitting his face beneath that mess of black and white scruff. His long nose brushed your cheek affectionately, lips pressing a hot kiss there, and then another at your temple.

“You wore yourself out, silly thing. All that shaking and moaning and screaming my name—” he grinned wider, if that were possible, voice practically a purr. His eyes gleamed, lids heavy with smugness. “I’ve never seen such a generous girl before.”

You flushed furiously, pushing lightly at his chest. “Jack—shhh!”

But he only hummed, spinning you effortlessly in his arms like a toy ballerina before cradling you bridal-style once again. “Come on then,” he murmured. “Let’s go see our boy.”

With a gentle lurch, he carried you through the hall, humming a wilted lullaby that made the hairs on your arms stand up. And yet… you didn’t resist. You let your cheek rest against the soft feathered scruff of his collar, hands curled into the frilled edge of his sleeve.

The door to Oliver’s room creaked open on its own as Jack approached, and he stepped inside with a kind of reverence. You could feel the difference now—this wasn’t just a child’s bedroom. It was a sanctuary. A space Jack had claimed as sacred.

He placed you carefully on the edge of the bed, his clawed fingers brushing your cheek with startling tenderness.

You turned immediately to check on Oliver. The little boy stirred beneath his covers, his tiny fists rubbing at sleepy eyes. His hair was tousled, cheeks warm and pink from dreams, and when he saw you—his whole face lit up.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, beaming.

“I told you I would,” you said, smoothing his hair with a soft smile.

Oliver blinked up at you, voice quiet and dreamlike. “Jack says… he’s really happy now. He said he likes the way you smell when you’re sleepy. He said he wants you to stay forever.”

Your heart skipped. You turned over your shoulder—but the room was empty. No creak of footsteps, no swish of feathers, no glint of a manic smile from the corner. Just the soft hush of morning light, Oliver’s sleepy breathing, and the distant jingle of keys at the front door.

── .✦

It had been just over a week since that first night back—since the floodgates had opened. The days blurred together now in a soft, steady rhythm. Every evening, the sun dipped low over the Daltons’ quiet street, and you found yourself there, ringing the doorbell with your overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Mrs. Dalton had grown warmer, more relaxed around you. You understood her now, why she left so often, why her shoulders never quite fell from that constant state of tension.

The mornings were slower. You and Mrs. Dalton had even begun grabbing coffee at the little shop a block from the house before she left for work. She never asked questions, never made you explain the way your shirt sometimes looked hastily thrown on or how you wore the same dazed smile every morning. Maybe she didn’t want the details. Maybe she already knew with the way the energy around the house had completely shifted.

But tonight, something was different.

Oliver was already in his pajamas when you arrived, swinging his legs off the couch and grinning ear to ear.

“Guess what!” he chirped, bouncing up to meet you at the door. You smiled, setting the bag down and slipping off your shoes. “What’s up, bud?”

“I made a friend at school!” he announced proudly. “A real one! Her name is Ellie, and she has a pet lizard and everything.”

Your heart bloomed with warmth. It was the first time Oliver had mentioned a friend who wasn’t invisible or feathered or from some half-imagined memory. “That’s amazing, Ollie! I’m so proud of you.”

“We’re having a playdate tomorrow! Her mom and my mom set it up. She’s gonna come over after school.” He beamed up at you with all the brightness of someone who’d waited too long for something this simple. “You’ll be here, right?”

You nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Oliver hesitated then, tugging at the edge of his pajama top. Something in his expression changed—less excitement, more careful consideration.

“I think… I think I want you to keep Jack,” he said softly.

You blinked, crouching down to be eye-level with him. “What do you mean?”

“I think he likes you better,” Oliver said plainly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “He always tells me how pretty you are. How you smell like strawberries. And he’s really, really happy when you stay. He used to be sad all the time. But not anymore.”

A small, fluttering ache pressed against your ribs. “Ollie… Jack’s your friend.”

“He is,” Oliver said, with a tiny, knowing smile. “But now he’s yours too. So you gotta take care of him.” He wrapped his little arms around your neck then, tight and firm the way kids do when they want to say something big without using words.

You held him close, whispering, “I’ll take good care of him. Promise.”

Later that night, after brushing Oliver’s teeth and reading through the last pages of Where the Wild Things Are for the fourth time that week, you tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and switched off the light. The house was quiet when you padded into the living room, curling up on the couch with a blanket drawn over your legs. You waited, like you always did now—breath slow, heart expectant.

The air stirred. And then, gentle as a whisper, black claws slithered around your shoulders, a familiar heat blooming against your back.

Jack’s claws slipped around your shoulders with slow, deliberate weight, his touch always somewhere between possessive and reverent. You let him pull you back against the solid press of his chest, feeling the faint ruffle of feathers brush your cheek as his breath ghosted along your ear.

“You heard him, didn’t you?” you murmured quietly, not needing to look. “Oliver… he said I should take care of you now.”

Jack didn’t answer at first. Just held you a little tighter. His long legs coiled beside yours as he crouched on the back of the couch, half-lurking, half-nesting.

“I heard,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “But I’ll still watch over him. Always. Even if I’m… with you now.”

You tilted your head back to rest against his collar, smiling softly. “You’re not gonna sneak around in my closet, are you?”

Jack snorted, the sound bubbling out of him like a hiccupy laugh. “Your closet’s much bigger than Ollie’s. I’d have space to stretch out… but it smells like laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Not strawberries.”

You smacked his arm lightly, and he giggled, his limbs shifting around you like a jungle gym. “Maybe I like the closet,” he said dramatically. “But I think I’d rather sleep in your bed.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Oh, would you now?”

Jack leaned closer, feathered collar tickling your jaw as he pressed the side of his face to yours. “Mhm. I like it when you get all squishy and warm and sigh real soft. I like your hair.”

You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m yours,” he replied easily, chin now resting on your shoulder as his arms draped fully around your waist. “That’s what Ollie said. And I love being yours.”

A warm ache bloomed in your chest as he stepped over the back of the couch and sat next to you, pulling you into his lap like a ragdoll, curling himself around you like a giant predatory housecat. His weight settled, limbs folding over yours, as if making a cocoon.

The quiet stretched, and you leaned into him, no longer startled by his touch, by his presence—by what he was.

“You’re really staying with me?” you asked, voice hushed.

Jack made a low hum in his throat, his clawed fingers tracing idle shapes into the fabric of your sleeve. “Only if I get to sleep in your bed.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as your head rested against his chest, the rhythmic thrum of something not-quite-human but not entirely monstrous beating beneath your ear. Outside, the world was turning slowly toward morning. Inside, the couch creaked beneath two bodies tangled together, something real and strange and maybe a little bit of magic settling in.

Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

This was a request from @valinpariss!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[rainrot4me]

A Hunter's Moon

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

──────────────────────────────── smokey eyes - lincoln

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Beneath late summer nights, Jack always found you. Human and monster, two different worlds separated by a picket fence. But when he didn't return, you set out to look for him. You find him in rut, in pain, in the ache of something like love—and what kind of friend would you be if you refused him?

✦ . Characters: Eyeless Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Friends to lovers, partial-canon backstory, rut/heat cycles, mentions of blood and violence, gore, cannibalism, predator/prey relationship, chasing, biting, vaginal, cunnilingus, multiple positions, rough sex, animalistic sex, belly bulge, clawing, begging, partial non-con, creampie, breeding, knotting

✦ . Words: 15.5k

✦ . Note: Monster fucker nation please stand, this one is for you. Very gross, very scary, but ohhhhhhh so good and yum and UGHHHHH. Feast my children. Don’t tell the others, hurry hurry hurry, we can’t let them know that this is what we’re into.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You always loved June.

It was one of those syrupy summer nights, the air thick and soft, clinging to skin like a second, invisible layer. Cicadas droned lazily from somewhere deep in the woods, their chorus blending with the distant hum of traffic beyond the trees. The sun had long dipped behind the hills, but the heat of the day clung on, reluctant to let the world rest.

Your backyard was a patchwork of dim porch light and moonlight, the fence throwing long shadows across the brittle grass. Beyond the fence stretched the treeline, thick and dark as spilled ink, pulsing with the unseen eyes of the forest.

The fence was old—weather-worn wood, sun-bleached, as tall as your chest, and starting to splinter in spots—but it was your fence. Your spot. The place where every night, like clockwork, you would stand on one side with the glow of your kitchen lights behind you, and he would linger on the other, half-concealed by the darkness of the pines.

You heard the faint scuff of boots on dried leaves, the rustle of branches catching on old denim. You didn’t even have to look. You knew it was him.

“Late again,” you teased, leaning against the picketed wood. Fireflies darted around overhead, slow and golden, tiny lanterns against the night.

Jack shifted closer. Tall, broad-shouldered, the faintest glint of moonlight catching the wet curve of the dark mask he wore, the slits where eyes should have been yawning and black—just two gaping sockets, still managing somehow to see you. The copper tang of dried blood still clung faintly to him, mingling with the loamy smell of the forest and his favorite cologne. All wrapped up in an oversized gray hoodie and old wrangler jeans.

“I had…business,” he rasped, voice rough like something left too long in the dark.

You studied him, heart twisting. Once, things had been different. 

You met Jack in college, before everything changed.

He was Eyeless Jack to the world now—a name passed around in hushed rumors and panicked police briefings—but once, he was just Jack. Jack Nyras, pre-med major, scruffy-haired and half-insomniac from too many late-night study sessions. You’d first bumped into him, literally, outside your genetics class when you spilled an entire iced coffee down the front of his hoodie.

Instead of getting mad, he laughed. That laugh, even now, you remembered with a painful fondness: easy, warm, too big for his slight, lanky frame.

After that, you were inseparable. You sat in labs together, sharing notes, studying for hours until your brains turned to mush. Sometimes you’d catch him drawing twisted little sketches of incredibly detailed body parts in the margins of his anatomy book, black ink dripping from his pen like nightmares, doodling hearts and vein patterns and every bone you could think of. He’d grin sheepishly if you pointed it out.

“Just to blow off steam,” he’d told you.

If only it had stayed that way.

But something was off that last semester.

It started with Jenny. A bright-eyed, over-eager girl with too many questions about death, about gods, about what might live on the other side of everything. You’d seen her hanging around Jack, pressing him for his knowledge of anatomy and the occult. You hadn’t thought much of it—she was a weird kid, but who wasn’t in college?

Until the night they took Jack to a ritual.

You hadn’t known where he went, at first. A text left on read. A worried voicemail. Then nothing. You had no clue.

They’d dragged him to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town, where Jenny and her cult had tried to summon a demon—and they’d needed a human sacrifice to open the door. Jack. Your Jack.

They had held him down, cut his eyelids away so he could never look away, and scooped out his eyes with brutal, surgical precision. You would have nightmares about that for years: those empty, bleeding sockets. Then they poured something black and slick, like tar, into the holes—a living thing that pulsed and smoked, thick with hatred.

It was supposed to let a demon pass through him, a doorway wearing a human face. But something went wrong.

Instead of a perfect vessel, Jack became the demon’s prison. The possession took root, warping him, twisting flesh and bone. His skin turned an unnatural gray, hard like stone. The black voids where his eyes once were never stopped weeping that tar-like ichor. Needle-sharp teeth split his mouth, rabid and hungry.

Jack was the only one to survive, if you could call it surviving.

When he came to you after, it was in the dead of night, half-collapsed against your back porch door, trying to hold his guts inside his ribs with clawed, shaking hands. He was weeping. You’d never heard a sound like it, the noise of someone whose soul had been torn in half.

“Don’t look at me,” he begged, voice raw, inhuman already. “Please.”

But you did. You looked. You saw him for what he had become, and refused to turn away.

You kept him alive those first weeks, when he didn’t know what to eat, didn’t understand the pull inside him. You watched him break down on your kitchen floor, apologizing over and over. You helped him find ways to stay hidden, to scavenge what he needed to keep from losing his mind completely.

When Slenderman came for him—a towering, impossible shape between your backyard trees one night—you thought you’d lose Jack for good. But even that faceless horror couldn’t break the bond you’d built. Jack still came back, slipping from his grip in brief windows, always returning to the same spot at the back fence, where your world met the dark.

You wondered if part of him fought that puppet-string control just to see you again.

The truth was, you had every reason to fear him. You’d seen the news reports, the evidence photos, the torn bodies left in his wake. The world would call you naive, maybe even insane. But you knew him. You’d seen him laugh over spilled coffee. You’d watched him hold a scared freshman’s hand in a bio lab when they passed out during a dissection.

That Jack was still there, tangled in the ruin.

So you never turned him away. Even now, years later, you stood by your back fence on humid summer nights, waiting for the quiet scuff of his boots through the weeds. You told him about your boring, safe life—air conditioners and late shifts and microwave dinners—and he told you, in broken pieces, about the horrors he couldn’t help but feed on.

And despite all of it, despite the monsters clawing at his mind, you stayed. Because sometimes being a friend wasn’t bright or easy. Sometimes it was raw and heavy and stubborn, refusing to let go of someone even when the world said you should.

If you wanted, you could forget that night he’d stumbled from the woods, half-monster and half your friend. You could pretend this fence was a line dividing your worlds.

But you didn’t.

Because he was Jack. A biology major, obsessed with genetics and a little too competitive at beer pong. Now, the woods had become his kingdom, the darkness his only safe harbor. But some things hadn’t changed: the way he still leaned forward a little when you spoke, or how he listened more than he talked.

“Rough night?” you asked gently.

He tilted his head, a gesture oddly canine in its curiosity, “Rougher for them.”

You sighed, but there was no real fear in it. If there was one truth in your world, it was that he’d never hurt you.

“I had a pretty boring day,” you offered, voice light, trying to balance out the shadows in his. “Work was slow. Mrs. Carter’s cat had kittens, I saw them in her yard. Oh—and I got a sunburn.”

His head dipped, as if acknowledging the small tragedies of a normal human life. “Show me,” he said quietly.

You laughed, brushing your sleeve up to reveal pink skin. “See? Totally my fault. I fell asleep in the hammock.”

He reached forward, clawed hand resting on top of the fence, close but not quite touching. “You should be careful,” he murmured. “The sun can be quite dangerous this time of year.”

That startled a laugh out of you—a small, real sound. “Wow, Jack, you going to lecture me on skin cancer now?”

A faint, rasping chuckle answered, like dry leaves scraping together.

You both fell into silence, the comfortable kind. The night seemed to wrap around you, humming with late-summer heat, thick with scents of honeysuckle and crushed grass. Somewhere far off, an owl called.

You studied him across the fence, trying to read the shape of him. You could still see the slope of his shoulders, the faint twitch in his jaw when he was worried. The eyeless mask made him look monstrous—but you’d stopped seeing it that way long ago. Nowadays, you were just upset you couldn’t see his cute smile.

“Jack,” you said after a while, softer now, “are you…okay?”

His shoulders rose and fell. A sigh? Maybe.

“I don’t know if I even remember what ‘okay’ feels like,” he murmured. “But… this. Talking to you. It helps.”

Your heart pinched, warm and a little sad. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

You saw him shift closer, a whisper of movement, enough that the shadows seemed to lean toward you. You swallowed, wishing you could reach over the fence and touch him, just once. Instead you let your fingers curl against the peeling paint. “I’m glad you still come back,” you smiled. He just nodded.

“You should go inside soon,” he rasped. “It’s too warm to sleep, but… safer. You should eat some dinner.”

“Will you stay out here a while?” you asked.

He dipped his chin, the faintest promise. “Yeah. I’ll keep watch.”

It was nothing, and it was everything.

Crickets sang to fill the hush that followed.

You stepped a little closer, pressing your palm to the wood between you, pretending you could feel his heartbeat through the fence. If he even still had one.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, trying to smile.

He nodded once again, a barely-there motion. “Same time.”

“Goodnight, Jack,” you said softly.

“Goodnight,” he answered, voice steady, a vow carried on the warm summer air.

And then, like a dream dissolving, he stepped back into the gloom of the pines. You caught one last glimpse of his silhouette before the night swallowed him whole.

The fence was still warm under your hand, the cicadas still singing. You exhaled, steadying herself, knowing that tomorrow he’d be there again—your friend in the woods, monster and boy, killer and companion.

And you would be there too, waiting for him.

── .✦

The day crawled by, the hours sticky and dull. You’d scrubbed your kitchen counters twice, answered a handful of emails for work you barely remembered, and even tried to read a book on the back steps—but the words blurred in the heavy evening heat.

All you could think about was Jack.

Ever since that night, years ago, your days felt incomplete until you met him at the fence. Those small conversations, traded across weather-ruined ply-wood, had become your strange ritual, your fragile thread of normal.

Tonight was no different. As the sun began to drop, you practically inhaled your dinner—pasta gone rubbery from the microwave, but you didn’t even taste it—swallowing mouthfuls so fast you nearly choked. Then you ran a hand through your hair, smoothed the wrinkles from your shirt, and stepped outside.

The air was still and damp, the kind that made your arms itch. The cicadas thrummed their endless song, hiding the hush of the woods. You leaned on the fence, peering into the tree line.

Nothing.

You waited, shifting your weight from foot to foot, hoping you’d see the pale glint of his mask moving between the trunks. But the woods stayed silent, the sky growing darker by the minute.

Maybe something came up. Maybe Slenderman needed him. Maybe he was hunting. He was usually late anyway.

You tried to reason with yourself, but the night stretched on, thick and empty, until the mosquitoes started biting and you had no choice but to go inside.

The next night, you came out early, practically running through the kitchen just to get to the fence faster. But again—nothing. The woods felt wrong, like a silent accusation, each leaf unmoving in the hot breeze.

The third night, you could barely stand to eat. You pushed your food around the plate, your stomach a hard knot, fingers picking at the torn edge of your thumbnail until it bled. The skin around your cuticles was raw from worry, your breathing shallow and thin.

Three days, you thought, three days is too long.

He had never gone three days without showing up, not since that night you saved him from bleeding out in your basement.

A cold panic clawed at your throat. You pictured him cornered somewhere, wounded, or worse—devoured by whatever lived inside him. You pictured Slenderman tearing him apart like a dog with a ragdoll, or the police finally catching him, gunning him down before he could explain he was more victim than monster.

Your fork clattered to the plate. You couldn’t take it.

You stood so fast your chair scraped a painful shriek across the floor. You grabbed your flashlight, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out, and stalked out into the night.

The fence gate to the woods creaked open, a hesitant protest that felt far too loud. The path beyond was half-eaten by weeds and dark as ink, but you forced yourself through, lungs full of warm, wet air that smelled like dirt and dying leaves.

If Jack wasn’t coming to you—then you would go to him.

You stepped across the fence line, your safe little world snapping shut behind you like a broken jaw, and let the darkness swallow you whole.

── .✦

The woods closed in around you the moment you crossed the fence line, swallowing up the distant hum of the highway and the yellow glow of your back porch light. Out here, everything was shadow layered on shadow, the air thick enough to choke.

You stepped carefully, branches scratching your shins, the beam of your flashlight bouncing across the undergrowth. Every so often you caught a flash of color—a scrap of paper, a mushroom cap, a piece of trash—and your heart would leap in false hope, only to crash back down when it wasn’t him.

Where are you, Jack?

You tried to keep your breathing quiet, tried not to think about the thousands of unseen things rustling in the tall grass. Your imagination filled the darkness with monsters: faceless giants and hollow-eyed shapes, hands reaching.

A branch snapped somewhere ahead, sharp and loud. You flinched, heart hammering up into your throat. Your flashlight jerked wildly, sending yellow arcs of light through the undergrowth.

“Jack?” you called, voice soft and strangled.

No answer. Only the startled flutter of birds erupting from the canopy, taking to the sky in a rush of frantic wings. You staggered back, hand clamped over your chest, adrenaline scalding through you.

You swept the beam of the flashlight across the trees, willing him to be there—a dark mask, a familiar slouch, anything—but the woods only gave you more silence.

Panic built behind your ribs like a scream. You tried to swallow it down.

“Jack?” you called again, a little louder this time, your voice carrying through the trees.

Nothing.

The darkness pressed in. Every stick crack, every scuttle of an animal felt like claws reaching for you. You forced yourself forward, one step at a time, your sneakers sinking into damp earth.

You called again, and again, each time a little braver, though the sound of your own voice nearly terrified you more than the silence did.

“Jack,” you pleaded, “if you can hear me… please answer.”

The flashlight beam wobbled as you clenched your shaking hand around it. The woods felt too big, swallowing your words whole. You had no idea how deep Jack had gone, or if he was even alive, or if you’d ever find him again.

But you had to try.

You would keep going. Even if it meant walking straight into a nightmare, you would keep looking for him, because Jack had never left you alone, even at his worst.

And you refused to leave him alone now.

You kept walking.

The night felt endless, the same dark trees repeating over and over until your legs burned and your feet throbbed inside your sneakers. Branches snagged at your sleeves, tearing tiny holes you barely registered. Bugs droned in the heavy air, the only thing keeping you company.

You lost track of how long you’d been out there—forty minutes, an hour, maybe more. Every step felt like you were sinking deeper into something that didn’t want you there.

Then your flashlight caught a rounded shape in the dirt.

You froze, breath stuttering, and dropped to your knees. The beam landed on it properly this time, and your heart broke in a single, sharp crack.

Jack’s mask.

It lay half-buried under leaves and mud, one side split down the cheek like something had struck it hard, the once-smooth paint now chipped and stained. It looked wrong, abandoned, like a piece of him torn away, like it had been sitting here for a couple of days.

“No,” you whispered, fingers trembling as you picked it up. It was heavier than you expected, damp with rain and sweat, smelling faintly of earth and blood.

“Jack!” you shouted, panic swallowing every scrap of caution you had left. “Jack! Where are you?”

Your voice rang off the trees, harsh and desperate.

Nothing answered.

You shoved the mask under your arm and pushed onward, scanning the cliff runoffs and dry creekbeds where you knew animals liked to hide, searching the tangled roots along the old trails, calling his name again and again.

“Jack! Please—answer me!”

The woods felt different now. As you climbed another steep rise, lungs burning, you realized it had gotten… quiet.

Way too quiet.

The cicadas were gone. No crickets. No night birds. Nothing.

Like the entire forest had been smothered under a heavy, waiting hush.

Your footsteps sounded painfully loud, each broken twig echoing off the trunks around you. You forced yourself to keep moving, scanning every hollow, every patch of shadow for a flash of gray skin or those ink-black tears—anything to prove he was still here.

But the silence felt absolute.

Crushing.

Wrong.

You swallowed, hard, the edges of the quiet closing around you until it felt like the woods themselves were holding their breath.

The stillness was so heavy it pressed on your eardrums, leaving you dizzy and unsteady. You clutched the broken mask tighter to your chest, heart hammering, flashlight flicking from one twisted branch to another.

That was when you heard it.

A wet, tearing sound, slick and raw, like someone wringing out a soaked rag. Then another noise—a sharp pop, like cartilage snapping.

Your stomach lurched.

You turned your flashlight toward the sound, its pale circle shaking so badly it barely held focus. You swallowed, took a single step, then another, trying not to crack any twigs, the silence around you making every breath sound huge.

You crept forward, through brambles that snagged your jeans, and finally reached the thick trunk of a pine tree. Its bark was rough against your palm as you steadied yourself, heart about to pound out of your chest.

The noises were louder here—slurping, chewing, flesh pulling away from bone.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a heartbeat, steeling yourself, then leaned to peek around the tree.

The sight made your legs go out from under you.

Jack was crouched low, his claws sunk deep in something—someone—sprawled in the mud. His face was buried in the corpse’s stomach, his mask gone, the ruined hollow of his sockets pressed to ruined flesh as he tore through it with those glinting, animal-sharp teeth.

Wet, black gore streaked his chin. Strings of it dripped from his mouth as he devoured what was left of the person’s organs.

He looked monstrous, more beast than man, moving in a brutal, mindless rhythm that made bile rise in your throat.

A scream clawed its way up before you could stop it, raw and terrified, tearing itself from your lungs.

The flashlight fell from your hands, clattering against a rock. Jack’s broken mask slipped after it, landing in the dirt.

Your knees buckled and you crashed to the ground, hands braced in the leaves as you gasped, the scream still echoing through the dead, silent woods.

Jack’s head snapped up, raw and slick with gore, strands of dark tissue clinging to his torn lips. For a moment, he just stared—or aimed those hollow sockets at you, emptier than any night you’d ever seen.

Then he let out a sound.

It was a low, throaty grunt, bubbling through whatever remained of the man’s organs, followed by a choked, strangled whine.

He shoved the corpse aside in a jerking, hungry motion, the wet smack of it hitting the ground making you flinch. Jack’s claws scraped through the dirt as he pushed upright, swaying on his feet. The moon caught the raw gleam of his teeth, stained black-red and sharp as glass. The front of his gray hoodie was stained dark, blood covering his chest and collar.

He took a staggering step toward you, hunched, moving in fits and starts—a predator not quite remembering how to use its limbs.

“J—Jack,” you stammered, voice cracking under the weight of your own terror.

Another grunt, this one higher, confused, almost hurt. But he kept coming, head tilted like he was trying to place you, thick lines of blood still running from his mouth.

You scrambled to your feet, hands scraping against sticks and dirt. Your flashlight lay where it had fallen, but you didn’t dare grab it—the thought of wasting a single second made your heart seize.

You ran.

Your legs barely worked at first, a jolt of panic burning through them so violently you stumbled. Behind you, Jack howled—a horrible, broken sound, like a wolf choking on its own kill—and then he charged.

You heard him crashing through the brush, smashing into trees hard enough to shake the branches overhead, snarling and sobbing all at once.

Your lungs tore with each gulp of damp air, your feet tangling in vines and roots. The world blurred, branches whipping your face and arms, your pulse a screaming rhythm in your ears.

You glanced over your shoulder—mistake.

Jack was close, horrifyingly close, lurching forward on all fours at times, then staggering upright, drool and blood flinging off his chin with every strangled cry.

The sound of him was horrible, like a nightmare given voice: gasping, wet snarls, a boy’s whimper trapped in a monster’s throat.

You pushed harder, legs on fire, tripping through a creek bed and nearly going down. Behind you, Jack crashed in after, water splashing like a thunderclap. He slammed against the bank and scrabbled up again, claws raking mud, his body moving with a terrifying, unstoppable hunger.

The night around you felt like it shrank, every tree too close, every shadow reaching. You could hear him breathing—wet, ragged, sharp—right behind you, the animal panic of a predator whose prey was slipping away.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, half from terror, half from heartbreak. Jack. Your Jack. Reduced to this. Hunting you like he didn’t even know your name.

He wailed again, an echoing, desperate sound that sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through your spine.

You scrambled up a hill, nails tearing into the dirt for grip, and felt him slam into the slope behind you, sending rocks and dead leaves skittering down around your heels. He tripped on a root, crashing to his knees with a scream of frustration, but he was already dragging himself up, unstoppable.

You felt pathetic, small and breakable, every instinct screaming to run run run run—

But there was nowhere to go, nowhere safe. The forest was a cage, and Jack was filling every inch of it, his cries ripping through the dark, hunting you down with mindless, monstrous determination.

You ran anyway, because you had to.

And behind you, he followed—crashing, wailing, unstoppable.

It only took one misstep of your foot, one trip—a rush of air and the thunder of clawed feet, and then he crashed into you with the force of a falling tree.

You hit the ground hard, the breath punched out of your lungs, dirt grinding into your palms. Before you could even scream, Jack was on top of you, pinning you to the forest floor with all his unnatural weight.

He snarled inches from your face, the sound raw and animal, splattering you with thick, foul-smelling gore. Blood dripped from his wide lips, fat droplets falling onto your cheek, sliding warm and sticky into your hair. You noticed it then, the absolute richness of his smell. Like his cologne, but so stout and thick you could’ve choked on it.

You froze, terror swallowing you whole, every muscle locked in place. His claws curled into the ground beside your head, framing you like steel traps.

“Jack,” you choked out, your voice breaking under the fear, “Jack, it’s me—please, please, it’s me!”

He leaned closer, so close you could smell rotted copper and damp earth on his breath. His hollow sockets flared wide, a horrible, empty focus. Another snarl tore out of him, spraying more blood across your face. Even the tips of his pointed ears were speckled with the stuff.

You raised your hands, palms open, pressing against the dampened fabric of his hoodie, feeling the quivering, rigid muscles beneath.

“Jack—Jack, please,” you sobbed, “you know me—it’s me, it’s me—”

Something in him stuttered.

The endless growling broke off, replaced by a high, confused whine. His head twitched, tilting to one side, like a dog trying to understand a new word.

His breath hitched, and then he bent down, nosing against your cheek, sucking in deep, shaky lungfuls of your scent.

His three black tongues emerged, slick and twitching, and began to sweep over your face in long, wet strokes, gathering up the blood he’d splattered there. It was revolting—warm, sticky, and far too intimate—and you flinched as he moved lower, tongues pressing to your neck, tasting, cleaning.

He breathed you in so desperately you thought he might inhale your entire soul. His chest heaved against your hands, shuddering with each inhale.

“Ssr—” he tried, voice grinding out of a throat that sounded half broken, “Mmn—Hah—”

You could hear it, buried in the monstrous ruin of his voice, “So-Sorr-ey—Mmn-sorr—Mnn-Miss yewhh—”

He kept trying to form the words, but they came out in garbled sobs and animal rasping, drool and blood dripping onto your skin.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t even breathe.

His tongues kept working, lapping gently at your throat, tasting, nuzzling, his claws scraping at the dirt on either side of your head. A pitiful whimper rattled through him every time he pulled away and tried to speak again.

It was like being pinned by a hurricane—something impossibly powerful and terrifying, but also heartbreakingly confused, lost, wanting only you.

You stared up at the empty sockets inches from your eyes, mind screaming, every nerve alight with raw, animal terror.

Jack’s blood-slick mouth hovered above you, trying so hard to shape human words, but all that came was a broken, hopeless cry.

Your heart pounded so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. Jack’s weight felt endless on top of you, a monstrous, crushing presence that smelled of blood and rot and something older, darker.

But… this was Jack.

You tried to remember that—your Jack, even buried in this nightmare. You preached about loving him and being there for him no matter what, but as soon as you’re faced with a horror, what did you do? Stupid.

You drew in a weary, shaking breath and reached up, fingers threading through the wild, tangled strands of his dark hair. The roots were tacky with drying blood, but you ignored it, combing gently, soothing.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice raw, “Jack… it’s okay. You’re okay.”

He whimpered against your throat, the monstrous rumble of his chest vibrating against yours. His tongues tried to drag across your cheeks again, desperate and sloppy, but you pushed him back with a shaking hand, steadying him.

“Stop—hey, it’s okay,” you tried again, voice firm but soft, like talking to a wounded animal.

He froze, breathing you in so deeply it hurt to hear, then slowly lowered his head until his brow touched yours. The blood was sticky between you, but the contact steadied him, just a little. You’d never have thought touching him, seeing him without his mask for the first time in months would’ve been like this. Fate has a weird way of working things out.

You kept your hand moving through his hair, gentle, grounding, and after another moment he shifted, claws pulling out of the dirt beside your head and instead curling around you, wrapping you in a terrifying, protective cage.

His hands—bloodied and sharp and so wrong—trembled as they ghosted under your shirt, rough against your waist, pulling you closer, pressing your ribs against his chest.

His entire body shook as he settled, breath ragged and uneven, the smell of iron so strong you wanted to gag. Still, you stayed, letting him hold you, even when every terrified instinct screamed to run.

Moonlight spilled through a break in the canopy, falling on the two of you in a cold, pale wash. It caught the gore still clinging to his jaw, the unnatural gray of his ruined skin, the inky stain of his hollow eyes.

Jack clung tighter, claws pricking your sides, breathing hard against your neck, confused sounds still rumbling in the back of his throat.

He didn’t understand. You could feel it in the frantic rhythm of his touch—he didn’t know why his body felt so raw, so starving, so desperate.

Jack stayed wrapped around you, claws trembling against your back, his breathing raw and frantic. His face was buried at your neck, those horrible tongues twitching against your skin, tasting you over and over as if it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Your head spun. He was so strong—you could feel it in every twitch of those monstrous hands, how easily he could have broken you. But he didn’t.

He was shaking, whimpering, lost.

“Jack,” you tried, voice cracking, “what is this? What’s happening to you?”

He made a mangled sound, low in his chest, trying to force words through a throat that wasn’t made for them anymore.

“Ca-c-can’t—” he rasped, wet and torn. “Can’t… s-stop.”

You swallowed, panic still clawing at your ribs. His claws flexed under your shirt, not hurting, but clutching at you like a lifeline.

“Can’t stop what?” you asked, heart hammering, “Hurting? Hunting?”

He shook his head, a violent, jerky movement against your neck, a fresh whimper breaking free.

“Smh-smell… y-you…” he gasped, voice breaking. “C-c-can’t… st-stop.”

Your mind was spinning, trying to piece it together. You thought of how he’d tracked you down, how he couldn’t stop licking you, couldn’t get enough of your scent, the way he was holding you now like he needed you to keep breathing.

Your stomach dropped.

Was this… heat? The word felt alien, but close. Or something like it. He was… an animal, twisted by what they’d done to him. Maybe his body had gone feral in more ways than just hunger.

“Jack,” you whispered, dread crawling up your spine, “are you… in some kind of… rut?”

He went still, pressed against you. A miserable, pained whimper came out, low and helpless.

“Dha-d-don’t… know,” he stuttered, voice thick with something raw and pathetic. “I… s-smell… yo-ou… need…”

It made your head swim. Of course he didn’t know. How could he? No one ever taught a monster about instincts like this.

His claws scrabbled at your back again, then curled around your waist, pulling you even tighter. His face pressed into your collarbone, those tongues working against your throat like he was trying to memorize you.

It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking.

“It’s okay, Jack,” you whispered again, voice catching, “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Jack trembled against you, his claws flexing and unflexing along your ribs, scraping your skin just enough to sting. His entire body was rigid, shaking, the way a bowstring might before it finally snapped.

A raw, pained groan crawled up his ruined throat, and then—he moved.

He shifted, his hips dragging against yours, grinding down, slow and clumsy, a desperate friction that made your blood run cold and your spine bow off the ground. He did it again, harder, a broken sob rattling out of him. He was hard, and so painfully, terrifyingly big. 

It was so wrong—but so heartbreakingly human in a twisted way.

He didn’t know what he was doing. You could feel it in how he shook, how his claws fluttered against your skin like he was afraid to hurt you. But some dark, feral instinct had its claws in him now, and it wouldn’t let go.

“J-Jack—” you stammered, terror slicing through you like a blade, “Jack, wait—wait, please—”

He didn’t seem to hear you. Or maybe he couldn’t.

He only whimpered, grinding down again, more frantic, his entire body surging with confused, alien need. The weight of him pinned you, crushing you into the damp earth, making it impossible to squirm away.

Your words turned to babbling, desperate, tears spilling from your eyes.

“Jack, please, wait, j-just—just hold on—you don’t have to—!”

But he needed to.

His tongue, the longest of the three, licked up the side of your neck, tasting your tears, and his whole body shuddered in something close to ecstasy.

You were perfect—you smelled so good, so alive, so his.

Jack keened against you, hips ramming forward again against the center of your thighs, a hopeless rhythm he didn’t understand, only that it made the gnawing ache inside ease for the briefest second. You grunted with every press, legs clamping to close around his hips, but it was no use.

His claws roved under your shirt, skittering against your bare skin, so hot and feverish it felt like they might burn you.

You tried to hold on to him, hands bracing against his chest, trying to reason with him, but he was gone to you—lost to instincts so deep and cruel they drowned out everything else.

“P-please, Jack,” you cried, voice catching on a sob, “I know you’re in there—I know you’re in there, please just—”

He didn’t answer.

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling with a desperate, shaking gasp, then ground into you again, a brutal, guttural snarl tearing from his chest.

There was hunger, yes—but not for organs, not this time. It was a hunger that was aching, tearing him apart in places he didn’t even have names for anymore.

He needed you. And he couldn’t stop.

The heat in his body was a firestorm, swallowing everything that made sense, leaving only need. You smelled so good—the salt of your skin, the sweet tang of your fear, the soft, warm human scent that had always belonged to you.

His claws scraped against your ribs as he ground down, again and again, unable to stop, each movement more desperate than the last. A whine rattled out of him, high and pained, like it physically hurt to be this close and not inside you somehow. You matched his whines, your thighs shaking with how his cock rubbed against your cunt through layers of thick clothing.

Your hands clutched at his hair, pulling, nails digging into his scalp. You were crying, babbling, your voice cracking with half-formed pleas—but you weren’t fighting him, you didn’t think you could anyhow.

He latched onto that with something feral, something primal. You wanted him, some buried part of you did, or at least you weren’t kicking him off, and that was enough to break what was left of his reason.

His tongues flicked over your neck, tasting sweat and tears and heat, making him snarl in frustrated ecstasy. The sound vibrated through your chest, and you arched up against him without meaning to, hips meeting his with a helpless grind that made his claws clench hard enough to bruise.

The world was spinning, dizzy and molten, your voice cracking again as you gasped, “J-Jack—”

He couldn’t stop.

“Mhnn—M’sorry—”

He bit you.

His jaws snapped down on your shoulder, too hard, the sharp points of his monstrous teeth tearing straight through the thin cotton of your shirt and sinking into flesh.

You screamed—a sound tangled between pain and something far, far darker, some twisted surge of relief that made you go limp under him.

He tasted your blood, hot and coppery, and moaned against you, rutting his hips so hard you could barely breathe.

Your head fell back, tears streaming, your body alight with panic and arousal and a hundred things you couldn’t name.

“Ah—Fuck—!” you sobbed, hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even as you trembled from the agony of his bite.

He whined around the mouthful of your skin, drool and blood spilling down your shoulder, tongues fluttering against the broken flesh. His claws skittered under your back, catching on the fabric, desperate to feel you, to anchor himself before he tore you apart completely.

The smell of you, the taste, the way you moved against him—it was too much. It was everything.

Jack’s grinding grew more frantic, more nasty, sloppy and desperate, like an animal starved of touch for centuries, driven by something so foreign he couldn’t even name it.

You moved with him, rutting up to meet his rhythm, your voice breaking into half-sobbed moans as you clutched him closer, dizzy from pain and heat and the horrible, unbearable need radiating off of him.

It was messy, violent, a collision of instincts and terror and some warped, twisted need to save him.

It built like a storm, each frantic thrust of his hips dragging you closer to a precipice you couldn’t see, didn’t even know it was there until you felt the coil in your stomach. Jack was panting, growling, his claws scoring lines onto your ribs and back and all over as he rutted against you, mindless and unstoppable.

You were barely breathing, the pain in your shoulder mixing with something hot and carnal that had your hips moving up to meet his every time, your voice caught in your throat in sobs and broken cries. Your thighs feel open, legs coming around his broad hips to wrap around him, locking your feet together at the base of his back.

The smell of blood, sweat, the damp soil—it all blurred around you, your entire world narrowed to the way his hips slid against yours, his length pressed against your aching clit.

Jack’s tongues lashed against your skin, tasting you, claiming you, his breath so ragged it rattled his chest. His hips stuttered, harder, faster, his growl climbing into something high and keening—

You felt the tension snap inside you like a frayed wire, every nerve flaring white-hot as you choked on a sob, your hips jerking up, caught in that same unstoppable rhythm.

Your orgasm crashed through you, messy and raw, pain and pleasure and terror all tangled together until you didn’t know what you were feeling except that you couldn’t handle the pressure any longer.

He felt it too.

Jack’s whole body went rigid, a strangled, animalistic cry bursting out of him as he ground down hard, shoving you into the dirt so rough your bones ached. He shuddered, every muscle seizing, the heat of him smothering you as he came, mindlessly rutting through the last frantic pulses until his hips slowed to stutters.

For a long moment, there was only panting—his huge body draped over yours, twitching, shaking.

The forest was silent except for your breathing, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the coppery sting of blood sharp under your nose.

Jack went still, finally, the frantic, feral madness draining out of him all at once like a burst dam. He slumped against you, heavy and limp, rasping out broken, rattling breaths.

You felt his face move against your neck, those horrible tongues twitching sluggishly, no longer hungry, just back to cleaning the blood that trickled from your bite.

A low, almost human voice crawled out of him, helpless and raw.

“C-cou-couldn’t—” he tried to say, and choked on a sob, “couldn’t s-stop…”

Your shaking hands found his hair again, combing through the blood-matted strands. Your voice was thin, ruined from crying, but you managed to get words past your cracked lips.

“I-I know,” you whispered, “Jack, I know…”

He let out a hoarse, broken whine, pressing his face harder into your throat. The pressure of his claws, still tucked under your shirt, turned gentle, almost soothing, stroking your bare skin in a clumsy mimic of affection.

The blind, animalistic need had quieted, leaving something raw and battered in its place.

He was Jack again, for now—shaky and confused and so, so sorry.

“D-didn’t… want to… h-hurt…” he stammered, one of his tongues licking a stripe up your jaw as if trying to apologize, “you smelled so-soo good…”

You swallowed hard, blinking against the tears.

“It’s okay,” you whined, voice paper-thin, “it’s… it’s okay. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He let out a low, pitiful whimper and curled tighter around you, as if even after all that, he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You felt the heat of him, the ragged exhaustion, the sloppy, dazed nuzzles as he licked at the bite he’d left on your shoulder.

But then—you felt it.

Hard. Still hard.

Thick and throbbing, pressed against the curve of your hip, pulsing with a need that clearly hadn’t burned itself out yet. The realization shot a cold spear of panic through your gut, even as your mind reeled from the aftershocks of what you’d already survived.

“Jack,” you breathed, voice breaking, “wait—”

But he was moving again. A slow, rolling grind against you, the heavy ridge of him rutting over your thigh. You flinched, a fresh spike of sensitivity bursting through your half-numb body.

He whined—higher, clearer, more Jack than the animal—but still desperate.

“C-can’t stop…” he stammered, his voice raw and torn, but understandable now, “please… I need… more…”

Your heart lurched, hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. You put your hands against his chest, trying to push him back.

“J-Jack—wait—just—just hold on a second—”

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

He loomed up over you, gray skin catching in a shaft of moonlight, eyes still hollow and leaking that inky blackness, but somehow so full of you, focused only on you.

