19 im chronically online most specifically this app so im always giving out ff recs so if your looking for it I’ve probably read it kpop ,xmen,anime,slashers 🤤and harry potter fan Also stan golden child
Note- so im only going to have x reader fics here please make sure to read all triggers each author puts before the fic cause some may have triggering topics i will also mark each fic by what is included and yes my guilty pleasure is poly and hybrid fics dont @ me also if your looking for certain genre of fics don’t be afraid to send me an ask for them and ill respond with a few heres the link to my other rec list aswell it has a mix and match of famdoms
Edit- HOLY CRAP this got way more attention than i expected thank you sm for the love also if anyone wants to be tagged any time i update whether thats a group or person in general i can !!!!
Smut=🔥
Fluff=🌸
Hybrid au=🦊
Angst=❤️🩹
BTS
Ot7
Abundance (series)🦊❤️🩹🌸🔥
Trouville(series )🦊🔥🌸
You will fully bloom 🔥
Loving you isnt hard to learn 🌸
American mate🦊🌸🔥
Escape🦊🌸🔥
Jin
yoongi
hobi
namjoon-to be loved 🦊❤️🩹🌸(short series)
Jimin-the pitfalls of silk🔥🌸🌸
Tae
Jungkook-Will it fit?🔥
The boyz
Ot11 - the boyz are human
Sweet(vampire yandere au)
Symphony of souls
Sangyeon-eyes on me
Redemption of love (ft new ) [phantom of the opera au]
New- redemption of love (ft sangyeon)[phantom of the opera au ]
Changmin - asylum patient changmin
Stray kids
Ot8 - your my favorite pill
Secret secret
Free use jail cell 🔥🔥🔥(one of the hottest things i read)
Greenrige skz abo au
Soulmate garden
Pack mentality( one of my absolute favorites rn )
Oddinary house
Dolly( very smutty but oml was it good)
Digital boyfriend ( i cant wait for the next update!)
bangchan-
Mr.firefighter 🌸
Little red
Felix-
Savior with fin
Seventeen
Ot13
Under the sun ( ngl this is by far one of the best ive read ive been going back to read this since it first came out !!!)
svt reacts to you saying 'i love you' on accident smau
Svt and their baby
Play along ot13x reader 🔥🔥( one of my absolute favorites for smut!!!)
Looking in (cheolhoon x reader)
Scoups: dark protecter 🔥🔥❤️🩹
Golden child
Jangjun-bittersweet🌸
Monsta x
Ot6- were all psycho
Joohoney-all of me 🔥🔥🔥🔥
Txt
Hueningkai-
Hueningkai as your boyfriend
Exo
Ot9-A manor of shadow and blood
Suho- our love is a tempest
Ateez
ot8/poly
When eight becomes nine🌸
Incomplete soul mate au
Hotel California ( if you havent read this you need to because its just so good i read it straight through)
The places between us 🔥🔥🔥( centered around hj)
And if it stops snowing? then count the stars in the sky( really fluffy and angsty but im not lying when i say you will cry its long and really well written)
Matz
Opposites attract (Addams family Au ) 🔥
Btob
Ot7
yandere!btob: finding you months later after you escaped
synopsis. this was just a job for you. well, you didn't consider it to be a proper job, but the fans paid you well, and the fancams turn good, so you don't complain. though, this gig turned into something bigger when a company recruited you to be the photographer for him. and god.. why is he so annoying?
content warnings. photographer!reader, yandere tendencies, unbothered!reader, obsessive and possessive behaviours, stalking (from side characters), lowkey a soft yandere, angst, fluff, lowkey willing!reader, kind of cracked?
word count. 4.8k
xander page had always been too pretty to be left alone.
it started early — when he was just a kid, bony and quiet, with lashes too long and a voice that rarely raised above a whisper. there was something about him that made people stare.
first it was girls in class. boys too. then teachers. neighbors. strangers in the market. they stared like they knew something he didn’t.
he used to think it was in his head.
until the first note showed up in his locker, until someone started following him home.
after that, it didn’t stop.
he changed schools twice before sixteen. someone leaked his address. someone else waited outside his part-time job for a week, watching him through the windows without saying a word.
a man twice his age sent him gifts through the front desk of his apartment building. clothes in the right size. a photo of him leaving the bus stop, taped to a postcard that read:
"you look better up close."
