If I Catch You... (3) || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+)
Outline: You thought the crowd made you safe. But he’s in the shadows, watching, hunting, waiting to pin you against the wall while your boyfriend is just steps away.
Word Count: 2'890
Warnings: aged up characters. Mild spoilers for season 2A. Stalking, chasing, breath play, spit play, biting, bruises, degradation, and dripping/cum play. Heavy predator/prey dynamic (IICYIFY), with rough sex in a public place. ⚠️ Consent in this part isn’t stated explicitly in the moment, but it is present within the context of the characters and this story. The dynamic is intentionally dark, messy, and obsessive. Read at your own risk (or pleasure).
(( Part 1 - Obsessive )) - (( Part 2 - Possessive )) - (( Part 4 - Reflections )) - (( Part 5 - Unleashed )) - (( Masterlist ))
The Harvest Festival glows with lights and noise, laughter and sugar in the air. He doesn’t belong here and he knows it. But you do and you look too sweet in that skirt, walking beside the idiot who thinks you’re giving him a second chance.
Tyler keeps his hood up, hands shoved deep in his pockets. It doesn’t matter how many people brush past him, how many stares slide over him without recognition. His focus is locked on you, on the sway of your hips, on the bite mark he left on your throat, half-hidden by the collar of your blouse, and the knowledge that you’re leaking with him under that pretty skirt.
Every time your ex gets close, his nails bite crescents into his palms. The guy’s hand brushes yours and he sees red, he wants to snap it off at the wrist… But he doesn’t need to, because you’re already his.
You know it. He knows it. And your body proves it with every step.
And still you smile at that other guy, you tilt your head when he speaks, you let him lead you past booths strung with lights, past games and vendors, like you’re just another girl on a date with her high school sweetheart.
Tyler’s jaw clenches so tight it aches. Sweetheart. Fucking joke.
Your ex-boyfriend buys you a candied apple so he watches you wrap your lips around it, sink your teeth into the glossy sugar shell, and his cock twitches hard in his pants. He imagines ripping it out of your hands, shoving his fingers into your mouth instead, watching you choke on spit while the fairground spins around you.
He shadows you through the stalls, never more than a few bodies away. People laugh, children shriek, fireworks pop in the distance and his heart pounds in a different rhythm. He imagines you pressed up against one of the rickety game booths, his hand shoved up that skirt while stuffed animals and cheap toys rain down. He imagines dragging you into the shadows under the ferris wheel, your legs around his waist, the whole damn fair spinning lights above you while you drip down his thighs.
And every time your date leans closer to whisper something that makes you laugh, he tastes copper, because all he can think about is how he’d like to split that dude’s lip open. Not because he’s a threat, but because he’s a distraction.
Your laughter belongs to him. Your voice belongs to him. Your body already does.
The guy points toward the haunted house. You nod, smiling, brushing sugar from your lips. Tyler’s breath stutters in his chest. Perfect. Dark corners, screams to cover the sound and a maze built for predators.
The line inches forward. You laugh nervously but your eyes dart sideways toward the crowd… Toward his hooded shadow watching. He sees the flicker of heat in your gaze before you force yourself to look away. His lips curl and he wonders how long you’ll keep playing the good girl. How long you’ll pretend to be your date’s sweet, shy librarian while your thighs are slick with the memory of another man’s cock.
The crowd presses into the black mouth of the haunted house. A strobe flickers, painting the world in violent bursts of white and shadow. Inside, the air smells of dust and fake fog, damp plywood and old latex. Animatronic skeletons rattle and groan from hidden speakers. Cobwebs brush across your face and cling to your hair. The screams of festival-goers echo through the maze, bouncing off walls painted with sloppy bloodstains and glow-in-the-dark bones.
Tyler slips in behind you and him, silent as smoke. The strobe catches him once; a hooded figure at the edge of the group, head lowered, hands jammed in his pockets. No one looks twice. The next flash of light erases him again.
You keep walking, your hand brushing against your ex’s, but your shoulders are tense, spine tight. Tyler sees it — feels it — and his grin spreads slow. You can sense him, even when you pretend you can’t.
A clown lurches from a hidden door. Teenagers scream, laughter bubbling out with the sound. You flinch back into your date’s chest, but your eyes flick right into the shadows, toward him. Always toward him.
Good girl.
The maze twists tighter, corridors narrowing, decorations closing in. A spray of fog curls low to the ground, masking the floor. Plastic bats dangle from strings overhead, brushing your cheeks as you pass. Your ex laughs, tugging you forward. “Come on, it’s just fake.”
He trails both of you through the black-lit hall, close enough now to see the sweat on the back of your neck, the rise and fall of your chest beneath your blouse. Every strobe paints you in white fire, every scream from strangers masking your quick, shallow breaths.
It’s almost too easy on this perfect hunting ground.