A clumsy claw caught the hem of your shirt, tugging, tearing the cotton easily as if it were paper. Another hand fumbled at your waistband, his movements frantic, awkward, scraping your skin as he tried to pull your pants down. He tore his claw through your shirt, ripping the fabric in half, shoving it off your chest. The air was warm, but your flesh still crawled with goosebumps, crossing your arms across your bra.

“J-Jack—” you pleaded, voice cracking, “slow down—”

He shook his head, a course growl pulling out of his ruined throat, all three tongues lolling and quivering as he nosed at your bare shoulder, inhaling you like your scent was the sweetest perfume known to man.

“Sm-mells so… g-good…” he slurred, breath shivering across your damp skin, “It hurts… I need…”

He sat up off of you onto his knees and tugged harder, practically ripping your pants down your hips, dragging the fabric across your thighs and off your ankles, leaving you shivering in the warm night air, half-covered in blood and dirt and his own desperate scent.

Your head spun, panic and some horrible spark of want twisting in your belly.

His claws raked down your sides, leaving angry red lines in their wake, but his grip gentled near your hips, as if trying, clumsily, to be careful with you.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking around the word like glass, “I need it…”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was tearing at what was left of your clothes, his claws hooking into your panties and ripping them in a single, impatient pull. The elastic snapped, leaving you bare beneath him, the humid night air kissing every inch of your trembling skin.

Jack leaned back, just enough to see you fully—the sight of you exposed made him snarl, low and guttural, his hips twitching in a spasm of aching need.

You gasped when he tore at your bra, the clasps giving way to those claws so easily, leaving you naked, splayed out beneath him in the mud and leaves. His tongues ran over his lips, shivering in the night air, and he lowered his face to your chest, sniffing so deep it made your skin prickle.

Jack shifted above you, still breathing in those ragged, animal-edged huffs of air. His claws twitched at the edge of his hoodie, scrabbling almost clumsily as he started trying to yank it off, frustration roughening his voice.

“Too… h-hot,” he snarled, voice breaking as he tried to pull the oversized fabric over his shoulders, “can’t—too tight—”

It was ridiculous, in a way—the thing was big on him, he had to roll up the sleeves for crying out loud, but with the way his body strained and trembled now, even that roomy cloth felt suffocating.

You watched, dazed and shaking, as he finally managed to drag it over his head, the hood catching for a second on his head before he ripped it free with a growl.

The air hit his skin and he shivered, shoulders rolling. His body was… terrifying, and yet so painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.

His skin, that strange ashy blue-gray, gleamed with sweat, muscles standing out in sharp, tense lines. Broad shoulders, roped with lean, powerful definition, his chest heaving, his ribs showing the slightest hollow from days of half-starved hunting. Scars ran across him in jagged, uneven tracks, some healed rough, others still pink and new.

The moonlight skimmed over his abdomen, tracing hard-cut muscle under a shimmer of sweat, each breath flexing the taut cords of his stomach. His hips were narrow, but thick with power, and every line of him looked made for violence—but somehow so vulnerable in this raw, exposed moment. But the pièce de résistance was the trail of hair that started under his belly button and traveled down to somewhere unknown beneath his waistband.

He tossed the hoodie aside and leaned back over you, hair matted and damp around his forehead, claws spreading on either side of your waist as he growled, breath ghosting over your chest.

“Hold on now, w-wait—” you stammered, but the words barely left your lips before his mouth was on you.

He licked a broad, hungry stripe up the slope of your breast, then latched on, three tongues working over your nipple at once—hot, slick, inhuman. You cried out, body arching up, nails digging into his shoulders as the wet heat sent a jolt of electricity through you.

He moaned at the taste of you, his voice raw and desperate, his hands splaying out over your hips to pin you down as he moved lower, lower still, dragging those horrible, clever tongues across every inch of you.

When he settled between your thighs, you tried to close them—but his claws kept you open, spreading you wide, your body so exposed you could hardly stand it. You leaned up onto your elbows, fingers digging into the grass.

Jack paused for just a second, panting, his face hovering over your slick, his tongues twitching with anticipation. He let out a broken, hungry little whimper. Was he… was he fucking drooling?

“P-pretty…” he slurred, the syllables barely holding together, “so… pretty…”

And then he lunged, mouth burying itself against you with no finesse, no mercy.

You screamed, your back bowing off the ground as those three tongues moved with wild, sloppy desperation, lapping at you like he was starving. It was too much—the rough flicks, the obscene wetness, the teeth scraping gently at sensitive skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure and terror straight through your core.

You gasped, hips jerking, the spark of pleasure sharp as lightning through your belly. Jack let out a deep, satisfied growl at the reaction, circling your clit with the tip of one of his tongues, soft at first, then firmer, more insistent, making your muscles clench under him.

You fisted his hair, gasping, voice cracking as you tried to guide him, tried to survive the hurricane of sensation.

The second tongue joined the first, working in a counter-rhythm, stroking and licking at you until you were shaking again, barely able to think. He was playing with you—greedy and clumsy, but somehow still so achingly precise, watching you break apart under every drag of his tongues.

“J-Jack—oh my god—slow—please—!”

He didn’t slow. Couldn’t.

He added another.

His monstrous hands pinned your thighs even wider, his growls vibrating right through you, and he sucked at your clit with all three tongues, so intense you almost blacked out, eyes rolling far beyond the back of your head.

“Fuckk—y-you—taste—” he babbled into you, lost in it, “so fucking good.”

You felt his hips rutt against the ground while he devoured you, grinding for relief even as he tore every ounce of yours from you with terrifying devotion.

It was savage. Beautiful.

You were helpless, caught under him, trembling as the pleasure built again and again, nowhere to go, nothing to do but cling to him and pray you survived.

And Jack—he just kept going, lost in you, a monster starved for more than flesh.

Then, with a hungry deliberation, he shifted, tongues drawing lower, to the dripping entrance of your core. One slick tongue traced around the tight ring of muscle, circling, then gently pushed inside—the stretch was strange, hot, noticeable, and you cried out, fisting the dirt, hips rolling helplessly.

Jack shuddered like he could feel it, letting out a sound halfway between a moan and a growl that vibrated against your cunt.

Then a second tongue slid in next to the first, thicker, the two of them twisting, writhing, pressing against places inside you that made your toes curl and your spine curl off the forest floor.

“F-fuck—Jack—!” you sobbed, barely holding on.

He whined, eager, desperate to please, and a third tongue pushed at your entrance, stretching you even more, making you feel so full and so impossibly overwhelmed. He fed them in deeper, deeper still, moving them in slow, obscene thrusts as your body fluttered helplessly around them.

His claws dug into your hips, holding you steady, and he watched you break apart, those empty sockets somehow burning with a savage, possessive adoration.

“Cant stop—I can’t—” he stammered, voice shaking as much as you were, “So warm—”

The tongues twisted inside you, slick and hot and everywhere, while the tip of one still worked your clit in perfect, punishing circles—until your mind was nothing but static. You could feel your restraint dissolve, feel every muscle coming unbound with every pass of the muscles roiling around inside your gummy walls. All you could do was hiccup through tears that spilt down your cheeks, hands lost between fisting the grass and Jack’s messy hair.

He wouldn’t make you decide for long.

Jack finally slowed, his three tongues pulsing one last time inside you before starting to pull free—inch by inch, painfully slow, the writhing muscle dragging slick and hot against your walls.

You cried out, hands scrabbling through the dirt, thighs shivering so hard they nearly clamped shut around his head. Jack lifted, and the sight of him made your stomach twist—his face was covered in you, slick and glistening all the way to the hollows of his cheeks, dripping down the edges of his jaw.

He panted, claws still gripping your hips, and then—almost absently—he used those tongues to clean himself. They swept up over his chin, lapping across his cheeks, curling to drag away every trace of you with obscene thoroughness.

The longest tongue curled all the way up to the corner of his eye socket, slicking away a streak of blood, while the others worked over his lips and down to his throat, catching every drop.

It was monstrous, horrifying—but something about it was also devoted, his noises soft and grateful as he tasted you over and over again.

When he was finished, his face shone faintly in the moonlight, wiped clean by nothing but his own inhuman hunger, and he looked down at you with those hollow, endless sockets, panting, starved, still wanting.

“Taste so… mhnn—so go-good—” he stammered, voice breaking apart, almost overwhelmed himself.

Then, shaking, he leaned back on his haunches, claws fumbling at the button of his jeans, breath coming out in deep, stripped huffs. The denim was already soaked with sweat and stained with little flecks of gore, clinging to his muscled thighs.

“C-can’t—too tight—need…” he growled, frustrated, claws almost tearing the button clean off before he finally managed to wrench it open and shove the jeans down.

The second they fell, your breath hitched. You felt your stomach roll over on itself.

His cock was monstrous, huge even by impossible standards, flushed a dark bruised-blue that almost glowed in the slivered moonlight. Thick ridges ran along the underside, pulsing faintly, and the head was slick and shiny, drooling a bead of clear precum that dripped to the dirt below. Veins wrapped around the shaft like dark ropes, throbbing with each frantic beat of his inhuman heart.

It was obscene, the sheer size of it, the way it twitched and jumped with the smallest movement of his hips. Your body tensed, terrified and aching all at once, while Jack looked down at you with those endless, hungry sockets, a guttural, whiny sound escaping his throat. A noise a dog would make if you held food above its head.

“Sweet girl,” he rasped, voice shaking, “Want—hnn—want inside… please… pl-please.”

He was so hard he looked in pain, the length of him bobbing forward, heavy, glistening, terrifyingly perfect in its brutality. One clawed hand wrapped around the base, a poor attempt to steady himself as he leaned over you, every muscle in his lean, powerful frame quivering with raw, feral need.

You could barely breathe, heart hammering against your ribs, as Jack loomed over you—huge, starved, and desperate to make you his.

A wave of terror slammed into you, cutting through every dazed, sweet ache in your body. Your instincts screamed run, and before you could even think, you rolled over onto your stomach, dirt scraping your skin, legs wobbling as you tried to get your knees under you.

You were so weak, so shaky from everything he’d already done to you, but you managed to crawl forward, dragging yourself clumsy and frantic through the leaves. No fucking way were you going to take that thing.

“Jack, no—” you gasped, voice breaking.

But he snarled behind you, a sound so deep and hungry it rattled your bones.

“Don’t run…” he growled, words wet and cracked, “…don’t run, pretty girl…”

You made it only a few feet before his claws closed around your calf, the rough grip tearing a desperate cry from your lungs. Jack hauled you backward with terrifying ease, your fingernails clawing at the dirt as he dragged you until you were flush against him, your back pressed to the heat of his bare chest, his hips crowding up behind you.

He leaned over, breath scalding against your ear, and you felt the monstrous weight of his cock slide along the curve of your ass, so heavy and thick it made your whole body clench up.

It rested there, pulsing hot against your skin, smearing precum over your lower back and leaving your mind reeling with just how deep he was going to go.

“Don’t run…” Jack repeated, lower, almost a begging whimper tangled with the snarl, “n-need you…need all of you…”

He ground forward, letting the head of his cock catch between your cheeks, then angling his hips, slid his length between your thighs, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel the impossible stretch waiting.

Your breath came in sharp, terrified gasps, the world a dizzy blur as his claws dug into your hips, holding you pinned, his voice breaking as he panted into your hair.

“P-pretty…don’t run…gonna make you f-full…so full…”

The sheer heat of him, the solid, inhuman girth twitching and drooling against you, made your head spin. Your heart thundered like prey under a predator’s paw—helpless, trembling, trapped.

You tried to squirm again—a panicked, half-blind attempt to drag yourself away, the leaves and damp earth clinging to your elbows. But Jack’s low, animal snarl made your heart stop, vibrating through your ribs like thunder.

“Don’t,” he rasped, breath raw and uneven, “don’t run—gonna take you—”

His hips rolled, the bulging head of his cock catching against your clit, making you yelp and arch from the sudden jolt of raw, overwhelming pleasure. He dragged it up and down your slit, soaking you with slick precum, smearing it across your folds until you were trembling so hard you could hardly breathe.

Then he shifted, the tip nudging against your entrance, parting you, teasing just enough to send another bolt of fear straight through your spine.

You tried to move again, legs kicking weakly—but that only seemed to annoy him. A harsh growl ripped out of Jack’s throat, and before you could even scream, he slammed both hands onto your back, claws spreading wide across your shoulder blades and pinning you flat against the earth.

He pushed, his massive weight bearing down, forcing your spine into a sharp arch so your ass was high in the air and your chest crushed to the dirt. It was a humiliating, bestial pose—your body forced to submit, trembling, fully exposed.

“Stay,” he snarled, voice cracking around a broken whimper, “stay still—don’t squirm…”

You felt the head of his cock pressing again, harder this time, nudging into you with enough force to steal your breath, the tight muscle of your cunt burning already. You could barely process the stretch, barely believe it would fit, your walls already fighting the impossible intrusion.

Jack’s hips flexed, and the head started to push in, painfully slow, prying you open one quivering inch at a time.

“F-fuck—so tight—so…warm…” he stammered, panting above you, his claws tightening on your shoulders until they dug sharp enough to sting.

The pain was blinding, a burn that radiated through your hips and made tears prick your eyes. Your body shook, helpless, every muscle trying to clamp down and push him out—but he wouldn’t stop.

Jack rocked his hips forward, the head bobbing deeper, pulling out a fraction only to shove in again, each movement nudging him further and further inside until your walls were clinging to the first few inches of that monstrous, ridged length.

Your mind blurred, terror and overstimulation crashing together, as the stretch split you wider and wider—and Jack’s heavy breaths grew more desperate, his voice breaking into wild, devoted praise.

“Yeah—so good—so good—take me—need you t-to take all of me…”

And you realized, in that moment of absolute terror and helplessness, that he meant to fill every aching, breaking inch of you, no matter how much it hurt.

“Oh fuck— Oh, God—wait, Jack—”

Jack’s rhythm grew steadier, more determined, as he worked deeper—each push splitting you a fraction more, the obscene stretch lighting up every nerve in your body. Your breath came in ragged, sobbing pants, eyes screwed shut against the tears as your walls spasmed helplessly around him.

He was relentless, hips rocking, drawing out and then pushing a little deeper each time, forcing your body to mold around him. You could barely process how much was already inside—it felt like too much, so impossibly full, and still he hadn’t bottomed out.

“Hold on—hold on—just wait,” you hiccuped, reaching your arms behind you to plant against his hips, trying to stop him from going any further. You could already feel him bumping against your cervix, drooling tip nudging the deepest parts inside of you.

“Almost, pretty girl—almost there,” Jack rasped, voice wet and fractured.

You choked out a half-formed plea again, but it was lost in the dark as he pressed closer, his sweaty chest crushing against your back. He shifted his claws from your shoulders to dig into the dirt on either side of your head, caging you, pinning you, leaving you nowhere to go as you trembled under him.

And then—with a low, guttural growl—he leaned down and bit into the other side of your shoulder, teeth tearing your skin, white-hot agony blinding you. He locked his jaw tight.

Your scream broke the night, ripping from your throat, echoing through the trees. You pressed your forehead to the ground, heaving and panting into the grass.

In that moment of your rawest, most helpless pain, Jack shoved forward, burying the final brutal inches in one unforgiving thrust. The monstrous cock slammed home, hilting inside you so deep you could barely comprehend it, your body jolting forward from the force as if he meant to split you in two.

Your walls convulsed, spasming wildly around his impossible girth, every nerve alight with pain and pressure and a sick, brutal pleasure that made your head spin.

Jack’s breath rattled against your neck, hot and frantic, his tongues slipping out to lap at the blood welling from his bite as he held himself buried to the hilt, trembling over you like a beast barely chained.

“So—so warm,” he whined against your torn shoulder, voice shaking, “Feels so g-good, baby. So tight—”

And you felt everything inside you go tight and molten and unbearably full, helpless under the weight of him, pinned in a way you could never escape, your body forced to take every impossible inch.

You felt him shift—a subtle grind of his hips, the head of that monstrous cock grinding even deeper, making you jolt with a strangled cry. He couldn’t even wait until you got adjusted.

He let out a wet, shattered moan. “G-gonna move—can’t—can’t stop—hold still—”

And then he pulled back. Slowly at first, dragging that inhuman length from your spasming, quivering walls until only the tip was left stretching you wide, and for a heartbeat you thought he might let you rest.

But then he slammed back in, the force of it making your eyes roll up, punching the air out of your lungs in a weak sob.

“F-fuck—so—tight—” Jack stammered, voice raw, animalistic, clawed hands braced on either side of your head as he started to fuck down into you.

Each thrust was brutal, making you lurch forward, the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoing through the dead-silent woods. He was so deep, so thick, dragging against spots inside you that left your mind spinning, the pain a white-hot brand with every punishing push.

You tried to crawl away again—an instinct, a desperate, animal attempt to survive—but Jack caught you by the hips and slammed you back against him, snarling in your ear, “Don’t run—don’t you run from me. You’re mine—mine—”

His claws dug into your sides, angling you up so every thrust hit a new nerve deep inside, making your stomach tighten painfully around him. You could barely breathe, your body forced to take it over and over as he fucked into you like a starved animal.

Jack’s moans started to crumble, breaking apart into sharp whimpers and cries, his teeth dragging over the bite-mark on your shoulder, licking the blood and sweat. You felt him trembling, desperate, the force behind his thrusts growing frantic and messy, cock twitching with every pull out.

He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

And under the moonlight, pressed into the dirt with his massive length tearing you open over and over, you realized neither could you.

It hurt. God, it hurt—but something in the pain had started to shift, twisting deep in your belly until it burned into something hotter, something needier. Each time Jack slammed forward, your cunt clenched, not just from the brutal stretch but from a raw, wicked spark that left you reeling.

You couldn’t help it—your hips began to rock back to meet him, your battered body chasing the next drag of that searing cock as it raked through your oversensitive walls.

Jack stuttered for a second, stunned, a growling noise pulling out of his throat as he realized you were pushing back. That you wanted more.

“Yeah, yeah—sweet girl—” he stammered, voice breaking, “feel so—so good—”

Your hands scrambled backward, clinging to the thick muscle of his arms, then up to dig your fingers into his shoulders, nails dragging across hot, sweaty skin. He was burning behind you, feverish, the broad line of his chest flexing with every ragged breath.

“Jack,” you gasped, voice catching, “t-touch me—please—Jack, please—”

That was all it took.

He let out a deep, snarling whimper, the sound rolling through his chest and into you, and then he was moving even harder, rutting into you with sloppy, frantic thrusts that made your thighs spasm and your vision blur.

His claws scraped the earth beside you as he tried to keep from ripping you apart, every thrust wet and obscene—slick squelching, drool dripping from his mouths down onto your back, strings of precum and slick soaking your thighs as his jeans pooled around his knees.

The raw, nasty sounds of him splitting you open filled the air, sticky and wet and feral, each thrust making you clench tighter, wanting more, more, no matter how much it hurt.

Jack’s hips smacked against your ass again and again, leaving stinging bruises, and still you pushed back, desperate to meet every brutal stroke. Your hands clung to him like a lifeline, nails raking across his skin, your body screaming for more even as it trembled under the onslaught.

Jack’s tongues slipped out again, drooling, laving down your spine, tasting your sweat, your skin, your pain—unable to stop devouring you in every way.

“Don’t—don’t stop—” you choked out, and he let out a hoarse, shattered laugh that broke halfway to a growl.

“Can’t—never—never stopping,” he gasped, rutting forward until your knees buckled, forcing you to collapse under him, pinned to the dirt by his weight and the vicious, monstrous cock ripping you apart.

It was filthy, raw, a primal mess of slick and sweat and drool and blood, and neither of you could seem to get enough.

Jack’s thrusts slowed momentarily, a slurred, choked sound catching on his tongues as he pulled out, dragging that massive length from your trembling, ruined body inch by inch. You gasped, nearly sobbing, empty in a way that made your insides clench desperately around nothing.

But before you could catch your breath, Jack’s claws wrapped around your hips, hauling you over like you weighed nothing, flipping you onto your back. The warm night air bit into your sweat-slicked skin, making you groan—then his shadow fell over you, huge and monstrous, his eyes boring down like twin bottomless holes.

You reached up, arms instinctively curling around his shoulders, holding onto the thick, corded muscle under his burning skin. His lean, powerful torso flexed with every breath, still dripping with sweat.

He lined up again, the fat head of his cock dragging through your slick folds, and you both moaned, bodies shaking with raw, hungry need.

“Jack,” you whimpered, voice small and cracked, “fuck me, c’mon—”

“Gonna—gonna put it back in, pretty—so warm—so good—” he rasped, leaning over you, three tongues lapping from his mouth and twitching as he stared down, almost mesmerized.

Then he pushed.

It was every bit as brutal, every bit as overwhelming as the first time, the massive length stretching you to your limit and then beyond, the head forcing your walls open until you thought you’d break.

Your back arched, a scream caught in your throat—but it didn’t get out, because Jack was already sinking deeper, deeper still, until you felt a tight, blunt pressure so far inside you that it made your vision white out.

His eyes went wide, hollow sockets somehow hungry, staring right at your stomach.

“Look,” he panted, a grin tearing across his blood-streaked lips, “look at you—”

You followed his gaze, and nearly broke—a distinct bulge pressing up under the roundness of your belly, obscene and impossible, shifting every time he moved.

“Oh my god—Jack—” you cried, eyes glassy, “that’s—fuck—”

“Inside,” he growled, voice reverent and broken, his claw pressing right against that bulge. You felt it, felt the way it shifted with the head of his cock, and a raw, helpless sob tore out of you.

“Can you feel me?” he crooned, barely human, claws stroking your hips, pressing harder against the bump in your stomach. “Can you feel me all the way here?—S-so deep, pretty girl—mine—”

You shook, nodding, tears slipping from your lashes as the pleasure spiked unbearably.

“Yes—yes, Jack—yours—yours—”

He let out a hoarse, ecstatic snarl and started pounding into you again, faster, harder, the force of each thrust making that stomach bulge jump under his hand. You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, gripping for dear life as he rutted you into the dirt, tongues lapping at your face and neck, worshipping you. Each thrust knocked his cock against your g-spot.

“Never gonna—hah—let go—” he grunted between sloppy, punishing thrusts, “gonna fill you—make you full—of my babies—”

You couldn’t even answer, your body was on fire, arching and breaking under him, every nerve screaming for more as the woods spun around you.

It came faster than you could even register.

You couldn’t take any more—each brutal, slamming thrust was a lightning strike, fire rolling through your veins until everything inside you clenched, burned, and finally broke.

Your back arched hard off the ground, arms locked around Jack’s shoulders, mouth open in a silent cry as a devastating orgasm ripped through you.

“Jack—!”

Your walls squeezed him so tight he nearly lost his mind, your core fluttering and gripping him in pulsing waves, slick and scorching. Jack’s claws immediately wrapped around your back, holding you close against him as if he could fuse your bodies together.

He let out a strangled, desperate growl, eyes locked on you, breathing so ragged it almost didn’t sound human. Something in him seemed to snap—a feral instinct flooding through every monstrous inch of him.

“Pretty—so good—” he babbled, voice raw and cracking, “mine—mine—mine—”

Then he lurched down, seizing your mouth with a ferocity that stunned you.

His tongues plunged inside all at once, stretching your lips wide, thick and powerful as they explored every inch of your mouth. One curled under your tongue, another ran across your teeth, the third so deep it made you gag, stealing your breath.

You choked on the sheer overwhelming invasion, tears spilling down your cheeks, but couldn’t pull away—Jack’s hands were iron around your waist, crushing you to him, the feverish heat of him radiating through your trembling body.

His tongues moved with a filthy rhythm, tasting you, claiming you, drool mixing with your tears until everything was slick and desperate. He moaned right into your throat, rutting his hips hard against you while his tongues tangled deeper, worshipping you like you were air, water, salvation.

Your climax was still crashing through you, making your legs weak and shaky as you tried to breathe through the frantic kiss—but Jack wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t stop, lost in that blinding animal need to own you completely.

Your lungs burned as his tongues kept invading, every inch of you claimed and devoured. The taste of him—coppery, inhuman, mixed with the salt of your own tears—filled your senses until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

His cock was still pounding into you with a punishing rhythm, the tip punching so deep inside you that your stomach bulged again and again. Every thrust made your sensitive walls clench helplessly, overstimulated, still pulsing.

Jack moaned into your mouth, frantic, tongues twisting and licking and fucking into you while he fucked harder, losing any semblance of control. His claws dug into your hips, pinning you in place, pace stuttering as he chased the final edge.

“M’gonna—” he gasped, voice barely even a voice, just a devastating, hungry snarl against your lips, “gonna fill you—make you—mine—!”

You felt him tense, the length of him swelling impossibly inside you—then he buried himself to the hilt, the head smashing up against your cervix, and roared.

Hot, thick cum poured into you in heavy pulses, stretching you so full you could feel every gush, every wave crashing deep inside. Jack’s whole body shook above you, tongues still gagging your mouth, drool and tears mixing on your face as he pumped you full.

Your walls fluttered again, clamping down on him instinctively, milking every drop until he finally slowed, breathing ragged and wild.

He collapsed against you, still inside, still impossibly hard, arms curling around you protectively like he’d never let you go. His tongues finally pulled free of your mouth, leaving you gasping for air, lips bruised and slick with spit.

Jack buried his face against your neck, panting, lost and shaking, whispering in a hoarse, cracked growl, “Mine…always mine…”

You thought—prayed—he was done, but then you felt it: a new pressure, deep in your gut, stretching you wider from the inside.

Your eyes flew wide, panic spiking again.

“J-Jack? What’s happening?” you rasped, voice shaking, but he only whined into your neck, his hips rocking against yours, grinding in short, desperate ruts.

You felt it swelling—something solid, something burning, growing right at the base of him.

Oh god.

You tried to move, to shift, but his claws curled around your hips, locking you down hard.

“Stay,” he snarled, voice a warped echo against your throat, “don’t run.”

You gasped as that thick knot stretched you, forcing you even wider, burning with a brutal, almost cruel fullness. Your walls spasmed helplessly, trying to reject it, but Jack was stronger—so much stronger—and he held you down while he forced the growing bulb past the tightest part of your entrance.

It finally popped inside with a wet, obscene sound, lodging deep against your cunt, locking you to him.

You screamed, back arching off the ground, mind breaking under the sheer bruising invasion.

Jack moaned—moaned—a weary, needy cry, shoving his face against yours as if to soothe you.

“Can’t—can’t let go—” he babbled, voice dripping hunger and desperation, “mine—mine—stay—stay here—”

He ground his knot deeper, each tiny thrust making it swell even bigger until you felt like you’d burst. The fullness was blinding, overwhelming, his cock jerking and twitching inside you as another pulse of hot cum flooded you, trapped by the knot, locked away.

Your hips shook, pinned, no escape as Jack licked and bit at your neck, rutting slow, greedy circles against you even with the knot sealing you tight.

“Don’t—don’t run, sweet girl,” he panted, voice trembling, “can’t…can’t let you go…”

You felt every throb, every pulse, the unbearable stretch, your whole body trembling and on the verge of breaking apart under him.

Jack was still, but you could feel him trembling—muscles locked tight, claws flexing against your hips as though afraid you might vanish if he let go for even a second.

You squirmed, a whimper tearing from your throat as the knot shifted painfully, the pressure pressing right up against your cervix.

“Jack,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, “Jack, it’s too much—”

He whined, the sound broken and needy, burying his face against your cheek, tongues tracing clumsy, comforting patterns over your sweaty skin.

“Can’t—can’t let go yet,” he slurred, voice ragged and half-human, “feels too good—can’t—”

You felt him try to rut again, short, choppy motions that only made the knot grind harshly against every raw, sensitive part of you. A shocked moan escaped your lips, your body arching under him, pleasure and pain blurring together until you couldn’t separate them. You slammed your fist against his shoulder.

“Shh,” he crooned, breath hot against your face, “s’okay—s’good—so warm—so warm inside—”

His hips stuttered, forcing the knot to jerk inside you, and you could swear you felt another faint gush of heat flood your battered, filled-up core.

Your walls fluttered around him helplessly, milking every drop.

Jack whimpered again, as if even he couldn’t stand the feeling, and wrapped his arms fully around your waist, drawing you up against him until your chests were smashed together. You could feel his heart hammering through your skin, a wild, frantic rhythm that matched your own.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged, voice warbled and broken, “please—pretty please—don’t leave—”

You could barely breathe, dizzy from being stretched and locked in place, but you nodded, trembling, stroking through his sweat-slicked hair.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice cracking, “Jack, I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

He made a sound like a sob—part growl, part weep—and curled around you, knot twitching inside you, sealing you so perfectly you could feel every tremor of his body through the hot, thick lock of him.

And there, under the hush of the woods and the silver light of the moon, you stayed tangled together, your breath mixing, no escape, no space left between you.

── .✦

The woods felt endless, but you clung to him like an anchor, your hands tangled in his hair, your cheek pressed against the rough planes of his shoulder. His knot still held you in place, keeping every inch of him buried deep, a constant, heavy pressure that refused to ease for what felt like an eternity.

Neither of you could move much, so you talked, your voices small and exhausted under the wide, quiet dark.

“Where…where did you go, Jack?” you asked, trying to steady your breathing as another aftershock rolled through you.

He rumbled softly, claws smoothing along your spine. “Didn’t know,” he rasped, sounding like himself again, raw and worn-out. “Felt…wrong. Everything was red. Loud. Inside my head.”

You nodded, heart twisting. “I thought you were dead,” you admitted, a tear slipping out, catching on the blood drying across your cheek. “When you didn’t come, I— I thought—”

His arms tightened around you, a protective squeeze. “Not dead,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, “I couldn’t control much, but… I knew I had to stay away. Knew if I saw you I would hurt you.”

You sniffled, breathing in the rich, earthy scent of him, still faintly metallic from all the blood. It was terrible—but it was him, and that was enough.

“I came looking,” you whispered, voice breaking, “I couldn’t just sit there, Jack, I— I needed you to come back.”

A pained groan rattled in his chest, his claws dragging up to cradle your face as best he could. “Pretty girl,” he rasped, almost gentle, “mine…always mine. M’so sorry…”

You felt him shift, hips jerking, the knot giving a final, deep pulse inside you. It made you cry out softly, but then you felt it: the swelling finally, blessedly going down. Inch by inch, the brutal stretch began to ease, and you could feel the heavy, wet fullness slipping from your body with a messy, shuddering slide.

Jack grunted as the knot popped free, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, legs trembling uncontrollably.

For a moment you just lay there, both of you breathing hard, staring at each other. Then Jack leaned down, pressing a surprisingly sweet kiss to your cheek before sitting up, guiding you carefully.

“Come,” he murmured, voice steadier now, “let’s—let’s go.”

You nodded weakly, your body aching and filthy, but still reaching for him. 

Jack helped you with fumbling claws, reached for your jeans with shaky claws to help tug your them back onto your ankles and into place, grimacing at the mud-smeared fabric. He growled under his breath, pulling your ruined panties out of the way and scowling at the torn, limp scraps.

“Shit,” you laughed weakly, voice hoarse and a little hysterical, “Jack, those were my favorite pair.”

He shot you a look through his hollow sockets, a low, embarrassed huff.

“And my bra?” you added, smirking despite the soreness. “Guess that’s toast too.”

Jack shifted, claws fumbling with the remains of your bra, what was left of the cups shredded and hanging from one strap. “Didn’t—” he rasped, voice cracking, “didn’t mean to.”

You snorted, half delirious, letting him help pull your dirty t-shirt back down over your shoulders, trying to keep what modesty you had left.

“Yeah, well,” you sighed, “you owe me a shopping trip.”

A surprised sound rumbled from him—almost a laugh—before he bent to fix his own jeans, dragging them back up around his hips, claws clumsy from lingering adrenaline. He tried to tug his hoodie over his head, only to growl when it stuck to his sweaty back, the sleeves twisted.

“Hot,” he grunted, voice frustrated, trying to shrug out of it. “Too…tight.”

You had to bite your lip to keep from giggling as you watched him wrestle with the oversized, shredded hoodie, muscles flexing and straining as sweat dripped down the lean, scarred lines of his back and chest.

“Jack,” you teased softly, “you’re gonna rip that too.”

He shot you a sulky look, then finally tossed the hoodie aside, leaving his bare skin gleaming under the moonlight.

You spotted his mask in the dirt, cracked and stained, and you picked it up with a shaky hand.

“Here,” you whispered, offering it to him.

He stared at it, hollow eye sockets softening, then took it gently from you. Jack sighed, then leaned down and scooped you into his arms like you weighed no more than a feather.

You couldn’t help a startled little laugh, clinging to his neck. “Jack—!”

“My sweet girl,” he repeated, voice quieter now, more sure. “Taking you home.”

Your heart ached at that—so familiar, so safe despite everything.

He turned, stepping carefully through the underbrush, still clutching you close as if you’d vanish if he let go. You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed, hearing only the rhythmic pounding of his heart and the slow, steady steps through the woods.

The broken flashlight swung from his claw, the cracked mask tucked into the crook of his elbow, a battered promise that somehow, the two of you had survived one more night together.

The night air clung to your skin as Jack stepped carefully along the familiar path, carrying you easily in his arms. When you saw the glow of your porch lights through the trees, you almost sobbed with relief, clinging to him tighter—and he just kept walking, carrying you still. You could see the silhouette of your fence ahead, the place where, for so many nights, you’d waited on one side while he stayed on the other, the fragile, invisible line you’d both respected all this time.

But now—

Jack shifted you in his hold, reaching out with one clawed hand to unlatch the fence gate. It creaked open, spilling a pool of soft porch light across the grass. And just like that, he stepped through, crossing the boundary he’d never dared to cross before. It was almost ceremonial, the moment so huge it stole your breath.

He came through, you thought in a daze. He finally came through.

He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, just carried you straight toward the back door, nudging it open with his shoulder. The house was cool inside, smelling of candle wax and lemon dish soap—so normal, so safe compared to the horror outside. The floorboards were faintly warm from the day’s sun, and the air conditioners hummed, washing over your sticky, bruised skin.

Jack set you down gently, claws steady even if you could feel him trembling. Then, without a word, he guided you to the bathroom, flipping on the light with an awkward flick of his elbow. You winced at the sudden brightness.

You didn’t even have to ask, he handled everything. Undressing you again, running warm water over your washcloth, holding you tight. He knelt in front of you, running the damp cloth across your arms, your belly, carefully dabbing away the drying blood and mess between your legs. His gray skin was flushed darker in patches, his eye sockets soft around the edges, hollow but somehow tender.

“Stay still,” he mumbled, voice low and rough, so much clearer now.

You let him clean you, trembling, heart pounding at every careful sweep of the cloth. He undressed too, cleaning the still bloodied and slick-stained parts of his body, running the rag over his jaw and neck. When he was done, you leaned against him, boneless and trusting, letting him gather you back up into his arms.

This time he carried you to your room, the house dim and quiet except for the chirping bugs outside. He paused at the foot of your bed, as if making sure you really wanted him there, the question unspoken.

You reached up and cupped his jaw. “Jack… just get in,” you whispered.

His shoulders slumped in relief, and he eased you down onto the mattress, then crawled in after you—still completely naked, still warm with the sticky night air and smelling of earth and moonlight and something feral you couldn’t name.

The sheets tangled around you both as he curled protectively against your back, claws twitching, breath tickling your ear. You could feel every line of his strong, scarred body pressed to yours, his skin so hot it almost burned.

He buried his face against your shoulder, exhaling shakily. “No more gate,” he rasped, like it was a confession. “No more fence.”

You nodded, tears pricking your eyes. “No more fence,” you agreed, voice soft and breaking.

Jack’s breathing slowed at your back, his chin nestled against the crook of your shoulder as if he might melt right into you. The cicadas outside carried on their summer song, but your room felt impossibly calm, impossibly still.

He shifted, clawed fingers brushing across your ribs, a hesitant stroke. “…Missed you,” he rasped, the words broken but more human than you’d heard in days.

You swallowed hard, reaching down to lace your fingers with his. “I missed you too. I was so worried.”

A pained noise rattled out of him, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “Didn’t…know where I was,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “Felt…wrong. Everything smelled and looked wrong.”

You turned in his arms, close enough to see the faint scars along his lips, the smear of blood he’d missed near one temple. “Like…a haze?”

He nodded stiffly. “A dream. A bad dream.” His claws flexed in yours. “Couldn’t…stop. Needed—Need you.”

Your heart pinched at that, at how raw he sounded. You reached to smooth his damp hair away from his forehead. “That’s why you didn’t come to the fence?”

“Didn’t want you to see,” he rasped, ashamed, looking away for a second. “Didn’t…trust myself.”

You hugged him tighter, pressing your forehead against his. “Jack, I came looking for you. I wanted to see you. Even if you were… messed up.”

His body shuddered, swallowing a rough, pained sound. “Came…through the gate,” he mumbled, voice almost childlike, like he couldn’t believe it himself.

You smiled, despite everything. “Yeah. You finally crossed my fence.”

A huff of air against your cheek—maybe the closest Jack could get to a laugh. Then he shifted closer, pressing his hips into yours. You could still feel the heavy weight of him, even now, half-hard where he lay against you.

“Still…feel it,” he admitted, cheeks darkening, as if shy.

You gave a nervous little laugh, brushing your fingers through his sweaty hair. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He ducked his head, almost hiding against your neck, mumbling something soft.

“What, baby?” you asked, gentle.

His voice was so raw it cracked in the middle. “…Never gonna leave again.”

Your chest went tight, tears pricking your eyes. You cupped the side of his face. “Good,” you whispered, letting him hear how much you meant it. “Good, Jack. I’m not leaving, either.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years, then buried his face against your shoulder again, arms banding around your waist. The two of you lay tangled together in the sticky summer night, hearts pounding, no fences, no gates, no walls left between you.

── .✦

You woke slowly, warmth and stickiness pulling at your senses before your mind could even register what time it was. The curtains glowed with that syrupy gold of a sunrise, a hint of last night still vibrating in the walls.

But what really forced you awake was the strange, achingly sweet pull deep between your legs—a wet, rhythmic swirl that nearly made you arch right out of the bed.

Your eyes shot open, breath lodging in your throat, and you gasped as you fumbled the sheets off your chest—only to see a dark, familiar shadow moving below the covers, a low, wet slurping sound vibrating straight through your bones.

“J-Jack—” you whimpered, voice a strangled mess as you dug trembling fingers into the sheets.

The shape below the blanket shifted, and then a sudden, precise flick of a tongue against your clit made your vision explode in white. You barely managed to shove your hands down to find his hair, grabbing at the strands, when your body snapped—the orgasm crashing over you so hard your knees tried to slam together, your hips twisting helplessly.

Jack didn’t even stop, if anything, his hands pinned your thighs down harder, clawed fingertips dimpling your soft skin as he let you ride the crest of that wave. You were writhing, shaking, trying to push him away, but he only rumbled deep in his chest—a possessive growl that left your body going limp.

When he finally surfaced, crawling up over your body, the blanket fell away to show his face—drool smeared his chin, along with your slick, and all three of his tongues curled out to lap at the air before sliding back behind sharp teeth.

He was panting, like he’d been starved all night.

“J-Jack,” you tried to breathe, grabbing his shoulders as he hovered over you, “didn’t we… didn’t we handle this last night?”

A pitiful, rough whine left him, one of his hands curling against the pillow beside your head. “Not enough,” he croaked, voice shredded, raw. “Need…more.”

His hips dipped against yours, and you felt the hard, achingly hot length of him, smearing against your thigh. A tremor shot through you, panic mixing with want.

“Jack, please—”

“Need you,” he repeated, lower this time, a snarl clawing through his words as his claws scraped the bedding beside your head, inches from your skin. “More.”

His body pressed you down into the mattress, wild, unstoppable, like the night had barely scratched the surface of what he needed.

Your breath caught in your throat, tangled between fear and something so shamefully eager you could hardly stand it. Jack loomed over you, the heat rolling off his body, eyes like pits of pitch and night, starved even after everything.

He lowered his head, nosing along your jaw, breathing you in like you were the only thing left on earth that could save him. “Pretty,” he rasped, tongues flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat, “smell so good…can’t stop…”

His hips rolled against yours again, grinding, thick and hard, and you felt him shiver all the way down to the bones. His claws dug into the sheets beside your ribs, trying to hold himself back, but you knew there was no holding him back.

A flicker of sunlight broke through the curtains then, kissing the two of you in the warm glow—him hunched over you like a beast out of a half-forgotten dream, you trembling and wide-eyed, your hands knotted in his hair.

You swallowed, voice breaking as you dared to smile through the haze.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered, and you meant it—even if you were terrified, even if everything hurt and burned and ached, you still meant it.

His head bowed, shoulders heaving, and a relieved, broken sound fell from him, more human than you’d heard yet. He pressed his forehead to yours, panting, clutching you like you were the last tether to what was left of him.

And then he surged forward, capturing your lips, those monstrous tongues wrapping around yours, and in that feral, messy kiss you felt every unspoken word he couldn’t form—how he loved you, how he’d always come back, how he could never leave you again.

The world outside kept turning—birdsong and heat, soft light and the creak of old wood—but you were wrapped in him, in that terrifying, impossible devotion.

There was no fence anymore. No boundary.

Just the two of you, locked together, in all the ruin and the tenderness you’d built. Your Jack.

Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[rainrot4me]

You And Your Friends - Part 2

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

────────────────────────────── biblical love - flower face

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: When your name appears in your late great-uncle’s will, you sell your house and move out to the Estate. A victorian manor, an endless garden, and too many candles to keep up with now belong to you—and so do the groundskeepers that come with it. But behind all the intricate furniture and shiny tile, you find that all things have secrets—even the handsome ones.

✦ . Characters: Tim Wright/Masky & Brian Thomas/Hoodie & Ticci Toby x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Lore/canon-adjacent, gardener!Tim, woodworker!Toby, maintenance!Brian, fear, stalking, romantic tension, love square (lol), eventual smut, weapons, blood, near-death situations, terror, relationship tension, sewing needle, injury

✦ . Words: 15.6k

✦ . Note: Well, finally! This part, in fact, took me two months to write, so please excuse any inconsistencies or odd additions (probably because I forgot and had to edit it later). At least it's done! Two parts have become three, but trust, the next part is the finisher! Thank you for reading!

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You should’ve known.