he’d stopped flinching at threats by then. it was the affection that made him sick. his mother tried to help, in the way people do when they think it’s just a phase, just overactive imaginations. but she was working double shifts and never saw the worst of it.
his friends, what few he had, started pulling away too. it was hard to be close to someone who never felt safe.
so he learned to disappear. hoods up, eyes down, different routes every day.
he stopped trusting doors. stopped sleeping through the night.
what no one ever told him was this; being loved by the wrong people feels like drowning with a spotlight on you. everyone’s watching, no one’s helping.
he kept waiting to be forgotten but they always found him again. so one day, right after graduation, when the world stretched ahead like a threat, he thought, fine. if i’m going to be followed, might as well give them something to chase.
he walked into the audition with no plan, no dance, no training. just a face too perfect to ignore and a voice that sounded like smoke and steel.
the judges didn’t even ask for a second round.
his name wasn’t xander back then.
he still remembers when they gave it to him. a label-picked name, all sharp edges and western shine.
xander page.
"you look like a xander," the CEO had said, like it was a compliment. "foreign, but cool."
like that meant anything. the name fit like cold water. he never corrected anyone. he didn’t even write his real name down after that.
becoming an idol was less like training and more like drowning in a different sea. choreography at 6 a.m. rap drills until midnight. salads for dinner, ice cubes for snacks.
every mirror was a reminder; you exist to be looked at.
but for once, that felt… useful. controlled. there were managers now, security, locked buildings, layers of glass between him and the rest of the world.
if they were going to watch him, they’d have to do it from behind a screen.
he debuted in the fifth seat of a five-member group called VAR!ANT. a visual and rapper. the cold one, the quiet one. he wasn’t pretending. he didn’t know how to be loud anymore.
xander became a face, not a person. people projected their love onto him like film onto a screen and he let them. this time, at least, they weren’t sending hair in envelopes, not yet.
he did what he was told.
signed albums, answered questions, made the peace sign in every photo. and when the other members laughed and joked and played up for cameras, he stood just behind them — smiling only when the flash went off.
he didn’t mind.
at least here, the rules made sense. at least here, love came with a schedule.
the first time he stepped out of the black van in front of music bank, it didn’t feel real.
the fans had been waiting since morning. lined up behind barricades, holding up banners, chanting names, snapping photos like the world would end if they blinked.
xander pulled his mask up higher. adjusted his sleeves.
the sun was too bright. the screams were too loud. he was used to silence now — controlled chaos.
but this was chaos without walls.
the others got out before him, smiling and waving. he hesitated and then he stepped out.
his foot hit the pavement, the flashbulbs exploded. his name — xander! xander! — ripped through the air like a siren.
he didn’t look up, didn’t engage. just walked. eyes low. face blank. until something shifted. a stillness in the noise, a thread pulling tight in the crowd. and then he looked up.
you were there.
near the middle of the fence line, not holding a sign, not screaming.
you had a camera in your hands, and your gaze was steady, calm, unlike the blur around you. and for a moment, xander forgot how to breathe. because your lens was aimed right at him.
not the member next to him, not the group behind. him.
but it wasn’t the camera that stopped him.
it was the way you looked at him — like you recognized him. not the name. not the image.
him.
his real self, the one buried under five years of stage makeup and rebranded identity. the boy who used to hide from windows. your finger clicked the shutter.
and in that instant, xander page fell in love. not loud, not cinematic but quiet, shattering.
like something breaking open inside him and then the moment passed. his manager called his name, the others kept walking, the fans screamed louder.
but his head stayed turned, his eyes stayed locked on yours. he didn’t know your name, he didn’t know if you’d ever come to another show. but he knew one thing, you’d seen him.
and that was more dangerous than anything. more dangerous than being followed.
because now, he wanted to follow you.
｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡
you weren’t a fan.
not really.
you weren’t the kind of person who lined up outside airports or taped posters to your walls or cried when albums dropped at midnight. but you had a camera. a good one, and you had steady hands.
so when someone offered to pay you for idol photos; clean, high-res, nothing creepy — you figured, why not.
you weren’t going to chase them into bathrooms, you weren’t going to climb fences or break into hotels.
you had limits.
but you could show up at music shows. you could slip through the crowd with a lens long enough to cut through chaos. you could deliver twenty perfect shots in a google drive folder and never think about it again.
easy money.
and fans paid well, desperate fans even better.
the request for xander page came in on a thursday. the message was short. no name. just a username you didn’t recognize and a cash offer that nearly made you choke on your drink.
xander page. VAR!ANT. music bank. i want photos. good ones.i’ll pay triple your rate. upfront.
you hesitated. not because you were scared but because you’d heard of him.
xander had a reputation. pretty, cold, unreadable. never smiled unless the camera begged, some said he had a tragic past. others just said he was weird.
you didn’t care either way. you googled his face, watched a stage or two.
okay. fine. you got the hype.
he was beautiful in a very precise, distant kind of way — like art behind museum glass. not warm, not reachable. just there, like light refracted through something sharp.
you accepted the job and the ticket came the next day.
you didn’t wear merch, you didn’t carry a sign. you kept your camera close and your hood up. the crowd outside music bank was already unhinged by the time you arrived; screaming, chanting, vibrating with this desperate sort of devotion you’d never really understood.
you weren’t one of them. you were just here to work. you squeezed in between two girls holding banners and positioned your lens over the barrier.
the vans pulled up and everyone lost their minds.
the first members of VAR!ANT got out one by one. they looked like every other rookie group you’d seen; young, polished, beaming like they’d been trained to glow.
you snapped a few shots.
not of xander, not yet. you were waiting. and then, he stepped out and everything slowed.
he didn’t look at the crowd first, he didn’t wave. he didn’t smile. he looked down. his hair was pink due to the promotional album, tucked under a beanie, and his mask covered most of his face, but even from where you stood, you could tell it was him.
he didn’t walk like the others, he didn’t move like he owed anyone anything. you lifted your camera. framed the shot.
his foot hit the ground.
click. you caught it.
he moved. click. shoulders squared.
then he looked up. and he looked at you. not around you, not through you. at you. you froze because there was something behind his stare that didn’t match the videos you’d seen, didn’t match the coldness.
he looked like he’d just seen something impossible like maybe he didn’t believe you were real. his steps slowed, just slightly, barely noticeable but you saw it.
his eyes locked onto yours like a thread had been pulled tight across the space between you.
click. you caught it again.
not just the face. not just the light. the moment. you weren’t a fan but your fingers trembled a little around the camera.
it lasted maybe three seconds.
then someone called his name, he turned his head. the line moved forward. but he kept looking back, just once before leaving.
you exhaled and lowered the camera. your heart was beating too loud for someone who was just here for a job. but you’d felt something shift.
something dangerous. something that didn’t belong in this world of idols and lenses and pretty lies.
you took the shots, you got the payment. but that moment wasn’t for them. that one… you kept for yourself.
｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡
you didn’t plan to become the xander page photographer. but after that first show, the requests started rolling in.
quietly, at first. then all at once.
messages flooded your inbox, screenshots of xander, timestamps, fan accounts begging for just a few hqs.
"can you get him looking this way?" "i want a clear shot of his mic hand, please." "his eyes when he does that thing — you know the one."
you never responded with more than a few words, you didn’t do edits. you didn’t promise anything. you just took your camera, stood where you always did, quiet, still, invisible, and captured him.
xander page didn’t perform like the others. he didn’t act like he wanted to be loved but that only made people want him more.
and somehow, you always caught the best angles. the in-between moments, the ones where he looked less like a product and more like a person.
you told yourself it was just a job. but deep down, something kept pulling you back. not the money, not the likes. him.
he hadn’t looked at you again. not directly. not like that first time.
but sometimes, in the middle of a show, when the lights were too bright and he was too far gone in the music, he’d glance up.
and for a split second, you swore he was searching.
you shot him at five shows. then ten. your google drive folders were immaculate. each one named with date, setlist, location. every file timestamped. no watermarks, no fan edits.
just him. raw, precise, undeniably beautiful.
you started recognizing other fansites in the crowd, you didn’t talk to them. you were here for the stillness. for the way xander’s expression sometimes cracked mid-verse. for the way he always kept his hands clenched during encore songs.
you never posted your favorite shots, they were just for you.
the night of the seoul dome concert, everything changed. VAR!ANT was headlining. it was sold out in minutes, over twenty thousand people.
you’d gotten the pass through a repeat client. front section, near the stage extension, clean sightline.
xander was electric that night.