The next turn splits the group, some are pulled left by a shrieking ghoul, others stumbling right into a tunnel of fog. Your ex goes ahead, laughing, oblivious and you, sweet thing, you hesitate for just a second.
The strobe lights flicker again The fog machines hiss. Shadows warp and stretch across the maze, but none of them matter. Only you. Tyler almost laughs. You’re trembling, not from the fake skeletons and rubber bats, but because you know he’s here, somewhere in the dark.
His hood shields his grin as he hangs back and you glance over your shoulder, eyes wide, lips parted. That little flicker of heat betrays you, you want him to chase you. You always did.
His blood roars. His cock aches. He leans close against the wall, waits until the strobe light hits just right then lets you see him, just a flash, a silhouette in the mist and your whole body jolts.
Run.
His mind chants it, claws at it. He needs you to, needs you to scurry through this fake haunted maze, needs to hunt you down like a prey.
The music shifts into shrieks and distorted carnival tunes. Another strobe and you see him again, this time in a mirror. His reflection multiplied, his grin in every panel. You stop breathing, clutching your chest. So he mouths it through the glass: "If I catch you, you’re mine."
Your lips part, screams and strobes blur into white noise as you break into a run. Your date calls after you, worried, his voice snatched by the music but Tyler hears you; every footstep, every gasp, every frantic little sound you make in the dark….
He doesn’t rush. Predators never do. He takes his time, cutting through shortcuts in the maze, slipping past animatronic corpses and dangling cobwebs until he knows exactly where you’ll end up. You always go left when you’re panicked. Always.
And there you are, pressed against a flickering wall of neon skeletons, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath. Alone.
He steps out of the mist. You see him. Your lips part for half a second and you freeze, wide-eyed, caught like prey in headlights.
That’s all he needs.
In two strides he’s on you, slamming you into the wall. The cheap wood rattles, glow-in-the-dark paint flaking onto your skin. His hand clamps your jaw, forcing your head back so he can whisper against your ear.
“Thought you could run?” His breath is hot, his laugh twisted. “The chase just makes it sweeter.”
You squirm, a sharp whimper breaking free, but his grip only tightens. His thigh wedges between yours, grinding up, spreading you open. His other hand hikes up your skirt, greedy and rough. Fingers dig into the flesh of your thigh.
The strobe light flashes again, catching your flushed face, the bite mark on your throat, the mess between your thighs that he already knows is there. The screams and laughter echo through the maze, but here, in this corner dripping with cobwebs and shadows, there’s only you and him.
He lifts you up, your back slamming harder into the wall, his grip iron on your hips. You gasp, nails clawing at his hoodie, but he just grins.
“I caught you,” he snarls, biting your neck. “Now I fuck you.”
He cages you there, teeth bared like an animal that finally cornered its prey. His hand clamps around your throat, thumb pressing just enough to make your head spin. Your nails claw at his arms, not to push him off but to cling, as he frees his cock and presses inside you in one brutal thrust. The wall creaks. You cry out, muffled against his palm when he covers your mouth.
“Shhh,” he breathes, grinding deep. “Your little boyfriend’s just around the corner.”
Each slam rattles the plywood walls, the cheap cobwebs sticking to your hair and skin. His hand leaves your throat only to grab your jaw, forcing your mouth open. He spits into it, messy, and groans when you swallow without hesitation.
He pants, fucking you harder, faster, so rough the strobe lights catch every obscene jolt of your body bouncing against the wall. He wants you ruined, wants you wrecked, wants you to walk out of here dripping so much no one can mistake who you belong to.
“I’ll fuck you until you can’t stand,” he promises, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to leave a fresh mark. “And then you’ll still go back out there, leaking me down your thighs while you smile at him like nothing happened.”
The crowd roars on the other side of the wall, another animatronic skeleton screeches, but he only hears you — broken, gasping, clinging — as he fucks you like he’s going to split you in two. The light flickers just as he slams you harder into the wall, his hand clamped tight over your mouth, his hips brutal and merciless. The fake skull behind your head rattles with every thrust. You’re gone, trembling, choking on every ragged cry.
And then a familiar voice calls your name. Your stomach drops. Your ex is just outside the alcove, footsteps crunching closer. Tyler doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow. He grins, eyes wild under the hood. His cock drives so deep you see stars, and he presses harder over your mouth, forcing you silent.
“Fuck,” he whispers against your ear, hips snapping, “he’s right there. Do you want him to see you dripping on my cock?”
You shake your head desperately, tears springing to your eyes. Your date calls again, closer this time. His shadow flickers across the wall, distorted by the strobe. Tyler pulls out halfway, then slams back in so hard the wall creaks. You almost scream into his palm. He licks the side of your face in return, his breath hot against your skin.
The curtain to the alcove shifts. A hand pushes it aside an inch. Your ex's voice is so close it’s in your bones. “Hey, are you…”
Tyler doesn’t falter. If anything, his grin twists darker, more animal. He fucks you harder, deeper, grinding until your back scrapes the wall. His palm smothers every sound you try to make.