God—you should’ve known.

There had always been something off. Some slant to their smiles, something unsaid behind their eyes. But you were so caught up in the charm of it all—the old house, the strange peace of the woods, the comfort of company who provided solely for you—you didn’t see it—didn’t want to.

The strange remarks. The subtle glances.

The way Toby always seemed to have offhanded remarks about the house. The way Tim only had a small garden to tend to, but would vanish for hours and return smelling like rust. The way Brian never faltered—even when glass shattered or thunder cracked or you joked about the house being alive.

Little things. Little red flags.

You remembered now—Tim, digging into the soil of his garden, murmuring, “Don’t worry. You haven’t seen haunted yet,” after you had mentioned the creepiness of the manor.

You had laughed. You thought he meant weird ghost stories or a strange feeling towards the place. Maybe even meant you.

But now?

Now you laid in the middle of the fog-soaked grass, the outline of the manor glowing behind you like some cursed cathedral, and they were all staring at you. Toby still stood over the mangled body of the thing he’d killed—some twisted, eyeless, gray-skinned thing that didn’t look real. Blood painted the fog. His hatchet dripped.

And Brian—Brian with his pistol held low and steady, face unreadable beneath his hood, watching you like someone evaluating a threat. Like someone used to this.

Tim, closest of all, white mask catching the light, standing still as stone with a shotgun pointed directly at your face.

They weren’t speaking. They weren’t smiling. You realized then that the pressure you’d been feeling since you arrived—the unease at night, the sense of being watched—it hadn’t been the house. It had never been the house.

It was them.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching on the edge of a sob. “…What the fuck is that?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

No answer. Just the crackling of Toby’s breath behind the muzzle. The slow sound of wind through the pines. And three sets of eyes—hidden, masked, hardened—trained on you like they didn’t know what you were going to do next.

Like they weren’t sure if they’d let you leave this clearing at all.

You could hardly feel the grass beneath you. Cold had crawled under your skin like something alive, like it belonged there now, and your breath came sharp and shallow as your eyes moved between them—Toby, now cleaning the blood from his hatchet on his pant-leg like he did this every other Tuesday. Brian, still as a statue beneath his hood, unreadable, unmoving. And Tim, pointer finger resting on the trigger like he was ready to blow your head off.

You didn’t dare retaliate.

Your voice shook as the words left you, stammered and half-broken. “…W-What the fuck was that thing?” you asked again, pointing at the corpse—or what was left of it. “What the fuck is going on? Why are you wearing those things—what is happening—”

None of them answered. Toby didn’t even look at you. He just wiped another long streak of red across his thigh, the blood soaking into the already-stained denim, then adjusted the muzzle strapped tight over his face, orange goggles tinting his gaze.

You looked at Tim next—bowed up like it hurt to breathe. He hadn’t moved an inch. His stance was firm, trigger finger ready, watching you like he didn’t trust you anymore.

And then there was Brian. He stood furthest back, half-shadowed, gloved hands relaxed, pistol pointed down at his side—but he was the one you knew to be careful with. The quiet ones are always the most dangerous.

You stared at him, desperation cracking through your voice. “Please. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

He hesitated. A flicker of something passed behind his body. Conflict, maybe. Or guilt. Then he finally spoke. “Go back inside.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Now.” His tone was low, almost regretful. “Just…go back inside, miss.”

“No!” you snapped, tears welling in your eyes now. “No, I’m not going back inside. I just watched that—that thing get butchered, and now you’re all standing around like this is normal! You were all lying to me, this whole time, what the fuck are you—”

Brian barked your name, his voice raised a notch—stern, like a warning.

You froze.

He took a step forward, boots flattening the damp grass. “You need to calm down.”

“Calm—?” Your voice cracked. “Calm down? You’ve been living on my property in secret fucking costumes, with guns and weapons, and something just tried to kill me!”

Tim finally shifted, lowering the shotgun just slightly. Not out of mercy—more like…calculation. Measuring distance. Weighing your reaction. His voice, when he spoke, was rough and muffled behind the porcelain. “You need to start listening to us right now or shit is just going to get worse.”

The grass was wet under your palms when you scrambled up, heart in your throat, every inch of you screaming. They were talking, trying to relieve you—words that should’ve made sense but didn’t, voices layered over each other, circling you like wolves around a wounded animal.

“Miss, it’s not what you think,” Brian’s voice, low, coaxing.

“C’mon, it’s f-fine,” Toby, voice and limbs entirely too shaky for you to remain comfortable.

But it wasn’t fine. It would never be fine again. That thing. That…creature. Its body was still sprawled a few yards from you, limbs bent wrong, skull split open like firewood under Toby’s hatchet. You couldn’t stop looking at it—long arms, pale stretched skin, the mouth that was still parted like it might scream again if given half a chance. It was wrong. Unnatural. A nightmare wearing skin.

How many more were there? How long had they been doing this? How many nights?

You backed away, breath shuddering. “Stay the fuck away from me—”

“Miss,” Brian’s voice softened like he was handling a spooked horse. He even lifted his hands slowly, palms out, holstering his pistol for the moment, as if to show he wasn’t armed. “We don’t want to hurt you. Just—go inside. We’ll take care of the rest.”

The rest?

The rest?

A dry laugh broke from your throat, raw and cracked. “Take care of the rest? Do you even hear yourselves? You’re wearing—” You gestured wildly, eyes burning. “You’re dressed up like—like fucking psychos, there’s a dead thing in my yard, and you—you want me to just go inside?”

Toby shifted, taking steps closer to you, goggles glinting in the moonlight. “You’re safe,” he said simply, like that explained everything. “We got it. N-Nothing’s gonna touch you.”

Safe.

You almost choked. You flinched so hard when he leaned closer, trying to reach for your shaky hands, and then you were stumbling backward, your legs shaking like they didn’t even belong to you anymore.

They all froze as you moved.

Your brain screamed leave. Your heart screamed run. And your body obeyed before thought could catch up.

You bolted.

The cold air tore at your lungs as you sprinted, legs burning, shoes slipping in the damp grass as you made a straight line for the carport across the lawn. The manor loomed still, its windows black like watching eyes. The cabins glowed in the fog on your right, warm lights burning like lighthouses you would never trust again.

Brian’s voice barked behind you.

“Stop!” Tim’s sharper, closer. The crunch of boots pounded the earth. They were following.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. The second you saw them coming after you, you’d fall apart completely.

Your car. That old beat-up thing that suddenly looked like salvation, like freedom. If you could just get to it, if you could just slam the door and shove the keys in the ignition—

Your chest squeezed, panic clawing its way up your throat. Your sanity was dangling by threads, the night breaking into pieces around you. What had you let into your life? All this time—laughing, drinking, planting sunflowers, kissing—your mind tripped on that—kissing them. You had kissed monsters.

Tears blurred your vision.

Your feet hit the gravel of the carport hard, sending little rocks skittering. You yanked at the handle, your hands slick with sweat. The metal burned cold against your fingers as you clawed for the door.

It was locked.

“Fuck—fuck, no, no, no—” you gasped, frantically patting yourself down, searching for your keys. You didn’t even remember where they were. You hadn’t touched your car since the day you arrived here, and there was no telling where your keys would be now. Your hands trembled so violently you could barely make sense of your own body.

Behind you, footsteps closed in. “Miss, stop!” Brian’s voice again, desperate.

The car door rattled under your grip. Your still held onto the handle as if squeezing it tight enough would magically pop it open. You swore you could hear your own sanity snapping in little fibers, like wires stretched too far. This was it. There was no rational explanation left. No comforting lie you could spin to calm yourself. There were creatures in the woods. And the only people for miles—people you had trusted, laughed with, let touch you—were strangers all over again. You had let this magical little world swallow you whole, and now you were stuck right in the middle of all of it. You should have seen it coming.

You pressed your forehead against the window of your car, chest heaving, whispering over and over, “No, no, no, no, no…”

The crunch of boots stopped behind you.

“Ma’am,” Toby’s voice came, closer now, steady but heavy. “…c- c’mon now.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. If you turned around, you weren’t sure you’d come back from what you’d see. Your chest heaved like it was trying to split open, the cold air tearing through you as your mind clawed for escape. Your car was a lost cause—the keys weren’t there—and panic devoured you whole. Then, your eyes flicked upward, and you saw it.

Tim’s truck.

The old pickup sat parked at the edge of the carport, mud splattered across its tires from town trips, bed half-loaded with empty feed sacks and old cigarette cartons. It was salvation.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your legs jolted forward, carrying you with a surge of raw desperation. Gravel kicked up beneath your shoes as you sprinted for the truck, pulse hammering in your ears. You heard them behind you—voices cracking sharp against the night.

“Wait—stop!”

“Get away from there!”

Their warnings sliced through the dark, but they only made you run faster.

Your palms slapped the door, scrambling for the handle. You yanked, the old hinges groaning, and practically threw yourself inside. The seat springs squeaked under your weight as you slammed the door shut, pushing the door latch closed and locking yourself inside, trembling hands reaching for the ignition. The keys were there, still in the ignition.

Your heart leapt, blood pounding in your skull. For once, luck was on your side.

With a violent twist of your wrist, the engine coughed, then roared to life, rattling the cab. The sound tore through the silence of the courtyard, deep and loud, vibrating in your bones. The headlights flickered, then flared bright, slicing across the fog.

You exhaled a ragged sob of relief—until you looked through the windshield.

Because in the beam of those blinding lights, something moved. It wasn’t a shadow. It wasn’t a trick of your panicked brain. It was another one.

Tall, hunched, long-limbed, its skin pale and glistening in the glow. Its eyes—or what you swore should have been eyes—caught the light and gleamed back. It froze at first, twitching at the sound, head cocked unnaturally to the side like an insect testing the air. Then, slowly, its limbs began to drag it closer, a jerking gait that was almost too fast, its body crawling forward on all fours like some rabid predator.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Your hands were locked on the wheel, knuckles white, body screaming to go, to slam your foot down and get the hell out of there. But terror pinned you in place as the rake’s body shuddered closer, drawn by the rumble of the truck and the glare of its headlights.

Beside you, fists slammed against the outside of the truck—Brian’s voice muffled through the glass, rough with urgency, “Turn it off—turn it off, now!”

The world was collapsing in on itself.

The creature lurched forward in the beams of the headlights, its long, spidery limbs working in horrifying jerks, teeth glinting wet in the light. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. All you could do was sit frozen in the cab, your hands strangling the steering wheel like it might save you.

“Dammit, shut it off!” Brian’s voice cracked through the night, sharp with desperation.

Tim’s shotgun fired, the deafening blast tearing through your chest as much as the air—but the rake only staggered, then kept moving.

Tim pumped the action again—click. Empty. His mask tipped down in disbelief, body stiff with sudden panic as he threw the useless weapon aside. “Shit—shit, shit, shit—!”

The rake shrieked, the sound like metal tearing and a scream all at once, its limbs clawing up speed as it hurtled toward the truck.

You shrieked with it, fumbling for the gear shift, ready to ram the damn thing if you had to—but suddenly something slammed against the glass of your driver’s side door.

It was Toby.

But not Toby. Not the boy who helped you stay warm at night or stumbled with you drunk into a kiss. It was the weapon—the orange goggles gleaming under the headlights, the muzzle tight across his face.

“Open the door!” he barked through muffled leather, voice a ragged edge.

You shook your head violently, tears blurring your vision as you looked back and forth between one monster and another.

Then—CRASH.

His fist went straight through the glass. Shards rained inside, some cutting across your sleeve, some glinting like diamonds in your hair. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t feel the blood already trickling down his knuckles. He just ripped the lock up with the same hand and wrenched the door open with a force that made the whole truck rock.

You screamed, scrambling back in the seat, but Toby didn’t even look at you. He dropped low, arm shoving between your legs and under the seat in a hurried, desperate movement. Your mind blanked at the sudden closeness, the smell of gun oil and blood filling the cab—and then he was upright again, hauling out a heavy rifle like it had always been hidden there.

The rake was a blur now, closing in fast, the sound of its limbs slapping the dirt unbearable.

Toby braced the rifle against the doorframe, shoulders steady, eyes aimed square at the charging thing. He was always so shaky, always fumbling things and twitching so hard his bones cracked—but now, he was as steady as a stone. His finger pulled the trigger.

BOOM.

The buckshot cracked the night open. The rake shrieked in agony, its body twisting as the blast tore into it, sending pale flesh ripping backward. It stumbled, clawed at the dirt, and then scurried off in a frenzy, vanishing into the trees with another unholy scream.

Silence crashed down heavy—except for your ragged sobs. You sat stiff, locked against the wheel, shards of glass glittering around you, your whole body trembling so violently you thought your bones might rattle apart. Toby slowly lowered the rifle, his chest heaving under the fabric of his hoodie, goggles glinting as he finally glanced at you.

But you didn’t want to look at him. Not any of them.

The silence after the rake fled was unbearable. The only sound was your ragged breathing, the occasional soft clink of glass settling in the seat. The men stood outside the truck like statues, masked and armed, all three pairs of eyes fixed on you. You pressed yourself back against the seat, trembling so hard it made your teeth chatter. You wanted to scream at them, to bolt into the dark, but every shadow in the fog looked like it could lurch to life.

Brian was the first to move. He stepped closer, slowly, like he was approaching a cornered animal. He pulled his hood up, letting the mask sit at his forehead. His voice was low, careful, like he knew he was standing on ice.

“Miss… you need to go inside. Please.”

You shook your head furiously. “No—you—you lied to me! All of you. I trusted you and—and what the fuck was that thing?” Your voice cracked, and tears burned at the corners of your eyes. “What the fuck are you?”

Tim shifted, mask still on, his shotgun slung uselessly at his back. His voice was steady but cold through the porcelain, “Doesn’t matter right now. More of those things will come if we stay out here.”

“More?” you choked, gripping the wheel like it was your lifeline.

Brian’s jaw clenched. He wanted to reach for you, you could tell, but didn’t dare. “We’ll explain. I swear to God we will. But not out here.”

Toby hadn’t moved from where he leaned on the doorframe, rifle still in hand, goggles gleaming. The ticking had returned, his neck snapping to the side as he spoke, voice muffled through the muzzle, “You’re not s-safe here. Not without u-us.”

The words stabbed deeper than anything else. Because as much as you wanted to deny it, as much as you wanted to scream and tell them to go to hell—you knew it was true. You had seen the thing, felt it chasing you. If Toby hadn’t pulled that rifle—your stomach twisted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered, broken, not even sure who you were asking.

The three of them looked at one another. No one answered.

Finally, Brian exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Because we didn’t want you to look at us the way you are right now. The same way your uncle did.”

That hit harder than the gunshot had. You swallowed down the panic, wiping the smattering of shattered glass off your lap and clothes. Their bodies went taut, ready for you to run, but you didn’t. You stepped out slowly, knees wobbling, eyes flicking to the treeline like the shadows might move again at any second.

Tim lowered his mask then, finally, revealing tired eyes and a mouth pressed tight. “Come inside. Just… stay where it’s lit. We’ll talk.”

You nodded once, jerky and stiff, and followed them back toward the manor. Not because you trusted them—not anymore—but because the dark was worse.

── .✦

The kitchen felt wrong. Too bright, too ordinary. The same wooden table where you’d laughed with them, spilled drinks, argued over how to season the roast—now it was where you sat stiff, arms crossed tight, pulse hammering through your skull.

The three of them lingered near the doorway at first, masks and hoods and goggles removed, shifting like they weren’t sure how close they were allowed to get to you anymore. Finally, Brian pulled out a chair across from you and sat. His movements were slow, careful, like you might bolt if he breathed too loud. Tim leaned against the counter, arms folded, while Toby crouched on the floor near the far wall, fiddling with the muzzle strap at his neck, silent.

You stared at them, waiting. Your throat ached from holding in the questions, from the scream you still wanted to let loose.

Brian finally broke the silence. His voice was rough but soft, the kind of tone that begged for belief. “We’re not here to hurt you, miss.”

Your laugh came out sharp and cracked. “You killed something in front of me like it was a Tuesday errand.”

Tim’s jaw worked. “Because if we hadn’t, it would’ve killed you.”

“Then what was it? What was that thing?”

Silence. For too long. Until Brian sighed and rubbed at his face.

“They’re called Rakes. They’re a big problem deep in the forest like this. Pale things, fast as shit, look like they crawled out of hell itself. Except they’re real.”

The word stuck in your gut like a stone. Real.

“And…” your voice wavered. “And my uncle? You mentioned him. He—he didn’t just…”

Brian’s gaze flicked up, guilt shining. “He didn’t die in his sleep. He ignored our warnings. He wanted to study them, to find out where they came from, why they’re here. He went out on his own. One got him before we could stop it.”

It felt like the floor tilted under you. You pressed your nails into your palms until the sting grounded you.

No wonder there wasn’t a funeral. They probably never even found a finger‘s worth left of him.

Tim’s voice cut in, matter-of-fact, like he wanted to keep you from spiraling. “We were sent here because of it. Not by your family, not by the town, but by Him.”

“Who the fuck is him?”

They all went quiet again. You hated how they did that—like they had to agree silently on how much truth you were allowed to have.

Finally, Toby muttered, voice low, “The O-Operator.”

You blinked. “Operator?”

Brian nodded slowly, expression grim. “He’s our… boss. Our tether. Whatever word you want. He sent us here to guard this manor, to keep it from falling to the rakes. Because if it does, this whole stretch of woods goes with it.”

Your stomach turned. “What do you mean, ‘goes with it’?”

Tim’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “These aren’t just woods, miss. This is the Operator’s territory. Your uncle’s manor just happens to sit dead center in the middle of it. He refused to give it up, so we made an alliance instead of kicking him to the curb. He fed us and housed us in return.”

The words hit you one by one, like stones thrown at your chest. Operator. Rakes. Dead uncle. Alliance.

You looked down at your hands on the table. They didn’t feel like yours anymore.

Brian leaned forward, searching your face. “I know this is a lot. But we’re not your enemy. We’re the reason you’ve been safe here. The reason you’re still breathing tonight.”

But the dread coiled tighter in your stomach, because as much as his voice begged you to believe it, as much as your body shook with the leftover fear of the rake’s claws nearly finding you—

You couldn’t help but think:

If this was safety… what the hell did danger look like?

Your throat closed up, your heartbeat kicked into overdrive, and the air in the kitchen suddenly felt too thin, like the whole manor was shrinking in around you.

“I—no, no, no—” The words came out choked, and you pushed back from the table so hard the chair screeched.

“Miss—” Brian’s voice reached for you, but you were already stumbling toward the door.

“Don’t—” You raised a hand, shaking, as if the gesture could keep them at bay. You saw Toby move first, quick and instinctive, like he always was, but the moment he reached toward you, you flinched so violently it made him freeze in place.

“Leave me alone—” Your voice cracked high, raw with panic. “Don’t—just don’t—”

Brian stood up, hands lifted in a placating gesture. “We’re not—”

But you couldn’t listen, couldn’t hear. The air sawed in and out of your lungs in broken bursts, chest heaving, vision tunneling in and out. Their shapes blurred together, too close, too wrong. You shoved past them, every nerve screaming, bolting for the stairs.

“Christ almighty—” Tim’s voice, sharp, an order more than a plea. “Stop.”

But you didn’t. You flew up the steps two at a time, legs threatening to buckle under you, slammed into your room, and shoved the door closed so hard the frame rattled. The lock clicked beneath your trembling fingers and you stumbled backward until your knees hit the bed.

And then you folded. You yanked the blanket up and over yourself like a child, burying into the cocoon of it, hiding from the house, the woods, from them. From everything.

But the curtain was still open. And through the slat of moonlight, through the sheer fabric, you could still see it.

The rake.

Dead. Twisted in the grass like something unnatural left out in the sun. Limbs splayed wrong. Its pale skin caught in the light, waxy and alien. It should’ve been comforting that it wasn’t moving. That it wasn’t coming for you anymore. But all it did was burn the image deeper into your skull.

You curled tighter, pulling the blanket over your head until the air was hot and damp against your face.

It’s not real. It’s not real. This is a dream. I’m gonna wake up. It’s just a bad dream—

The voices came next.

“Miss.” Brian’s, low, strained through the door.

“C’mon, ma’am.” Toby’s, softer than usual, almost coaxing.

“You need to stay put,” Tim’s, firm, lacking remorse, as it often did.

You pressed your hands to your ears, muffling them, shaking your head against the mattress. You didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to believe. Your heart thudded hard enough to make your body rock with it. Every muscle trembled. You couldn’t tell if you were sweating or freezing, but your skin crawled like it was both.

Eventually, the voices stopped. The creak of the floorboards retreated. Silence, except for the ragged pull of your own breath. For a moment, you thought they’d given up.

Until you saw it. 

Through the open curtain, faint beams of light flickered across the yard. Flashlights. The three of them stepping back out into the fog, their shadows moving long against the grass. They didn’t even glance toward your window as they approached the body. Tools in hand. Masks back on. Like it was routine. Like they’d done this before.

You clutched the blanket tighter.

Because for the first time, you realized they had.

── .✦

The days bled together.

Sunlight dragged itself across the walls, shadows shifted with the passing hours, but you barely marked the difference anymore. Your room—once cozy, once yours—had turned into a bunker. You kept the blanket pulled to your chin, eyes trained on the door as if something might slip through the lock at any second.

The manor itself had changed too. The high ceilings, the curling banisters, the endless doors and rooms that had once felt like treasure hunts now loomed over you like watchful eyes. The beauty of it was gone. What was left was suffocating, oppressive. Has this house always been so dark and loud? The fog pressed against the windows day and night like a living thing, and the silence of the house creaked with every step they took downstairs. 

They tried. God, they tried.

You could hear them through the door sometimes, soft voices muffled by the wood.

Tim, one morning, tapping against the frame with his knuckles, “You should come outside. I could use an extra pair of hands in the garden.” His voice calm, practical, like asking you to water plants could undo everything you’d seen.

Later, Toby, his tone careful in a way it never used to be, “Y’know, you w-were sayin’ you wanted to help w-with the firewood? Could do that t-today. Get some air.” You pictured his goggles, the way the lenses had glinted in the night while he buried a hatchet in something’s skull, and your stomach turned.

And then Brian, the worst of all—because he didn’t knock, didn’t ask. He just left plates by the door. Sometimes you caught the scrape of ceramic against the floorboards and the quiet retreat of his boots. You hated how much you wanted to open it, just to see if he’d still look at you the way he had in the kitchen that day, before the world had cracked in half.

But you couldn’t. You didn’t trust them. Couldn’t trust them. They were liars.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it again: Toby covered in blood, Tim with his shotgun leveled, Brian watching you like he already knew what you’d do before you did it. Their faces were masks now, even when they weren’t wearing them.

You thought about leaving. Hell, you thought about it constantly. Packing a bag, walking until your legs gave out, flagging down the first car you saw, even if it meant never coming back.

But when you searched for your car keys—your one ticket out of here—they were gone. Not in your pockets. Not in your jacket. Not in the drawer where you swore you’d left them. You tore through your room in a panic one night, drawers ripped out, clothes thrown across the floor, hands shaking as you clawed through every corner—nothing.

The realization hit like a stone in your stomach.

You were trapped.

The manor, the boys, the fog outside that pressed against the windows like it wanted in—it all caged you here.

So you stayed in bed. Curled up. Drained, terrified, jumping at every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the wood. A bird hit the window once and you screamed so hard your throat burned. You didn’t even recognize yourself anymore.

The house you’d inherited, the one that had once felt like magic and freedom, was now a prison. A ball and chain. A hellscape patrolled by three men you didn’t know at all.

At first, you refused to touch the plates Brian left you. They sat there on the floorboards, steaming quietly, the scent drifting under your door until it was too much. You waited until the footsteps retreated before snatching the dish up, scarfing the food down like a starved animal, and leaving the empty plate outside again.

It became a routine. You didn’t want to depend on them, but your body betrayed you. You couldn’t live on fear alone.

The bathroom attached to your room became your only refuge outside the bed. You’d stand under the spray of hot water until it ran lukewarm, your palms pressed against the tile, forehead leaning on the wall. Sometimes you just sat in the porcelain tub with the water running, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing.

And always, always, when you came back into your bedroom, your eyes went to the windows.

You’d yank the curtains closed, then open them again, unable to stop yourself from looking. The fog was always there, clinging to the glass, blanketing the trees. You half-expected to see something in it—something crawling, lurking, watching. Sometimes you thought you did. Shapes that moved in ways the fog shouldn’t. Your breath would hitch, your body going cold, but nothing ever stepped forward.

Almost a week passed this way.

A week without gunshots. A week without blood on the grass. A week without monsters.

And in the silence, your fear didn’t vanish—it changed. The panic attacks gave way to…something hollower. You didn’t scream at every creak anymore. You didn’t jolt at every shifting shadow. Instead, the weight in your chest was quieter, heavier.

Loneliness.

The manor, vast and echoing, was suffocating in its emptiness. The walls hummed with silence, broken only by the occasional sound of a floorboard groaning downstairs, or conversation carried in faintly from outside. The boys still moved through the place, you knew that—they had to—but to you, it was like the house had swallowed them whole.

You hated yourself for it, but you missed them. Their constant chatter. The casual way Toby would crash into a room, or Tim’s steady voice grounding you, or Brian’s quiet reassurances no matter what. All of it felt like another lifetime.

Now it was just you and the fog pressing against the windows. And though fear still twisted in your gut whenever you remembered that night, something else was beginning to twist alongside it: a gnawing, hollow ache for company.

Lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, you realized the fear wasn’t the only thing keeping you awake anymore. It was the quiet. Too much of it. The manor had always been old and creaky, a place where silence still felt alive—breathing, whispering through the halls. But now it pressed in on you differently, like it wanted to crush the air out of your chest.

You rolled onto your side, pulling the covers tighter. And without meaning to, your mind betrayed you. 

It wandered back. Not to the gunshot. Not to the blood. But to before.

The warmth of Toby’s laugh when he teased you. The way Brian’s eyes lingered every time the two of you talked. The way Tim caught you when you stumbled in the garden, how his gloved hand pulled dirt across your cheek like a dare for more.

You remembered the heat. Their nearness. The weight of them, the dizzying closeness. Their smell—each so different, but so incredibly them. And before you could stop it, you remembered kissing them.

Your breath hitched. The memory was like touching a live wire—shame, want, and dread all tangled together. You’d been flustered and anxious, but you’d let it happen. God, you’d wanted it, hadn’t you? The proof was there, stitched into your bones: the taste of Brian’s mouth, the desperate way Tim kissed you like he’d been holding back for years, the electric snap of Toby’s lips against yours, so sudden it left you burning.

You pressed your hands to your face, groaning softly into the dark.

That had been just before everything went south. Just before the world turned sideways. Before you knew what they were. But even now, curled up in bed, dread gnawing your ribs raw—you still couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up your neck.

They were liars. Dangerous. Killers with pretty faces.

And yet…

They were also the only people you’d had in over a month. The only ones who’d shared your meals, filled your empty halls with life, pulled laughter from your chest when you thought you’d never have company again.

That ache in your chest deepened. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was missing them.

You hated it, but in the quiet, you found yourself wondering what they were doing right now. Sitting together at their table? Talking in low voices outside by the fire pit? Were they thinking of you, the way you couldn’t stop thinking of them?

Your fingers curled in the sheets. For the first time since that night, the first thought you’d had of them in admiration rather than fear slipped in. And it left you feeling warm in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to in a long, long time.

—

By morning, the air in your room felt poisonous. Stale. Too close. Every corner looked darker than it should, every creak of the floorboards like a threat. You lay there for hours, suffocating in it, until the ache in your chest finally won out. Loneliness pressed harder than fear.

So you slipped out of bed.

The floor felt cold against your bare feet as you padded to the door. Your hand hovered on the knob for longer than it should have, every nerve screaming don’t, but you twisted it anyway.

The hallway yawned open—long, empty, heavy with silence. You crept down the stairs one at a time, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to every shadow as though something might peel away from the walls. The air was still. Too still. You checked behind you more times than you could count, convinced someone was at your back, but it was only you.

The manor was empty. The boys were gone, off doing whatever they did out there during the day. You were completely alone downstairs.

Your chest rose and fell in shaky breaths as you made yourself breakfast—just something simple, toast and eggs. Your hands trembled when you cracked the shells, but you forced yourself through it, moving carefully, listening for sounds that weren’t there.

When you finally sat down at the table, the weight shifted. The hollowness of your room started to ease. This was the table—the one you’d eaten at with them dozens of times now. You could almost hear their voices layered into the wood, see the way Toby picked at his food, Brian leaning back and smoking out the window, Tim muttering about seasoning under his breath.

For a few fragile minutes, you almost felt… better. Grounded. Like maybe the house was tilting back toward normal.

But then you looked outside.

The yard spread out before you, soft with the cool air, the grass still damp with morning dew. And your eyes—traitorous, unwilling—dragged to the far patch by the treeline.

The spot.

Your stomach turned. The grass was ruined there, dead in the shape of something once sprawled. Brown, twisted, pressed into the earth like a scar.

The Rake.

Your fork clattered against the plate. Suddenly you weren’t at the table anymore—you were back there, on the ground, lungs screaming for air, watching Toby hack into the thing again and again, the spray of dark blood cutting the night. Your body tensed, a violent shudder wracking through you, and you grabbed the table edge to keep yourself from sliding right onto the floor.

The toast turned to ash in your mouth. The kitchen blurred. All you could see was that body, twitching, limbs too long, mouth open in a snarl that should not have belonged to anything human.

You dragged your gaze away, chest heaving, but the imprint of it stayed stamped behind your eyes. The breakfast that had been so grounding a minute ago sat untouched in front of you now, the warmth of it leeching away with your appetite.

The panic was rising sharp in your throat, chest heaving like you couldn’t drag in enough air. The walls of the kitchen felt too close, the memory of that blackened grass clawing at the back of your skull.

Then the door creaked open.

You jolted so hard the chair legs scraped across the floor.

“Easy,” a voice cut through the panic, low and steady.

Tim stepped inside, shoulders broad beneath his jacket, a wooden crate of vegetables balanced in his arms. He nudged the door shut with his boot, setting the weight down on the counter with a thud. The sound grounded you. The sight of him grounded you.

You sucked in air like you’d been drowning.

His eyes flicked over you, sharp and assessing. “Christ, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He stripped off his gloves, brow furrowing as he took in the pallor of your skin, the dark circles carved under your eyes. “Or maybe you haven’t seen anything at all. Been hiding in that room, huh?”

You opened your mouth, but words caught in your throat. He sighed, tugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the chair across from you. “C’mon. Enough of this.”

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“You’re wound so tight you’re about to snap.” He motioned toward the door with his chin, already rolling his sleeves up. “Fresh air. You need it. I’m not asking.”

“I—Tim, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he cut you off, voice firmer now, the same tone he used when he was correcting your clumsy hand in the garden rows. “No one’s out there. Nothing’s gonna touch you. Not with me here.”

Your hands shook in your lap. The instinct was to refuse, to bolt back upstairs, bury yourself under blankets. But something about the steadiness in his tone held you in place. Before you could second-guess it, he was at your side, holding out a hand.

“Come on,” he said again, quieter this time. Not a command, but an anchor.

You hesitated—then took it.

The sun hit you like a brand when you stepped outside. The air smelled green and sharp, earth and mist. You flinched at every shadow, every ripple of fog curling across the grass, but Tim kept you moving, his hand steady on the small of your back. You felt like a brittle dog being dragged to the vet.

He led you past the patch that still made your stomach lurch, not letting your gaze linger.

“Look,” he murmured once you reached the garden beds. Your eyes followed his gesture—and your breath hitched.

Tiny stalks, pale green, had broken through the soil. Straight lines of them, catching sunlight like little veins of hope. The sunflower seeds.

“They’re up,” Tim said simply, crouching down to brush a hand over the fragile sprouts. His voice was softer now, almost proud. “Told you they wouldn’t take long.”

You sank to your knees beside him, eyes burning. After days of seeing nothing but dead spots and nightmares, this was… different. Proof that you had once thought this place magical, proof that it still could be.

Tim glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, catching the way your shoulders finally sagged a little, the way your lips parted like you might actually breathe easy for the first time in days.

“There,” he said, his voice steady as bedrock. “Better than four walls, huh?”

You nodded, swallowing past the knot in your throat, eyes flicking from the tender green sprouts to Tim’s steady profile. He was wearing a red flannel, it suited him. For the first time in days, your voice didn’t sound like it belonged to a stranger.

“…Why are they here?” you whispered.

Tim didn’t pretend not to know what you meant. He leaned back on his heels, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes scanning the rows of soil instead of your face. “It’s not really a simple answer,” he said after a beat. “They’re kind of like badly trained dogs. They were put in these woods to protect it, but they grew restless. They multiplied, and now they’re trying to plant territory here. They’re… parasites, almost. They hunt, they tear apart whatever they can get their claws on. They don’t stop until something makes them stop.” His jaw flexed. “That’s what Toby was doing. Making it stop.”

Your stomach twisted. You hugged your arms around yourself. “And you—you’re not…” you faltered, the word caught between fear and shame. “You’re not like them?”

That made him look at you. Sharp eyes cutting into yours, unreadable. Then his mouth quirked, bitter at the edges. “No. We’re human. Just… different kinds of human.” He leaned down, plucked a sprout of grass from the dirt and rolled it between his fingers. “We’ve seen things. Lived through things. The kind of shit that makes you useful for a boss like ours.”

“…The Operator,” you murmured, remembering the name from that awful night in the kitchen. Tim gave a single nod.

Silence stretched between you, filled with birdsong and the wind tugging through the trees. You almost didn’t want to ask the next question. But it burned in you, ugly and desperate.

“My uncle,” you whispered. “What really happened to him?”

Tim exhaled slowly through his nose, shoulders rising and falling. His answer came low, deliberate, like every word was a stone he had to lay carefully. “He didn’t die in his sleep. That’s what they told your family so you wouldn’t go digging. Truth is… he stopped listening. We warned him to stay inside certain nights, warned him not to wander the woods. He thought he knew better.”

Your chest tightened, heart crawling into your throat. “So—”

“The rake got him,” Tim said flatly, but his eyes softened when he saw the way you flinched. “Quick. Quicker than most.” He ran a hand through his hair, like he hated saying it but hated lying even more. “Brian found him. We cleaned it up before word spread and buried him. Your family was told he passed peacefully. It was kinder that way.”

Your eyes stung. You stared down at the sprouts, blinking hard, until the blur sharpened back into green.

Tim sighed, shifting closer, his voice lower now. “I know you don’t trust us right now. You’ve got every reason not to. But we’re not your enemy, and we’re not here to hurt you. The only reason this place is still standing is because of us.”

His words should’ve scared you more. But the way he said them—steady, unflinching, stripped of ego—made something in you waver. You swallowed hard. “So my uncle… he—he died because he didn’t listen.” The words felt foreign in your mouth. Wrong.

Tim didn’t answer right away. Just brushed the dirt from his clothes, his head bent slightly like he was bracing for you to cry or scream. “Yeah,” he said finally. “But you don’t have to make his mistakes.”

Your chest rose sharp with breath. You wanted to spit at him, wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he was cruel for saying it so plainly. But instead your voice came out shaky, almost pleading. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why keep me in the dark? You knew I trusted you guys. Was it better I found out like that?”

Tim’s eyes lifted, and for once there was no hard mask, no guard—just a tired man who looked as though he carried too much and just found another thing to add onto it. “Because trusting us is dangerous. Because you deserved to believe this place was just… yours.” His jaw tightened. “I wanted you to have that. Even if it was a lie. Even if I knew you’d find out eventually.”

The words hit you in a way you didn’t expect, making your throat burn. You looked away quickly, blinking hard at the little sunflower sprouts poking through the dirt. They were so fragile. So green. So alive. Your lips parted before you could stop them. “…It feels different with you guys here.”

Tim’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t press. He just tilted his head slightly, waiting.

You shook your head, cheeks warm, ashamed of yourself. “I mean—before, when I first moved in, it felt like a dream. Like the house was magic or something. But then it was the three of you too, and…” You hesitated, heart thudding hard in your chest. “I don’t know. It didn’t feel like I was alone there anymore. It felt like it was our house.”

Silence. His gaze lingered on you, heavy, searching, until you dropped your eyes to your knees. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to hate all of them. But the warmth crept back in despite the fear—the memory of his gloved hand brushing dirt off your face, of laughter spilling between you in the garden only days ago. You felt unmoored, torn in half.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you whispered.

“I don’t blame you,” Tim said, and there was no hesitation, no defensiveness—just truth. He didn’t move, didn’t push, didn’t even try to bridge the distance between you. He just stayed steady, watching, like he knew that if he reached for you now, you’d bolt. That steadiness should have comforted you, but instead it made your chest tight.

Your gaze flicked once more to his, and for a fleeting second you saw the same man who had caught you when you fell, who had kissed you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t hold you close. Your stomach knotted. Too much. It was all too much.

“I should… I should go inside,” you muttered, the words stumbling out uneven.

Tim gave a small nod, like he’d expected it. “Alright. Do what you need.”

You rose quickly, your boots crunching over the gravel path, heart hammering in your throat. Each step back to the manor felt heavy, dragged down by invisible weight. When you reached the door and slipped inside, you pressed your back against it, clutching the handle like you could hold the whole house shut around you.

The silence rang. Empty. Oppressive. And for all your desperation to be away from him, from them, from everything—you couldn’t shake the sickening pull in your chest. The way his words clung to you. The way the air had shifted when you thought, for a moment, that maybe you weren’t as alone as you feared.

It scared you worse than the rake ever had. You shoved the thought down, dragging yourself upstairs. 

── .✦

You didn’t lock yourself away anymore. That had felt too much like suffocating, like the four walls of your bedroom were trying to eat you alive. Instead, you drifted through the house the way fog rolled through the manor grounds: quiet, cautious, and never quite settling. You swept the floors, washed dishes, straightened the shelves in your uncle’s old study—anything to keep your hands busy, to keep your mind from spinning too fast. You refused to look at the drawings in there, deciding that stuffing them into a drawer was the better option.

But no matter what you did, it was always there. That knot in your stomach. That pulse of awareness. Because eventually, one of them would always appear.

Brian passing through the hall with a coil of wire slung over his shoulder, nodding as if to silently greet you. Toby kicking mud off his boots at the door, his hair messy from the woods, muttering something about needing to grab water. Tim carrying a basket of herbs into the kitchen, his voice gruff when he told you to watch your step as if he still expected you to trip everywhere you went.

Each time, your body betrayed you. The first response was always fear: your shoulders tight, your breath caught sharp in your chest, fingers clutching the nearest counter or chair. They felt like shadows looming over you, reminders of the masks, the blood, the rake.

But then, almost cruelly, the fear softened into something else.

Your gaze lingered on Brian’s hands as he worked—steady, clever hands that had cradled yours. You found yourself watching the swing of Toby’s shoulders, the way he filled a doorway with his energy even when he said nothing at all. And Tim, sharp edges and all, made your stomach twist when he brushed past you, the scent of cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

It made no sense. You hated it. Sometimes you caught yourself staring too long, zoning out with your heart in your throat, fidgeting with your sleeves or a stray thread on your shirt until you snapped yourself back. Other times you’d feel heat crawl up your neck at the sound of their voices, the low timbre of their laughter echoing through the halls, and you’d retreat to another room before they could notice.

You wanted them gone. You wanted them closer. The contradiction gnawed at you.

They tried, in small ways, to bridge the gap. Brian offering a half-smile when you passed in the kitchen. Toby cracking a joke that earned him nothing but your stiff silence. Tim tossing a casual, “You eating today?” over his shoulder like it wasn’t meant to matter. They didn’t press, didn’t demand answers, but the weight of their attempts hung in the air between you. Every time you caught their eyes, you saw something there you didn’t want to name. Patience. Concern. Something warmer, steadier. It terrified you.

Because in the quiet corners of your mind, when the manor groaned and the candles guttered low, you realized the truth: the only people who could make you feel safe in this place were the same ones who had shattered that safety. And still—despite everything—your chest ached for them.

The longing crept in slow, threading through your fear until you couldn’t tell one from the other anymore. It was like reaching for a flame with an open palm. You knew it would burn, but you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to feel its heat.

So you kept your distance, but not too far. Close enough to catch the shape of their shadows in the hallway, close enough to hear their voices drift in from outside. Close enough to keep wanting what you swore you didn’t. And every night, when you lay down in your bed, you felt the ache of it thrum in your ribs—a hollow that wasn’t just fear anymore, but something darker, hungrier…

Want.

── .✦

The storm had rolled in like a beast. Rain lashed the tall windows, rattling against the glass with a steady violence, the manor groaning as though the water alone might break it apart. You were folding the last of your fresh laundry in your bedroom, the soft crackle of a record spinning in the corner from a bin of old vinyls you had found, when the knock came.

Sharp. Three quick raps.

You froze mid-fold, heartbeat leaping into your throat. For a long moment you just stood there, staring at the door, the shadows bending in the flicker of candlelight. Then you forced yourself to move. You pulled it open just a crack.

Brian stood there, rain clinging to his hoodie in damp patches, his hair a little mussed. His expression softened the moment your eyes met.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, careful. “Wasn’t sure if you were up. Just wanted to check in. You doing alright?”

The question landed heavier than it should have. You blinked at him, throat dry, trying to summon an easy answer, but nothing about this was easy. “I… I guess. Just keeping busy.”

Brian nodded once, stepping just close enough to lean against the doorframe. The light behind you threw his face into half-shadow, the other half all sharp cheekbones and soft eyes. “Need anything? Food, tea, whatever. Figured I’d ask before we head out.”

The words snagged you. Head out.

Your eyes flickered down without meaning to, catching the edges of things he hadn’t hidden: the black balaclava stuffed into his pocket, the flashlight clipped to his belt. The sight made your stomach turn.

You swallowed hard. “You’re… hunting?” The word nearly caught in your throat, shaky and brittle.

Brian’s eyes followed yours, and for a second, his jaw tightened. Then he sighed, quiet and steady, pushing off the frame to face you fully. “Yeah,” he admitted. No excuses, no softening of the truth. Just the weight of it placed between you.

The sight of the gear, the reminder of what it meant—of the horrors—had your hands trembling. Your breath picked up, chest hitching. You shook your head, backing a step into your room without realizing it.