his hair was damp, sweat clinging to his jaw, mouth set in that usual quiet snarl, but the energy was different. he moved like the stage belonged to him.
the crowd screamed his name so loud it sounded like thunder. and you? you kept your lens steady.
click. a close-up under blue lights.
click. a wide shot of his silhouette as he turned, backlit like a phantom.
click. you caught it again, the moment. he looked in your direction. not at you. not quite. but his gaze stopped moving, right where you stood.
just for a breath. and the edge of his mouth twitched. not a smile, not fully. but close. you didn’t move, didn’t blink and...
click.
after the show, the stadium buzzed like static. crowds pushed to leave. fans sobbed into their banners. you packed up your gear like always — slow, careful, methodical.
but as you zipped your camera bag, someone tapped your shoulder. you turned and see a man. the man wore black, badge on a lanyard, earpiece. definitely not a fan.
“excuse me," he said. "are you the one who took this?"
he held out his phone. your photo, from two shows ago. xander mid-spin, spotlight catching the sweat at his temple, eyes on fire.
uncredited, but unmistakably yours. your fingers twitched.
“…who’s asking?”
“we’re with elysian.”
the label.
you raised a brow, guarded, curious.
he continued, professional and crisp. “our team’s been tracking your uploads. your work’s been circulated through internal comms more than you know.” he paused and then continued, “we’re interested. in hiring you.”
your heart stalled. “as what?”
“concert photography. promotions. official team.”
you narrowed your eyes. "i have conditions."
“name them.”
you folded your arms. “i keep my side work. i choose what shows i cover. and i don’t watermark or edit unless i want to.”
the man blinked. once before nodding. “agreed.” no hesitation.
you almost laughed. “you don’t want to think about that first?”
he just gave a tight smile. “they’ve been trying to find you for six weeks.” another pause. “xander himself asked who was taking the best shots of him.”
your stomach twisted. you kept your face neutral. “…did he?”
“yes.”
you didn’t answer right away, just let the weight of it sink in. he’d noticed, he’d seen. not just once, not just on stage. he looked. you nodded slowly.
“then i guess i’m in.”
｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡
the shoot was at a private studio in mapo. early morning. polished floors, white walls, enough natural light to make god jealous. you showed up fifteen minutes early, camera bag on your shoulder, lens case in your hand, and not a single trace of nerves on your face.
this was work. you were good at it. the assistant led you in with a quick “they’re just finishing makeup — set up anywhere,” and vanished into another room.
the place was quiet, clean. a few folding tables with untouched snacks, clothes on racks, light rigs half-assembled. you picked the corner with the best angle and started unpacking. tripod up, camera out, no drama.
you liked shoots, they obeyed rules. no screaming fans, no stage chaos. just composition and control.
you were adjusting your lens when you heard the low murmur of voices, a few footsteps, a half-laugh.
the members of VAR!ANT filtered in, one by one, taller in person, louder, already dressed in black and silver for the concept.
you barely glanced at them.
until the room dipped in volume like air being sucked out and he walked in.
xander.
taller than you expected. leaner, sharper, like he’d been carved instead of born. still expressionless, mouth neutral, eyes unreadable. someone said something to him, and he nodded but didn’t answer.
you watched from your viewfinder. habit, not interest. he walked past the lights, past the backdrop, past the others and stopped right in front of you.
“you’re the photographer?” his voice wasn’t deep, but it hit low. smooth. familiar in a way that made your spine twitch. you blinked, lowered the camera. “…yeah.”
silence. then, he smiled. tiny, restrained, but real. and that’s when the room paused.
you didn’t notice it at first, but everyone else did. a stylist looked up too fast and dropped a brush. the youngest member, isaac, blinked like he’d seen a ghost. someone at the rack straight up whispered, “what the hell — he’s talking?”
your eyes narrowed slightly. not at him. just at the situation.
“…okay. hi.” he nodded like he didn’t want the conversation to end.
“you always shoot this fast?”
“when i’m paid to.”
“didn’t know you’d be here today.”
“wasn’t trying to make it a surprise.”
he grinned at that. you regretted giving him the opening immediately. he didn’t walk away, he didn’t even blink.
just stood there, still watching you. you turned, refocused your camera.
“i’m setting up. go do your… idol thing.”