The hand lingers on the curtain, then withdraws. Your ex mutters something about teenagers and hormones and his footsteps fade.
“Good girl,” Tyler snarls, fucking you harder, like punishing you for almost giving it away. “You nearly got caught, didn’t you? And you loved it.”
You whimper, clench harder around him, your whole body spasming. He groans low, biting your shoulder to keep himself quiet. The taste of blood, sweat, him, it blurs everything until you’re floating.
“Stay with me,” he commands, hand sliding down to choke you lightly, forcing your head back, eyes rolling. “Don’t pass out yet, I’m not done with you.”
He slams into you so hard your vision whites out. A scream rips up your throat, but his hand clamps tighter over your mouth, stealing it, forcing you to swallow the sound. You break completely, convulsing, your body betraying you, clinging to him with every quivering muscle. You see stars, your ears ring, and you’re seconds from blacking out with how hard you come.
He fucks you through it, through your collapse, through your trembling, until you’re limp in his grip, drooling against his palm, your body useless but still spasming around him. He snarls, teeth sinking into your neck as he spills inside you with a feral growl, pushing so deep you’re certain you’ll never walk straight again.
When he finally pulls back, you’re wrecked, trembling, your vision swimming. You can’t even hold yourself up. He keeps you pinned against the wall by force, watching every twitch of your ruined body.
“Look at you,” he mutters, with pride in his voice. “you nearly passed out on me. God, you’re perfect.”
You slide down the wall when he lets go, legs useless, skirt still rucked up around your hips. Your chest heaves, eyes unfocused, every nerve still crackling with the aftershocks. He doesn’t let you crumple. His hand fists in your hair, forcing your head up so you meet his eyes in the flashing lights. He looks rabid, sweat dripping down his temple, grin twisted. You can’t meet his stare for long, the hunger there is too much, too raw.
He tilts your face up, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. His chest rises hard against yours, every breath ragged. Your lips part, needy and trembling and that’s all it takes. He crashes his mouth to yours.
It’s not gentle. It’s filthy, desperate, his tongue claiming yours. He groans into it, almost dizzy with the flavor, the heat, the wrongness of it. And you kiss him back, hard and greedy like you can’t help yourself either, making his brain short-circuit.
Because you shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t kiss him like he is oxygen. You shouldn’t claw at his hoodie, pulling him closer like you’ll die if he stops. You shouldn’t moan into his mouth like you belong here, like you’re addicted to the ruin he makes of you.
The realization claws through him, jagged and electric: you want this, not just his body breaking yours, not just the danger, the humiliation, the feral roughness… You want him.
And he shouldn’t love it… But fuck, he does.
The kiss drags on, messy and consuming. He loves the sting of your teeth when you bite back, like you’re somehow feral too. He loves the way you taste of everything he’s already done to you, everything he’ll do again the second he’ll get you alone again. His chest aches with it, a twisted, ugly ache he wants to spit out but can’t. It coils inside him, hot and sharp and wrong, whispering mine mine mine every time your tongue tangles with his… Until he finally tears himself back with a ragged growl, saliva stringing between your mouths. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hot and uneven. He lingers one heartbeat more, lips brushing yours in something almost soft, almost tender, so wrong it makes his skin crawl with need. Then his grin twists into something dangerous again.
“Now go. Before I break you for good this time.”
He steps back, watches you stumble forward. The taste of you still burns his mouth, making him want to tear his own skin off because it’s not supposed to feel like this. It’s not supposed to feel like you. It’s not supposed to feel like he’ll never get enough.
You walk out of the haunted house first, skirt rumpled, cheeks flushed, your legs trembling in a way no one else would notice. No one but him. He sees the way you try to smooth your hair, the way your thighs shift awkwardly, as if you can’t quite press them together without remembering how raw he left you.
And then your ex-boyfriend finds you, his arm hovering close, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or not.
“Hey, you okay?” the idiot mutters, worry dripping from his voice.
She’s fine, champ, just stuffed full of me and you didn't even notice.
You nod, force a little smile, but Tyler catches the way your eyes flick, restless, searching the crowd like you know he’s still there. Your body’s humming for him. And when the guy tries to kiss you, you turn your face, his lips brushing your cheek instead. You murmur something. Tyler can’t hear the words over the noise of the festival, but he reads the shape of them, the shrug in your shoulders, the way the guy’s face falls: Second chance was a bad idea.
Good girl.
His chest twists, that dark ache pulsing harder than before. He wants to cut through the crowd, rip you from his side, drag you down some alley and finish what he started until you can’t even stand. He wants to own every second of your night, mark you so deep no one could ever mistake who you belong to… But not tonight. Not again.
The fun is over. He has a plan, some blood to spill and a revenge to take… But he’ll be back. For you.
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