“Hey, hey—” Brian’s voice caught softer now, urgent but not harsh. He stepped forward, careful, palms open, and reached for your arms. His fingers closed gently around your sleeves, grounding you with the warmth of his grip. “It’s alright.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, panic and unease crashing in waves over you, but the steadiness of his hands on your arms made you pause. Made you realize you hadn’t let anyone this close in days. Rain pounded the manor, lightning flashed faint and far through the windows, and Brian stood in front of you, as terrifying as the storm but unshakable. His eyes searched yours, calm and certain.

Your throat burned with the pressure of words you didn’t want to say, but couldn’t hold back anymore. The dam was finally cracking, and there was nothing you could do to hold back the roar that was coming with it.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking, “don’t—don’t let them near here.” Your fingers curled around the fabric of his hoodie like you needed something to anchor you. “Don’t let those things come close. I—” Your breath hitched, a sob caught in your throat before you could stop it. “I can’t—”

Brian’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening just slightly as if to keep you from unraveling completely.

“Hey,” he said softly, bending closer. “Breathe. C’mon now…”

But you shook your head violently, tears brimming before you even realized they’d gathered. “No, you’re not listening, I mean—what if something happens? What if you don’t come back? What if it’s worse than that thing in the yard—”

Your voice cracked, and you clutched at him harder, burying your fingers into the fabric at his chest. “Brian, you can’t—you have to come back. All of you. You can’t just—leave me in this place and not—” You broke off again, swallowing hard as you met his eyes. The steadiness there, the calm resolve, made your stomach twist.

The fear wasn’t just for you anymore. It was for them.

Brian’s face softened, the sharpness of his features gentled by the stormlight filtering in from the hall. Slowly, he lifted one hand from your arm to press against the back of your head, guiding you forward until your forehead brushed against his chest. His voice rumbled low above you, steady as the rain outside.

“We’ll come back,” he murmured. “We’ve done this forever. We’ll be right here. Always.”

You let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all, pressing your fists tighter into him. “You don’t know that. You don’t. Don’t make promises like that.”

Brian exhaled, the sound almost like a sigh, but his hand didn’t move. “Then I’ll make it a vow instead.”

Something in you twisted—fear, longing, relief—and you hated that it felt like your chest might split open with it all. You hated more that you believed him, at least a little.

You nodded against him, breath shuddering, clutching tighter to his hoodie like maybe you could hold him here forever if you just didn’t let go. But eventually, he eased you back, just enough to see your face. His thumb brushed under your eye, catching the wet there before it could fall. “I’ll be careful,” he said quietly, like it was a secret between the two of you. “That, I can promise.”

The thunder cracked again, loud enough to shake the glass, and the manor felt too empty already. You finally let your hands fall away, weakly nodding. “Just—come back,” you whispered.

Brian gave the faintest smile, one corner of his mouth lifting, though his eyes stayed serious. “Always.” And then he slipped from your room, leaving you with nothing but the storm and the echo of his words.

── .✦

The night stretched cruelly long.

You tried lying down, tried closing your eyes, but every sound from outside jerked you awake again. The crack of gunfire splitting the storm, the distant echoes of shouting that bled through the walls, the occasional slice of light cutting through the fog like a ghost. Each time, your heart jumped, your hands clutched at the sheets, waiting for the manor itself to shake apart around you.

And then silence.

The storm eased to a drizzle around 3 a.m., and with it came a kind of unbearable stillness. You sat on the edge of your bed, your record player silent, clutching your knees to your chest as you stared at the clock. Every tick felt like another knife carving time into you.

When the shouting returned, you nearly screamed.

You bolted to the window, fumbling the curtain aside with shaking hands. Lightning cracked faintly in the distance, enough to illuminate the scene below: Brian and Tim struggling across the sodden courtyard, rain streaking their figures, their arms braced tight under Toby’s shoulders as they dragged him between them. Toby’s head lolled forward, his goggles askew, mud and blood smeared across his chest.

Your stomach lurched.

You didn’t think—you just ran. Down the stairs, nearly tripping on the last step, your bare feet skidding against the polished floor as you reached the back doors. You flung them open just as Brian barked, “Move!” and the two men staggered inside with their weight.

The air filled with the smell of wet earth and blood.

“What—what happened?!” you demanded, your voice strangled, but neither of them answered at first. Tim’s jaw was locked, eyes narrowed with grim focus, while Brian kept Toby braced high against him, adjusting his grip as they pushed through into the manor’s mudroom and toward the kitchen.

“Shut the door,” Tim snapped, his voice tight. “Now.”

You shoved it closed, the latch clanging, rain cutting off into muffled silence behind the heavy wood. Your pulse thundered louder than the storm had, and all you could do was stare at Toby—half-conscious, skin pale beneath the bruises and bandages, blood trailing down from somewhere under his clothes.

Panic clawed your throat raw. “What do I do—what can I—”

Brian’s gaze cut to you, sharp and unwavering despite the strain in his arms. “Kitchen. Clear the table.”

Your body jolted into motion, heart in your mouth, fear and helplessness gnawing at your ribs as you spun toward the kitchen. You had the table cleared before you even realized what you were doing—fruit bowl shoved aside, candlesticks clattering to the floor, anything in the way swept off with frantic hands. Your whole body trembled as Brian and Tim wrestled Toby onto the wood surface, his boots leaving streaks of wet mud across the floor.

The moment his back hit the table, Toby laughed. It was a warped, half-slurred giggle that crawled under your skin. He tilted his head toward you, his orange goggles hanging cracked around his neck now, his wild eyes half-lidded. “Heeey… look a-at you…”

Your stomach dropped. Blood had soaked through his shirt—dark, spreading from his lower abdomen where claw marks tore jagged across his skin. You could see raw edges of flesh, glistening under the bright lights Tim snapped on. He’d also taken a brutal hit to the head—his temple swelling purple, a gash matting his curls with blood.

But that’s when you saw it—the strip of patched cloth that had always covered his left cheek, torn loose in the fight. At first, you thought it was just another wound. But when the fabric slid off completely, your breath caught in your throat.

The skin beneath was split wide, ragged, old but raw all the same—an unhealed wound that carved through his cheek, exposing his teeth all the way up to the hinge of his jaw. You could see them glinting faintly under the lamplight, the wet pink of his gums flashing whenever he giggled.

“Oh, God,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Toby turned his head lazily toward you, eyes half-lidded, his grin sloppy. “Wh-what?” he slurred, blood still smeared at the corner of his mouth. “Ugly, huh?” He let out a breathless laugh that bubbled into a cough.

Brian’s jaw tightened, his movement pausing just for a second before he forced himself to keep moving. “Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, as much to Toby as to you.

But you couldn’t tear your eyes away. All this time—every grin, every joke, every quick glance—you’d never realized he was hiding something so jagged, so brutal, right under that patch. 

And yet, he just kept laughing.

Brian yanked off his gloves with his teeth, his hands steady and precise as he tore at Toby’s ruined shirt. Splotches of scars and tense muscles sat above his belt line, all covered in a horrid sheen of red. “Hold him down,” he barked to Tim.

“I’ve got him.” Tim’s gloved hands pinned Toby’s shoulders as he squirmed, still trying to sit up like a drunk kid refusing bedtime. “Christ, kid, stay still.”

You hovered uselessly at the end of the table, wringing your hands until Toby’s blood-smeared one suddenly shot out toward you. His fingers caught your wrist, sticky and warm, tugging weakly.

“Pretty girl,” he slurred, grin wide despite the blood staining his teeth. “You c-came down for m-me…”

You froze, pulse stuttering in your throat. Brian didn’t even look up as he pressed a rag hard to Toby’s abdomen, blood seeping instantly through. “Don’t listen to him. He’s concussed.”

But Toby giggled again, forcing himself up despite Tim’s grip, his hand sliding clumsy against your arm. “Knew y-you’d care… knew it.”

Your throat tightened, torn between the terror of the wound, the strangeness of his unfeeling laughter, and the sheer surrealism of him grabbing at you like nothing was wrong while blood poured out of him. Brian’s voice cut sharp. “Get me more cloths. Towels. Anything thick. Hurry.”

You scrambled for the drawer, your hands shaking so badly you nearly dropped the dish towels. By the time you rushed back, Toby had twisted his head toward you again, eyes glassy and grin somehow wider. “Don’t look so s-scared,” he mumbled, his words slurring but his tone almost soft. “I can’t f-feel a t-thing.”

Then his body shuddered as Brian pressed harder into the wound, his giggles cutting into a sharp hiss of breath before dissolving into another eerie laugh. You nearly dropped the towels, your legs threatening to give out, thrusting them with shaking hands. Brian snatched them without missing a beat, already layering fresh cloth against Toby’s stomach. Blood soaked through instantly, turning bright white fabric into maroon.

“Tim, tilt his head—keep him steady, he’s gonna choke if he throws up.”

“I know,” Tim snapped, his mask shoved up just enough for his voice to carry clearer. His gloved fingers locked around Toby’s jaw, keeping him in place while the younger man’s body jolted against the table. Toby fought them with the strength of a ragdoll, limp in some ways but twitching and jerking in others. His legs kicked weakly against the wood, heels knocking over and over again. He giggled, a breathless wheeze that scraped your ears raw. Droplets of water flung from his clothes and his hair, the smell of damp earth and rust suffocating the room.

“Feels f-funny,” he slurred, eyes rolling back before snapping forward again, finding you like he couldn’t help it. His bloody hand smeared against the table until it found yours again, his fingers curling sticky around your wrist. “Don’t… don’t look a-away. Missed y-your face.”

You couldn’t move. Every instinct told you to rip your arm away, but the way his grip softened, desperate instead of forceful, kept you frozen in place. Brian cursed low, his hands soaked now, his forearms streaked crimson to the elbow. “Shit—claws got him deep. Punctured muscle. We need stitches.”

“Then stitch him,” Tim growled, tightening his hold on Toby’s chin when he tried to thrash sideways.

“I will—but I need him still, not a damn earthquake.”

For a moment, the kitchen was only the sound of rain hammering the roof and Toby’s warped laughter cutting through it. He blinked at you, unfocused, pupils blown. “Y-You’re shaking,” he murmured, as though he could feel the tremor running through your body. His thumb dragged lazily across your skin, leaving a streak of blood like war paint. “Don’t be s-scared. Not of me.”

Your chest squeezed tight, a sob clawing up your throat, but Brian’s voice snapped you out of it. “Hold this.”

You startled as he shoved your hands onto the thick cloth already pressed into Toby’s stomach. The instant your palms met the hot, slick wound beneath, your whole body recoiled—until Brian’s voice went sharp. “Don’t move. You want him to bleed out?”

Your knees nearly gave, but you pressed down, teeth clenched, nausea clawing at your stomach as warmth spread beneath your fingers. Toby wheezed, twitching, but instead of crying out he only smiled through it, his head lolling toward you.

“See? You’re g-good at this,” he muttered, almost tender if not for the blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “Knew you’d t-take care of m-me.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look away from his unfocused eyes and the terrifying comfort in his voice, even as Brian moved around you with grim efficiency. He’d already torn open an aid kit from the cabinet, the needle glinting in the light. Tim held Toby’s head steady, murmuring something low and sharp under his breath—maybe curses, maybe easing words, you couldn’t tell. And Brian, steady as stone, knelt to stitch, his hands sure even as blood dripped from his wrists to the floor.

But it was you—your hands pinning the cloth against Toby’s abdomen—that kept him alive, even while his bloody fingers tangled with yours, and he giggled through the stitches like it was all some sick joke only he understood. The kitchen had turned into a battlefield—blood pooling across the table, the storm still howling outside, rainwater dripping from their coats onto the tile. Everything smelled like iron and wet earth, like thunder itself had crawled indoors.

Toby’s body jerked against the table as Brian threaded the needle, his hands trembling from cold, fatigue, and frustration. The first puncture made Toby’s back bow like a live wire, a ragged cough bursting from his lips, more of a muscle reaction than something he did intentionally.

“Don’t—don’t t-tickle,” he slurred, eyelids fluttering.

“Christ, Toby, shut up,” Brian muttered, voice taut. His stitches came slower than he liked, clumsy even with his practiced hands—his soaked sleeves clung and slipped, fingers too numb to work with perfect precision. Toby’s head lolled sideways, eyes unfocused until they found you again. His bloody grin widened. “You’re c-cute, ma’am,” he whispered, thumb dragging sluggishly over the back of your hand where it held the cloth down.

Your breath caught. You wanted to recoil, but instead you forced yourself to speak, to keep him occupied. “If you don’t hold still, he won’t finish,” you said, your voice shaking as much as your hands. “Come on, Toby. Just… just stay with me.”

His giggle cracked into a sigh, eyelids heavy. For a heartbeat you thought he was gone—until Tim barked low. “Hey—eyes open, kid. Look at her. Don’t you dare close ‘em.”

You looked up at him—his hand stayed firm under Toby’s jaw, keeping him steady. But his eyes flicked to you, softer, urging. “You’re doing good,” he muttered, and for a second it was like his words weren’t just for Toby—they were for you, too.

Your throat ached as you nodded quickly, bending down closer so Toby could see you better. His glazed eyes locked clumsily on yours.

“That’s it,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice even though your stomach was rolling. “Stay here. Don’t move. Just listen to me. Please.”

Another stitch tugged through, and Toby hissed a laugh that broke into coughing when a thick clot of blood soaked through to your palms. Brian cursed under his breath, wiping at the wound with his sleeve before leaning back in. “Almost there,” he muttered, though you could hear the edge of doubt in his tone.

Toby, even half-gone, smirked faintly at you through the pain. “Knew y-you… liked… me,” he mumbled, before his head tipped back again.

“Toby!” you gasped, leaning forward, clutching his hand tighter. Tim pressed down firmer on his shoulder, his voice steady, commanding. “Focus, Toby. Quit scaring the girl.”

Brian’s breath rattled through his teeth as he forced the last stitch through. The thread snapped taut, the flesh pinched together, ugly but secure. He tied it off with trembling fingers, the knot sloppy, but it would hold. “There,” he muttered, almost to himself. “That’s it. Done.”

Toby gave a sluggish chuckle, head rolling weakly toward you. “Told ya… jus’ a s-scratch…” His bloody grin was crooked, dazed.

“Scratch, my ass,” Tim growled, finally letting go of his shoulder. His hands were steady, but his voice was rough—too tight, too relieved. “You’re lucky you’ve got Brian’s hands on you. Anyone else, you’d be gutted open.”

Brian wiped the needle on a cloth, exhaling hard as though he’d been holding his breath for an hour. “Sit him up slow,” he ordered.

You and Tim eased Toby upright. His body sagged heavy between you both, his laughter faint now, almost airy. His head lolled toward you again, his damp curls sticking to his forehead. “She—she m-makes a good nurse,” he slurred.

Your heart thudded in your throat. You couldn’t tell if it was fear, anger, or the ache of something else, something softer. “Just… shut up, Toby,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you brushed sweat from his temple. You tried so desperately not to look at the hole in his cheek, but you glanced anyway. His eyelids flickered once, twice. And then they shut, his body going limp against Tim’s chest.

Panic shot through you. “No, no, no—”

“He’s out,” Brian cut in firmly, checking his pulse with bloodied fingers. His shoulders finally dropped, the fight draining out of him. “Unconscious. But he’s breathing. He’ll live.”

The words hit you like a floodgate breaking. Your hands shook so badly you pressed them against your face, smearing blood across your skin. A pained laugh slipped from your throat, sharp and brittle, as relief and horror twisted together in your chest. Tim guided Toby’s body down onto the bench against the wall, pulling off his soaked jacket and draping it over him. “We’ll move him to the cabin when the rain lets up.”

Brian leaned heavily against the table, dripping water and blood onto the floor, his jaw slack with exhaustion. For a long moment, the kitchen was nothing but the crackle of the storm and the sound of all your breathing. You looked at them—their wet hair plastered down, their soaked clothes clinging, the blood smeared across their skin—and realized they looked more like soldiers than the workmen you’d once thought they were.

“Don’t—don’t go back out,” you blurted, your voice sharper than you meant. Both men froze, glancing up from where they were arranging Toby on the bench. You swallowed hard, blinking back the tears burning at your eyes. “Please. Just… just stay here tonight. Use a spare room. Shower. I don’t care. Just—don’t go back out there.”

Tim’s brows furrowed, his mask hanging loose around his neck now, his shirt soaked through to his skin. He looked at you for a long moment, searching, then glanced at Brian. Brian opened his mouth, like he was about to argue, but the exhaustion written across his face betrayed him. His shoulders slumped. “There’s no need—” he started, then stopped when he saw the way your hands were shaking. The fight in him ebbed away. “…Alright.”

It was like telling dogs who always slept in the doghouse that they were allowed to stay inside tonight.

“Good,” you said, trying to sound firm even though your voice cracked. You moved toward Toby, who was still out cold, his head tilted against the wall. His lips twitched faintly, as if even in sleep he couldn’t stop smirking. You brushed his damp hair from his forehead with trembling fingers. “Put him in my room. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Tim’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s not—”

“Please,” you whispered, cutting him off. “I can’t—I can’t sit in there alone after all this. Just… let me do this.”

The room went quiet, except for the pounding rain outside. Finally, Brian crouched, hooking his arms under Toby again with a grunt. “Fine. But only because you’re right—he needs watching.” He lifted Toby as if he were a ragdoll, adjusting his limp weight over his shoulder.

Tim rubbed at his face, sighing low. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when he drives you insane in his sleep.”

You almost smiled—almost—but the knot in your chest wouldn’t let you. You led them up the stairs, the floorboards creaking under the weight of two soaked, blood-streaked men and one unconscious one. You helped Tim drag off the heavy pieces of clothing, unstrapping his boots, and drying the blood and mud from his body. He didn’t stir once.

When Toby was finally settled into your bed, damp curls spread across your pillow, you stood back, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The room smelled of rain and smoke and iron, but for the first time in days, it wasn’t empty.

You wrung out a wet cloth from your bathroom and began carefully wiping the grime from Toby’s chest and stomach, clearing away the blood that clung stubbornly to his skin. He flinched faintly, but only to huff under his breath, muttering something incoherent.

Brian and Tim both stood nearby, dripping onto your floorboards. You glanced up at them, your throat tightening. “What… what happened?”

The only light in the room was the candle’s that stayed constantly lit, so they looked even more disheveled and worn than normal. Tim was tugging his gloves off, tossing them to the side. His jaw worked, the muscles in his neck tight. “We got caught in a nest. Should’ve cleared the woods earlier in the week, but…” He trailed off with a frustrated growl.

You swallowed, turning your attention back to Toby. Your eyes caught on his face—his cheek in particular, and the horrid new discovery that had been revealed. “And this?” you whispered, brushing at the blood there with your cloth.

Brian exhaled heavily through his nose. He glanced at Tim before answering, his voice low. “That wasn’t tonight. He… does that to himself. Sometimes. When it gets too much in his head.”

Your hand stilled. The cloth went slack between your fingers. “…He chews at his own face?”

Brian nodded once, curt. “He can’t feel it. Doesn’t stop himself.”

Your stomach lurched. You blinked rapidly, your vision swimming—not with fear this time, but with something sharper, deeper, sadder. You dragged the cloth across Toby’s jaw again, softer this time, like if you were careful enough you could undo every wound on him.

“God,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “He could’ve—you all could’ve died out there.”

Tim, still standing near the door, sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “That’s the job.”

You looked at him sharply, and he held up a hand before you could speak. “I’m not saying it’s fine. I’m saying we all know the risk every time we step outside. So does he. We’re soldiers.”

You turned back to Toby, your chest tight and aching as you brushed his curls off his forehead. He shifted faintly in his sleep, lips twitching, a faint chuckle leaving his throat like he was dreaming something absurd. It gutted you.

You forced yourself to straighten, turning to Brian and Tim. “There’s a spare room down the hall. I cleaned the sheets earlier this week. You can take it. Both of you. Please just—don’t go back out tonight.”

Tim arched a brow, but didn’t argue. Brian only nodded, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

You moved past them, pulling open your wardrobe and grabbing two clean towels. You thrust them forward with shaking hands. “Shower. Dry clothes. And you don’t have to work tomorrow… if you don’t want to. Relax. Just—take care of yourselves for once.”

Brian accepted his with a small, weary “thank you.” Tim muttered something under his breath, but you caught the flicker of relief in his eyes as he took his too.

You lingered at the side of your bed, watching Toby breathe, his chest rising and falling steadily. And for the first time since the night you saw what they truly were, your fear shifted, cracked, reformed into something new.

You weren’t scared of them. You were scared for them.

── .✦

The room was thick with silence after Brian and Tim slipped out, their boots heavy across the hardwood as they disappeared down the winding hallway.

You dragged the lounge chair in the corner of your room across the floorboards, wincing at the scrape but refusing to stop until it was wedged against the side of your bed. You sank into it with a heavy exhale, arms crossed tight, eyes darting between Toby and the window.

Outside, rain still sheeted down, fat drops smearing across the glass. The grass below gleamed slick and dead where the dead rake had once lain days ago. Every shift in the fog made your pulse jump, but nothing moved. Nothing lurked. Still, you couldn’t rest.

Your gaze slid back to Toby. He lay on his back, sprawled carelessly across your sheets like he owned them, shirtless under the bandages Brian had tied across his stomach. The gash there still seeped faintly through the wrappings, dark and damp against the white cloth. He jerked in his sleep every couple seconds, but nothing more than his usual tics.

And everywhere else—scars. Dozens. Thin white lines crossing his ribs, deep puckered marks on his side, a jagged run across his shoulder. You’d seen him shirtless before, chopping wood in the sun, but back then you’d told yourself they were just accidents. Work injuries. Maybe old fights. Something normal.

You now wondered how many Tim and Brian had. Did they also have some inhuman hole in their chest, or terrifying marks across their backs. How many cuts on their hands or arms had you dismissed as accidents?

Now, you knew better. Every scar was a tally mark. A near miss. A night where they might not have come back.

Your throat clenched. You leaned closer, the chair groaning under your shift of weight. Toby’s face twitched faintly, lips pulling in the ghost of a smile even in sleep. That’s when you saw it: the torn edge of his cheek, scarred but raw, one of the secrets he had been so good at keeping. You leaned down, curiosity curling in your chest like a fist. Carefully, you brushed your thumb along the edge of his jaw where tiny bits of shaven stubble hid, then pressed lightly at the skin near the wound. His lips parted slightly, slack. You swallowed, steeling yourself, and nudged a finger closer—just enough to peek past his teeth.

The flesh inside was ragged, gnawed down, trying its best to heal. You pulled back fast, your breath catching in your throat. He’d done this to himself. Without thinking, you reached again, prodding gently against his lips with the pad of your finger. His mouth fell open, warm breath spilling against your skin, and there it was on full display—the damage. Jagged, raw, a hollow pocket where his cheek should’ve been whole.

Your stomach twisted. Your chest burned. You wanted to recoil, to shut your eyes and pretend you hadn’t seen—but instead you stayed there, staring, your fingertip trembling against the sharp edge of his canine when, suddenly, his teeth snapped shut—just a hair’s breadth from your skin.

“Ah!” you yelped, jerking your hand back so fast you nearly tumbled from the chair.

Toby laughed—half delirious, half triumphant—a rough, breathless sound that still made your chest tighten. “R-Relax, ma’am… wasn’t g-gonna hurt ya,” he slurred, his grin crooked but genuine now that the bleeding had stopped.

You huffed, crossing your arms, still flushed. “You really should’ve told me about this.”

His eyes flickered toward the gash in his cheek. “Didn’t… want y-you worrying.” His voice softened, quieter than usual, and you caught a hint of vulnerability beneath the bravado.

You leaned closer, tilting your head. “Is that the only thing you’ve been hiding from me? Or are there other secrets I should know about? Seems I didn’t know you guys as well as I thought I did.”

His grin returned, slow and mischievous. “Depends… y-you asking for t-trouble?” He lifted his head off the pillow, eyes glinting under your candlelight. “Maybe some t-things I’ll tell if y-you’re nice…”

Your cheeks warmed, but you couldn’t help but ask, “Like what?”

“Ah… maybe later,” he murmured, brushing a curl from his forehead, “for now, just k-know… thanks. You kept me from g-going under there t-tonight.”

You felt your stomach tighten at his words, the mix of sincerity and the half-flirtatious glint in his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong,” you said, gesturing at the mess of bloodied towels and rain-soaked sheets around you, “I’m not exactly thrilled about being up to my elbows in all this. But… I’m glad you’re okay.”

Toby shifted, lifting himself slowly against the pillows, and you moved instinctively to support him. He gave a weak chuckle. “I can move, I s-swear… but I should… I dunno, get o-out of your hair. You’ve got your hands f-full.”

“Stay,” you said firmly, planting your hand on his shoulder before he could climb out of bed. “You’re not going anywhere yet. We need to talk about… tonight. About what happened.”

His grin softened into something almost tender, head resting back against the pillow. “Fine… fine. Guess I owe you an explanation.”

And so you stayed there, the storm drumming against the windows, and slowly the conversation unfolded—half laughter, half tense reflection—about the rake, the chase, the wounds he’d hidden, and the small, terrifying ways their lives had changed since you’d arrived.

── .✦

You blinked awake, the lounge chair cold and stiff beneath you, limbs aching from sleeping in it. Toby’s side of the bed was empty, and a faint smell of rain and smoke lingered in the room. Your fingers flexed against the fabric of the chair, realizing your muscles ached from tension as much as from the position.

Dragging yourself to the stairs, you paused at the top, ears straining against the dull patter of rain outside. The manor felt… normal. For a moment.

Downstairs, the sight that greeted you almost made you stumble: Toby, still shirtless and without his patch, crouched in front of your pantry, tearing into a jar of something you hadn’t even noticed before. The bandages around his stomach had since been changed, too. He looked up briefly, grinning. “Morning,” he mumbled, crumbs on his lips.

Brian stood at the stove, stirring scrambled eggs and bacon, the smell warm and comforting. He had on new clothes, sleeves rolled up, hair messy and sleep-ridden. He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Sleep well?”

You nodded faintly, still blinking away last night’s nightmares. Tim was leaning against the open back door, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette, rain splattering on the mat beneath his boots. He didn’t glance at you, but the faint tilt of his head acknowledged your presence.

And to your surprise, the kitchen was clean. No blood, no muddy footprints, no chaos—just the muted hum of the rain, the hiss of the stove, the gentle smell of breakfast.

You swallowed, nerves still tight, but the domestic normality made your chest ease slightly. “Good morning,” you said, voice quiet but steady.

Toby hummed, pulling out a piece of bread from the pantry. “I took the d-day off,” he said lazily, slouching against the counter. “You s-said not to work, anyway”

“But you’re still eating my food, I see,” you muttered, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

Brian glanced at you, offering a plate of scrambled eggs. “Sorry, kind of took over the place, miss. I thought you could use the sleep.”

You moved closer to the stove, grabbing a spatula and helping him fold eggs and bacon onto the plates. Toby leaned lazily against the counter, munching slowly and grinning at you when your elbow brushed his side.

Tim flicked ash from his cigarette, voice low. “Too difficult to work in the rain, anyway.”

The four of you settled into a rhythm—Brian cooking, you helping, Toby snacking and joking half-heartedly, Tim leaning against the doorframe and occasionally muttering commentary.

And suddenly you realized—this was the first time you all had been in this room together since that night. No blood, no fear, no arguing.

Just you and your friends, like it always used to be.

── .✦

Over the next week, the manor slowly returned to a rhythm. The storm that had hammered the grounds the night of Toby’s injury faded into a persistent drizzle, washing the hedges and garden beds until everything glimmered wet and green. Inside, the grand hallways felt less like a gauntlet and more like a place to inhabit—sunlight spilling weakly through the tall windows, dust that hadn’t yet been disturbed catching the light like faint flecks of gold. The candlelight along the banisters still flickered each evening, but it no longer felt like a warning; it felt like home again.

You found yourself moving more freely through the rooms again. The once-imposing staircase was no longer a challenge to climb—you traced your hands along the smooth banisters, absorbing the scent of polished wood and old stone. The art on the walls that had made your chest tighten now drew your gaze with curiosity: portraits of stern-faced men and women, landscapes of places you’d never been, scenes of life that felt foreign but alive. Every artifact, every sculpture, told you your great-uncle had lived surrounded by beauty and darkness alike, and now it was yours to touch, to explore, not to be afraid of.

The boys stayed inside more often again, taking your insistence to rest to heart. Tim leaned in from time to time, joking about chores or your sunflowers, but there was an ease to him now that hadn’t been there before, a subtle gentleness behind the brashness. Brian, still meticulous, began lingering longer at breakfast, pouring coffee and pausing to talk quietly about something trivial yet meaningful—whether it was a sketch your uncle had made or the way the rain washed the garden. And Toby… Toby was different, too. He moved more slowly, more deliberately. His usual stutter softened around you, and the constant flirtatious jokes you had once been hyper-aware of seemed almost manageable now.

You noticed the little ways in which their presence permeated the manor. Tim’s laughter in the garden carried through the windows, bouncing faintly against the high ceilings. Brian’s careful footsteps across the hardwood floors sounded like a rhythm you could follow when the monsters outside were relentless. Toby’s deep exhalations as he chopped firewood in the yard seeped into the quiet of the house in the early morning. You had once flinched at every sound, every shadow, but now it was a kind of music, a background hum that you understood again.

It was becoming your home again. All of your home.

And yet… you were still aware. A sharp awareness that ran through your chest every time they touched you casually, every time you passed in the halls. You had kissed each of them. You had flirted, leaned into warmth you were not supposed to seek, and now every glance carried weight. When Toby leaned over to grab something from a high shelf, brushing his arm against yours, your pulse quickened. When Brian handed you a knife, the fingers brushing your palm lingered longer than necessary, and you felt the memory of his lips on your small wound rise unbidden. And Tim… his rough teasing, the way he caught your eye when you weren’t expecting it, made you remember the scrape of his glove across your cheek in the dirt.

It was complicated. Scary. And intoxicating.

So your interactions became deliberate. Not cautious in fear, but deliberate in curiosity and care. When you sat in the kitchen with Brian, chopping vegetables for lunch, you asked about the manor, about his work, about things he hadn’t shared before. He would pause mid-chop, eyes flicking to yours, and you knew the thread of connection was longer, thicker now—built not on naïve trust but on understanding.

With Tim, you lingered in the garden. You helped him pull weeds, planted seedlings, and let him talk while your hands were dirt-stained. He laughed easily now, teasing less sharply, letting you see glimpses of the boy beneath the brash exterior, the one who had stayed behind in the shadows when rakes approached, the one who cared in ways he wouldn’t admit outright.

And Toby… Toby became the hardest. He would sit in the lounge with you in the evenings, casual at first, feet on the table, joking and subtly scooting closer. But every time he laughed, every time he leaned in, your mind snapped briefly to memory: the last night in your bedroom, the whiskey, the fire, your lips meeting. Now, in the sober, quiet light of the manor, those memories were warm embers you couldn’t quite smother. And yet, you craved them, craved him, the others too, while knowing the danger and weight of it all.

Slowly, over the week, the manor ceased to feel suffocating. The once-haunted halls were filled with life: the sound of running water in the kitchen sink, the soft thump of Toby moving about, Brian humming under his breath as he sorted tools, Tim tossing a cigarette butt out into the ashtrays. You walked freely now, aware but not tense, learning each corner, each shadow, each familiar creak. Refamiliarizing yourself.

And you found yourself noticing them more than ever. The small scar along Toby’s shoulder. The faint line of a bruise on Brian’s forearm. The way Tim’s hands always gripped a little too hard on the handle of his shovel. Every detail told a story, a life full of danger and near misses, of survival. You felt protective, anxious, and drawn to them all at once, aware that you had feelings for each, that your heart and mind were tangled in a web you couldn’t yet disentangle.

Yet it was different now. You didn’t flinch when they entered a room. You didn’t hide in your bedroom. Your fear still lingered at the edges, yes, a quiet drumbeat under your pulse, but it had softened into concern, into longing, into attention and care that had substance.

The manor had changed. So had they. And slowly, tentatively, so had you.

But you still kept a secret from them. You still ran circles around them, flirted, and played house like you didn’t have secret turmoil internally. Like you didn’t feel heat in your chest for each of them. Like you didn’t stare at their hands, at their backs, at their faces—

They had told you their secrets, had laid their truth bare.

And with each lingering look, with each unspoken claim, you realized you were running out of excuses to hide yours any longer.

You weren’t sure what would eat you alive first: the rakes, or your need to have them all to yourself.

This was going to be hell.

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[rainrot4me]

You And Your Friends - Part 1

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

─────────────────────────────── i love you - fontaines d.c.

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: When your name appears in your late great-uncle’s will, you sell your house and move out to the Estate. A victorian manor, an endless garden, and too many candles to keep up with now belong to you—and so do the groundskeepers that come with it. But behind all the intricate furniture and shiny tile, you find that all things have secrets—even the handsome ones.

✦ . Characters: Tim Wright/Masky & Brian Thomas/Hoodie & Ticci Toby x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Lore/canon-adjacent, gardener!Tim, woodworker!Toby, maintenance!Brian, fear, stalking, romantic tension, love square (lol), eventual smut, weapons, blood, alcohol, drunk make outs, risky make outs, talks of grief and mourning

✦ . Words: 17.6k

✦ . Note: Finally! I had to cut this fic into two parts because the setup and story became way longer than intended, but trust, the smut in the next part will make up for all the reading. Very not canon, but also not an AU?? You’ll see, you’ll see. Anyway, thank you again Angie for the beautiful art, and I can’t wait to see what ya’ll think!

Art by @z0l0fft.

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Grief is a weird feeling to have about someone you barely even knew.

The forest had grown thicker the farther you drove. Roads narrowed. Trees leaned inward like sentinels, their black limbs threading above your car like rib bones. The GPS had lost signal over twenty minutes ago, replaced by static and silence—but it was clear where you needed to go. The road dwindled until it barely fit your car alone, then the asphalt turned to packed gravel and weed-ridden dips. Until eventually, it all cleared out.

When the gates came into view, you didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath.

Tall wrought iron—laced with crawling ivy and something white growing through the slats, maybe fungi—stood wide open as if expecting you. Past them, the long gravel drive curled like a spine through mist that sat heavy on the ground, never quite clearing. It clung to the trees, to the stones, to the windows of your car like breath on glass. A crow watched from a crooked wooden post as you passed, unmoving, eyes beady and coal-black.

And then the manor revealed itself—huge, victorian, timeless.

It loomed at the top of the hill, its grey stones slick with dew and age. Ivy bloomed like veins across the façade. Balconies with wrought-iron railings curved out like ribs. Candles—real, flickering candles—lit the windowpanes, casting warm amber light through the dusk. Even from the drive, you could see the tall banisters inside the grand entry. The flames along them shivered into being as you approached, one by one. Unlit—then lit. Unlit—then lit.

The house was alive—sort of. Motion sensors are the face of the future nowadays.

You still weren’t sure why he’d left it to you.

Your great-uncle on your mother’s side—a man you hadn’t seen since you were seven—had died quietly in his sleep three months ago. No funeral. No obituary. Just a letter from an estate lawyer in an envelope that looked like it had been typed on a typewriter and licked shut.

“The Estate now belongs to you, as dictated in the will. The property is in your name. Immediate possession granted upon arrival. All expenses pertaining to the upkeep, facilities, and maintenance of the Estate shall be covered by the remaining balance of the previous owner’s account, per his final wishes.”

That was it. No explanation. No fine print. Just a manor no one in the family had spoken about in decades, and a name barely remembered from a childhood photo album.

But something in you hadn’t questioned it. Not really. Not when you saw the photos. Not when you sold your old place in less than a month. Not when you packed your life into a car and followed the map into fog.

Who gets a chance like this, right?

You parked beneath the massive archway, engine sputtering as you shut it off. You stepped out, the cool air hitting your face like a whip, the smell of gravel and moisture heavy in the dense air. For a moment, there was only silence—so full and thick it almost rang. Then the soft crunch of gravel behind your car.

You turned quickly.

A tall man in a thick ochre jacket stood just beyond the back of the vehicle, his arms crossed, the black of his gloves matching the dark mess of his hair. He looked rough around the edges—broad-shouldered, with tired eyes and a permanent scowl carved into his scruffy face. He has dark facial hair and a scowl that could kill.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered, not unkindly—more matter-of-fact. “You drive like an old woman.”

“…Excuse me?”

He jerked his head toward the house, already walking past you. “Tim. I’m the groundskeeper. You’ll meet the others eventually. I told ‘em you’d be late. You are.”

Charming.

You rolled your eyes, but there was something oddly comforting about how blunt he was. No sugar-coating. No fake sympathy about the death of your great-uncle—whom you hadn’t seen since you were seven and barely remembered. Just blunt honesty and a noticeable scent of soil, herbs, and faint cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

You popped the trunk and started pulling your suitcases out, straining with the last one when another figure appeared from the fog near the left side of the manor.

This one was leaner, a little taller, wearing a layered brown hoodie with a tool belt slung diagonally across his torso. Shorter light brown hair, less facial hair, and a better demeanor. His face was tense too, but not nearly as much as Tim’s—just the face of a man who worked all day. There was something… still about him. Gentle, but unreadable. He came forward quietly, gave you a nod, and took your last suitcase without a word.

“Uh—thanks,” you said, a little startled.

He looked at you for a beat longer than most people would. Not creepy. Just… deliberate. Like he was learning your shape. “Brian,” he finally said, voice low and smooth. “I handle the house, miss.”

And then, just as quiet as he’d arrived, he turned and headed up the wide stone stairs, suitcase in hand like it weighed nothing. His boots made no sound. Tim took a larger duffle bag in your hand, and made his way inside too.

Okay then.

You followed after them, feet echoing slightly on the stone. The doors were already open—enormous double slabs of oak carved with swirls and vines, polished but ancient. The inside of the manor was even more beautiful than you’d imagined.

It was like stepping into another century.

Marble floors half-covered in velvet rugs. Staircases that twisted up to balconies you couldn’t yet see. A chandelier that glittered like it was dripping crystals. Paintings of people you didn’t recognize lined the walls—eyes too lifelike, almost following you. And everywhere: those damn candles. Lit. Flickering, soft, and low like breath on skin.

“N-Nice, huh?”

A new voice behind you—lighter, raspier, but playful.

You turned to see a man standing in the wide hallway with a hatchet strapped to his belt and sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had on a flannel jacket over a hoodie, one side of his mouth pulled into a sharp grin. His eyes were bright and wild behind shaggy brown hair and orange safety goggles, and his head tilted just slightly when he looked you over. A large medical patch was taped over his left cheek, obviously covering some injury underneath. Height wise, he was in-between the two others, but was more muscular if the veins in his forearms had anything to say about it.

“You’re smaller than I th-thought you’d be,” he added, then stuck out his hand, bandages and tape covering most of his digits. “Toby, ma’am. I’m the one that makes shh-sure the place doesn’t get eaten by the fo-forest.”

He seemed to have a stutter, accompanied by the occasional jerk of his neck or pulse of his arm, but you ignored it. You took his hand, firm grip. “Nice to meet you.”

He snorted. “You say that now.”

“…What?”

“J-Joking.” He winked. “Mostly.”

Tim passed behind him with your second bag, muttering, “Don’t scare the damn girl yet, boy.”

“I’m not scared,” you said flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder.

Brian, who had disappeared around the corner, reappeared beside the bannister. “We’ve got your room ready. East wing. End of the hall. It’s the only one with a red door. You’ll find it.”

That last part sent a chill down your spine. “…Find it?”

His head tilted. “You’ll see.”

And then, without another word, he turned and vanished up the stairs. You stood in the grand hall for a moment—your bags by your feet, your heart a low thrum behind your ribs—as the fog outside thickened against the windows like steam.

The manor wasn’t crumbling. It wasn’t rotting. It wasn't disgusting and falling apart like you predicted it would be. It was thrumming with life, with energy. Evidently, these men had taken care of it in your great-uncle’s wake. 

It made the unease in your stomach dwindle—if only a little.

By the time Tim sauntered back down the steps, slightly out of breath, you decided it was time to settle in.

The grand staircase curved like a serpent’s spine, the banister warm beneath your palm as you ascended. Brian had said east wing, end of the hall, red door—but you hadn’t expected the house to feel like a cathedral inside a labyrinth. Every turn led into a new corridor. Every wall held art that didn’t look hung, but placed with purpose.

Your footsteps echoed as you walked. The silence swallowed them just as fast.

Candles flared to life as you passed—always just ahead, as if the house anticipated you. The flame never flickered when you got close. It simply burned steady, golden and watching.

You passed tall windows with thick velvet curtains, some drawn closed despite the dusk. The ones left open showed nothing beyond the glass but fog. No trees. No horizon. Just the endless, soft swirl of grey.

The walls were paneled in dark wood, inlaid with carvings of ivy and thorns, suns and moons, spirals and strange, knotted symbols you didn’t recognize. Beneath your boots, the floor shifted from rug to tile to smooth, gleaming wood again.

Then there were the paintings.

One hall was lined with portraits of people in archaic clothing—Victorian corsets, fur-lined coats, high collars and hollow eyes. The longer you looked at them, the more it felt like they weren’t portraits at all. Like they’d been preserved.

A woman in crimson lace. A boy holding a raven. A man with a scar beneath one blind eye. None of them smiled. All of them stone and stern. They looked like pieces you’d find in a haunted house.

You swallowed hard and kept walking, turning what felt like your third corner when you saw it: a tall, narrow door painted a dark oxblood red. The only color in the whole corridor wasn’t mahogany or black.

Brian had said the door would be red. You gripped the handle. It was iron—cool, almost damp. You pushed.

The room beyond was enormous.

Your shoes sank into an old but pristine rug patterned with intricate swirls and designs. The walls were a smoky, soft green, the ceilings high with beams that stretched like arms above your head. A chandelier hung here, too—smaller than the one in the entry, but full of dusty crystals that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the room in warm, golden webs.

There was a canopy bed, dark wood and velvet drapes, tall as you and made up with sheets that looked untouched. A writing desk sat in front of a window, and beside it, a small table cluttered with books. The spines were cracked and hand-bound. Some of them had no titles at all.

And everything—everything—looked too valuable to belong to someone like you.