“this is my idol thing.”
you didn’t laugh but he did.
the shoot began.
you adjusted the lights. the director called poses. the other photographer — who you realized was technically in charge, gave occasional commands, but you were the one they kept glancing at. the one xander kept watching.
he’d pose like normal, tilt of the chin, flash of profile — and the second your camera clicked, his eyes would drop toward you.
not the lens. you.
you ignored it at first. he was a performer. this was his job. but then he started talking again. while you were shooting.
“this side better?”
click.
“or maybe like, this?”
click.
“do you ever let people see your face or is that just for your camera?”
click.
“you always ignore people this hard?”
click.
you lowered the camera. stared at him.
“i’m working.”
“so am i.”
“are you?”
he tilted his head.
“…no. not really.”
you sighed.
“just, look at the backdrop, page.”
“you called me page,” he said, like it meant something.
you adjusted the aperture, he adjusted his stance.
“is that your way of flirting?” you muttered.
“only if it’s working.”
you rolled your eyes. he looked delighted.
after an hour of this, you gave up. you weren’t going to win. he had too much stamina. too much commitment to the bit. so you gave him what he wanted. a look, a smirk, one second of undivided attention.
he lit up like someone had handed him a new soul. you didn’t know xander page personally, but you knew this — he was acting like a dog who’d finally gotten a treat after sitting for hours.
he didn’t stop smiling. even when he turned away. even when they called him for a solo shot in front of the textured wall.
you took three photos without thinking. didn’t even check the preview, you just knew they were perfect.
they wrapped a little after noon. the staff buzzed around packing cords, rolling backdrops, collecting tape from the floor.
you were organizing your folders on your laptop, checking clarity, noting timestamps.
xander was already dressed down, black hoodie over his tank top, hair still half-damp from a mist spray.
you felt him before you heard him.
he tapped the table twice next to your laptop. you looked up.
“you gonna ghost me after today?” he asked.
“depends.”
“on?”
“whether or not you ask for my number like a normal person.”
he blinked. then smiled slow, like he wasn’t sure if you were joking but he pulled his phone out anyway and held it out to you.
you typed your number in, clean and quiet. no emoji. no name. he stared at the screen for a second too long.
“…this isn’t fake, right?”
“try it and see.”
he grinned before he turned to leave. but before he got far, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
“don’t ignore me.”
you didn’t respond. he disappeared out the door, his manager trailing behind him. you exhaled for what felt like the first time in two hours.
ten minutes later, while you were unplugging your light panel, your phone buzzed.
( unknown )
it’s me. don’t save it if you don’t want to.
but i’m gonna keep texting anyway.
your photos were good, by the way. but i looked better in person, huh?
you stared at the screen and smiled to yourself. but you didn’t answer.
｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡
you don’t know when exactly xander page decided he was allowed to text you at all hours. but he does. at first, it’s once a day. a casual ping. something short and dumb.
( xander )
are you eating real food or just batteries and camera dust
then it’s twice. then five times. you never respond.
you’re not doing it to be cruel. you’re just busy, you have work. you shoot for three other bands now, one indie magazine, and a side contract with a fashion label that pays you in advance.
he knows this. he just doesn’t care.
( xander )
i think one of your photos of me is cursed
my mom framed it and now our cat doesn’t blink anymore
( xander )
are you ignoring me on purpose
be honest
is this a power thing
( xander )
do you have a cat
you look like you’d have a mean one
like a little guy with attitude
( xander )
that wasn’t an insult
please reply so i can apologize for the thing i just said that wasn’t even bad
you stare at your screen, thumb hovering over the reply box. every time you come close, you stop.
because this whole thing is stupid. he’s stupid, he talks like a golden retriever who got famous and never realized it.
you don’t hate it. you just don’t know what to do with it.
and then one day, you’re shooting for a mid-tier rock group at a multi-lineup showcase. it’s your third job of the week. your eyes are dry. your bag is heavy. you’re standing in the press pit, packed shoulder to shoulder with other photographers who all elbow a little too hard.
you have one earplug in, your knees hurt. the crowd behind you smells like rain and heat and glitter. you’ve been locked in all day. until your phone buzzes again.
you don’t look at it right away. you’ve trained yourself not to.
but then it buzzes again. and again. and again. you sigh, pull it out of your pocket, and glance down. it’s all xander.