You set your bag on the bed and stared for a second.

This was yours now.

All of it. The velvet. The crystals. The creaking floorboards and carved lintels and echoing halls.

It felt impossible.

And yet… right.

You opened your suitcase, started unpacking—folding clothes into drawers that looked untouched for decades, placing a few familiar things on the desk: a small photo frame, a worn notebook, the brass key your great-uncle’s lawyer had mailed you with the deed. The only thing in the envelope aside from that eerie letter.

For a moment, as you placed the key down, the candle beside it flared—not wildly, but like it had sighed. There really wasn’t any electrical lighting in the building from what you could see, so even now, the candles swirled and shifted the shadows around the thing.

You stared at it.

Your manor. Your estate. Your workmen taking care of it.

You smiled.

── .✦

You nearly got lost on your way back down—nearly—but you found your way.

The door at the back of the manor opened with a groan—deep and deliberate, like it hadn’t been used in years, yet still expected to swing open for you. A chill crept in through the frame, damp and heavy with mist, and you stepped out into the fog like crossing into a dream.

The air smelled like moss and wet stone. Somewhere, a wind chime rang softly, even though the air was still.

The backyard, if you could even call it that, unfurled in soft, uneven layers—stone paths winding through hedges and overgrown rose bushes, patches of ivy crawling over marble statues half-swallowed by time. The fog was thinner here, but still present, blanketing everything in that same quiet veil. It didn’t obscure so much as… blur.

You followed a winding path with grass growing between the stones, passing under an old iron arch where climbing roses had once bloomed. Now only a few deep crimson buds clung to the vines like drops of blood.

And then the garden opened wide. It was vast. Wild.

Bushes trimmed into winding mazes. Tiered flower beds that had long since spilled into one another. Tall wrought-iron trellises swallowed by tangled vines. A dry fountain with a statue of a weeping angel at its center, moss growing at her feet.

It looked like someone had manifested the pages of The Secret Garden right before your eyes—untamed but alive. Like it was waiting for someone to bring it back.

You smiled to yourself and wandered deeper.

Farther down the slope of the property, just beyond the edge of the garden, you spotted them—old horse stables, sunken slightly into the earth, their wooden frames dark with age but not ruin. You imagined them alive again: the soft sound of hooves on hay, the glow of lanterns, the scent of saddle oil and cedar shavings. You’d never owned a horse in your life, but the fantasy settled in your chest like a childhood wish remembered.

Maybe someday.

And then you noticed the lights.

Not in the manor—but past the stables, nestled beneath the trees. Three small homes. One with string lights blinking dimly around the porch. One with smoke curling from a chimney. One with an open window and the distant flicker of a lamp.

Tim. Brian. Toby.

Each of them lived just far enough to be separate, but close enough that the house was still central. Like planets orbiting the same haunted sun.

You watched the lights flicker for a few seconds before the cold began to settle into your arms. Evening had started its slow descent. The sun would vanish behind the trees soon, and you hadn’t eaten since morning.

You turned back toward the manor.

The kitchen, as you found it, was toward the back—through a side hall lit with lower, warmer candles and lined with faded cookbooks and hanging bundles of dried herbs. The door was thick and swinging, and it opened to reveal a space that looked untouched by time but somehow still in use.

It was enormous—long wooden counters, copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack, a cast-iron stove the size of a small car tucked into the far corner. The stone walls were smooth and soot-darkened, the floor a patchwork of cool brick. There was a wide sink with a spout shaped like a lion’s head, and an old-fashioned icebox humming softly in the corner like it shouldn’t even still work.

A long wooden table sat near the center, clearly used more for prep than dining. A thick butcher’s block was stained with time and something darker. But it was warm. Comforting, even. Like this place had fed generations.

You moved slowly through it, your fingers trailing across aged surfaces, and opened one of the cabinets to find a neat row of mismatched mugs and stoneware dishes. Another held jars labeled in someone’s looping script—dried lavender, thyme, dried lemon peel, powdered bone—

You closed that one quickly.

Your stomach gave a soft growl, and you leaned back against the counter with a slow exhale, still adjusting to the fact that this was yours. All of it.

Even the strange parts.

Especially the strange parts.

You rummaged until you found a pantry hidden behind an old cabinet door, stacked with dried goods and preserved jars. Salted meats wrapped in wax paper, bundles of dried root vegetables, and jars of cloudy olive oil lined the shelves beside sealed tins of flour and herbs.

You found a small iron pan, lit the stove with one of the long matches in the ceramic jar, and started cooking—nothing fancy. Just some chopped root veg in oil, crisped alongside strips of cured venison. The smell was rich and earthy, grounding. By the time you slid everything onto a plate and sat at the long wooden prep table, the sun had fully dipped behind the trees. The fog outside pressed thicker against the windows. The only sign of life being those three little lights in the distance.

You’d just taken your second bite when the kitchen door swung open with a loud creak and a gust of cold air.

You jumped, nearly dropping your fork. “Woah—”

There in the doorway stood Toby, orange goggles pressed up into his curly hair, boots muddy, cheeks flushed from the cold. He carried a huge bundle of chopped wood in his arms, his sleeves dusted in bark shavings and tiny splinters. He didn’t even notice you until he looked up.

“Oh—s-sorry,” he said, voice scratchy with fatigue. He stepped carefully around your chair. “Didn’t m-mean to freak you out. D-Doors around here—never shut r-right.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, setting your fork down. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone. What’s the wood for?”

“You haven’t seen?” He shifted the bundle in his arms, nudging it higher against his chest. “For the f-fireplace. Main one. B-Brian says if we d-don’t keep it lit, the d-damp creeps in too fast. Makes th-the whole place… w-weird.”

You raised a brow. “Weirder than it already is?”

That earned a low laugh from him—half-muffled, like he didn’t quite mean to let it out. “C-Come on. I’ll show you.”

Abandoning your plate, you followed him through the side hall, past narrow windows and walls lined with dusty trimmings, until you reached a massive arched doorway you hadn’t noticed earlier. Toby shifted the firewood to one arm and pushed it open with his shoulder.

What lay beyond nearly took your breath away.

The living room—if you could even call it that—was huge. The ceiling stretched two stories up, supported by beams carved with twisting flowers and vines. Velvet armchairs and an enormous, half-moon couch faced the grand fireplace—a gothic structure carved into the far wall, its stone mantle etched with wolves and trees and a crescent moon overhead. It looked big enough to walk into.

“This used to be the h-heart of the house,” Toby said, dropping the firewood into a copper bin beside the hearth. “B-Brian says it was the first room built, like… b-before the rest of it. S-So, uh. It d-doesn’t like being empty.”

You watched as he crouched near the hearth and began arranging kindling with practiced ease. He struck a match and lit the fire slowly, methodically—like a ritual.

“So, are you guys all… like… hired workers? Or did you know my uncle?”

Toby paused as he fed in a piece of bark, letting the flames catch. “W-We’ve b-been here a long time,” he said slowly, without looking back at you. “Not hired. Not really. M-More like… we s-stay. Keep the place g-going. Make sure it d-doesn’t fall in on itself. We knew your uncle, though. He was a go-good guy.”

“That sounds… ominous.”

Toby snorted and tossed in a larger log. The fire flared golden, shadows dancing up the walls.

“It’s not so b-bad. Beats working in town.” He stood and dusted off his hands. “Less p-people. More ghosts.”

You gave him a look, trying to decide if he was joking.

“I—uh, I’m k-k-kinda kidding,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean. S-Sort of.”

A soft silence settled between you. The fire cracked and popped, filling the room with heat and flickering light. The velvet cushions looked more inviting now, less like relics and more like they belonged to someone real.

“So, uh…” Toby glanced at you, then away. “Y-You like it here? Or is it all t-too… creepy?”

You sat on the edge of the couch, curling your hands in your lap. “I think… it’s weird. But beautiful. And a little overwhelming. I’ve never had this much space. Or… history. Or silence. I used to live in town before this.”

He nodded, shuffling his boot across the rug. “It’s a lot. Y-You’ll get used to it. The h-house’s kinda like a dog. If you d-don’t freak out, it won’t either.”

That made you laugh quietly. “So I just have to let it sniff me and offer it a treat?”

Toby grinned. “E-Exactly.”

You both sat for a moment in the warm, flickering quiet. It was still awkward—but nice. Like two people orbiting the same strange world, slowly working up the courage to say more.

“Thanks for the fire,” you said softly.

He shrugged, eyes still on the flames. “Yeah. Any t-time.”

── .✦

The next morning, the sun filtered through the tall windows in slanted beams, catching the dust in the air like floating gold. For the first time since arriving, you could see the full shape of the manor’s interior in daylight—and now, it felt less like a haunted fairytale and more like a massive, elegant mess.

So, naturally… you grabbed a broom.

It started small. One corner. One rug. But by midday you had swept the grand hall, dusted two of the massive stair banisters, wiped cobwebs from the corners of three corridors, and even mopped the kitchen’s stone floor—nearly breaking your back with the old wooden mop you found hanging in the pantry like a forgotten relic. The house didn’t resist it, either. In fact, it almost felt like it appreciated the attention.

When you finally stopped for a break, your face was flushed and your arms ached.

You rolled your sleeves up, dug out a few actual lemons you’d found in a ceramic bowl in the pantry—clearly fresh—and squeezed them into an old pitcher you’d washed clean. The sugar was slightly clumped, the mint was just a little wilted, but the icebox had cubes in its tray, and somehow, miraculously, the lemonade turned out perfect.

You sipped once. Then twice. Cold. Tart. Sweet.

You stared at the glass. “…How the hell are these lemons fresh?”

And then the thought hit you. Tim. Maybe the boys would want some.

You weren’t sure what their dynamic was with one another—roommates? coworkers? allied cult members?—but there was something grounding about them. Like each had a place here and welcomed you smoothly. And after Toby’s kindness the night before, it felt right to offer.

You made your way out the back again, pitcher in one hand, two mismatched glasses in the other, and followed the path toward the garden. The fog was lighter in the daylight, but still hung low like a lazy ghost on the lawn. The breeze smelled of basil, wet stone, and rosemary.

You found Tim kneeling in the main garden bed.

His jacket was slung over the fence post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands deep in the earth as he repotted a thick clump of herbs beside a basket already filled with tomatoes, squash, and—yep—lemons.

So that’s where they came from.

You approached slowly. “Hey.”

He didn’t look up at first, just kept working the soil between his fingers. “You clean the whole damn house or just beat it into submission?”

You blinked, then laughed. “Both.”

That made him glance up, dark eyes narrowing slightly against the sun. His face was ruddy from the heat, jaw dusted with stubble, hair mussed from sweat and wind. Despite his constant scowl, there was something steady about him. Like a wall you weren’t meant to get past—but if you did, you might find something behind it.

“I made lemonade,” you offered, lifting the pitcher a little. “From your lemons, apparently.”

He grunted and wiped his gloves on his jeans. “Guess you didn’t poison it. I’ll bite.”

You poured him a glass and handed it over. He took it, sipped once—and let out a very small, very faint huff of satisfaction. “…It’s good,” he admitted. “Better than the crap Toby tries to make.”

“Oh? What’s his specialty?”

“Filling the pitcher halfway with sugar.”

You laughed again, and Tim smirked into his glass. He leaned against the garden fence and nodded toward the manor.

“So. You settlin’ in?”

“I think so,” you said, looking back at the looming silhouette of the estate. “Still feels like a dream. Or maybe a hallucination. One with antique rugs and self-lighting candles.”

Tim tilted his head, expression unreadable. “You don’t remember it? From when you were a kid?”

You shook your head. “Not really. My great-uncle didn’t visit often. The few memories I do have feel… blurry. I definitely don’t remember it being this big”

He looked back at the soil, swirling the lemonade in his glass. “House has a way of messing with memory. Not on purpose, just… that’s what time does here. Gets soft around the edges.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched him press a few leaves flat against his palm and sniff them, as if checking their oil. His movements were efficient, practiced. You realized then—he didn’t just tend the garden. He knew it.

“So all the herbs and things in the kitchen are from you?” you asked, curious.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “If we don’t have the soil to grow it here, I make runs to town and restock on the weekends. Brian rigged up the cellar to keep things fresh longer. I grow it, he preserves it. Toby tries not to eat it raw.”

You giggled, and he looked vaguely amused at that. “I appreciate it,” you said sincerely. “The food, the garden, everything. It makes this place feel less… haunted.”

Tim raised a brow. “Don’t worry. You haven’t seen haunted yet.”

The way he said it—casual, with a smirk—made you shiver just slightly. He downed the rest of his lemonade and handed you the glass. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, already moving back to his plot. “And for cleaning. House hasn’t looked that awake in years.”

You blinked. “Awake?”

He crouched again in the dirt. “Yeah. You’ll see.”

── .✦

You wandered farther beyond the garden, past the sun-dappled hedges and the old stables, where the sound of rhythmic chop… chop… chop echoed between the trees. The scent of pine and cedar lingered in the warm air, carried on a breeze that whispered through the taller grass near the edge of the property.

There—beneath a crooked elm tree, stood Toby.

A heap of split logs lay stacked at his feet, the head of his axe buried in the next round of wood. He stood with his back toward you, moving with casual precision. Swing. Split. Breathe. Repeat.

He’d shed his jacket and hoodie, leaving only a pair of low-slung work jeans held by a belt and scuffed boots. His torso was lean but corded with muscle—not bulky, but built like someone who worked. Real work. Outdoor, constant, unforgiving work. His skin was pale beneath the sun but marked with the story of old violence: scars, some deep and thick, others more chaotic—slashing, jagged. A faded bruise bloomed low on one side of his ribs, yellowed at the edges like it had been there for weeks.

Were those from chopping wood? Or maybe losing a grip on his axe once in a while.

You swallowed, caught somewhere between curiosity and concern. “Hey,” you called gently, lifting the pitcher. “Brought you something.”

He turned, surprised—but only for a second. His orange safety goggles were high on the bridge of his nose, but he pushed them up into the mess of his hair and out of the way. A grin spread across his face as he wiped his hands on his pants and crossed the grass toward you.

“You’re just makin’ the r-rounds today, huh, ma’am?” he said, his voice lighter than yesterday. “Let me guess. B-Bribing the help?”

“I prefer the term being friendly.” You handed him a glass. “It’s lemonade. Your friend Tim said you have a habit of eating things raw, so I figured this was safer.”

Toby barked out a laugh. “Fair.”

He took the glass and tipped it back without hesitation, drinking deep. A small sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a growl of satisfaction.

“Holy s-shit, that’s good.”

You smiled. “You’ve been out here a while?”

“Mmhm.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Couple hours, g-give or take. Need to s-stock up before sunset. Fires keep the ro-rooms warm, and Brian gets pissy when the h-hearth runs cold.”

Your eyes lingered a little too long on the lines of his shoulders, the thin sheen of dirt across his forearms, the livid scarring at the base of his throat. It wasn’t just that he was shirtless—it was the contrast. The way he looked so at home out here, in the open air, alone with the work and the trees and the sound of his own breath.

“You’re not sweating,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve been chopping wood in full sun and there’s nothing. You’re completely dry.”

Toby shrugged one shoulder, his smile still crooked but looser now. “Ah. Y-Yeah. I don’t really… d-do that.”

You blinked. “Don’t do what? Sweat?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the trees. “Got this we-weird thing. Got a lotta weird things, a-actually. Basically means I don’t feel pain, and my b-body doesn’t know how to cool itself. S-Sweating’s for fancy people with functioning nerves.”

“Oh,” you said softly, surprised by his bluntness. “Does it bother you?”

He shrugged again. “Not really. Gets dangerous sometimes. Gotta be careful not to o-overheat, but I grew up with it. You l-learn.”

There was something in the way he said it—matter-of-fact, no self-pity. Like this was just another fact of his body, same as height or eye color. You respected that.

“Well, I think you’re officially the most interesting groundskeeper I’ve ever met,” you said lightly, sipping from your own glass.

He smirked. “What, y-you meet a lotta g-gr-groundskeepers in your spare time?”

You raised a brow. “Recently, yeah.”

That pulled another laugh from him, softer this time. He stepped back to his chopping block, gripping the axe again but not lifting it yet. “You h-headin’ back in soon?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d find Brian before lunch.”

Toby gave you a look—still playful, but more pointed. “He’ll probably be d-down in the basement. Or the attic. Or inside the w-walls, depending on his mood.”

You smiled. “Duly noted.”

“See you t-tonight?”

The question hung in the air a little longer than it needed to.

You nodded. “See you tonight.”

Toby tilted his head, grin widening, then brought the axe down with a solid crack that echoed through the clearing as you turned and started back toward the manor.

── .✦

Back inside the manor, the temperature shifted again—cooler near the baseboards, warmer near the windows. You set the empty lemonade glasses in the sink, then wandered deeper through the halls, listening for any sound of life.

But the house had gone still again.

Brian hadn’t been in the kitchen. Or the study. Or any of the main rooms you’d passed on your first night. You called his name once—softly—but the silence felt too thick for your voice to carry. Like the house was holding its breath.

You were halfway up the second staircase when you noticed the attic door was cracked open. Faint scraping sounds drifted down from above. Metal against wood. A low, intermittent hum. You crept upward, hand brushing the railing, and carefully pushed open the door at the top.

The attic stretched wide—long beams crisscrossed beneath the sloped ceiling, and narrow windows filtered in beams of afternoon light muted by fog. Dust motes danced in the air, and the scent of old cedar and metal filled your lungs.

Near the far wall, surrounded by tangled cords and open toolboxes, was Brian.

He was crouched with his back half to you, one gloved hand propping his weight, holding a flashlight between his teeth, and the other arm elbow-deep in a fuse box he’d clearly carved into the paneling himself. Wires looped over his shoulders, slung like bandoliers across his chest. A bundle of bulbs and a roll of copper wiring sat nearby, along with an ancient notebook opened to a sketched schematic of the manor.

You stepped into the room. “Wow. This is… intense.”

He paused, flashlight still clenched in his mouth. Then, without turning around, he pulled it free and said simply, “Didn’t hear you come up, miss.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

He sat back on his heels, then finally looked over his shoulder. A black balaclava covered his face, pushed up above his nose—but even from here, you could tell he was flushed and dusty, a smudge of soot on his jaw. He dusted off his hands on his thighs and pulled the balaclava up over his eyes—clean-shaven, pale, and faintly freckled, though dust clung to the edge of his lip like he’d been breathing in drywall for hours. His face was flushed from the heat of the attic, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You looked at him sideways. “You always wear that thing while you work?”

“Helps with insulation dust,” he said simply, tugging off one glove with his teeth. “And anonymity. Never know when you might need to do something suspicious.”

You stepped closer, eyeing the schematic. “So, you’re installing power? I thought this place ran on candlelight and ten-thousand windows.”

Brian gave a quiet huff—his version of a laugh. “Most of it does. But some rooms don’t hold flame well. Too damp, too old. Wiring’s a mess—wood’s not standard, walls shift more than you’d think. Takes work to keep it functional. Trying to at least get wiring set up.

You noticed the marks on his hands as he peeled off his second glove—faint burns, small healed cuts, calluses thick across his palms. This wasn’t a hobby. This was his life.

You took a few steps closer, careful not to trip on the wires, and held out the last glass of lemonade you’d saved. “I’ve been passing these out like a traveling salesman. You’re my final stop.”

He accepted the glass without hesitation, fingertips brushing yours briefly. “I knew I smelt something good in the kitchen earlier.”

He drank slowly, savoring it. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, the soft sigh of contentment that followed.

“And you do this all yourself?”

“No one else wants to. Toby’s a hazard with anything that sparks, and Tim gets bored and walks off halfway through. So it’s me.”

You watched him reconnect a copper strand and twist it into place, working with efficient silence. “Do you like it?” you asked after a moment.

He glanced up. “The house?”

You nodded.

Brian leaned back slightly, resting one hand on his knee. His eyes were unreadable—grey, but storm-dark, thoughtful. He looked past you for a moment, toward the narrow attic windows where the fog curled thick around the edges of the glass. “…It’s alive,” he said finally. “Not in the fairy tale way. More like a forest. Or an animal. Old. Temperamental. But loyal.”

You let that settle, then smiled. “You sound like Toby talking about the fireplace.”

Brian smirked faintly, then stood—slow and fluid, brushing dust from his thighs as he did. “So you’ve been making the rounds,” he said. “Cleaning, lemonade, talking to the help.”

“I’m trying to settle in. Or make friends. Or at least figure out what kind of weird energy field I walked into.”

He tilted his head. “How’s that going?”

You gave a half-smile. “It’s all weird. But… nice. You and your friends are kind.”

He considered that for a moment, then pulled the balaclava back down over the lower half of his face, just as casually as one might tuck away a strand of hair. “It’s lunch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been at it since morning. So has everyone else. We usually raid the pantry for lunch, but it’s been a bit since we’ve had an actual person living here. Still putting my bets that Toby is in the kitchen, though. Come on, miss.” He turned toward the attic door, already descending without looking back.

You stared after him, eyebrows lifted, then followed, suddenly aware of how hungry you really were.

── .✦

The kitchen door creaked open as you and Brian stepped inside, the familiar scent of lemon peel and old stone greeting you like an old coat. The light had shifted—afternoon now, golden and slanting through the small windows, catching dust motes dancing lazily in the air.

You sat the now-empty pitcher into the deep sink, finding that two empty cups were also there.

Toby was already at the prep table, chewing on something that looked suspiciously like a raw root vegetable. He blinked at the both of you, eyes bright behind his shaggy hair.

“I d-didn’t wanna wait,” he said around the bite. “W-Wasn’t sure if anyone was actually comin’ to feed me.”

“That’s a turnip,” Brian said flatly, dropping his toolbox near the door. “You’re not a rabbit.”

Tim followed a second later, stepping in through the back with dirt still on his hands and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “It’s better than that jerky he found in the cellar. Looked like it was from the civil war.”

You set your hands on your hips. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll cook something.”

That made all three of them pause. Brian raised an eyebrow. Toby tilted his head like a curious dog. Tim blinked, as if processing the idea of being cooked for was not something that happened often around here.

“I mean. If you’re okay with that?” you added, unsure. “Just something simple.”

Brian, mercifully, nodded. “That sounds good.”

Tim grunted and lit his cigarette, exhaling through his nose like a dragon. “Long as it’s not raw.”

You laughed, rolled up your sleeves, and made your way to the pantry. The garden haul was still fresh on the counter—squash, some greens, and a bundle of tomatoes. There were eggs in the icebox, too. A cast-iron skillet and a few minutes later, something vaguely resembling a vegetable hash with fried eggs was sizzling on the stove.

The boys stayed seated while you cooked, lounging like tired lions around the kitchen table. Tim smoked slowly and passed the cigarette over to Brian, who took a pull and said nothing as the smoke curled around his jaw. Toby kicked his boots up on the bench and tapped the side of his glass of water with a rhythm that might’ve been a song if it weren’t so off-beat.

“So,” Tim said, looking at you as he handed the cigarette across the table to Toby. “You still freaked out?”

You flipped something in the pan. “Define freaked out.”

“New house. Dead relative. Haunted furniture.”

You snorted. “I think I’m still waiting for it to hit me. My great-uncle was basically a ghost in my memory. Nice enough guy when I met him as a kid, but I didn’t know him. Just stories and whispers from family reunions.”

“You ever visit the manor back then?” Brian asked, voice soft.

You shook your head. “No. I think my mom didn’t want us here. Something about it spooked her, but she never said much. He sent me letters once or twice when I was little—super formal, written like he was from another time.”

“Sounds like him,” Tim muttered.

“I didn’t expect to be left all this,” you said, more quietly now. “It doesn’t feel real. Like I’m house-sitting for someone who’s just… gone forever.”

The kitchen settled for a moment—just the sizzle of the skillet, the soft knock of Toby setting his boots back on the floor.

“He must’ve l-liked you,” Toby offered after a second. “People don’t leave big fancy m-manor houses to folks they hate.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Maybe. Or maybe the house picked me.”

Tim grunted. “Wouldn’t put it past it.”

You plated the food and set it down in front of them, one after the other. It wasn’t much—just hot, real food—but the way they looked at it, you would’ve thought you’d handed them steak and gold.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing your own plate and sliding into a seat. “As long as you guys keep this place from falling apart, meals are on me.”

Toby immediately dug in with no hesitation. “Marry me,” he mumbled through a mouthful of squash.

Brian chuckled, quiet and low, and Tim actually gave a gruff, “Not bad.”

The four of you ate in warm silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of fork against plate or soft exhale from one of them. There was something peaceful about it—something unspoken and good. You didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Not really.

Just… someone sitting at a worn wooden table with three men who belonged to a house that might’ve just decided to keep you, too.

── .✦

Later that night, the manor had settled into its usual hush—the kind that pressed into your ears and made even your own heartbeat sound too loud.

You padded barefoot through the parlor in your sleep shirt, arms folded loosely as you stepped into the familiar glow of the main hearth. Toby was already there, kneeling in front of the massive fireplace, stacking wood with one hand and shielding the sparks from catching his hoodie with the other.

He glanced over his shoulder as you entered, his hair falling into his face and eyes flickering in the firelight.

“W-Wasn’t sure if you’d be up, ma’am,” he said, reaching for the iron poker. “But I figured you’d wanna w-wake up warm.”

You offered him a small smile, arms hugging your sides. “I appreciate that.”

Toby gave a short nod, pushing one last log into place and prodding the fire until it flared and caught fully. The light bloomed across the room, casting shadows behind every antique and over every tapestry like they were breathing.

You hesitated before speaking again. “Is this all you do? All day, every day?”

“Mhm. Nothing m-much else to do.”

That made your brow knit slightly, but before you could talk further, Toby stood up and brushed ash from his palms onto his jeans.

“I’ll l-leave you to it,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the stairs. “Don’t stay up too l-late.”

And just like that, he was gone—boots creaking faintly down the east corridor as the fire cracked behind you.

You lingered for a moment, watching the flames twist, before taking a deep breath and heading for the stairs. The candles along the banisters were already lit, flickering gently in their iron sconces. You didn’t remember lighting them.

The house felt different tonight.

Still, you made your way up the stairs, letting your hand trail the smooth wood of the railing, eyes flicking from room to room as you passed. The air had cooled. The quiet was too quiet.

And that feeling—that skittish, crawling feeling—had started just halfway up the second floor.

The sensation of being watched. Not from a doorway. Not from the windows. From behind.

You paused on the landing, turning sharply, expecting to see someone—or something—lurking just out of view. Nothing. Just the usual dim hallway behind you, cluttered with towering paintings and narrow furniture too old to move without it groaning.

You swallowed and walked faster, arms crossed now, fingers clenched.

Your door was an even deeper red during the night. You reached it quickly, opened it quicker, and stepped inside.

But the feeling followed.

You shut the door. Locked it. Turned slowly, eyes scanning the room. You checked behind the wardrobe. The curtains. Even peeked under your bed with a half-nervous laugh.

There was nothing there.

But your skin prickled. The air had shifted. The warmth from the hearth hadn’t followed you up here. And the candlelight didn’t seem to push back the dark in quite the same way. You crossed the room and stood in front of the large arched window, pulling the heavy curtain aside to let the cool air in through the old glass.

The garden stretched wide below you, cloaked in fog, silvered in moonlight.

At first, there was nothing.

And then—movement. A low, fast shape darting between the edge of the hedges and the tree line. It skittered unnaturally, fast and hunched, limbs too long, too bent. Animal-like, but not quite right. Not quite animal.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat.

Gone.

Just like that—whatever it was had vanished into the mist, leaving only the rippling hush of the trees and the slow churn of fog behind it.

You stood at the window long after it disappeared, heart beating too loud, hand still clutched around the curtain.

This place was beautiful.

But beautiful things always have ugly secrets.

── .✦

The days began to blur, in that soft, timeless way that only came with old places and new beginnings.

Each morning started the same: the manor bathed in cold light, the fog peeling back just enough to make out the treetops from your window. The air always smelled like moss and stone and smoke from last night’s fire.

You’d wake, dress, and wander through the halls with a hand grazing the banister, slowly learning the rhythm of the house. You knew now that the second door on the left in the east wing led to a linen closet that always creaked when you opened it. That the library had a slant in the floor that pulled your steps just slightly downhill. That the attic moaned louder on rainy days.

And—most importantly—that the back kitchen always got the best light come late morning.

You cooked there more often now. It had become a kind of ritual. Every day around noon, you’d gather what you could from the pantry or the garden haul left near the sink, and make something simple but warm. Always enough for four. Toby started showing up early, tracking dirt and twigs through the hall. Tim came in with his sleeves rolled and arms flecked in soil. Brian, reliably, walked in last—quiet, steady, with his tool belt slung low and a smudge of dust near his jaw.

You talked over meals now. Little things.

Toby cracked dumb jokes and asked you about your favorite horror movies. Tim corrected your technique when chopping herbs but grunted approvingly when the food came out good anyway. Brian listened more than he spoke, but when he did, he always made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

And it was good. Better than good. It felt normal in a place that refused to be.

But when the sun went down… that’s when the house changed.

You told yourself it was the shadows. The candlelight. The wind through the rafters. You didn’t want to be dramatic. But the sense of being watched hadn’t gone away—it had only grown. Like something just outside the light was waiting for you to pass by. Some nights you couldn’t shake the thought that the house itself was testing you. Watching how you moved. What you touched.

And then came the window.

It had been four or five days since you arrived. You’d just finished washing the dishes from dinner and had said goodnight to Toby at the fireplace. The manor was dark now, lit only by flickering wall sconces and the low burn of the fire still dying in the main room. You were halfway up the staircase, your hand brushing the banister, eyes on your feet so you didn’t trip—

SLAM.

Something hit your window. Hard. Glass rattled. Wood groaned. Your heart nearly tore out of your chest.

You stopped cold on the stairs, breath caught in your throat. Your room was on the second floor. Nothing should’ve been able to hit your window. A bird, maybe. But what would a bird be doing flying around at this time of night?

You waited. Listening. Chest heaving. But there was no follow-up. No footsteps. No scraping. Just the fire crackling below, and your own blood thudding behind your ears.

You didn’t go to your room right away. You waited, perched halfway up the stairs with your back to the wall like it would protect you. You watched the hallway. Watched the ceiling. Watched the window across the corridor in case something tried again.

Eventually, you climbed the rest of the stairs and locked your door. You didn’t even peek outside. Not this time.

You slept with the candles lit and the covers pulled up tight.

And in the morning, when the sun finally reached your windows and the world felt solid again…

You knew you had to tell someone.

── .✦

You stood beside Brian at the window, arms folded tight across your chest as the early morning light filtered through the glass. The fog hadn’t burned off yet. It never did this early. The world outside still looked bleached and still, like it was holding its breath.

Brian thumbed the latch and pushed the window open with a soft groan of old hinges. The cool air rolled in, sharp with pine and wet earth. He leaned halfway out, peering around the frame, his gloved fingers dragging carefully over the wood.

“No cracks,” he muttered, inspecting the pane from the inside now. “Seal’s still good. No warping. If something hit it, it didn’t leave a mark.”

“I know something hit it.” You didn’t mean to sound so insistent, but the memory of it—the sound of it—was still buzzing under your skin. “It wasn’t a branch or some little bird. It hit like a body.”

Brian glanced at you, eyes stern and inspecting, his balaclava pushed up above his forehead. “A bat, maybe,” he offered gently. “Sometimes they clip the glass on a dive.”

You shook your head. “No. Too heavy. I heard the weight in it.”

He studied you for a moment, expression unreadable.

The manor groaned above your heads, one of its long, slow creaks that had no clear source. The sound felt like a sigh in the bones of the house.

Brian turned fully to you, closing the window with a soft click. “This place… it’s old,” he said finally. “Built with too many corners and not enough insulation. It creaks, and talks, and stretches. Gets inside your head if you let it, miss.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked back at the glass, as if something might still be out there, watching from the fog.

Brian stepped a little closer, tilting his head to your eye level, lowering his voice. “But just in case,” he said, “I’ll do a sweep.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “A sweep?” you repeated.

He nodded once. “Top to bottom. Every locked door, every loose board. I’ll even check the cellar if that makes you feel better.”

You exhaled slowly. The knot in your stomach didn’t unravel, but it loosened enough to let you breathe. “Thanks, Brian,” you said, voice soft. “I know it sounds crazy, but… I just need to know it’s only me in here.”

Brian looked at you for a beat longer, then gave the smallest nod—firm, final. “I’ll make sure of it.”

── .✦

You couldn’t sit still.

Your hands ached from scrubbing. Your shirt was damp with sweat from dragging rugs across the floors and beating dust from the curtains. The bucket sloshed at your side as you scrubbed down a banister that hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

The manor felt like it was pressing in on you. Like every wall had inched closer. Like the air was just a little too heavy to breathe.

Somewhere above you, Brian was still checking the upper floors. You could hear the occasional creak of boots overhead. The creak of doors opening. Closing. The quiet, focused hum of him doing his job for you.

You stayed on the main level, brushing cobwebs from molding and muttering to yourself as you wiped a smudge that wasn’t coming out.

“This fuckin’… Damn piece of…” you said to no one, shoving the rag harder against the banister.

“You know you’re talkin’ to yourself, right?”

The voice made you jump, nearly dropping the rag. You turned to see Tim standing just inside the hall, shoulder propped against the doorframe and a sweat-damp towel slung around his neck. Dirt clung to the knees of his jeans. His arms were still dusted with the morning’s garden work.

He watched you for a beat, then glanced down at the overly-clean railing. “Place looks like it’s about to sparkle off the foundation,” he said. “You alright?”

You gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. Just… keeping busy.”

Tim grunted. “I can see that.” He took a few steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly. “Or you’re spiraling. Hard to tell.”

Your smile wavered.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked. “What?”

“C’mon,” he said, already turning back toward the hall. “I know a spot. You need fresh air, and this place isn’t gonna give it to you.”

You hesitated, rag still in hand, heartbeat too fast from everything—not just the window, but the sense of something looming. Like waiting inside too long would rot you from the inside out.

You dropped the rag into the bucket and followed him.

Tim didn’t talk much as you walked. He led you through the kitchen, out the back door, down past the garden rows where tomatoes were just starting to bloom fat and red on the vine. The fog had thinned, but the air was still cool and wet with mist.

You followed him through a break in the hedges you hadn’t noticed before, tall green walls parting like a quiet secret, and ducked beneath an old iron gate barely hanging on its hinges.

Beyond it was a pocket of quiet earth. The path widened into a small, shaded clearing, half-eaten by time. And there, rising from the center like a breath held for a hundred years, was an enormous willow tree. Its sweeping branches curved down to kiss the ground, green veils of hanging limbs dancing gently in the windless air.

You stepped into the space like stepping into a memory.

Tim watched your face as you looked around. He didn’t smile, but he did seem… softer.

“Used to keep horses back this way,” he said, nodding toward the leaning remains of a corral beyond the willow. “Gate’s been rusted shut for years now. No one really comes back here. Figured you could use a place the house hasn’t sunk its claws into yet.”

You turned to him, your voice quieter now. “How did you know?”

Tim shrugged, looking away. “You clean like someone who’s tryna stop thinking. And you keep looking around like you’re being followed.”

You swallowed, arms folding loosely across your chest. The sound of the willow’s leaves whispering overhead filled the silence.

“Something hit my window last night,” you murmured.

Tim’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

“It was loud. Heavy. And we’re not talking about a squirrel kind of hit. It felt like someone threw themselves at the glass.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he walked to the edge of the clearing and plucked a long reed of grass, chewing on the end thoughtfully.

“Brian’s got the house,” he said finally. “If something was inside, he’ll find it. But out here…” He glanced up toward the tree line beyond the clearing. “Out here, sometimes things pass through.”

You followed his gaze, but the trees offered no answers. Only shadow. “I don’t like that,” you admitted quietly.

“Good,” he said, flicking the grass aside. “Means you’re smart.”

You gave a weak chuckle. He nudged your arm gently with his elbow. “You’re not alone here, y’know. Even when it feels like it. We’re all just down the path if you ever need company at night.”

You looked over at him. He wasn’t looking back—just staring at the tree, brow furrowed like he was looking for something.

Still, the words stuck with you.

── .✦

The clink of dishes in the sink echoed lightly through the kitchen as you wiped your hands on a towel and glanced toward the table. Tim and Brian sat opposite each other, both half-reclined in that unbothered, post-dinner kind of way—full stomachs, tired limbs, quiet minds. The air was warm with the smell of roasted root vegetables and fried herbs, smoke curling faintly from the open window where Tim had lit another cigarette.

Brian leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-lidded under the pulled-up balaclava. “Did a sweep top to bottom,” he said, his voice that same low, gravel-soft hum. “No one in the house but us. A few mice in the attic, but I scared ’em off.”

You nodded, your hands pausing over a plate. “Nothing in the cellar?”

Brian shook his head. “Didn’t check the cellar. Thought I’d leave that to the guy who actually enjoys being in it.”

Tim snorted. “Or the guy who’s not scared of black mold.”

Right on cue, the back door creaked open.

Toby stepped inside, arms full of chopped logs, boots leaving faint mud prints on the tile that you would have to mop tomorrow. His shirt was still grimy with dirt across the collarbone, and a few wood shavings clung to his forearms. He dropped the load with a thunk near the door, then stretched with a groan and popped his neck side to side.

“F-fire’s gonna feel good tonight,” he said, brushing off his palms.

Brian stood, and Tim followed, stretching his back with a wince. The three of them wandered to the main room, you trailing behind after flicking off the kitchen light that Brian has recently installed—a single swinging bulb above the prep table. You had thanked him vigorously for actual lighting.

The living room glowed dimly in the candlelight, the grand hearth yawning cold in its frame. Toby knelt in front of it and began arranging the wood with jerky hands. The kind of casual rhythm that came from years of repetition—stack, crumple, spark. He muttered something under his breath as the kindling caught, and soon the flames licked high, warm and golden.

They all settled on the old furniture—worn velvet armchairs, the moon-shaped grand couch, the kind of low coffee table that had probably held everything from chamber music sheet music to ashtrays. You perched near the edge of the couch, leaning back as the fire cracked.

Tim lit another cigarette and passed it lazily between himself and Brian. Toby, cross-legged on the rug, stared into the fire.

Then, casually—too casually—he said, “Was down in the c-cellar earlier. Thought I’d check the foundation near the—uh, near the south wall.”

Brian raised a brow. “Since when do you care about the foundation?”

Toby smirked. “I d-don’t. But I do care about the crate of whisky I found tucked behind an old wine rack.”

Tim straightened a bit. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” Toby said, popping the ‘p.’ “Unopened. Labeled. Looks like it hasn’t been touched since… I d-dunno. Prohibition?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Toby looked up at you and grinned, a little sideways and lazy. “I mean, w-would be a shame to let it go to waste. C-call it a housewarming gift. Or a—uh—a rite of passage, since no one’s drunk in th-this house in… hell, probably a hundred years.”

Brian gave a short, amused grunt. “I’m not carrying your ass back to your place if you go blind.”

“I’ll g-get my own ass back home, thank you very much.”

He stood with a groan, brushing ash from his jeans and glancing toward you. “C’mon, ma’am. You wanna see the scariest r-room in the house?”

You hesitated for half a second—but only half.

“Lead the way,” you said, rising to your feet and grabbing a candle off the mantle.

Tim chuckled as you passed. “If you come back with a ghost attachment, I’m not helping you do an exorcism.”

“D-don’t listen to him,” Toby muttered as he opened the cellar door for you, grinning. “The ghosts down there are friendly. M-Mostly.”

The stone steps creaked beneath your feet as you followed Toby into the cellar, candlelight dancing against the old walls. The air shifted as you descended—cool, dense, and heavy with the scent of soil and something metallic. Your breath fogged faintly as you exhaled.

The cellar was cluttered chaos. Dust-covered furniture leaned against each other like drunk old men at a bar, and crates were stacked two or three high, marked with fading labels and water stains. Cobwebs stretched across the ceiling beams like forgotten lace, and somewhere to your left, something scurried behind a box.

“Cozy,” you muttered.

Toby snorted. “W-wait till you see the whiskey.”

You ducked under a low archway as he led you to a darkened corner of the room. He tugged an old steamer trunk aside with a grunt, then leaned over a wooden crate tucked behind it. The top creaked as he pried it open with a pocket knife, and when it gave, you both leaned in.

Eight bottles, dark amber liquid sealed and labeled, nestled in straw like buried treasure.

“Holy shit,” you whispered.

Toby let out a breathy, delighted laugh. “Still sealed. Damn near g-glorious.”

He reached in and pulled out a bottle, holding it up to the candlelight. “You think this still tastes like p-piss, or—?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” you grinned.

He looked at you, his expression playful, then uncorked the bottle with a pop and took a swig without hesitation. His face soured, then relaxed into something pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, that’s smooth,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Gimme,” you said, already holding out your hand.

You took the bottle, tilted it back, and let the warmth slide down your throat. It burned, but in that satisfying way that made you cough once and then grin like an idiot.

When you looked back at Toby, he was smirking. “S-so, does that count as our first kiss? Or…”

You choked on your laugh and turned away, waving the bottle at him. “Shut up.”

He just laughed harder, the sound bouncing off the stone walls.

You both kept grinning like fools as you plucked a second bottle from the crate and wandered deeper into the cellar, passing shelves full of dusty wine bottles, old books, and water-damaged boxes. It was oddly quiet down here, peaceful even—until your foot nudged a crate shoved beneath an old table.

You knelt, bottle tucked under your arm, and pulled it out. The lid was loose, and inside were piles of brittle folders, Polaroids faded to shades of yellow, and a black leather sketchbook with a name embossed faintly on the corner.

Your great-uncle’s name.

“Hey…” you said, flipping it open. “I think this was his.”

Toby had gone still. You glanced up—his eyes were fixed on the sketchbook, his body tense like a wire pulled too tight.

You frowned. “What’s with the face?”

“N-nothing,” he said too fast. “Just—uh. Could be p-personal.”

You ignored him gently and flipped through the pages. At first, it was harmless—drawings of birds, floorplans, some messy handwriting—but then you paused.

Page after page of… something.

Thin, contorted creatures. Eyes too big, mouths too wide. Lanky limbs and claws and hunched poses crouched in unnatural positions. One stood on two legs like a person, but its face was bare—no eyes, no lips, just skin stretched over nothing. Your stomach turned a little.

“What the hell,” you murmured, eyebrows lifting. “Okay, yeah, my uncle was always kinda a freak. My mom used to say he lived in ‘his own little world.’ This is some kind of nightmare fuel.”

Toby gave a dry chuckle but didn’t look amused. He stepped forward, took the sketchbook gently from your hands, and without another word, tossed it onto the pile of blankets and boxes nearby.

“Trust me, ma’am,” he said, voice lower now. “It’s just sketches. D-don’t let your head make it worse than it is.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could ask anything else, he tapped your shoulder with the back of his hand.

“C’mon. We’ve got w-whiskey, and a fire upstairs, and I d-don’t feel like staying sober tonight.”

You hesitated just a second longer, glancing back at the sketchbook where it had landed, the corner of a monster’s limbs still peeking from the page.

Then you followed Toby up the stairs—two bottles in hand, heart just a little heavier than before.

The fire crackled to life by the time you both returned to the main room, each with a bottle tucked under your arm like some ancient treasure trove. Tim and Brian were already there—Tim sprawled on one of the deep velvet armchairs with his boots kicked up, and Brian perched more neatly on the edge of the couch, examining a set of crystal shot glasses he must’ve pulled from one of the manor’s many gilded display cabinets.

“You weren’t kidding,” Tim muttered, holding up a glass to the firelight as you entered. “I think this one’s older than I am.”

“Technically,” Brian said without looking up, “all of this is.”

Toby dropped into one of the armchairs with a grunt, already working the cork loose from the first bottle. “T-then we’re doin’ it justice.”

With a satisfying pop, the whiskey bottle opened. You passed the second to Brian, who poured for everyone with careful hands—four glasses, thick cut-crystal shining orange with firelight and anticipation.

The first round hit your throat like a match struck inside your chest. You coughed. Brian only flinched slightly. Tim winced and grimaced and immediately lit a cigarette to chase the burn away.

Toby? Toby barely blinked.

“You didn’t even make a face,” you accused, half-laughing.

“W-well, I don’t feel it,” he replied with a shrug. “T-tastes like spicy tree bark. That’s about it.”

Tim chuckled, raising his glass again. “Bastard’s cheating. He doesn’t feel pain, so the burn’s nothing. Bet he could drink a whole bottle and barely stumble.”

“You say that l-like it’s not a skill,” Toby said with a grin, clinking his glass against yours before throwing another shot back.

The fire burned brighter, casting long shadows against the dark, high walls. Layers of coats were shrugged off and draped over the couches. Boots untied. Someone opened a window just a crack to let the cold air mingle with the warmth and smoke. Brian leaned back with his second glass, quiet but relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Tim was still nursing his cigarette between his fingers, occasionally tapping the ash into a cracked ceramic dish.

Conversation shifted—small stories, shared work gripes, little observations about the manor. You learned that Tim once tried to plant a pear tree and was “personally offended” when a deer ate them. Brian admitted he doesn’t hang around much in the manor because the wiring hums too loud at night. Toby, half-slouched in his seat, mentioned offhandedly that he once got locked in the cellar for three hours and just decided to nap.

“Of course you napped,” you snorted. “That place is like… haunted and musty. You didn’t even freak out?”

He stretched his legs out in front of him and shrugged. “If something wanted to c-c-come get me, it missed its chance.”

Tim let out a bark of laughter. “The only thing that’s gonna get you, boy, is tetanus.”

“L-l-lotta overlap there, actually.”

The whiskey flowed in slow waves. Nobody rushed it, but it warmed everything. The room, your limbs, the tension you hadn’t realized had been knotted in your shoulders since the window incident. You leaned into the couch cushions, eyes fluttering closed for a second as the fire snapped and the others kept talking.

And in that moment—just a flicker—you felt like you belonged here. With them. In this big, haunted house in the woods, surrounded by fog and secrets and soft-spoken strangers who were slowly becoming something else.

It finally felt like your home. Maybe.

── .✦

The fire had dwindled to low, glowing embers—the kind that whispered instead of roared, casting flickering shadows that danced along the high stone mantle. The warmth still held, lingering like the comfort of thick blankets and shared laughter.

Brian stretched with a soft grunt, rising from the couch and setting his now-empty glass back on the side table. “I’m heading out,” he murmured, grabbing his things, rubbing at his neck. “If I stay any longer, I’ll fall asleep on that damn chair.”

Tim was already up, swiping his jacket off the back of the couch. “Yeah, ‘m done too. You two try not to fall into the fire or whatever.”

Toby offered a lazy wave from his spot beside you, his legs splayed, head tipping slightly to the side. You giggled and returned it, feeling delightfully heavy and light at once—like your limbs weren’t quite connected to your body.

The door clicked shut behind the other two, leaving you and Toby in the amber haze of the manor’s massive sitting room.

You shifted to stand and promptly tripped over the edge of the couch.

“Woah—wh-whoa, easy,” Toby said, catching your elbow with one hand and half-laughing, half-hiccupping. “Y-you’re not allowed to get a c-concussion your first week here.”

“I’m fine,” you giggled, swaying into his side. “It’s the rug’s fault.”

He smirked, slipping an arm around your waist and nudging you toward the hallway. “C’mon, l-let’s get you to bed, light-weight.”

You leaned into him without resistance, your body warm and soft with buzzed comfort, the steady rhythm of your footsteps echoing against the old walls. The flicker of the candles guiding the way shimmered a little more than usual.

At your door, Toby reached out to push it open and half-led, half-carried you inside. The room welcomed you with its familiar scent—aged wood, cool linen, candle wax.

“I got it, I got it,” you mumbled, trying to wriggle free to climb onto the bed yourself.

But he followed, hands still on your arms, trying to help you—and then his foot caught on the edge of the rug.

You both toppled—onto the mattress.

His weight pressed into you—not crushing, but grounding, and for a moment, the two of you just lay there, breathless with stunned laughter. “Oh my God,” you wheezed, “You tackled me!”

Toby laughed, nose scrunching, his forehead resting against yours. “I tr-tr-tried to help—th-the damn rug’s out for blood.”

You giggled again, chest rising and falling beneath his. His laughter slowed. So did yours. And when your eyes met—wide and glassy in the low candlelight—everything shifted.

The air thinned. The laughter settled into something slower. Quieter.

Toby’s gaze dropped to your lips. He blinked, breath hitching. “S-s-sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled, but didn’t move.

Your heart thumped hard in your chest. His hands were on either side of your head, arms braced, holding himself up—but barely.

“…Don’t be,” you said softly.

The distance closed—tentative, but magnetic.

His lips met yours, uncertain at first, as if checking you were still okay with it. Then deeper, a little hungrier. One of his hands slid up into your hair, the other curling into the sheet beneath you. He tasted strongly like smoke and whiskey, and when you sighed against him, he pulled you just a little closer.

The kiss lingered, warm and real, like something neither of you meant to do but somehow needed to happen.

He was about to lift himself off you—muttering a soft, stuttered apology—when your hand found the front of his shirt. You sat up slowly, the room swaying just a bit with the motion, and before he could step back, you tugged him down again.

“Toby,” you whispered, voice low. “Stay.”

“M-Ma’am?” His eyes flicked to yours, wide and caught between hesitation and want—but when you leaned in again, kissing him deeper this time, that hesitation crumbled.

The second kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was hot, desperate, heady. His hands found your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt, callused palms dragging across your skin. You gasped softly into his mouth, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned you back onto the mattress, bodies tangled.

You felt him everywhere—his breath, the weight of him, the tremble in his touch that wasn’t quite from nerves. He pushed your shirt higher, mouth trailing clumsy, hungry kisses along your jaw and throat, and you arched into him like you’d been waiting for this since the moment you met.

But then—

The room tilted. Not in the way it had before. The wave of alcohol that had been simmering in your bloodstream surged forward all at once—your limbs going heavy, your chest tightening with a sudden, unsteady breath.

Your fingers faltered.

Toby froze instantly. He pulled back just enough to see your face, stilling as his breath came hard and fast between you.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked slowly, heart pounding. “Just… dizzy. It hit me all at once.”

A beat passed. And then Toby moved off you. Not in a rush—but carefully, like something inside him had just shifted. He sat at the edge of the bed and ran a hand down his face before adjusting his jeans, trying to catch his breath. The patch on his cheek was slightly ruffled, pulling at the edges.

“I—” he started, then cleared his throat. “I sh-shouldn’t’ve done that. I shouldn’t b-be—taking a-advantage of you like that. You’re my boss.”

“You weren’t,” you said quickly, sitting up beside him, shirt still rumpled, your skin still buzzing with heat. “It was me too. I wanted to.”

He gave you a long, unreadable look—torn between guilt and longing.

“…Still,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the floor. “You’ve had a l-lot to drink. I—don’t wanna do anything you’d regret in the m-morning.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied his profile, the slight flush in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands had curled into fists in his lap.

“I won’t regret it,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond, just exhaled, slow and quiet.

Then, finally, he stood. You followed him to the door, still half-stumbling and dizzy. Toby looked back at you with something that wasn’t quite a smile. Something softer. A little sad.

“Night,” he said, voice low and rough.

You nodded. “Night.”

Neither of you moved for a second too long. And then he stepped out, closing the door behind him with the same care he did everything else—but now it felt heavier.

A week. You’ve been here a week and you’re already trying to fuck the help.

You turned and buried your face into the velvet pillows, grumbling until you fell asleep.

── .✦

Things got normal again.

Not normal—nothing about the manor quite fit that word—but familiar. You woke with the sun filtering through gauzy curtains, made coffee in a robe that dragged across boot-scraped floors, and opened windows to let in the wet scent of pine and fog. The eerie quiet was less eerie now—more like a hush, a secret being kept just for you.

And nothing exceptionally creepy had happened since Brian swept the place, which was a plus.

Toby still chopped wood past the edge of the garden. Tim still muttered to himself while trimming basil and pinching off squash blossoms. And Brian… well, Brian always seemed to be nearby, half in shadow, doing some quiet task no one had asked him to do.

Toby had been distant since that night—polite, gentle, even funny—but different. He didn’t linger like he used to. Still smiled when he passed you, still brought in logs every night, still let his shoulder brush yours sometimes when no one was looking. But the energy between you had shifted. Neither of you said anything about it.

And yet… he was still kind.

They all were.

The guys had started dropping in more—never lingering long, but always stopping in for something. Brian would bring a box of old bulbs and tinker with the kitchen sconces while you made tea. Tim would wipe dirt on your shirt just to make you swear at him, then duck in to ask if you needed anything from the garden. And Toby would pop by with mushrooms or cool rocks he’d found in the woods, only to “accidentally” stay for half an hour while you made lunch.

You liked it. The quiet company. The slow growing of something that felt almost like home.

And then you found the keys. A ring of them, heavy and old, hidden in the very back of a kitchen cupboard behind dusty linens and a chipped porcelain soup tureen. They jingled like they were singing—thick iron ones, tiny ornate ones, long bronze ones with curling teeth.

The exploring began that afternoon.

You unlocked a narrow room with stained glass windows and a dozen abandoned easels—your great-uncle’s forgotten artist studio, the paint still cracked dry on the palettes like ghosts of color.

Two more bathrooms were revealed, one with a velvet fainting couch and a mirror too tall to clean.

And then—your uncle’s office.

The door creaked open like it hadn’t in years. Dust danced in the sunlight pooling through tall windows. You saw more of those drawings tucked in desk drawers—strange, lean figures with hollow eyes and gaping mouths, crouched and twisted in impossible shapes. You stared at them for a moment, uneasy, but eventually tucked them back and turned the key in the lock once more.

You didn’t tell the guys. You don’t really know why.

And things… stayed normal.

Until lunch.

Tim was in the garden. Toby was somewhere in the woods, you assumed. That left just you and Brian.

He’d wandered in through the back door, quiet as usual, stripping off his gloves and balaclava and setting them beside the old bread box without a word. You stood at the stove, stirring something simple—rosemary chicken, a side of boiled potatoes, some roasted carrots Tim had left on the counter with a note that just said “eat these.”

He stepped forward, pulling a chair out at the kitchen table and sitting down backward in it, arms resting across the top like he was settling in.

“Smells good,” he said. “Have you always cooked for people?”

“Only the people who don’t scare me,” you teased, tossing him a wink over your shoulder.

He huffed a small laugh, head tilting. “…So not Toby, then.”

You snorted. “Toby’s just awkward.”

Brian’s eyes flicked toward the floor. “He’s been quieter.”

You didn’t answer. The moment stretched long and warm with the scent of herbs and firewood. Outside, the fog pressed softly against the windows, as if waiting to be let in.

“I found a bunch of old keys earlier,” you said after a beat, just to fill the quiet. “Unlocked some weird rooms.”

That got his attention. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. A whole art room. My uncle was definitely a painter.”

“Painter, hunter, craftsman—bit of everything.”

The rosemary clung to your fingers as you moved to slice the last of the carrots, humming quietly to yourself. The kitchen was warm—steam curling from the pot on the stove, the sound of a ticking clock mingling with the crackle of the oven. Brian said nothing, but you could feel him watching. His silence filled the corners of the room.

Your knife slipped.

“Shit,” you hissed, jerking your hand back from the cutting board.

Brian was on his feet in seconds. You barely had time to turn before his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm—as he brought your hand closer to his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” you started, embarrassed by the sting and the sudden attention, but he shook his head.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, already pulling something from his back pocket—a worn handkerchief, navy with fraying edges. He licked it without hesitation, then gently dabbed at the smear of blood on the side of your finger.

You blinked.

His touch was… soft. Careful. You stared at him while he worked, at the way his eyelids lowered, at the faint crinkle of his brow beneath a singular smudge of dirt.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, glancing up at you. “Wasn’t watching you close enough.”

You gave a breathless laugh. “It’s not your fault I’m clumsy.”

He looked down at your hand again, cradled in his palm like something breakable. And then—without thinking—he leaned forward and kissed the tip of your finger. It was feather-light, almost nothing. “All better.”

But your breath caught. His eyes flicked up, and the change in the room was immediate.

Brian froze. “…Shit,” he muttered, straightening slightly, hand still on yours. “I don’t know why the fuck I did that—Sorry, miss.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He watched you a second longer—then his voice lowered, uncertain. “…Was that okay?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

You only realized how close he’d gotten when his other hand rose slowly—fingertips brushing your jaw, then coaxing you forward. The touch was barely there, as if asking permission.

And then he kissed you. Just a soft, tentative press of his mouth to yours. A test. A moment.

You leaned in before he could pull away.

His hand slipped to your waist, guiding you back gently, until your hips met the edge of the counter and the breath left your lungs. His mouth moved against yours again—slow, easy, but deepening, pulling a sound from you that surprised both of you.

His fingers curled tighter against your side, your arms finding his chest, fisting in the worn fabric of his hoodie. He tasted like cigars and woodsmoke, felt like fire and hit coals, and kissed like he’d been holding his breath for days.

Brian didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned in harder.

His hand slid beneath your thighs, strong and steady, and before you could react, he’d lifted you clean off your feet and set you on the counter with a soft thud—cool wood meeting the backs of your legs, your breath catching.

He stepped between your knees like he’d done it before, like he belonged there, and kissed you deeper. Hungrier.

Your arms locked around his shoulders, fingers digging into the back of his hoodie as he pressed flush against you. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs dragging slow, thoughtless circles into your skin through the fabric of your shorts. You felt him—all of him—through his jeans as he rutted forward once, twice, a soft, strangled sound escaping from the back of his throat into your mouth.

He kissed like he wanted to climb inside you and burn the memory into his tongue.

Your head tilted back, a quiet gasp slipping out. And then—

Pop. A sharp sizzle. A curl of smoke. Then the unmistakable, nostril-burning scent of burning oil and meat.

You both froze. You turned in unison toward the stove. The skillet hissed violently, thick black smoke rising from where the chicken had completely charred on one side.

“Shit,” you barked, hopping down from the counter.

Brian stumbled back as you grabbed the pan, yanking it off the burner with a dishrag and blowing at the smoke. The kitchen window fogged as the scent of scorched garlic, meat, and herbs thickened the air.

You groaned, laughing behind your hands as you set the pan down in the sink. “Well,” you muttered, still breathless, “guess that’s lunch ruined.”

Brian stood off to the side, rubbing the back of his neck, his face red and tense, “That’s my bad,” he said, voice low and rough. “Shouldn’t’ve distracted you, miss.”

You looked at each other. Long. Quiet. Still tasting one another.

His eyes flicked down to your hand. “…You’re not bleeding anymore,” he murmured. “That’s good.”

You nodded mutely.

He shifted, like he wanted to say something else—do something else—but then glanced toward the door and cleared his throat.

“I should… go check the attic wiring. Make sure we’re not about to have an electrical fire on top of a kitchen one.”

You nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, go… do that.”

He hesitated. Then gave a tight, unreadable smile before slipping out into the hallway. You stared after him, wide-eyed, heart thudding in your ears. Then you turned to the table, dropped into the nearest chair, and planted your face in your hands.

“Mmhmm,” you groaned, muffled against your arms. “Cool. Awesome. Love this for me.” You sat there for a moment, the smell of burnt food still hanging in the air like a guilty fog, and let your thoughts spin out of control.

You had just kissed Brian. Properly. After kissing Toby. On the mouth. In your bed.

You groaned again. You were living in a crumbling manor, isolated in the woods, with three ridiculously attractive men who couldn’t seem to stay out of your kitchen or your personal space.

This was getting out of hand.

── .✦

The laundry was warm in your hands, soft from the sun, your fingers folding shirt after shirt in the hush of your room. The manor was quiet—eerily so—as it always was in the late mornings, the old floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet as you moved. A candle on the dresser flickered even though there was no breeze, and a distant grandfather clock ticked steady from somewhere down the hall.

You were just halfway through organizing socks when the sharp honk of a truck horn cut through the silence.

Your head snapped up. That wasn’t usual.

You padded over to the window and pulled back the sheer curtain. Across the courtyard and around the bend of the fog-lined gravel drive, a beat-up, pale red pickup was crawling around the side of the manor—old, boxy, and definitely vintage. You squinted.

Curious, you tugged on your shoes and hurried down the stairs, the back door swinging open with a long groan. The air was warm, a little muggy with the heat, and sure enough, Tim had parked in the shaded gravel behind the manor, hopping down from the driver’s seat with his usual scowl and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.

You approached as he pulled open the tailgate, revealing the small mountain of brown paper sacks in the truck bed.

“Groceries?” you asked, blinking.

“Town run,” he grunted, reaching in for a crate of canned goods. “No one grows pork or tobacco out here, shockingly.”

You laughed. “Need help?”

He jerked his chin. “Sure. You know where the pantry is.”

You both got to work, hauling bags in pairs, stepping in and out of the fog-cooled shade of the house. The scent of fresh dirt clung to the bags—root vegetables, herbs, hand-wrapped cheeses, wax paper packages of smoked meat. The manor’s ancient kitchen felt alive as you moved through it, pantry doors swinging open, cupboards filled with new life after you stripped them bare for meals.

You reached into one of the last bags near the cab and pulled something small and unexpected: a thick brown paper envelope with a bold, hand-labeled sticker on the front. You turned it over.

“Sunflower seeds?” you asked, confused.

Tim looked over his shoulder as he slid a new carton of eggs into the icebox. “Yeah. They’re in season. Thought maybe you’d wanna see something outside that’s not brown or gray for once.”

You blinked. He didn’t say it with any sentiment—his voice was rough and offhand, like he hadn’t even thought twice about it—but something warm tugged in your chest all the same.

“I’d love to plant them,” you said quietly, fingers curling around the seed packet.

He gave a little shrug, grabbing the last crate. “Then let’s do it. Dirt’s soft from the rain yesterday.”

You tucked the envelope into your pocket and followed him outside, down past the thinning garden rows and tangled vines, your shoes brushing against grass and clover. Tim led you to a space just past the last vegetable bed—a patch of rough soil along the back fence line that caught a good bit of sun in the afternoon hours. The willow tree swayed far in the distance.

You both knelt in the dirt, side by side, working quietly, fingers digging into the earth.

The sunflower seeds were smooth and pale, and you tucked them carefully into the ground one by one, pressing them into little cradles of soil. Tim didn’t say much—just made quiet little comments about spacing and depth—but it was nice, the silence. Companionable.

The warm scent of damp earth lingered thick around you both as you tucked the last of the sunflower seeds into their little patches of turned soil. A soft breeze passed over the back garden, stirring your hair and making the willow leaves rustle in the distance. Tim worked quietly, sleeves rolled to the elbows and thick gloves caked in dirt, occasionally glancing over at your technique—though he didn’t correct it much after the first time.

You reached for the last handful of seeds and caught him watching.

“What?” you asked, brushing hair behind your ear.

He gave a low grunt and pulled his gloves tighter at the wrist. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ I’ll have to get you a pair of gloves if you’re so hellbent on helpin’ all the damn time.”

You smiled, digging your hands into the dirt anyway. “What, these?” you wiggled your muddy fingers. “This is half the fun.”

“‘Til you’re cryin’ about a splinter,” he muttered, but there was a faint smirk pulling at his mouth.

When the last seed was pressed into the soil and the garden patch looked neat and content, you sat back with a sigh, brushing your hands on your thighs. Tim stood and stretched his back, cracking his neck and watching the plot like he could already see the golden blooms rising.

“You’ve got dirt on your face,” he said suddenly.

Your brows pinched. “Where?”

He stepped closer. “Right here.”

Before you could react, he swiped one gloved finger across your cheek—not brushing the dirt off, but smearing it more, dragging a streak of soil across your skin.

Your jaw dropped. “Tim!”

“What?” he said innocently, tugging his glove tighter.

With a mock gasp, you scooped up a little handful of loose soil and chucked it at his chest. The dirt splattered across his shirt, leaving brown specks on his already stained flannel.

His eyes narrowed—but the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?”

You gave him a smug look just before he bent down and lobbed a clump of soil right back at you, hitting your shoulder with a soft thud. A laugh broke from your chest, and then the two of you were at war—ducking behind planting beds, flinging dirt with your bare hands, shrieking and dodging with abandon. The whole back garden filled with laughter and the shuffle of boots and sneakers on grass and soil.

You scooped up a particularly wet clump and turned to throw it—

But your foot caught on the edge of a planting bed. You yelped, pitching forward, hands instinctively flailing for balance—

Tim’s arms shot out fast, catching you by the waist as you stumbled into him. He pulled you up quick, steadying you like it was nothing.

But now you were right there. Panting. Dirt smeared across your face. Your palms flat against his chest, his hands gripping your waist. The sun hung warm behind you both, haze pooling at the edges of the woods, and suddenly the garden felt very small.

You glanced up at him—he was already looking down at you. Close enough to see the specks of dirt on his cheekbones, the sweat at his brow, the heat behind his tired eyes. His breath brushed your skin. Neither of you moved.

You swallowed hard.

Your fingers twitched against his chest as the moment hung heavy—muddy clothes, pounding hearts, breath caught in your throat. You felt it when he tensed slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do either, but then you began to pull back, heat crawling up your neck, preparing to laugh it off—

But Tim reached up, tugging his glove off with his teeth in one smooth motion, then tucking it in his pocket.

“Hold still,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

You froze as he reached out, calloused, bare fingers brushing gently across your cheek—wiping the dirt smear away with a care that startled you. You blinked up at him, mouth parting slightly, and his lips quirked in something almost fond.

“You’re so damn clumsy,” he said, shaking his head.

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure how else to respond, eyes darting away—but he caught your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding your face back to his.

“Nuh uh,” he said softly. “Don’t look away.”

You stared at him, nerves buzzing beneath your skin, lips parting to say something—to make a joke, or tease, or shut it down before your heart leapt out of your ribs—but his fingers slid down to your neck, warm and anchoring.

“You always do that,” he muttered. “Deflect when you get nervous.”

Your eyes widened. “I do not—”

But the words died on your lips.

Because Tim silenced you with his. It was hot—sudden—his hand tightening at your waist and the other still beneath your jaw, pulling you in like he’d been holding back for days. You gasped softly against him, his mouth rough and certain, lips parting yours as he tugged you flush to his body, every inch of him pressed warm and solid against you.

You curled your hands into the front of his shirt instinctively, half-steadying yourself, half-dragging him closer as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You tasted sweat, earth, and cigarettes—and under it all, him. Tim kissed like he worked—with full intent and no hesitation once he’d started.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his breath was ragged and warm against your cheek. His hand still cradled your jaw. You just stared at each other, caught, trembling slightly in the fading heat of the afternoon.

“…Still nervous?” he asked, voice husky.

You swallowed hard, lips swollen, cheeks burning. “…A little,” you breathed.

And he just smirked.

Your breath caught in your throat the second his lips curled, and it was like the weight of everything suddenly crashed down.

Holy. Shit.

You stepped back like you’d touched fire.

“I—I have to go,” you blurted, already untangling yourself from his arms. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—I mean I did—but I didn’t—oh my god.”

“Hey, wait—” Tim started, reaching for you. But you were already scrambling toward the manor, shoes slapping the dirt path, heart pounding so hard in your chest it sounded like thunder in your ears.

You didn’t stop until you were back inside, up the stairs, down the hall, and flinging yourself into your bedroom like something was chasing you. You hit the bed face-first with a muffled scream.

Then rolled. 

Then screamed again—this time into a pillow. You flailed, limbs a mess across the duvet, before groaning and yanking at your hair in both hands, whispering frantic, breathless nonsense like “Oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck is happening—”

You slammed your head gently—but repeatedly—into your mattress.

“What am I even doing?” you groaned, rolling again, now hanging halfway off the bed. “Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with me?”

Your hands dragged down your face as everything came flooding back with horrifying clarity.

Toby—on your bed, after the firelight and whiskey.

Brian—against the counter, your finger still stinging, the smoke curling behind you.

And now Tim, just outside, with sun and soil and heat still clinging to your clothes.

You’d kissed each of them. You weren’t sure if you were the luckiest person alive or absolutely doomed.

And dusk was in two hours. You stared blankly at the ceiling.

Dinner was going to be hell.

── .✦

Dinner time rolled around, and the silence was louder than anything you could’ve cooked.

You’d made too much food—roasted potatoes, seared green beans from Tim’s garden, that lemon-pepper chicken recipe you were weirdly proud of—but no one came. No knock. No thump of boots in the hall. No door creaking open with a muttered “smells good in here.”

Not even Toby dragging in firewood.

Your stomach sat tight in your belly as the minutes ticked by. You kept glancing at the door, willing it to open, practically begging for one of them to appear—even if it was just to yell.

But the manor remained still.

“Maybe they’re mad,” you whispered, poking at your food with the side of your fork. “Maybe they’re talking. Figuring out what to do with the idiot who kissed all three of them.”

The thought made you wince. Rip each other apart, or rip you instead. You barely ate. The chicken dried out, the beans went cold, and your whiskey glass stayed untouched. It all felt like some sort of punishment. You washed the dishes in silence, the clang of ceramic against sink echoing too loud, too empty, as if the walls were holding their breath.

And when the fire never started in the main room, you knew—they weren’t coming.

Upstairs, your pacing felt frantic. You chewed your thumbnail, dragged your hands down your face, cursed at the floorboards and the ceiling and yourself.

“This is stupid,” you hissed. “They’re grown men. It’s not like I planned for any of this to happen! I just—” You bit off your sentence. “I should go down there. Just check in. Make sure they’re not—fighting or something.”

But when you pulled the curtain aside, peeking through your bedroom window, you froze. The cabins were glowing softly—three little stars in the fog, warm and yellow through the mist. Lights on in each one. They were there. Alive. Not dead. Not bleeding.

Just… absent from your space.

You let out a breath—relief and guilt tangled in your chest like briars.

Then something moved—fast.

Your eyes snapped to the right, and you swore—you swore—you saw something skitter across the edge of the fog, just beyond the garden. Thin. Pale. Animal-like—but not an animal. The legs bent wrong. The way it moved was wrong.

And then—

A shadow sprinted after it—a human silhouette.

Your breath hitched.

“What the fuck—” you whispered, heart slamming into your ribs. You staggered back from the window, breath ragged, ears ringing.

Something was out there. And someone was chasing it.

You tried to rationalize.

Maybe it was a stray dog. Some hunter going after an animal. Maybe—God, maybe someone lost their pet, and it slipped through the woods and they just—

But no one lived out here. There were no neighbors. No houses for miles. Just trees, fog, and the wind biting through the gaps in the manor’s old windows.

Your breath started to come faster. You moved back toward the window, hands trembling as you reached for the curtain again, trying to calm yourself, to see—to prove to your own damn brain that there was nothing out there.  Then—

BANG.

A single, deafening gunshot cracked through the courtyard. You screamed.

The windows rattled in their frames, the sound echoing off the trees like it had split the ground in two. You dropped back, stumbling, your hand flying to your chest as your heart tried to burst free.

No no no no no—

You whipped back to the window, scanning frantically—but there was nothing. Just thick mist. Shifting branches. But the cabin lights were still on, glowing like weak lighthouses in a sea of gray.

Your hands moved before your thoughts could catch up. You grabbed the first jacket you saw, yanking it over your shoulders. You didn’t even bother with shoes. Your hand smacked against the bannister as you bolted down the stairs, breath ragged, throat dry.

Whoever—whatever—was out there had a gun. That meant this wasn’t some animal. This wasn’t some illusion brought on by isolation and guilt and the ache in your chest.

This was real. And it meant one of two things.

Someone was here to rob you—or someone was here to hurt you.

The manor’s back doors groaned as you flung them open, and the air outside hit you like a bucket of ice water. Your breath turned to fog as you sprinted into the night, the gravel biting at your bare feet, eyes scanning, searching—

You had to get to someone. Anyone. You didn’t care who. Tim, Toby, Brian—hell, all three. Just someone real, someone armed, someone who knew what to do. There’s no way they didn’t hear the shot.

The fog felt thicker tonight. The kind that clung to your skin like a damp sheet, swallowing sound and vision whole. Your pulse pounded behind your eyes as you ran across the grass, your head whipping around at every creak, every twig snap.

The cabins were up ahead. Yellow lights. Them.

And something moved in the trees to your left.

You faltered. Your steps stuttered on the dewy grass, and your body jerked to a stop, chest heaving with the rush of adrenaline as your eyes locked on the shape.

A figure. Human-sized. Standing motionless at the edge of the tree line just beyond the veil of fog. Still. Too still.

Your heart surged, panic curling up your throat like bile, but still—you called out, voice cracking, “T-Toby? Brian? Tim?”

No response. The figure didn’t move—just shifted. The kind of shift that makes your instincts scream. A slow tilt of the head like a dog confused, or a curious predator.

Your heart skipped. Then stuttered. You called again, louder, more desperate now. “Hey! This isn’t fucking funny guys! Is this some prank or something?!”

The thing stood up. No… it unfolded.

Long. Too long. Limbs stretching like they weren’t made for a human frame. Slender arms reaching toward the dirt. A body hunched and sickly in silhouette, pale and sinewy and wrong.

Your brain was already screaming, but your legs stayed locked. Your eyes immediately welled with tears, lips parting to scream, to shout, to call for anybody—

Until it moved on all fours. Fast. Not a lurch. Not a shuffle.

A sprint—straight at you.

You shrieked, a sharp, raw sound that tore up your throat as you spun and bolted, feet slamming the grass, sprinting so hard your lungs burned. The fog seemed to clutch at your legs, dragging you back with every step. You screamed their names again, over and over, begging,

“TOBY! BRIAN! TIM—HELP!!”

Behind you, that thing tore through the grass like knives through silk. Heavy, wet thuds of too-long limbs slamming the earth. You could feel it closing in.

The cabins were just ahead. Closer—closer—

You screamed—but no sound made it out.

One second, sprinting full speed toward the cabins, lungs burning, throat raw from shouting—and the next, a pair of arms slammed into you from the side, snatching you mid-stride and throwing you to the ground.

You hit the grass hard, dirt scraping your elbows and back as you rolled with the momentum. The breath whooshed out of you, replaced instantly with pure, primal terror. You kicked, tried to scramble back, chest rising and falling like you were drowning.

It got me. It got me. It got—

Then you saw him. Not him—not right away. A shape—crouched, lean. Orange goggles glinting in the fog, and a metal muzzle strapped over his mouth. Broad shoulders, stained hoodie. A hatchet in one gloved hand, twitching fingers on the other. Your brain scrambled to identify it, to rationalize, but nothing came.

And he was already gone, sprinting into the fog like a goddamn feral animal. The creature was mid-lunge. You saw it rear up, gangly limbs arching, the sharp silhouette of it rising like a nightmare.

Then—CRACK.

The blade of his hatchet buried deep in the side of its head with a wet, awful thud. The thing spasmed, a shriek escaping it—inhuman, high-pitched, wrong.

And he didn’t stop. He yanked the hatchet free—then slammed it down again. Again. And again. Over and over until blood and black matter sprayed into the fog like a horror show. You saw its limbs twitch once. Then stop. And he just kept chopping.

You could only watch. Your body refused to move. Then it did—all at once, violently—your limbs shaking as you scrambled backwards through the grass, breath ripping through your chest like glass shards, full-blown panic setting in.

You didn’t know where to look, what to do, your vision going fuzzy at the edges.

Click.

The cold, metallic cock of a shotgun behind you froze your blood. You twisted, gasping, eyes wide.

And there they were. Two silhouettes walking slowly through the fog like something out of a fever dream. The one in front wore a dirty white mask with ink-black eyes and a painted mouth. A taller figure flanked him, face hidden under his yellow hood and black balaclava. One carried a shotgun. The other a pistol. They joined the third figure panting over the creature, digging his boot into the side of it before jerking his hatchet out.

And they were all staring at you.

Your heart thudded in your chest like a war drum, and the realization hit you like a slap.

Tim. Brian. Toby. But not like you’d ever seen them before.

And for the first time, you realized—

You didn’t know a damn thing about the men living on this land.

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[poisonf0rest]

Intertidal Zone

♱⋅── rafayel x reader

♱⋅── about: Nightly Rendezvous card, but now we finally understand why rafayel was so desperate when he came back to the hotel room.

♱⋅── word count: 6.7k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, porn with some plot, the belt scene, slight exhibisionism, fem! masterbation, sooo much kissing, slight oral fixation, Lemurian mating bond, needy raf

art credit to @/khouxy on instagram

You swear Rafayel is doing this on purpose. 

The first time it happens is right after your flight, the two of you only just managing to check into your hotel and change for dinner.

It's a fancy restaurant overlooking the vast desert, and the outdoor patio offered a clear view to gorgeous sunset. Furious spirals of orange and vermillion cast their light across the sand, making it appear to glow as winds kick up waves of golden dust along the horizon.

It’s beautiful, almost as much so as the man across you, who is still staring longingly into the distance as though committing every color to memory. As if repainting it entirely in his mind. 

Not hues of warmth, but those of the deep sea. Blues and purples and colors so dark they’d only come to life in the night. 

“How’s your drawing?” 

Rafayel sighs at your voice, tossing his pen across the dinner table with a huff before leaning back against the sofa. A stack of crumpled sketches litter your table among half-finished plates of food. He insisted on traveling here to relax, and yet he seems to be doing everything but. 

“If a few lines count as a drawing, then wonderfully.” Sassy as ever.

He sighs again, but this one sounds more pained, and you notice the red tinge highlighting his ears and neck as he leans against your shoulder. 

“You still don’t feel good?” You ask, voice hushed as you place a kiss against his temple, the skin burning beneath your lips. Raising a hand, Rafayel immediately nuzzles into your palm as you pull his chin up towards you, feeling the rising temperature along his cheek and forehead. “We can head back if you’d like. Take a bath, or shower?” 

You hoped the together was implicit by now.

But Rafayel only nods, placing a chaste kiss against your exposed shoulder. “What about the sunset? I saw you admiring it, and squandering a beautiful view is unacceptable for an artist. It’s one of the greatest offenses.”

Rafayel’s breath is minty and dry against your ear, and when you turn to look at him, his face is doused in the fiery hues of the sunset, each one casting deep purple shadows that only make his features all the sharper, half his face veiled in darkness. 

Some days you wish you were an artist as well, if only to capture moments like this—to show Rafayel just how gorgeous he was. 

Perhaps it’s only natural for a god. After all, no mortal could ever need beauty so violently arresting, so worthy of worship. 

You’re leaning in despite yourself. 

Rafayel meets you halfway, one hand on your waist as the other traces your jaw and bottom lip. But as soon as you feel the brush of his lips across yours, he pulls away. 

You open your eyes in confusion. Rafayel’s never denied you before. 

When you look at him in question, he only gives you a tired smile and pulls you to your feet with a chaste kiss on your cheek. “Sorry. I’ll feel better as long as I’m close to you like this.”

The second time it happens is when the hotel reception mixes up your and Rafayel’s rooms, leaving you to deliver some sort of formal invitation to him. 

But the letter is soon forgotten; you can’t be bothered thinking about it, not when Rafayel still looks so absent.

He’s right next to you, knees brushing yours as you sit side by side on the couch, and yet he seems to be miles away, gazing out the window as the dunes shift and rise like waves under the moonlight.  

"I used to really enjoy scenic spots before," Rafayel says, voice barely rising above the hum of the heater. "Catching sights of subtle things that might be easily overlooked used to feel like enough. More satisfying than finishing a painting, even."

A laugh. Dry, humorless. 

His fingers grazed the edge of his glass, tracing the condensation absentmindedly. A droplet trails down his wrist. "But now, sometimes, I forget why I even decided to travel in the first place.” 

You watch him, waiting. He doesn’t meet your gaze.

"I think," Rafayel continues, "somewhere along the way, I stopped just... noticing things. And I started needing them. Like the world wasn’t worth looking at unless I could turn it into something. Capture it, hold it in my hands, and call it mine." He shakes his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. "It’s not a very generous way to live, is it?"

"You don’t need to be generous with everything," you say carefully. "Some things are just... for you to enjoy."

"Enjoy," he repeats, like the word doesn’t quite fit in his mouth. A pout. "It doesn’t feel like enjoyment anymore. It feels more like... hunger.” 

Like he’s always fucking starving.

Rafayel finally turns to look at you, eyes eclipsed in the dark. Nearly dilated black. 

“Sometimes I’m afraid that if I feed it, it’ll only grow worse.”

You turn to face him on the couch, sliding your leg between his thighs before perching yourself on Rafayel’s lap. It’s not lost on you how his heartbeat picks up, chest rising and falling rapidly as each shallow breath hits your lips. Perhaps it’s cruel, but you can’t help but touch him again, fingers tracing his full lips, up his jaw, fluttering against his eyelashes and into his hair.

“You think hunger gets worse when you feed it?" You finally ask, voice quiet, slow, daring to push back. "Doesn't it stop when you're full?"

Rafayel’s mouth quirks, a sharp, fleeting twist of a smile. "Not always. Sometimes it makes you realize just how much more you want. Or how much more you could take."

You frown. “You’re not demanding anything. Not from the world, not from me."

"Maybe not yet. But, if one day, I become someone who only takes… If I were like that, would you leave me?"

The confession hangs for a moment, the truth of it hidden. Something about the way his shoulders tense under your touch— like he's bracing for something, but it hasn’t yet arrived. A phantom pain from centuries ago, and a pain to come for a thousand years more. 

“Silly fishie, I’d never leave you.” 

Rafayel smiles in a way you know all too well, lopsided and teasing and empty.

“Thank you…” he hums, finally pulling you closer as his lips skim alongside the curve of your neck. “for accepting me the way I am.”

His breaths come out in desperate huffs against your skin, and he inhales sharply, freezing, before finally placing a kiss against the crook of your neck. And then another, and another. 

“You’re just anxious,” you whisper, sucking a mark into Rafayel’s neck as he moans so sweetly against your ear. “I can help you relax.”

You wiggle your hips to better balance yourself on his lap and Rafayel looks almost near tears, one hand forcing you still while the other grabs your wrist, trailing kisses from your fingertips back up to your neck.

More. You need more. Rushing, your hands fly up into his hair, about to tug Rafayel to lay down on the couch when a crack echoes behind you. 

The glass lays shattered against the floor. 

Panting, Rafayel stares at the spilled water for a long moment before pulling away. You feel his erection digging into your thigh, the warmth of his fever spiking yet again as his skin burns against yours, yet he still refuses. 

“As you said, I’m anxious…” Still panting, Rafayel picks you up, gently lifting you up as he stands from the couch. “Or, more like restless. In every sense of the word.” 

The need in his eyes almost makes your knees buckle. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he could ever crave, like a bite would both be salvation and leave him hungry forever. 

“But see, now I can’t stand the idea of letting you go again, and you don’t want me to either.” He sets you down just a little farther than necessary, but his hands don’t leave your waist, trembling, waiting. “What should we do?”

“Rafayel…” You want him. You want him so badly it hurts. 

“Fuck.” 

You nearly jump at that. Rafayel curses again, his head falling onto your shoulder as his breath hitches. “I can feel your concern. That and…” another convulsion, his body burning up. “Fuck. You have to leave.”

You don’t even have time to retort before you’re pushed out of his hotel room, and the door slams shut behind you. 

By the third time, you know something is wrong. 

It’s not that you and Rafayel haven’t kissed yet. Hell, you’ve had sex before. The last time was quite literally on the night before you were supposed to leave for this trip. Obviously, Rafayel suggested that you stay at his place for the night—insisting he was closer to the airport and getting an Uber would be quicker this way—and one thing led to another, as is what happens nearly every time Rafayel and you are left alone for too long. 

But now it’s been nearly a week and Rafayel has barely touched you, let alone picked up on your not-so-subtle clues. 

So yes, it's safe to say you’ve become rather pent up. 

You’ve fallen asleep in the off-roader the two of you rented out for the day, bobbing up and down the dunes like waves flecked white not with seafoam but snow. There’s a chill as you drift off, but your dreams are anything but, plagued with memories of Rafayel. 

His hands, deft and talented with a brush, are even more so when teasing your skin, knowing exactly how to trace delicate circles against your thighs before roughly curling into your cunt. His tongue, every smartass comment and teasing grin now silenced as he licks and sucks against your clit. His body, the warmth of it, bearing down on you with every thrust, or perhaps writhing beneath you as you take him again and again and again— 

It’s the cold that wakes you up. 