( xander )
i saw you
don’t lie
that was you with the black mask and grey jacket
standing near the guy with the cheetah print scarf
you freeze. you glance up, slowly, out at the crowd.
somewhere out there, behind the upper barrier, across the floor, maybe behind tinted glass, xander page is watching you.
( xander )
why are you here
are you shooting another band
do you like them better than us
be honest
is their lead singer hotter than me
no don’t answer that i can’t emotionally handle it
you exhale through your nose, it’s not a laugh but it’s close.
( xander )
actually answer it
i changed my mind
i want to suffer
your fingers hover over the screen for a long second. then, without thinking, you type back.
( name )
i’m working. stop texting.
you don’t expect him to respond. you definitely don’t expect him to respond in less than one second.
( xander )
YOU TEXTED ME
this is real
this is the best moment of my week
i’m gonna cry
you can picture him saying it. not just writing it — saying it. in that low, amused voice he uses when he’s half-joking, half-serious.
you regret replying already but you don’t stop.
( name )
why are you even here
( xander )
industry invite
we’re not performing
we’re “making an appearance”
i’m wearing stupid pants
( name )
cry about it
( xander )
i will
you tuck your phone into your back pocket, hiding the smile that’s threatening your face. your camera hangs against your chest, warm from use. you look through your lens, frame the next shot.
but your focus is slipping, your mind keeps drifting back to him. somewhere behind all these bodies and barriers, he’s out there, eyes sharp, probably scanning every inch of you with his annoyingly perfect memory.
you shoot two more bands. you’re halfway through editing thumbnails on your backup screen when your phone buzzes again.
( xander )
don’t look up
but i can see you
you look up. you can’t help it. you scan the higher levels of the arena, your gaze darting through the rows and the glass-lined booths, until… there. far left, top floor. a private balcony box, dimly lit, security posted near the door.
you see movement. and then a hand, fingers. he waves. you shake your head, but your face is warm. you glance back down.
( xander )
you shook your head but you smiled
i saw it
i see everything
( name )
you’re a menace
( xander )
thank you
you laugh under your breath. this is bad. this is so, so bad. because he’s not annoying anymore, not really, not today.
you don’t want to admit it, but he’s grown on you like a bruise you stopped noticing. soft around the edges, weirdly warm, still a little inconvenient.
but not painful, not now.
( xander )
i’m gonna keep talking unless you tell me to stop
i like when you boss me around
is that a weird thing to say
i think we’re close enough that i can say weird things now
( name )
we are not close
( xander )
you for my number first
that makes us spiritually married
( name )
i will throw this phone in the ocean
( xander )
i’ll swim down and get it
and frame the text
and use it as my lock screen forever
you sigh.
( name )
focus on your job
( xander )
YOU’RE my job now
you stare at the message. okay, that one actually got you. you pause, breathe in.
( name )
i’m serious. you’re at an event. don’t be weird.
( xander )
i’m not being weird
i’m being devoted
there’s a difference
( xander )
i’m not talking to anyone here
all i’ve done for an hour is look at you
you glance back up at the balcony. he’s still there, still staring.
you raise your camera, slowly, zoom in. focus. he doesn’t flinch. you snap the photo. just one, no one else in the frame. just xander, leaning forward over the railing, chin resting on his hand, a stupid, stupid smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
you drop the camera from your face. he raises both eyebrows, waves again. you look away and your phone buzzes.
( xander )
now YOU’RE the one taking unauthorized pictures
i could sue
i won’t
but i could
you don’t reply this time. you just go back to your camera, recenter, reframe, repress the urge to grin like a lunatic.
the show ends with confetti and fireworks and a final chorus you can’t even hear over the roar of the crowd. you stay late, you always do.
you back up your files to the hard drive in your case, sort your shots by lighting and color, scrub the lens clean. you’re halfway through repacking when your phone buzzes again.
( xander )
you still there?
you hesitate and then typed.
( name )
yeah. packing up.
he doesn’t reply. you slide your bag over your shoulder and turn toward the exit, stepping carefully through the loose wires and leftover tape across the floor.
the crowd’s mostly gone. just crew now. a few stray fans being ushered out by security.
you reach the door to the hallway and pause, and your phone buzzes again.
( xander )
look right
you do and he’s there. not behind glass, not on a balcony. there. standing halfway down the hallway, hoodie up, hair messy, a bottle of water in one hand and that stupid soft smile on his face.