Your eyes flutter open, first noticing the dim light of the hotel parking lot, and second, the burning desire still aching between your legs. 

“Rafayel?”

A shuffle makes you turn, and you find said man still seated in the driver’s seat, unbuckled as he sits with his head resting on his hand. 

“Yes, cutie?” Rafayel’s tone is teasing, but the way he stares down at you feels like anything but. The hunger is back. 

Sitting up, you clear your throat. “How long have I been asleep? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You seemed like you were having such a nice dream, I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

You inhale sharply. Glaring, you try and see if he’s teasing again or being serious, but Rafayel doesn’t let you read him for long, already leaning over the middle console. 

He places his lips gently on your temple, brushing over the skin, and then moves down to your cheek, his breath warm against your neck. He whispers your name, so softly you almost think it was a trick of your imagination.

Your mind goes blank when he kisses your jaw, a small noise escaping the back of your throat as you feel his hair tickle your skin.

"Raf," you mumble under your breath, but you know he hears it because he exhales sharply against you.

Rafayel trails a series of kisses up your neck, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, cutie." His body temperature is rising again, and the air in the van feels dangerously thin as he sways in your grasp. "I'm trying."

The hunger is back, all-consuming and hot as you genuinely fear you might burn up. A wave of dizziness washes over you, and you finally cup Rafayel's jaw, leading him towards your lips.

Yet again, he stops you halfway.

“Do you want to go back to your room first?”

At first you think he’s suggesting moving there before continuing, but you know better at this point. 

“You’re not coming with me?” 

Rafayel pulls out the invitation from before, waving it between the two of you as if all this was the letter’s fault. “I still have to attend my friend’s salon thing.”

“But you’re still burning up! Forget this, I can’t let you go out to who knows where when you’re still acting strange. Maybe we can see a doctor—”

“Cutie…”

“—No, no. Or maybe I can come with you.”

Rafayel says your name this time. Firmer. Cutting off your rambling as he places his forehead against yours. 

“Do you want me to turn into a sea creature that’s beached on the sand after the ocean recedes? Leaving me to suffocate when I come out of the water?” 

You don’t quite know how to respond to that, feeling his desperation in every word even as you struggle to make sense of it.

Rafayel continues, pulling away from you again. “Don’t you trust me? How about we make a promise?”

“What kind of promise?”

A smile. “I promise… I’ll be okay without you tonight.”

There’s no joke, no hidden meaning, just Rafayel who so violently hopes that this promise will hold true. 

So you relent. “Okay, just take care of yourself.”

Finally, Rafayel opens the car door, letting the desert night winds sweep in with a biting chill as he leans back against the driver’s seat. He lets out an almost inaudible sigh. “You can head back. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rafayel promised he’d be okay without you tonight, but you don’t think the opposite could hold true. 

Not when the dizziness Rafayel caused remained. Not when you still feel the phantom touch of his lips and hands all over your body, burning you up, leaving you cold and empty and aching. 

You’ve been burning for the better part of a week now.  

Something stuck between a laugh and a cry of pure frustration leaves you as you fall onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “This is pathetic.”

Even the damned sheets smell like Rafayel, pillows deeply laced with his shampoo and the smell of his cologne—amber, yuzu, and something salty like the ocean—surrounding you as though this were his hotel room and not yours.

Desert nights were cold, but even the room's chill could do nothing to quell your desire, arms shaking with it as you quickly stripped yourself of your shirt and bra. The room spins as you stumble around, leaving your clothes on the floor, another delirious whimper seizing you as you sprawl against the silk sheets. 

You need him. 

Fuck, you need him, and you hate him for leaving you while the growing ache between your thighs threatens to swallow you whole.

The sheets are deliciously cool against your flushed skin, and you turn your head to rest your cheek in the cool embrace of the pillow. But it only needs a second to heat from your desire. 

And then the room is all too hot once again. 

Kicking off your pants, your hand snakes down your bare torso, leaving half-hearted squeezes to your breasts and hips, failing to replicate the touch Rafayel already has you addicted to. The memory only makes you more frustrated. 

A hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and fuck, you’re dripping enough to ease your fingers in already. You force yourself to slow down, rubbing slow circles around your entrance, the mere friction enough to have your hips bucking up against nothing. 

Inhaling sharply, you slide a finger into your weeping cunt, a moan pushing from your lungs as you do. Not enough. It’s not enough.

You force yourself to draw each movement out, the curl of your wrist accompanied by your muffled cries and the slick, obscene sounds echoing alongside your ragged breath. Withdrawing your finger nearly to the fingertip, two plunge back in this time, and your back arches off the bed with violent tremors as you imagine it was Rafayel's hand instead.

How he’d tease you in the early mornings to wake you up, how he’d take special care of every sensitive spot on your body, how he’d draw his fingers along your clit just the way that will make you come undone.

And as your fingers find that sensitive bundle of nerves, the way you cry his name into the empty room is no different.

Your head is spinning, falling, your thighs shake, and it's not long before you're gasping out, "Rafayel, please.”

Still not enough. Every rough thrust of your fingers brings you higher and higher, but without the pressure of Rafayel's chest pressed to yours, or his hot breath ghosting across your ear, his voice, his lips, his touch—

Without him.

A sob rips from your throat, your hips bucking uselessly against the air as you fuck yourself harder, deeper. But your fingers are only so long, and your free hand, fisting the sheets, is unable to make up the difference. "No, no please," a whine, and your free hand rushes to circle your clit, the other picking up pace.

You're close, so close, sobbing his name when the dizziness from the car returns tenfold, overtaking your body in waves as your eyes roll back. "Please, ah! Rafayel, m’cumming-"

The world goes silent as pleasure surges through you, muscles convulsing, a choked, garbled sound escaping as you come. Collapsing back against the sheets, you struggle to catch your breath, the stickiness of both the heat and your orgasm coating your thighs. 

There’s another tug, a violent pull against your chest, but the dizziness remains. 

You know you should change the sheets or at least move them aside, but you can’t manage to do either as you rush to shower before Rafayel returns from his friend’s exhibition. 

It’s only when you stumble into the bathroom that you notice it. 

Shit. This is Rafayel’s room. 

You must be trying to kill him.

Surely, this is the gods' cruelest trial—a final test of his resolve—to see if he’d bow once more, forsaking divinity and succumbing to the temptation of you.

Because it’s been barely an hour, and Rafayel has already resigned himself from the party, passing blank smiles and empty compliments as he quietly counts down the minutes until he can return to the hotel, when suddenly he feels it.

The tug of your bond flashes through his body as his dick aches.

Rafayel freezes mid-sentence, the polite smile he'd been wearing slipping from his face. The conversation at the bar around him, something about chiaroscuro in the artist’s latest piece, become muffled static as the chains tighten, digging into his heart. 

It’s unmistakable now. The rhythm, the rising intensity, the waves of pleasure that don’t belong to him but still manage to spark delirious heat up his veins.

Rafayel’s breaths quicken, body temperature rising as his Evol flickers out of his control. He glances around the room, feigning interest in the conversation, the glittering glasses of champagne, the faint hum of the crowd. It doesn’t work. The only thing he can focus on is you.

He should leave. Go outside, breathe in the night air, and let the tether between you both loosen, just to regain control. Just to prove to himself it’s not too late.

But the bond tightens, as invasive as it is intoxicating, demanding Rafayel’s attention like a leash coiled around his neck. It’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s primal, every nerve in his body pulled taut like you’re screaming his name over and over into the depths of his soul. 

It’s not fair.

No god can deny the prayer of a worshipper.

Your pleasure becomes his, and when Rafayel closes his eyes, he swears he can feel your phantom hands on him, dick already heavy and throbbing, leaking through his expensive trousers.

Are you in bed, thighs trembling as you grind against your own palm? Or maybe the shower, steam curling around you as you chase release? Or worse—are you riding something of his? His shirt? His pillow? Is this vengeance a cruel punishment meant to shatter what little resolve he has left? 

Shit. He’s hard.

“Hey man, what’s wrong? You good?” 

The slam of a glass brings him back. Gods, he hates these rich socialites. 

The champagne glass Rafayel was holding is now covered in cracks, blood trickling down his ring finger. He’s unraveling, composure fracturing with every pulse of your pleasure surging in and out as violently as a full moon’s tide. 

Rafayel looks up, smiling. “Stress. And apparently a very needy pet.”

The man laughs at what he assumed was a joke, but Rafayel sees his hesitation, the type animals give when they pick up rustling in the bush. Fear. 

Rafayel’s grin only widens, all teeth. “I should probably go check on her. Wonderful party,” he adds, lifting his glass in a half-hearted toast before setting it down with a sharp clink.

As he steps outside, the desert air does nothing to soothe him. If anything, the dryness makes it worse as the pull becomes sharper, like you’re reaching for him, your need coiling tighter around his chest.

A growl, almost feral, rumbles low in his throat as he staggers down the cobblestone streets. He doesn’t need directions. He doesn’t even need to think. His body moves instinctively, guided by the bond, by you. 

Rafayel swears he can feel you all across his body, your heartbeat picking up as you get closer, the smell of your skin and arousal, the cries of his name that only become more and more desperate as you fail to bring yourself over the edge without him. 

You’re begging for him in a way his bond mistakes for worship, because Rafayel’s body feels like it’s burning. Like blood spilled on his altar, an offering of yourself to your god, your husband.

The thought that you might be doing so unintentionally only drives him further into madness.

But, beneath the frustration, there’s something else. A glimmer of something Rafayel hates to name but knows all too well: relief.

Because as much as he might deny it, Rafayel could never leave you. And now that you’ve reciprocated, now that you’ve begged for him oh so sweetly, he would gladly submit to his bond and become chained to you once again, forever at your mercy, unable to escape the inevitability of his fate.

He doesn’t even knock when he reaches the hotel room door. It swings open under the force of his hand, and the sight of you standing there—wide-eyed, startled, only in a bath towel—hits him like a blow to the chest.

There's a soft click as Rafayel locks the door. A hurried shuffle of shoes as he all but stumbles toward you, closing the distance between you in one hurried, unstoppable motion. A startled gasp as he grabs your face in his hands.

It's the last breath you take.

An arm wraps around your waist, blocked by only a flimsy hotel towel as Rafayel violently spins you around. Your surprise is swallowed by his lips as you’re pinned against the window, the chill of the desert snow, frosted against the glass, a harsh contrast to the burn of his touch. His hand pins yours at the wrist as he stares down at your fingers.

“Rafayel? What are you doing here?” 

The question barely gets out, not before he rushes forward to claim you in a kiss, if it was even that. A desperate, consuming need overtakes him, Rafayel pushing you back so insistently that your head hits the window with a thud, pain immediately distracted as his clothed knee grinds up between your bare thighs. 

Holy fuck, just a towel. Right.

You try to push him back, one hand pressing against his chest as the other flies back to tighten the towel. “Wait–”

Rafayel kisses you again. And again. And again. 

You can feel the cloth slipping.

But Rafayel makes it very hard to care. His hand traces your throat, your heartbeat, then drags you closer by your hips as he thrusts forward in time, still caging you against the window. He’s relentless, every kiss only broken with a ragged breath or gasp as though he’s given up on breathing entirely, content to consume you instead, his tongue sweeping against your lip before it coaxes yours to meet it halfway, licking and sucking into your mouth.

It’s obscene, animalistic, and you swear that there has to be something wrong with you because the dizziness is back, and this time it’s enough to make your knees buckle, the two of you blindly stumbling across the hotel room.

So you bite him. 

“Why–” Breathe. Remember how to breathe. “Why are you here?”

Rafayel almost looks offended, thumbing his bitten lip before licking away the smudge of blood with a lopsided smile. 

Fuck, he’s hard. You feel the heat of his cock jolt against your thigh, pressing into you as he surges forward again, kissing you as his hands squeeze and cup your waist, lifting you up.

"Why?" Rafayel laughs, roughly grinding up against you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. "This is my room, remember? You’re the one who decided to come in here." He growls the last part, licking, biting, sucking at your throat. 

“Or was that intentional?”

The look in his eyes is feral. 

There’s no hesitation left, no half-riddled questions, no sweet praises, no semblance of your devoted lover. Just hunger. He’s rushing, pushing forward even with nowhere to go, almost in revenge. In punishment. Your teeth click together, foreheads bumping, unable to talk because when you try to open your mouth his tongue only slides in deeper. 

The wet sounds echo against your ears alongside your racing heartbeat, only causing you to grind harder, rougher, before Rafayel ungracefully drops you onto the bed. 

Your body bounces on the mattress, but it gives you a moment, and you scramble to cover Rafayel’s lips with your palm before he can begin devouring you again. 

“What I meant was, shouldn’t you still be at that art salon?”

He all but collapses into your touch. Lips parted, he grabs your wrist, tongue darting out as he licks up your middle and ring fingers, moaning against your skin. 

“I tried. I tried going, leaving.” He's panting, breathing in your scent before biting your palm. “But you called me back, you cruel, selfish human. And now I’ll never leave again.”

Your words come out between moans, unable to look away. “I called? I didn’t do—” You’re cut off as Rafayel licks up your skin, sucking lightly at your fingertips as his eyes, half-lidded and blown out stare down into yours. 

Oh.

A hot flush of embarrassment seizes you and Rafayel must sense it because his eyes flutter closed. His hips snap forward, grinding his erection into the side of the bed, and he lets out a low whine.

Gods, the taste of your cum lingers in Rafayel’s mouth. Every dry swallow, every inhale, every damn breath tastes like you, and it makes him want to submit to every horrid urge and simply consume until—

“You don't think I know? Don't think I can’t tell?” Rafayel goes back to kissing your wrist, needing something more, something stronger. His hand ventures to the edge of your towel. ”Can feel everything you do, no matter how far away I go. Gods, I feel it, feel everything, and it drives me insane. Need you so bad, need to hear you, feel you, taste you..."

A shudder runs up Rafayel’s spine at the mere thought, and he can't stop himself anymore, leaning down to suck your fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around the digits, saliva coating your fingertips. He rips the towel from your body.

"Say you need me too," He’s begging, sinking down to your knees. "Say you need me just as badly. I–ah fuck—I can smell how much you want me."

Throwing the towel to the floor, Rafayel runs his hands down your chest, rougher, long fingers cupping and massaging your breasts as his mouth trails wet kisses down your stomach, his tongue dragging against the smooth skin, a clear goal in mind as he settles between your thighs, looking up at you as though you were a thing worthy of worship. His Goddess. 

He’d offer himself to your alter time and time again. So long as he was the only one who got to bleed for you. 

“Yes.” You’re already soaked, the sight of Rafayel panting between your thighs enough to have you babbling, ”Yes, Rafayel. I needed you so, so badly all week. Couldn’t help m’self, please.”

He freezes at that, pouting. “Right, you already came, didn’t you. So mean, cutie. Leaving me out.”

Before you can argue, Rafayel dips his head, dragging his tongue up your cunt before sucking roughly at your clit. 

Your legs thrash above his shoulders. “Ah– wait, not so!” It’s too much too soon. Still sensitive from your prior orgasm, your back arches violently off the mattress, but Rafayel pays it no heed, deaf to your cries as he sloppily makes out with your pussy, drool and slick connecting his lips to you in sticky strands even as he pulls away just far enough to talk. 

“She’s already so sensitive, s’not fair,” he pouts, mouthing against your thigh as he flicks your throbbing bundle of nerves. You jolt, gasping at the sharp jolt of pain. At the same time, Rafayel fucks his tongue into your cunt, just barely dipping in before he moves back to rub nonsensical patterns on your clit. “But this is mine. I don’t want you touching it without permission anymore.”

Fuck, if you had any semblance of a coherent thought you would have argued, maybe even laughed at the sheer audacity of the man.

Instead, all you can manage is a pathetic whine of his name, because the strange swirls and harsh lines he’s licking into your clit aren’t patterns at all but letters, spelling something over and over and over again. 

R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y—

The ring of the hotel phone buzzes from the nightstand. It’s the artist whose party Rafayel left only minutes ago.

“Tch,” Rafayel scoffs in annoyance, whiping his chin as he goes to decline the call.

But this gives you a moment to breathe, and all you can think of is getting revenge. Especially on the bastard who tried to take Rafayel from you tonight. 

“Wait,” you grab his wrist. “You’re just going to hang up? What if it was something important?”

Rafayel turns to you with narrowed eyes, knowing there’s no good intent behind your wicked smile. It turns you on more than you can admit, the sight of his glare, mad at both the call and you interrupting his feast. But Rafayel can't deny you anything and does as he’s told, pressing accept. 

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message.”

Instantly, you have Rafayel on his back. 

His neck looks far too bare, and you climb onto his lap, enjoying the way his pulse kicks up under your palm.

Ripping his shirt’s buttons off, you begin biting dark spots down the pale expanse of his chest and neck. You’re about to aim right for the glowing mark on his chest when the phone beeps again, playing a voice recording of a clearly very drunk man. 

“Why did you leave, bro? Come back here r’now. One more round of drinks a—” Incoherent laughter and sounds of clinking glasses. 

No. No, Rafayel’s not allowed to leave you, not again. 

You don’t know where the fear comes from, but you force yourself closer on top of him, breasts pressing into his abs as Rafayel shivers beneath you. Leaning down, you kiss the glowing mark atop his heart, admiring the way it flickers and glows when Rafayel bucks into your touch, moaning as you begin to nip and suck in earnest. 

And then you’re flipped onto the mattress once more. 

Rafayel’s heaving, arms trembling to keep himself up. Away. “...Are you sure?”

“If I don’t, then you might actually leave. What will you say if you’re asked why you didn’t go back?”

Rafayel smirks, and you catch a glimpse of fangs as he sits back on his knees. There’s a click, the rough sound of metal on metal as he undoes his belt, unzipping his trousers with one hand as the other cups the inside of your thigh, yanking it over his shoulder as he drags you down the bed. “I’m busy.”

And then he’s kissing you. 

You’re lost, so hopelessly lost in each other that you fail to notice the phone beep once again, the monotone voice of the machine saying, “Please leave a message at the tone,” before flashing twice, still running. 

Again, Rafayel seems to forget the concept of breathing, gasping into your lips as he ruts his hips into yours. “You’re not leaving me, right?” Fuck, he’s leaking all over his stomach, pre-cum splattering across your thighs.

“Never. I’ll never leave you, Rafayel.”

“Then tell me you’re mine. Tell me, please, please—hah—tell me and I’ll do anything, promise cutie, promise.” He’s all but gasping between kisses, cock trapped between his body and yours as he grinds forward, voice a pitch or so higher than it usually would be. “Say it, say you're mine, tell me, I need to hear it again."

He's talking in circles, rambling, the desperation in his voice palpable. Grasping the base of his cock, he sloppily fisting himself once, twice, before thumping against your entrance.

“I’m yours, Rafayel.” You writhe, grinding yourself up against him in hopes that he’s just hurry the fuck up.

“Again.”

“I’m yours, yours Rafayel.”

“Again, ah—again,” he’s nuzzling into your neck, lifting your leg higher and higher, pinning it to your head as he folds you into a matting press. Still, he refuses to press in, cock throbbing against your clit as he hugs you tight, every muscle in your body screaming in protest and pleasure. “Again, please, please.”

“I’m-” You’re either gasping or crying, words flooding out, ”Rafayel’s, I’m Rafayel’s.”

At that, Rafayel’s entire body convulses. He sobs, finally thrusting forward, bullying up into you bit by bit, forcing you to count every inch as the entirety of his weight bares down onto you. 

You can feel the way his muscles shift, the way his arms bulge and contract as he holds himself above you, hips flush against yours. The desert air must be infecting him, because Rafayel is dripping sweat, flushed from his ears to his chest as he begins to pull out and slowly grind himself back in. 

His voice is wrecked, breathless as he tries to kiss you, missing slightly as he sucks against your bottom lip, drooling. "I'm yours too, I'm yours." At the same time, his cock jerks in you, burying deeper with every filthy roll of his hips, throbbing against your sweet spots. 

Then something snaps, Rafayel’s lips sealed back on yours, and the rhythm he sets is brutal.

Rafayel's cock drags over your walls, molding you in ways you never thought possible. Each thrust is hard, deep, and leaves you gasping, eyes rolling back into your head as you arch off the mattress, nowhere to go as his body folds yours damn near in half, weight bearing down on you.

It's all you can do to wrap your arms around him, nails scratching into his back, drawing thin lines of blood across his shoulder blades as you try to stay grounded, keep your mind from being swept away as the dizziness returns.

But the pressure building up in the pit of your stomach makes it hard.

Harder still as Rafayel begins mumbling into your lips, the filth pouring from his mouth making you clench, cunt fluttering around his cock as he pounds into you.

He can see and feel everything like this. Unable to look away from your face only inches away, watching every expression with love-drunk eyes, hugging you closer, fucking you harder.

"Can feel you, can feel you getting tighter. You're close right? Say you're close, please, mhm fuck." he's panting, and if you focus hard enough you can hear the sloppy noises of him sliding in and out, wet and obscene, the harsh slap of his balls against the curve of your ass.

But then Rafayel’s pushing himself lower, your legs dangling uselessly in the air as his chest is pressed so tight against yours you can barely take a breath.

"You're mine, only I can touch you like this, feel this. My wife. Say it, say you're mine, wanna hear it, please. Please, ah, I’ll do anything, say it."

He's barely pulling out anymore, resigning to quick, deep grinds as though he can’t bear to part.

Too uncoordinated to kiss you, Rafayel's head falls to your neck, sobbing into your marked-up skin before messily kissing atop the bruises.

"Yours. Yours. I'm yours, your wife," the words spill from your lips before you can even think, and Rafayel nearly passes out trying to stop himself from cumming then and there. 

It’s like you’re trying to milk him, hugging him closer and ankles wrapped around his neck as he’s lifting your hips right off the bed. But now he needs to see it.

Needs to know the way you'll cry out his name, how your eyes will glaze over and roll back into your head, the way your chest will heave, the sweat that will pool at the valley between your breasts, the way the skin will flush from a soft pink to a burning red as you lose yourself in the feeling. To him.

It's the only thing he's able to concentrate on, the only thing he's able to think of. The feeling of your body beneath him, the sound of his name on your lips. 

And that alone is enough.

Rafayel’s orgasm is sudden, a jolt of pleasure that surges up his spine with enough intensity to have him collapse, pinning your body beneath him. You can feel it, the way his cum splatters against the walls of your womb, painting your insides, filling you up until the excess squirts out around his cock and your intertwined thighs. He can't stop his hips, can't stop the way he grinds his pelvis against yours, trying to get deeper and deeper still. 

"Mine, mine, mine," is all he can say, eyes wide and pupils blown out as he watches the way your body twitches, a mixture of sweat and cum painting your body as you nearly pass out in exhaustion. "Gonna- gonna fill you up, fuck, so pretty, my pretty girl, pretty wife, gonna make sure it sticks, so I’ll never leave. So you’ll never leave me again."

You're cumming.

He can feel the way your cunt spasms, the way your walls lure him back in, the way you tremble and shake as you throw your head back with tears. 

Rafayel can't stop himself from leaning down and biting, teeth sinking into the crook of your neck, his hands grabbing at any bit of flesh he can find. All the while he fucks you through your orgasm, the mess of fluids creating the most obscene noises as they squish and bubble out, pooling out from between your bodies. 

As you’re swaying in and out of reality, you think you see it. A field of red flame lilies, a poison so sweet that when you drink it, you lick your lips and thank the gods. 

God. Just one, the one of the sea and the flaming sun. 

The one who's still kneeling before you. 

The one who you love. 

"Maximum voicemail length reached, recording sent."

♱⋅── a/n: Uber now canonically exists in the lnds universe, thanks. Also, I would have included the absolutely gut-wrenching aftercare included in the card with MC asking Rafayel to sing for her, but honestly I would not change that scene in the slightest and am content to believe that is exactly what happened next.

Oh the things I’d give to hear Raf sing~

[tonycries]

Heat Waves - C.K.

Synopsis. The two things they don’t tell you about a hot emo half-curse? 1. He’s in heat. 2 He needs you badly.

Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, slight omégaverse, HEATS, roommates-to-Iovers, he goes FÉRAL, matíng presses, size kínk, knots, he’s huge, squírting, dúmbifícation, Choso with piercings n’ tattoos, pheromones, use of jujutsu, MARATHONS, creampíes, cúmplay, matíng marks, stopping you from running, proposals, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 7.6k

A/N. She’s BACK and she wrote this during a power cut ummm?

“Choso, are you in there?”

You’re nervously gnawing on the inside of your cheek, feet shuffling as you wait outside of your strange new roommate’s bedroom.

Summer. 

And the scorched air outside wasn’t the only thing that was sizzling, it felt like your skin was pricked with countless goosebumps at the temperature inside of your cozy lil’ apartment. Each heady wave of heat originating from his room.

Half-wondering whether you should call his pink-haired little brother for assistance, your fingers rap once more on the firmly shut mahogany door. Calling out, “I’m coming in, okay?”

There’s a noise from inside- a gasp. 

And then something that sounded like a low, guttural…moan at the very sound of your voice. The humidity only rising. Brows furrowing, warmth creeping, you just barely start turning that doorknob open—“Choso, what is-”

Oh. 

.

.

.

Seventy-four days.

Seventy-four days since Choso had started rooming with you, thanks to your associates higher up at Jujutsu High. And seventy four days since he’d wanted to tear off your tiny sleep shorts and wrench your pretty legs apart to stuff you all full of his-

Fuck. 

And just like that, he’d been hit with his annual heat cycle on the hottest day of the month. 

All part of being half a curse, he grouches. 

Maybe it was the paper-thin t-shirt you’d been wearing this morning, maybe it was just how you’d batted your lashes as you greeted him in the hallway.

Maybe it was the way all he had to do was fucking stand next to you to smell how sweet that pussy of yours was, throbbing away between your thighs. Thump! Thump! Thump! 

But here he was- one step inside of his sweltering bedroom, only a single inch that you’re toeing past the door frame, and he’s bolted out of the bed to slam against you. Heaving chest to chest, back to wall. 

Mouth crashing-

You don’t know what burns more - the push of his toned, rippling flesh radiating pure heat, crushing against you, or his lips. Choso grabs you, Adam’s apple bobbing dryly as he damn near sobs at the contact of your spit-glossed lips.

“Ch-Choooso–!” You’re squealing, kissing back in earnest. Your rationality only a faint inkling now, “What’s gotten- hah! into y- fuck!” 

Before you know it, he’s fisted his shaking, prolonged fingers into your shirt to rip the fabric down the middle-

Gasping, your knees knock together weakly once he sticks a clammy palm to the valley between your tits and tears up. Your wetly ajar maw breaking away from his own with a sultry dampened noise, followed almost instantly by a strained whine as Choso registers the feeling of his attack on your mouth dwindling. 

Just about the only thing he could be struck with right now. 

CRASH!

One of his big, beefy forearms slams on the patch of wall above you, flecks of plaster snowing down at his sheer inhuman strength. “Stay…” And his other arm greedily claws at your throat, jolting at the sound of your oh-so-cute gasp as if your voice made something deep n’ dark down inside him twitch. “-away.”

And you might not have known him the longest, but Choso Kamo never sounded so rough. So…gone.

Rugged and husky. 

He’s peering down at you through his towering height with semi-widened hazel eyes like he couldn’t dare look away and oh-

Oh, Choso looked ruined.

You’re gazing up at him for the first time now - really, really gazing up at him - in all his desperate, clammy glory. Heat sticking to him like a second skin. Mouth parted. Throat parched. 

His expression was almost dazed, still drinking in the sight of you as if he was just seeing a phantom walk into his bedroom. 

Choso’s skin was simmering with a blush that made him look feverish, the cracks between his bangs the only thing revealing his dark, half-lidded stare. He’d hounded you like a predator closing in on his prey. 

Ready to pounce. 

And you gulp, squirming at the scraping itch of his pointed nails. The pads of his fingers plant pressure on your airway as if he didn’t want you to even speak, couldn’t handle it. “Wanna stay, Cho–”

Ah, that did it.

Choso had been shivering- shuddering viscerally as he loomed above you, fawny lashes fluttering like he was holding himself painfully back. Away - only to snap the very second his nickname stumbles out of your beautiful, beautiful mouth so that he has to shut you up before you cause any more damage to his sanity.

Whimpering, the bite of his extra-honed canines makes your lips sting. “Oh- ngh, slow down-” 

“Can’t.”

His voice cracks. 

“F-fuck…” Just the sound of his lilted, crazed bass is enough for your thighs to clamp yearningly together. Chasing just the slightest friction, he sounded so sensual that it made your pussy so-

“Oh.”

This time, it’s Choso who’s breaking off the lurid kiss with a sticky mwah! The syrup of your saliva gluing to his rosy, puckered lips when he lurches his head downwards and sniffs. 

Right between your legs. 

It’s as if he could sense something you couldn’t, jaw slowly unhinging further open the wetter you became. Until your inner thighs were sheened with a splotchy puddle of your slick and Choso was drooling. 

“Oh.” He’s repeating, like a broken record. It’s just then at the air grows murky, as if your roommate had suddenly emptied out your most favorite syrupy bodyspray then and there. Body twitching, “Oh.”

And before you could blink away the haze in your eyes and say something about the glittery sprinkle of spittle travelling down the side of his mouth, Choso’s powerful knees hit the floor with a booming bang! 

If he could feel any pain then he doesn’t show it, can’t even manage to twist his expression into anything but a look of utter fucking hunger. Rabid at the mouth.

“O-oh my god are you…” You had half the mind to push his face back and ask whether he was okay- but the harrowed look in Choso’s peripheries stopped you. He needed this. And he needed this now. 

He looked just as surprised as you, almost as if he was in disbelief at the way his trembling fingers were digging into your flimsy skirt. The battle-worn calluses of his fingertips slicing through the cute satin cloth like it was butter, Choso barely even hesitates a second to breathe before he’s stuffing his face into your sopping, clothed pussy.

Nose-deep, and Choso cups the cheeks of your ass to push himself even deeper. 

Lips meeting puffy, achin’ lips. 

“H-nghhh—” Dribbles from your mouth stain your lips all dewy wet, and you can’t do anything but sift your fingers through Choso’s auburn locks and pull- 

“Don’t.”

You watch in awe when he’s surging forwards to crush the tip-top of his straight nosebridge into the slope of your pussy. Rubbing lightly against that cute lil’ bow decorating the hemline of your panties, “But you can’t even breathe like that-”

“Don’t.” Comes out his growling warning again. Before Choso’s taking a final deep inhale of your saccharine sweetness- fuck, your tight cunt just smelled so sweet that he can feel his cock jolting already. Gulping back a bucketload of ravenous spit, “Don’t.” He doesn’t have to breathe. 

Tone hitched. Tastebuds parched. It’s the last thing that he’s muttering—“Starved…”

Before Choso crushes the underside of his tongue past your sodden panties and tastes you- just a singular drop of your syrupy sweet slick, a singular ounce, and you think you may have broken him.

Because his broad back stills, dark eyes widening. And you’re just about to wrench your mouth open in question before he’s back flopping his tongue past your underwear.

Caressing your swollen pussylips with his pointed tip in a French kiss, Choso swats your stupid lil’ panties aside - why did you even need those - to drink you in. To sluuuurp up every given droplet of your dewy wet juices like he was a man starved. 

And his eyes were still widened, damn near bulging out of his poor sockets once he’s tilting his head sexily to the side n’ flicking your sloppy entrance. 

Grunting at the slight friction of your cotton panties, “Puh-pussy.” His husky utterance makes your thighs clench- something that Choso can not fucking bear because he’s pushing himself even deeper. Further. “Pussy.”

“Sh-shit–” You’d have easily collapsed onto his bedroom floor if it wasn’t for the way that one of his roughened palms was cupping your ass to hold you up. Supporting your weight like a feather. “Choso my…my panties.”

And it was true- oh, he didn’t give a fuck about those. 

Letting them skid over his jaw, Choso’s just barely blinking his glassy eyes down at the now-transparent piece of cloth covering your pussymound like he’d just realized that was still there. 

Sounding out your cute shriek, “P-panties…” Even if he wanted to, it was such torture to even think about pulling away. Still lugging his tastebuds down the glittering crevice of your slit, one of his indexes creeps forward to tease the elastic of your underwear and let it spring back with a resounding snap!

“Hey- rude-”

Barely even letting the syllables escape your mouth, Choso’s lips curl into a feral smirk whilst he nibbles down on the edge of your panties and rip-rip-riiiiips!

All with his canines.

He’s undressing you like he was unwrapping his next meal - on his knees, eyes boring up at you and- shit. Shit shit shit- it’s just then that you’re hit with the thought that you might not even make it out of this alive. 

Because within a singular bat of your lashes, Choso’s bolting up with your pliable body in tow, pushing you onto the nearby bed, throwing your legs wiiide open.

So fast you wonder whether he’d lost control of his powers and somehow teleported - you wouldn’t be surprised. 

Yelping, “Oh- what- oh my nghh- Choso!”

“Your p-pussy.” He’s keening out, dark brows scrunching with aching need whilst you’re barely done bouncing on the bed before he’s smearing your pussylips apart and taking a gooood long look at you. 

Hypnotic, the plump ends of his lips hover oh-so-close near your slippery slit. And you wonder whether he’s trying to drive you mad by trawling that horizontal shape of his nose tattoo across the top of your cunt. Panting, “My baby’s pussy.”

The fringe of Choso’s rovering tongue is so fat, stuffed thickly between your folds so that it felt like your hole was being stretched to the maximum. A low whimper breaks at the back of his throat when he’s feeling the resistance, snarling—“Inside. Need- inside.”

“B-but—” And that primal shrill of yours turns into a sob once Choso’s only keepin’ your thighs pushed further apart. The mountains of his palm bruising five straight lines of his fingers as he gropes on.

“No- no.” Striking the curve of his chin against your pussy, when Choso was in heat - he was thirsty. Nipping your outer cunt with the edges of his fangs, “Let me. Let me let me let me- oh.”

Push after push, his half-closed eyes are so blurry with lust that your cursed roommate is acting on pure, animalistic instinct. Gnawing on the left of your bloated labia like a gum before he draaaags it backwards and plunges his tongue in deeper.

Choso takes one look at the way your glistening hole was all wet n’ clamping down over nothing before he can’t help but hold your folds open whilst he fills you up stupid. “Wet…so…”

He can’t even finish his sentences - his thoughts, just that drunk on your treacly pussy.

Wailing, “Slow down, Cho–!” You’re nearly choking on the heady wave of pheromones that gust from down below just at that simple nickname. Tugging on his clammy bangs, “Y-you’re gonna–”

“Don’t care.” He’s groaning out a throaty answer, each syllable punctured with a lick of his textured tongue past your entrance like he didn’t even realize he was talking. “Don’t care. Don’t need to- breathe. Just need…”

And the next thing you hear is the wettest, rawest squeeeelch! emanating into the tense air once Choso snakes his right hand upwards to pluck a ringed finger between your lips. 

He hisses, fighting with himself for possessive reign over whose lapping up more of your sleek juices. Cheeks hollowed, he’s latching onto your clit and playfully biting as the slimy crown of his digit rovers inside. 

And the stretch- oh, the fucking stretch had your pupils whirling dizzily inside the whites of your eyes. 

“Sh-shit- w-were your hands always this ngh- big?”

Because, really, Choso’s hunched-over back only seemed to flex bigger the more he’s tasting you. His fingers longer, pearly whites sharper. Eyes gleaming–

“Big?” Choso breathes from below you, long lashes shuttering as his eyes widen. Oh, he was just realizing- and that tone did not bode well for your poor, impaling pussy. 

“B-big.” Because he shifts, he jerks his head just the slightest inch to register his sudden strength n’ size. Before grinning—“Then take-” Slurring, your roommate tugs your puffed-up folds just barely enough to the side so that he could slip in the knobbly ends of a second finger. “-take it, my baby.”

It’s like you were made to take it. 

Your elastic hole snagging on the ridges of his slender fingers, you throw your head back and moan at the sudden impact of Choso pursing his pretty pink lips and spitting on your pussy. 

“Y-you know what else the head of the Choso clan can control?” 

Just about the longest sentence his heat-filled mind has managed so far, he’s snagging the caps of his nail polish-chipped fingertips into the side of your walls and spreeading your cunt apart to let his pearly glob of saliva slither inside. 

Immediately making you feel hypnotized, making you feel as if you were sweltering.

Oh, shit. 

The realization makes your head lift off of your dampened pillows- he controls blood and…

He has the audacity to grin when the slimy ribbon of his saliva stirs in circles ‘round and ‘round your snug channel. Controlled. Filthy. 

Watching your every minute squirm with bated breath, Choso nestles that droplet against your tenderest weeping orifices. Shocked. Ready. Like a wolf stumbling upon resh blood he’s breathing—“There”

Something in him twitches. 

Something in him awakens, hips grinding against the bed. 

And then you’re watching Choso’s nosebridge tattoo deepen, you’re watching him lazily flicker his pinkish tongue over the perked nub of your clit while his fingers were ravaging you from the inside out. He wanted to ruin you. 

He was whacking his cold metallic rings against the gummy insides of your cunt and hoping that it bruised. Carving a cute lil’ ‘C’ right at the edge of your g-spot where you needed him the most, his high cheekbones flush. “Can control this. You. Her.”

Quirking the wide end of his index against your sweetest spot, Choso stuffs a third finger and lets all three rounded curves treat your g-spot like a bullseye. Probin’ so deep with their frigid designs into your every nook and cranny, Choso elbows your thighs open once the pressure makes you thrash.

You’re bucking off of the silken sheets, your slick-plastered thighs smushing each side of his handsome cheeks. “There- o-ohhh my god k-keep going-”

“Th-there.” Choso’s smiling. Something feral. “There- there- there.” Hit after hit, he’s sticking his maw against your slit and makin’ out with your sappy lips with a dopey smile. Unfocused. Throat relaxing to let the miry wads of your sweet, sweet sap flood his tastebuds.

They’re damn near sizzling as they stick to your puckering hole as if made of adhesive, slashes of his refined tongue making your cunt sing almost as much as your voice box was. “F-fuck, m’not gonna last, Cho—”

He’d noticed - that sixth, sensual sense of his cursed energy that was making him scour your walls with his curvaceous digits. That primal sense in him.

And that’s all he needed to hear.

The ringed bands of his rings spanking your g-spot like he was maddened, lips wrapped so hard as he sucks on your throbbing clit that they’re starting to ache. 

More.

More more more- he needed fucking more of you before you’re cumming all over his face. And ah- how much more would you drench his snogging mouth when you reach your high?

Choso unfastens his jaw all wiiide and lets your slobbering drags push against his chin. Pushed so nose-deep between your twitching thighs that you can barely even understand him. “Cum.”

“Please—” You’re whimpering out shrilly, fucking music in his ears that makes him spread his meaty thighs apart and push his aching erection into the mattress. “Cho— I’m gonna mmm- m’gonna-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before Choso’s finishing you off. 

With a few more vulgar, sloppy strokes that set your teeth on edge. Your roommate doesn’t care for any method, he doesn’t care for any technique because he’s lavishing his velvety mouth everywhere. 

From your pulsating clit, to the gasping circle of your entrance, to right past where three of his lengthy fingers were already filling you up because Choso just couldn’t get enough. And he’s laying his craned neck out across one of your trembling thighs, mouth burning with the cloying taste of you while you cum and cum harder than any of your toys have ever made you. 

“I-it feels so…” Words fail you, and your hands stay firmly wrapped through the valleys of his sweaty scalp for dear life. “-so- nghhh- can’t even d-do anything.”

It was devastating- your vision splotchy with white, toes curling. And the half-curse was so plowed between your pert pussylips that he couldn’t even rear himself back to moan. 

Letting out each moistened ‘fuck’ and ‘oh’ into your gushing pussy. 

Blinded, it’s the only thing he can do to let your rose-shaped insides clench around his dexterous muscle. A sweet lil’ ba-dump–! that matched in carnal synchronization with the beat of your rapid heart, and Choso’s counting about twelve before he finally feels your high bating. 

“No.” He grunts out instantly, eyes widening. Panicked. With a grope to the left side of your waist, Choso latches on a death grip and immediately pulls your restless hips back onto his mouth. Lips wobbling, “No no no no- come back.”

Yelping, “Shit m’so- hck! sensitive, Choso.” Even the slightest pinch of his coral pink lips right over your clit left you seeing stars. 

But he didn’t listen.

He didn’t care.

He’s pushin’ his tongue back between your wet slit with a growl and eyeing how it makes you shudder. “Can’t-” Laughing - laughing - Choso alternates between bumping his rounded index against your g-spot and stretching out his rubbery tongue to lap at your walls. 

Smack after smack every time he flaps his lips, all dangling with gleaming streaks of your hot orgasm. He’s trying to get you to cum once more, but he’s too impatient. 

Too needy for it that all he can do is slash his tongue across your sweetest spots and watch as it only edges you until you’re all dizzy. Sniffing your pussy like you’re his favorite scent, “Can’t fucking stop.”

“Want- ngh! want you—” You’re keening, pushing on the perspiration-sprayed surface of his forehead to no avail. Choso only manhandles your body to glue his lips to yours even further, “Want your cock.”

“H-huh?”

For the first time, your roommate lifts his head from the sinful heaven between your legs with a loud plop! It’s the most lecherous noise, and the only thing wetter than that sound was how wet Choso was.

He’s dripping with syrupy slick from the apples of his high cheekbones down to his sharp jaw, beaded drops of slick hitting your thighs with a pitter-patter. He was flushed. Pheromones burning. Slightly shivering. 

And it looked like the very second you opened your mouth - not even from the sound of your voice, just the mere notion of it - Choso’s nose scrunches and he flinches. “Wan’ your cock…”

“O-oh.”

Oh.

Oh.

You were done for. 

You were absolutely and completely done for- because no sooner are the words out of your mouth that your snug pussy walls are left empty n’ hollow. Void of when he’s dragging his fingers back, making sure to leave a rovering little caress as he pulls out with a soppy slurp!

And then he’s slouching over you, he’s bending you. 

Fully clothed and yet it’s like his heat-melted mind doesn’t even register that, Choso’s holdin’ your dangling ankles spread open while he grinds his swollen, aching cock against your core and groans. 

“Fuck- fuck-” 

He was so fucking hard, and your pussy had felt so damn tight around his tongue. 

Just once. Twice- Choso ruts between your legs like an animal before he’s fumbling for the silvery latch of his belt. Unfreezing, you’re finally helping his dazed fingers through it- whining as you tug on his off-white undershirt, “Take it- off.”

Moaning- he thinks he’s going to die if he doesn’t listen to every word you say. “Please.”

It’s like each sound of your needy voice only makes his weight cock sag further, so it’s such a relief when he’s shoving the rest of his trousers down and letting his red, bulbous tip swab his abs with a stripe of glittering pre. 

You only get a flash of Choso’s cock - rock-fucking-hard, engorged, looking so painful as his lengthy shaft hangs between his pale legs. The mushroomed tip of his cock was burnin’ red and weeping, and- was that- a shiny silver piercing right next to his orifice?

 Like a pretty pink lollipop that you wanted to reach out and-

“Later.”

And then he’s pushing in. 

Then he’s letting his ballooned-up shaft twitch primally at the noise of your sweet, sweet voice, before spreading his meaty thighs and pushing between your tight, glistening cunt. 

“I know-” He’s rasping out, two of his veiny forearms planting underneath your legs to lift them bonelessly onto his shoulders. Ankles hitting his back muscles, “I know I know I know- fuck!”

Nearly screaming at the way your cozy hole was just too small for his pierced tip, resisting the way Choso fits the very reddened point of his cock between your folds and pushes and pushes. Ruts. “O-oh my goddd- nghhh- s’sooo biggg–!”

But your adorable huffing and puffing was only making every ounce of blood pound to his aching cock and make it even bigger. 

Tightly pushing against the rubbery outer edge of your pussy, your pussylips get smeared apart sooo fucking widely by his rigid circumference. 

And no matter how much you’re thrashing and mewling, Choso only tugs apart your cunt with a thumbing of his ringed digit. Deeper, fitting just an inch. 

He gasps- he whines. Just so desperate, and you’re hypnotized by both that ecstatic look on his face to the sweetened, humid atmosphere. 

“Cho! O-oh my god s’not gonna mmm- fit-”

“No.” Choso repeats it like a mantra, and he’s begging with those hooded chestnut eyes of his. Probing your gaze with his dilated pupils, heels digging into your rickety mattress, the head of his swollen shaft squeezed where he was bullying inside. “No no no no- hafta take it. You need to, my baby.”

Long lashes shuttering, you swear you see Choso’s eyeliner run with tears when he makes your pussy gulp down a single solid few inches. 

His cock so fucking big that just this slightest swallowed measurement made you feel a round bruise at your throat, your mouth overflooding with heated saliva. “Need to take it inside just-”

Babbling, Choso glues his clammy palms upon either side of your birthing hips and bends you in half. 

All the way until the globes of your ass nearly weren’t touching the bed, all the way until he’s pressuring you with the weight of his muscular body and holding you still whilst you take him in deeper. 

In a mating press.

And give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. 

“Fuh-fuuuuck!” Because Choso was thrusting, not even waiting - he couldn’t. Your gooey pussy was just so soft and warm around his barreling girth that it was driving him wild. “You’re just soooo—”

“Inside. Inside.”

“What if I can’t fit-”

“I’ll make it fit.”

He’s holding onto your mounds of flesh like it would stop him from losing control, thighs shivering at his inner quads once he’s punishing your squelching cunt with half-ruts. Bucks. Humps like an animal all just to fit and fit his swollen, red cock inside. 

Eyes dazed, mouth slack. 

Choso’s already drilling into you, whacking your bubblegum insides with everything he could fit. 

From the geysering divot homed on the middle of his tip to just where one of his prominent veins was tickling your outer folds. His Prince Albert’s was so cold where he’s slimy mazing along your textured walls, “Tight-” He dares to let one of his hands caress your tummy, pushing down to feel himself. “Fucking tight.”

Struggling, and so when Choso’s finally tugging further on your dewy slick cunt to sheath in more more more- all he can do is stutter his breath to a labored hold and cum. Just by bottoming out.

Your eyes widen, “Did you just-”

“I-inside.” Choso croaks out, strained. Raw groans hatching, he presses down on your body with his toned upper strength and keeps you there as he’s pumping you full. 

It’s so much of his thick, ribbony white sap splashing ‘round that you’re wondering whether your puffy hole was flooding already. 

Not that Choso would ever let you- no, his familiar ringed thumb spanks down on your slit and makes sure that not even one ivory drop leaks out. 

Driving and driving every vein-covered inch in half-thrusts that leave your knees weak, “Inside.” He’s panting like he was feverish, brown irises murky. So hot inside of you with all his syrup, he’d just bottomed out and he was still planting his feet flat on the bedsprings to maze his glistening cock further. 

Octaves higher, cracked. He’s in disbelief when he’s sliding his globular piercing in a straight line down your cervix, “Inside.”

“Mhmmm– all inside, Choso.” You’re managing to strangle out, your twitchy fingertips reaching up to push away a few strands of his soft bangs from his sweaty forehead. “All better now?”

You’ve no idea what had gotten into him today, but anything to help your hot half-curse roommate-

“All better?”

It’s posed as a question, but Choso wasn’t looking for an answer.

He’s poring down at you with bulging eyeballs, gaze smudged with eyeliner. “All…better?” Before letting out a sudden, strained bark of laughter. 

And before you know it, Choso’s curling the tips of his fingers around your throat and grabbing you to halt in your journey to squirm away. Squealing, you let yourself be dragged down to hit his hard pelvis with a spank.

Leaning down, down, down every inch that he’s closing in the scorching distance between you two made your cum-glazed pussy let off a talkative slurp! “All better.” 

“Wh- oh!”

He doesn’t let you speak.

He doesn’t even let you breathe before ramming into you with all the vein-patterned, roaming length of his girth. “All better?” Choso echoes breathlessly, “You- think- I’m all better?”

As you whine, the headlock of his palm tugs your lolling scalp forwards to stare back up at him. Holding the deepest, most lecherous eye contact with you as he sliiiides his zig-zagging veins against the roof of your pussy. 

Spit flying, Choso crashes his maw into your open mouth. “Do I look fucking better?”

Oh.

That’s when it finally hits you- that short, hastened paragraph you’d skimmed over in your book on cursed - Choso was in heat.

“P-please!” It was almost comical the way he had you mewling all stupidly on his cock, your heart-eyed pupils swirlin’ inside of your eyes with each poke into the bottom of your pussy. His stout, frigidly pierced tip furiously thumping away, “Feels so good, Cho- can feel you all the way ngh- here.”

And he was not letting you go. 

Choso looked like he was losing his sanity when you’re mindlessly tracing a hand up the valley of your tits, touching your throat. 

“Th-there, huh?” He questions, dryly. With a final swab of his bulging length where you were most sensitive, he’s suckin’ on your quivering lower lip with a hum. “You know I ngh- respect you, right, my baby? Riiight–?”

Confused, you’re nodding—“Yes?”

“Good.”

Because Choso wasn’t going to fuck you like it.

He’s departing his hoarse breath in gusts, letting out a barely-audible little–”Flowing Red Scale: Stack.”

The jujutsu technique to increase speed. Endurance. 

Before the air around the two of you tightens with electricity, with every atom around the two of you coating with a layer of cursed energy. Something so rabid and desperate that seeps through Choso’s body like he almost wasn’t in control, coating the ends of his upright erection when he’s bucking. 

“There-” The rounded circle of his piercing is plowing you open like a searchlight, mazing your velvety walls in a lil’ zig-zag. The underside of his shaft sticks to you like a second skin, striking your g-spot dead on. “-there.”

Rovering his hand right on top of the sultry rounded bulge he was pounding away into you, “M’here.”

He was there right inside of you and he was everywhere. 

Weighing in on the splotch of your nerved walls, pushing away the creamy white layer of seed on top of your lips so that he could see himself being sucked in even deeper. “Me me me me-”

“O-oh please!” You scream out in time with the creaking racket of your aged bedcoils, it was making the most protesting noises as he bucks his hips deeper. Hands clawing across his deltoids—his chilling piercing whacks your g-spot and you can only reach for the wooden headboard with a babble. 

“No- no no come back-” Choso’s free hand creeps from your cute tummy bulge to claw at your scalp, pushing you down. Pulling you all the way down, “No running.”

No running.

Again and again and again.

Choso’s got a hold on your head, a knee trapping your thigh. Pinning you down so that he can smack his tensed core down on your front and leave your heated flesh stinging. 

“No running no running no- hah! You’re gonna be mine, my baby–” Angrily, he swats your partly-opened lips with a great dollop of spit, feeling the sultry trickle swirl it’s way circlin’ your mouth. 

The entrapping hand on your head tightens like a vice and you squeak something unintelligible, something that makes his pinkish cockhead swerve and his body heave with a great, visceral shudder. 

“What was- hah- what was that, my baby?”

“Ch-Choso–!” Comes out your shrilling calls, “More.”

And he almost stops. He almost freezes—“What?”

“More!”

“M-more?” Choso can only repeat through a harrowed gasp, letting his heavy, hard cock slide niiiice and easy between your legs. Echoing, “More.” And it’s like he’s agonizingly fucking you slow n’ steady- hard and rough. 

Alternating, it’s hard to keep himself in check.

Hard to even force himself into a constant sloppy cadence when you’re looking up at him like that.

Begging for him, your mouth unfastens open at the way Choso’s pretty hazel eyes only seem to glow…animalistically. A cursed, powerful tinge taking over his gaze, claws sharpening, body bulging with even more sexy muscles as if that was possible. 

He was almost transforming in front of your very eyes and the only thing you can do is throw your oversaturated head back and take it. 

“More.”

Choso whacks his bulbous, cold Prince Albert’s against the side of your g-spot and hopes that pretty area of your cunt remembers it. Bruising you. 

Your thighs on his shoulders, his dick shoveling into tender orifices inside of you that no one’s ever reached before. Your cute roommate’s damn near laughing himself hoarse whilst moaning away that singular syllable you’d uttered out. “More- more. What the fuck- more.”

“Fuck—” Your doughy heels dig in eagerly where his back muscles were rippling, lungs filling with all his heated scent. “M’gettin’ so ngh- sensitive, Cho.”

But it’s not like he could hear you.

Choso Kamo knew your lips were moving, but he was too deeply-stuffed inside your dripping wet cunt to even pretend to listen. All he could think as he shuffles all his fat, roaming inches inside, creaming out a generous helping of buttery pre, was that he wanted to make your gorgeous mouth fall into an oh! of pleasure.

Fuck, talking- he’s fucking you like he’s trying to make sure that you couldn’t.

Merciless thrust after thrust, the power clinging onto the air around you two was becoming stifling.

“More” Choso utters, two of his ringed fingers skimming your bulged folds open and kissin’ your clit with a sweet hello. “More.” Before pinching, harder. Sloppier. His bulbously swollen red erection stirs your insides like he’s trying to melt his body onto yours, “Tight lil’ hole can’t g-get enough of me- she wants more-”

Oh.

Oh–

You weren’t the only one caught off guard by just how ragged Choso was becoming - just how ragged his ruthless hips were becoming. Because with only one, two, three precise glides of his rotund cockhead stirrin’ your g-spot, your poor pussy is bullied into a second orgasm. 

You see white. 

Surprised. Hitting you like four semi-trucks, all you can do is gnaw your lolling maw down on the tempting curve of his shoulder and cum.

“O-oh, my baby.” Choso whispers out from above, gasping once he’s registering your high. Your bite- marking him up in a way that makes his cursed heat flare. 

Cumming.

Cumming and cumming so hard that your roommate’s feeling his heavy breeder balls drain with each sploshing wire of sap being pumped into you. 

You hear him grunt over n’ over through your popped eardrums, “My baby-” Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! goes the slap of his cum-glazed balls digging into the backs of your ass. And you swear you feel his frigid piercing draw out a loooong ‘C’ on your sponged cervix, “My baby my baby my baby- alll…”

Dazed, you’re watching when his ringed hand lets go of your head to caress your tummy bulge. Now only inflated further with his knotted wads of cum, “-here.”

Oh…

He didn’t just mean that you were his baby- he meant that he was going to fuck a baby into you.

And that’s exactly how he’s milking you through your high, letting the sparks of your bliss overtake you as his driveling cock fucks away lazily. Sensually rubbin’ the curve of his piercing over your g-spot to overstimulate you. 

“Never f-felt this good, Cho–!” Your criss-crossed eyes scrunch with a few warm tears, feeling the gooey puddle of white stagnant below you.

He reels his plump girth back just the slightest smidge and watches as a torrent of sap splashes out wetly. 

Choso only grins, “S’my first time-” Planting a lingering smooch over your gaped lips. “My first kiss. My first…”

And absolutely nothing - nothing - could’ve prepared you for the word that attaches to the tail-end of his groaned sentence. 

“-mate.”

His only mate. His one and only. 

And he was groping the underside of your ass cheeks to make sure that his loving mate wasn’t squirming away. Getting a good handhold for your pretty, pliant body to be held up and dragged backwards. 

Choso wasn’t in the right headspace to even pretend he was pushin’ you into a cute mating pressing right now.

Only melting the ridges of each chiseled ab into your front, glissading easily with the sheen of his perspiration.

Choso creeps his bruised, red lips right up to your ear. 

“And m’not letting you walk out of this hah- bed not pregnant.” As if struck by the sudden thought, he rolls his sloppy cock between your saturated pussylips once more and grunts. Dark eyes sliiiding backwards, brows scrunching with need. “A-actually- m’not letting you walk at all.”

Gasping, “Not walking- th-that means…”

It’s all you can get out before the cursed energy sticking to your bodies heightens twofold. 

And Choso gets harder. Choso’s pushing you down.

Choso cups your spilling pussy to smear apart your bloated folds, slimily weaving his rounded mushroom tip to circle back to your entrance and push—

“More.” 

Your tongue feels sticky with all the pheromones of his saccharine heat, “M-more?” 

“Gonna fuck you more.” Seemingly able to utter more than just three words now, “Fill you up more.” Shaking - both his voice and his thighs pushing you into missionary now.  “Get- get you pregnant more.”

Blood manipulation to make his prolonged, split-ended shaft harder. Reverse cursed technique to make sure you two don't break bones. 

But neither of you can stop the way his creaking bed frame shatters.

And Choso doesn’t care- his knee hikes further to keep your legs open. Fist pumping the fattened excess of his ravaged cock furiously to pump n’ pump himself to a merciless hardness. He’s hissing as his cursed energy forces every ounce of blood in his sparking mind to rush to his plummy, weeping crown. 

“I-is this even safe, Cho–?” You’re whining, trying to nudge yourself to some sort of rationality before Choso completely ruined you all over again. 

“Safe? Safe?” He’s giggling out, hissing between your parted lips. “Who knows…?”

The last thing you’re managing to hear before his slender hips snap forwards and meet your pussylips with a tender few strings of even more cum. Pouring out a thick paste that damn near covers the slope of your cunt an opaque ivory, “I don’t know- I have no idea- a-all m’gonna do s’fuck you–”

Just at that moment your pussy lets out a sappy few squelches as he shovels inside and Choso’s nodding.

“Y-yeeees, my baby.” Slobber trickles down either side of his lips and marks him all glittering, the round orb of his piercing cleaning off your pussy of seed. “All pregnant. A-all mine. All pregnant.”

Choso’s still so damn big- growing even bigger thanks to his jujutsu that every rummaging inch makes him slick your skin with cum. Creaming you. Milking himself. 

Bulging cock so layered with jujutsu that it almost zaps the inside of your silky smooth cunt like a vibrator to have him pummeling you deeply.

The more he’s pounding away like he’s crazed, the more and more he does become crazed. Rasping tone breathless, gone. “Yes- yes yes yes tha’s right-” He’s sounding out, trekking a hand down to thumb over your jiggling cum-inflated tummy bulge. “Pregnant. Pregnant pregnant- pregnant–”

“S-slow down Cho, or m’gonna—ngh! again.” You wail, hips bucking up shallowly - just about all you can manage right now, but the mere idea has Choso breathing all labored. 

Hands twisting on the lecherous nub of your clit, “Yeah- yeahhh, mama’s gotta cum.” He’s reciting off- it wasn’t just the heat, it was some second primal nature that made him want to make that drenched pussy of yours squeeze his cock to death.

And fuck, was that instinct strong. 

Because Choso’s hitting your deep cunt with gushing whacks, angling his pelvis just right to curl the left-leaning spheroid of his cockhead against your g-spot and-

“Cum- cum. Cum.”

When you do, it’s in carnal unison with him. For the nth time this night.

So hard that the two of you can only throw your heads back and moan—

Long, stringy ribbons of sap entering your filthy hole right in time with each peak of your high. You count one, two, three- four. 

“Cum—ing.” Your voice cracks, eyes rolling. Nails clawing fresh crimson marks down his pale shoulder blades, ones that the man himself smells and drools at. Yeah- all he wanted in his heated haze was for you to ruin him. “Choso- oh.” 

“S’my name- what’s this say?”

You yelp, feeling him guide his pierced cocktip to swab your most tender orifices. Grunting- “Tell me. Spell.”

That fucking animal inside of his cursed body was makin’ him tease your bruised and battered cervix with an outlined ‘C’, then an ‘H’, and then an ‘O’-‘S’ -‘O’.

C-H-O-S-O

C-H-O-S-O

C-H-O-S-O

You think you might be cumming again, you think you might be grinding your hips back down without even thinking to help him spell out his name. “Choso- Choso! Cho—!” Mindlessly whining and whining that very word whilst your orgasm hits you like a freight train. 

And Choso knew it was coming- oh, he saw. 

The lecherous part of his cursed technique growing in tune with your body enough that he’s sensing the waves of your impending bliss, and gifing your pussy with a rigid thrash against your g-spot that leaves you squirting. 

All over his dick.

“I’m— did I-” 

“You did.” He’s breathing, rough. Gone. “You did.”

Dampened, streaming gushes of sap coat Choso’s shaft, and it’s a damn miracle that he’s able to stop himself from pulling out right now just to taste the wetness of your dewy soft walls as you ride him through your high. His own orgasm nothing more than numerous dry spurts of white liquid when he’s fucking you even sloppier. 

Still fucking you when he’s muttering the incantation underneath his breath for his blood manipulation technique sugring down to his fattening girth. Overstimulated. Overworked. 

Gasping, something wet hits your shoulder and it takes you every shred of will in your body to wrench your teary lashes open and look. Only to realize that Choso Kamo was crying.

Whimpering, sucking himself dry on you. 

You didn’t know who was more drunken as he’s lazily dragging his veiny cock along your channel in a third- fourth? round. “I finally have- have you in my ngh- bed and-” Toying the flared edge of his mushroom tip right where your g-spot was, back n’ forth, back n’ forth. He makes you squeeze down on the rounded swelling at his hilt, “-you think m’letting you go that easy?”

Teeth on edge, bangs sweat-stuck, eyeliner running.

Heavy balls tightening.

Before you can even register it, Choso has you face-planted into the pillows - his hand at the base of your arched spine, cock taking you from behind, foot firmly seated on top of your head. 

And he’s collapsing his body down onto yours and pushing, pushing, pushing. 

So hard that you think you hear a faint pop!

“N-no breaking bones…” Comes out his throaty tut, followed by the cool breeze of even more reverse cursed energy bleeding into your bones. The expanse of his heated skin buzzing with electricity, he almost made you bolt to the touch.

And suddenly this mean position on all fours doesn’t feel so bad anymore-

Finishing off, “Need the f-future mother of my kids safe.” You can only drench his silky pink pillowcase with pure saliva and tears, whimpering when he dabs a finger over a dribbling wad of cum that’d started to spray from your folds. 

Delicately massaging over your overstimulated slope, Choso brings his glazed fingertip over to stick to the ring finger on your left hand and draw. A cute lil’ wedding band. 

“A…proposal?” You’re questioning, head cocked where you’re all laid out prettily on top of the cushy surface. 

And maybe it’s by the fourth round when the two of you can barely even speak, and the massage of his soaked chocolate happy trail had started irritating the cheeks of your ass. Maybe it’s by the fifth when it’s barely even fucking and more so Choso making sure that his high leaves him dry, nothing but a pearly droplet of seed escaping his strawberry divot before he’s pinning you down to the mattress. 

Maybe it’s by the sixth when he’s laying you side by side and gluing his slobbery mouth against yours while his raw, red cock lazily gyrates inside of your sensitive walls. 

Plugged up with a swollen girth homed at the base of his red shaft that you’re slowly realizing is his wide knot so that all he can do is swirl n’ fill each slick, creamy crevice. Not having the strength to thrust even with his use of reverse cursed energy. 

“You’re mine now.” It’s the last thing you hear as the two of you are on the precipice of passing out. Your bed shattered. Your apartment lights charred with the overuse of jujutsu.

Sending out a wave of cursed energy strong enough that it’s a wonder sorcerers aren’t knocking down your door - and yet, Choso still wouldn’t be able to stop his hips. 

His sharp canines sink into the sweaty crook of your neck, much like yours had on his all those hours and hours ago. Yet, something about his bite felt…animalistically permanent. 

Like his infamously venomous technique was flowing through you and marking you. Though, you barely even feel the sting with his reverse cursed technique- not out of his control.

Through a crack of your tear-dewed eyelids, you’re taking in with awe at the way that your dear half-curse roommate’s nosebridge tattoo only grows wider. Stronger. Suddenly matching with a new one that’d started to formulate at the base of his soft, mahogany happy trail - like an incubus tattoo.

He was all yours now. 

Length throbbing harder as his tastebuds sizzle with your crimson, “Forever.” Choso takes oooone good look at you with loving, heart-shaped eyes. And you wonder whether his heat was finally, finally-

Before he’s inhaling your saccharine sweet scent, and you watch in real time as Choso’s molten peripherals dilate. Wide. Panting. Cock twitching. “O-oh, my baby, think m’getting…hard again.”

A/N. Mwahaha summer is coming up so I simply had to.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[silverrings-n-prettythings]

Just for Tonight

a/n: this was technically a request, but I've had this WIP planned since I started the anime, so thank you @icedlemonlatte for giving me an excuse to write it!<3

Words: 4.5k

CW: Jinshi x Fem!Reader - Minors DNI - (reader insert but written with some of Maomao's personality and background in mind) Aphrodisiacs, sub!jinshi, praise kink, mouth spitting, dry humping, unprotected sex

--

“Master Jinshi requests your presence.” Gaoshun’s calm voice captures your attention. He's standing in the doorway with his usual stance, arms folded and back straight, but there was a minute anxiety in his brow you had almost written off as a trick of the flickering candlelight. A weary sigh leaves your lips while lifting a hand to pinch at the stress pulsing deep in your sinuses. A needy one, Master Jinshi  was. Always nipping at your heels when he wasn’t charming the court ladies. 

“What does he need now? I’ve had a long day.”

“I understand.” Gaoshun bows to signal his apologies at the intrusion so late into the night. “But you see, Master Jinshi is unwell, and well…” A bead of sweat rolls over his temple while ruminating which words to use since the current situation required the utmost care of confidentiality for a man of his stature, but the growing silence only annoys you further. You’ve become well accustomed to Master Gaoshun and have therefore chosen to abandon decorum.

“Please, just spit it out.”

Master Gaoshun’s back stands at attention. “It’s an emergency. I’m unsure how– uh, long he will last through the night. We need our apothecary.”

Gaoshuns buttering did convince you, just a little, since he always treated you with respect as if you weren’t of inferior birth– someone as lowly as a simple maid-turned-apothecary in the Rear Court, but you also knew that it would be easier to see Master Jinshi and corral him back into place so you may finally get a moment's reprieve. So, with reluctance, you agree. Before you know it, a carriage brings you to Master Jinshis home within the Inner Palace. 

In hindsight, you should have been suspicious with the way you were rushed out of the carriage and ushered inside. It would have been an even greater sign to be wary of the way Suiren was seemingly absent, since she was an omnipresent force within his home. And more than that, the quickened apology muttered from Gaoshun before he scurried off should of been the biggest waving red flag of them all, but your habit of ignoring warnings and cautions in favor of the ‘not my business’ attitude you so stubbornly held onto had you staring at the large doubles doors in front of you with nary an alarm bell.

“Alright…” You mutter with a deep sigh to collect yourself before pushing the heavy doors open, revealing… nothing.

Suspicious eyes flit around the room, toeing past the threshold with cautious steps. There’s a tangible shift in the atmosphere that you’re not exactly too eager to place, but it feels heavy, thick with an unnamed feeling that clings to your back and crawls up your neck. The sound of hushed whimpers alert you, shifting yourself to look at the large wooden canopy bed. There’s a nagging voice echoing in your head to turn around, to pretend you didn’t hear anything and inform Gaoshun that Master Jinshi wasn’t on premises and go about your night to save yourself the headache… Although, if you didn’t do your due diligence as a newly-appointed apothecary for someone as important as Master Jinshi, it could result in never having a headache again… because it could very well be detached from your body. A puff of annoyed air leaves your lungs as you turn around to peek past the wooden walls to investigate.

The sight that greets you was one you shouldn’t have seen. Master Jinshi was halfway disrobed, sweaty, and flushed. His broad chest, usually hidden away by layers of fine robing, was on display, glistening with a sheer gleam of sweat, and his chest was rising and falling at a rapid pace. His hair, which was normally pulled back into a neat silken half bun, was now spilling over the pillows in dismay while the shorter plum colored silk strands clung to his forehead. Was it poison? What poisons had this sort of effect? It was apparent his heart rate was elevated, and while he showed signs of labored breathing, he had no indication of nausea, sunken skink, or–

“A-apothecary–” Jinshi’s strained voice broke through the whirlwind of thoughts. “You need… you need to leave at once–”

He immediately shifts his body and coils away from you. It’s curious how the muscles in his back flex and bow, he’s extremely well built for a eunuch. In fact, now that you think about it. There were many curious things about him that didn’t quite fit for a typical eunuch, perhaps you shouldn’t delve too far into that. So you will thought away by shaking your head, focusing more on the task at hand. Your knee comes up to climb into the large bedded space, but as if Jinshi is hyper-aware of his surroundings, he flinches and curls further into his defensive fetal position.

“I said go away! Please.” A pregnant pause fills the enclosed oaken space. “...For your safety. Please, just take your leave.” He sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, whatever illness had befallen him must have been serious. 

There was a sliver of concern that started creeping into your bones and settling into your lip, subconsciously you took the soft flesh of your bottom lip in between your teeth, gnawing idly to soothe your worry and focus on whittling down any remedies he may need. With a hesitant hand, you bring it forward to attempt to soothe him, but a speed at which he turns over and clasps it with urgency startles you. Somehow, in the blink of an eye he was looming above, you could feel your quickened pulse under his strong fingertips.

“I don’t know if I could hold myself back any longer.” Jinshi brings your palm to rest onto his cheek, his shoulders rise with the deep breath he takes and leans into the touch. His skin is hot, burning even. And you saw a flash of his eyes, even if they were hidden coyly underneath the long lashes that kissed the apples of his cheeks; his pupils were blown wide, a void of hunger that overtook and swallowed aubergine irises until they were all but a sliver. Everything began adding up, quick calculations of everything that transpired in the past few minutes pointed to the worst case scenario:

Master Jinshi was under the effects of an aphrodisiac– a powerful one at that. 

But that begged a question: Could eunuchs be subject to aphrodisiacs? It was a peculiar situation; the effects hadn’t really been studied before, and since they were missing the main component of sex, it now opened a floodgate that poured in a hundred new questions of how sex and attraction– the very human component of it, actually worked. Did it reside in the brain? Hormones? And even so, how would a eunuch satisfy the desire? With missing parts, would they simply whither and succumb to it? What could possibly be the cure?

What fortuitous opportunity for research, you think–

“Apothecary.” 

You jump at his strained voice. Shit. You had gotten too caught up in treating him like a lab rat, and you were here to do a job, although the nature of his situation changed everything. There wasn’t a cure-all for aphrodisiacs, at least one hasn’t been discovered yet.

Jinshi collapses onto your torso and wraps his arms around your waist, tightening his arms and locking you into a vice grip, like he was holding onto the last thread of self control. He buries his face into the crook of your neck and mutters something.

“...What’s that?” 

“I said,” Jinshi angles his face so his lips are unobstructed. “You always look at me like I’m some little bug.” 

Whoops. Were you really so awful at managing your expressions? You remember when Gaoshun had a little talk about it with you, you had really thought you got better about it.

“I like it.” He admits while his back rolls upwards.

Okay– you think, while attempting to writhe out of his grasp. He’s been handy before, but this has been quite enough intimate proximity to him to last a lifetime.

“Alright Master Jin–” You’re interrupted by his heavy body weight pressing further into your lungs, the dead weight pinned your limbs into the firm mattress below. 

“Please.” He begs. 

You continue trying to writhe out of his grasp while he keeps whispering apologies into your chest, but making no move to rectify himself. It’s as if his body is moving on his own; as if he knows what he’s doing is wrong and wishes he could control himself. In the struggle, limbs are lost in the fight for dominance, he apologizes when he catches your wrists and pins them down, using his leg to press in between your own to pin you down, and in that struggle you feel something hard and decently sized pressing against your core. 

“Wh-”

“I-I’m sorry!” Jinshi is panicked. Salt brine spills from over his lashes as he buries his face further into you ashamed. “I- I never meant… for you to find out this way.”

Time suspends momentarily, and suddenly every spare and seemingly out of place puzzle piece falls into place. Have you really been so blind? No, you were willfully ignorant and you knew it, but now that the truth was so blatantly in your face, or rather pressed in between your thighs. The once silent alarm bells begin to ring, just a little too late. Just how the hell is he allowed into the Rear Palace? And just who is Master Jinshi? The nature of his identity didn’t open a jar of worms, it dug out the entire garden and plucked every unsavory bug from the soil and thrust it into the burning sunlight.

Jinshi knew he fucked up, he knew you were tasked with making the high-ranking concubine Gyokyu aphrodisiacs for her little visit with the emperor. His mischievous nature would always be the end of him, giving nary a thought as he plucked a small treat from the bag before they were delivered. He had severely underestimated how powerful they would be, all he wanted was to feel a little needy and send for you. He had no ill intentions, he simply wanted to capture your attention since it was so hard to come by. Every lady in court ould fawn over him, but never you. Not the Apothecary who would cast a venomous glance toward him, it sent a shiver down his spine. He just wanted an excuse to see it again, and his wish was granted tenfold. 

His body wracked with need, the room boiled, his heart begged for freedom, beating wildly against its cage. Panic flooded his nervous system, freezing ice crystals spreading down his veins as time passed. Stupid, stupid– he repeats the scalding mantra to himself. He could feel his control slipping away with each passing second, and he was terrified what would happen when he saw you. And when he finally did, his limbs became their own, reaching for solace despite his mind screaming for mercy.

It was tortuous to be held prisoner within his own body. Every nerve under his skin was a blazing torch alight with urgency. And now you were pressed against him, your scent dancing around his nose, your heat blanketing him while he feels your heartbeat against his own in rhythm. He knew then, he would throw everything away just to have a taste, he would do so gladly even if it meant living a life without you.

“Please. Just for tonight. Just this once.” His plea was a hushed whisper against your skin.

This wasn’t normal for him, you think back to his usual fleeting and aloof demeanor around the palace walls, there was no sign of this in sight. He was stripped bare and flayed to the bone in his most vulnerable state. It twisted something in you, whether it was pity or affection– you decided not to place. But who were you to deny him? You were brought here to take care of him after all. And while your chastity was intact, you were no stranger to sex and intimacy, growing up around a brothel. All your sisters were well known and highly sought after courtesans, and they taught you all the tricks and trades of the career despite being younger. It came with the times and life you were born into, even though you preferred to have your nose buried in research books and poisonous herbs rather than a man's pelvis. Still, you knew a thing or two to satiate him. 

So, after a not so careful consideration, you supply your answer:

“Alright.”

He’s on you in an instant, his weight pressing you further into the mattress as his lips press against your neck in urgency. Whatever gratitudes that spilled from his lips were lost against the surface of your skin, and as much as you didn’t care for his antics you would be hard pressed to say you weren’t enjoying his praise and the way he crumbled against you. It felt good. Living a simple life while watching luxury and power from a far distance was the normal, but to taste a sample of it being reversed into your favor prickled your skin in a delightful way, it stoked your ego as bellow against a roaring hearth would ignite the white hot coals. While the iron was hot you struck, hooking your leg around his hip and using momentum to your advantage, Jinshi whimpers as he’s pinned against the mattress. You bring your knee to rest in between his thighs and press into his bulge, your hands grip his wrists at the side of his head. 

“You want it so bad, then stay still and be good.” 

Jinshi’s fingers twitch, feeling the tendons beneath his wrist fex under your finger tips and he moans. His hips involuntarily roll as they search for relief, which is quickly chastised by the way you press your knee further into his crotch. 

“What did I just say?” You ask with a little venom behind your inquisition, as if you were scolding a petulant child. 

“Stay- stay still and…” He moves his face away and stares at the wall in shame. “And be good.”

“That's right, so you do have a brain underneath all that silky hair. That’s good.” Perhaps you were being a little harsh as you lifted your robes and climbed into his lap, but he did always seem to have a knack for being told what to do, even if he pretended otherwise. 

With your robes pooled around your hips you settle onto his pelvis, feeling the way his length twitched under your heat. Damn, if that doesn’t feel kind of good…

Your eyes fall closed for a moment as you breathe slowly, collecting yourself and recalling the advice your sisters had given so long ago before lifting your hips and pressing, dragging your clothed core against his hard length. And then again, again, the motions soon coming as naturally as the seas waves against shore. Jinshi’s hands fly and make a landing onto your hips, his fingertips making divots into your flesh with the strength of his grip to ground himself. 

“Y-yes, please, m-more, please.” His warm breath fans against your chest as your chest lowers, anchoring yourself with a palm splayed next to his hand on the mattress. “Feels so good.” Jinshi continues to babble in a sweaty haze, his praises while welcome, were a bit foreign and overloaded your brain. Between him and the thick atmosphere in the room you began to feel dizzy as well, frustrated at feeling like you were losing a little bit of control. You snatch your hair ribbon and let the loose strands fall free as you quickly loop it around the back of his head and tie a neat little bow in between his lips. Cute. 

You lean back to appreciate your work, it wasn’t like anyone was around to see you gawk anyway. But damn, his flushed skin and soft hair spilling over the pillows and the way his brows scrunched in pleasure was a sight to behold. One that would start wars, even. Intrigued eyes rake down his form, landing on his broad chest that was still partially hidden by his robes, and slowly, you bring your palms to feel his breathing, noticing the way he flinches and whimpers under your touch. The way his chest shakes with ragged breaths as you spread your palms away and push the remaining fabric to undress him makes you grin deviously before raking your nails back across and taking his blushed nipples in between your fingertips to pinch and roll them in tandem. 

“Hnnnggg!” Jinshi’s cry is muffled by the fabric taken between his teeth, his hips buck hard enough to feel the blunt head of his cock press into your clit and now you’re the one that has to bite back a sound. 

Jinshi’s fingertips dig deeper into your hips, and with another whine there's a wordless question reflected in his watery eyes and worried brow. He’s begging, pleading, to feel all of you against him. You tsk at his beseeching but nevertheless raise your hips up to undress, nearly snorting at the eager squeal that leaves his throat.

The thing about Jinshi was that he seemed easy to read. A flirtatious, aloof, eunuch that enjoyed his charm and had a distaste for serious work. Oftentimes you could find him in tow with Gaoshun walking around the rear palace, leaving the various ladies fawning and fainting behind the long amethyst hair that trailed behind him. It was easy to be irritated by such a man, one who was of higher birth than yourself, but as you spent more time with him, the facade had slowly cracked away. Granted, his boastful and carefree outlook still made your skin crawl, but you can’t help but recall times where you spent time together and you got to know him deeper, and start to piece together his true nature. Even if you spackled and patched the wall that crumbled day by day, it was still easy to see that at the core of it all, the two of you were basically the same; trying to find your place in the world, and if allowed, to find a sliver of peace in it. 

And right now, the way he’s been looking at you feels as if you were the very oasis at the end of a long and jaded journey. It’s just the effects of the aphrodisiac, you barter, attempting to talk yourself down from the ledge of such dangerous thoughts. But then you recall the same look from past times, on the road with him, late at night when you crossed paths and no one was around. A soft, comforting thumb touches your cheek, dispelling the cloud of thoughts swirling above, it’s Jinshi, reaching out with a question in his gaze. It’s warm, comforting, as if he’s asking if everything is alright, as if he needs to know if you want this as much as he does. 

A smile graces your lips, one you’re unaware is displayed. You lean down to untie the ribbon, perhaps it’s an olive branch, perhaps it’s pity. You don't dwell on it. 

“You want to feel good?” You begin to lower yourself onto his hard cock, wincing at the pressure as you sink deeper. Soothing circles are rubbed into your side, momentarily distracting you from the stretch that began to sting at the intrusion. 

Jinshi himself is holding himself together at the seams, biting his lip so his fingers wouldn't bruise you. His eyes roll into the abc of his head in bliss while he mutters ‘yes, please, please.’

Your back arches, head falling back and taking a breath, eyes falling closed while you center yourself and adjust to his size. What a sight to behold from below, Jinshi himself feels like he’s died and seen the afterlife. The way your breasts sit on your chest, the curves and lines of your arms that anchor yourself as you’re sheathed on him, like you’re one soul melding together. He’s dreamed of this often, and if it’s another dream he hopes he’ll never wake up. 

“Then make me feel good, then you can kiss me.”

Leaning over to trace the curve of his jaw, your fingers make way to thread themselves into his hair, wrapping the fine silk around your fingertips until they hit his scalp. His mouth falls open silently before finally moaning when you give him a firm tug while rolling your hips, riding him until tears prick the corners of his eyes. It feels divine.

“Open your mouth.” Your demand is firm, but soothed by a gentle thumb tracing his bottom lip, and he complies eagerly. You lean in close, just a breadth above his lips, and let a long trail of spit fall into his mouth, and he bucks his hips and swallows it greedily, groaning at the sweet taste. 

“Good boy.” Your praise ignites him further, he plants his heels into the mattress to raise his hips and meet your rhythm to hit your sweet spot. 

The resolve you held began to slip away with each thrust, your nails dug further into him and broke his skin, as if you were trying to hold onto the control you felt slipping away.

“Fuck.”

He swears he could almost blow his entire load right there on the spot, watching you begin to come undone onto him, he’s the one making you feel this good, and the way your walls are squeezing him tight has him begging for mercy, but he wants nothing more than to seize the opportunity you’ve graced him with. He would let his body break apart and put himself back together once more to hear you scream his name. 

Blissful moans filled the enclosed space until the last drops of candlelight burned and spilled hot wax over the table. Limbs tangled with silk sheets as your heartbeats synched while your bodies writhed against each other, with only the salt of sweat and musk of sex filling your senses. When you finally screamed his name and collapsed on him he gave mercy, just for a beat. 

“You said I could kiss you if I made you feel good…” Jinshi mutters in between your breasts while pressing saccharine sweet kisses to your skin. All you can provide is a weary nod in agreement. 

His frame cages you underneath him, his back arched as he leans closer to brush his nose with yours, while the warmth from his palm sears into your thigh. His fingers are splayed wide to claim as much of your flesh as they can, running them underside your thigh to guide it up and secure it over his hip, effectively pressing himself deeper into you. He’s lost in you; your touch, your scent, the sound of your breath.

“Like this?” He whispers above your lips, giving a firm squeeze to your thigh while pressing his cock harder so his pelvis brushes your clit. He makes no further move, but observes with a watchful gaze as your lips fall open and eyes flutter. God, does he want to do it again, to burn the image of your delirium into his eyelids so he could see it every moment his eyes were closed. 

Your hands roam the expanse of his back, it was a useless attempt to gain your bearings in the thick blanket of bliss that suffocated the both of you, and when he whispered gentle questions begging for an answer, you looked into his lidded gaze and muttered a pleading ‘yes.’

That single word was all he needed before his lips crashed into yours, tongue darting out to drag against your lips begging for permission to part them and take you whole. You can feel his arms release your limbs and wrap underneath your shoulder to pull you close, feeling the breath knocked from your lungs as he lets his full body weight collapse onto you while his hips begin to piston desperately and chase his second high. 

Every part of Jinshi is melting into you, you’re surrounded by the storm of his need and all you can do is surrender. And you know what? It felt divine. Your entire life was set by the pace of caution, to always look over your shoulder and take care of yourself, you had spent the night desperately clinging to your control, and now that the threads that bound yourself to such responsibility were snapped and fell past your limbs it felt like you were able to take flight. His lips kissed every inch they could find, his hands caressed every dip and curve as if he wanted to memorize every freckle and bone, and honeyed words of devotion spilled from his lips until they coated your body in sickly sweet tar. 

Praise left your throat before you could catch the words; butterflies that had flown free from it’s net:

“So good, Master Jinshi. So, so good.” 

The words trailed fire along his back, standing every hair at attention; your attention, and his rhythm faltered, becoming sloppy and desperate to bring you both to the mountain's edge. A sharp pain resounds from your neck and travels down your spine before pooling into your abdomen and sloshing into pleasure. The source was his teeth, clamping onto your pulse point while he continued pistoning his cock against the spongy spot nestled into your core. He was dangerously close, only using the feeling of your pussy clenching around him to hold out strong and push himself to the end to take you with him. 

He brings a hand around the small of your back to angle your hips upwards, allowing the new angle to grind against your clit with his thrusting in a last ditch effort to hasten your peak. And with each movement, the coil wound tight in your belly snaps; blinding white light fills your vision as the free fall begins. Pleasure rips from your throats in perfect cadence to one another as the pace slows with the shared decent, shaking limbs and lips dance with each other as Jinshi gives one, two, three last hard thrusts, cherishing the little squeaks that beg mercy before he rolls over and pulls you into his side. 

He presses one last kiss into your hairline.

“I said just for tonight, but the sun hasn’t risen yet. So you have to stay with me tonight.”

His arms tighten around you in possession, although his words carry a bite that matches his usual demeanor, there's a tone hidden underneath that begs a question, a plea. He didn’t want to let you go just yet. And instead of questioning the implications, you simply let sleep sprinkle its sand into your eyes, and feel his breath against your own. Whatever came with the sun would be dealt with then.