“hey,” he says.
you blink. “…you weren’t supposed to leave the balcony.”
he shrugs. “they let me out.”
you narrow your eyes. “you ran.”
“i walked fast with conviction.”
“…xander.”
“you said my name,” he says. too pleased. way too pleased. you fight a laugh, you can’t win with him. he doesn’t let you.
“what do you want?”
“nothing,” he says, which you immediately know is a lie. “just… wanted to see you.”
“you’ve been seeing me.”
he nods.
“yeah. but now you’re closer.”
you don’t answer. you just stare at him. he looks tired, happy, but tired. dark circles smudged under his eyes, sweat still clinging to the curve of his neck.
he looks real. you sigh and shift your bag higher on your shoulder.
“…you need to go back before they panic.”
he nods again but he doesn’t move.
“you gonna text me again?” he asks.
“maybe.”
he grins. “i’ll spam you until you do.”
“you already do.”
“then i’ll escalate.”
you shake your head and start walking. and as you pass him, his hand brushes yours, barely.
just enough to spark something warm down your wrist.
you don’t stop but you do look back once. he’s still there, still smiling. and for once — you don’t mind it.
BREATHED SO DEEP I THOUGHT I’D DROWN . . . ft. Floyd Leech
wc: ~7.5k
cw: NSFW—MINORS + AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI, gn+afab!yuu/reader, reader is not called yuu, reader is called shrimpy sorry, all characters portrayed are 18+, mutual pining, friends -> lovers, implied virgin!floyd, scientifically inaccurate/speculative on behalf of author’s conception of mer-eel anatomy, #fucking4science, more like fucking under the guise of science, pool sex, mentions of mating/breeding, penetration, fingering, cunnilingus, kissing, biting/marking, dirty talk, creampie, silly and unserious because it’s floyd, shrimpy more like simpy (floyd's worse), only like a third of this is actually smut someone shoot me
reid: couldnt have written this ridiculousness without my two beloveds @seasidefallenangel and @fleursdaydreams ... thank you for bouncing around analysis, prompting me to write, and listening to me talk endlessly about him for the past few weeks lol <3
You and Grim struck a deal back when you were first settling into Ramshackle together: he’d take the classes that required applied magic and its necessary preparation, and you’d take the more basic courses. You were mostly spared first year, save for the moments when you were more or less dragging Grim through History of Magic by the scruff of his neck (he was going to hold up his end of your duo-enrollment if it meant you had to maim him a little along the way), but that was it. Not that you’d have had much time to devote to study, anyway, what with the way Crowley had you running around all over campus and beyond, cleaning up after people’s messes and bailing your lovable (deplorable) companion out of trouble. But he promised he’d take it easier on you this year, your second year, seeing as you’d be personally enrolled in a few classes—just another one of his kindnesses that he had no reservation extending to you, of course, because Crowley was just so nice like that.
And you quickly learned in the first weeks of fall semester that being in class with the friends you’d made thus far is actually pretty fun—or, at least, it’s never dull. Kalim’s TA position in Trein’s astrology class comes in handy both for academic and entertainment purposes (he likes to tell the class the stories he used to make up for the constellations before he knew what they meant), and even mathematics is alright when Ace is willing to let you peek over his shoulder for answers.
And you have biology with Floyd, which goes… exactly as you might expect it to.
Really, though, people tend to write Floyd off as a clown—and for good reason, because he certainly acts like one sometimes, but he’s smarter than he appears. On the first day of classes when he’d slid into the seat next to yours, you immediately wondered aloud why he was taking biology his third year instead of his second, which would’ve been usual protocol. Had he flunked it or something?
“Subbed it for Ancient Magic last year since bio sounded boring,” he’d explained, kicking his feet up on the chair in front of him (Crewel, sauntering around all dramatic-like before the bell, passed by and batted them to the ground, muttering bad), “but they wouldn’t let me get away with flakin’ out on it entirely.”
Ancient Magic was usually strictly reserved for third years, so you guessed it was no small academic feat that he’d managed to wiggle in a year early. Even Jade’s test scores didn’t quite rival his brother’s.
And despite this quiet academic prowess (or maybe because of it), he seemed to really be dreading biology. You kind of scrunched up your nose when he complained—you wished your biggest worry was being too bored by college level subject material, even if it was just a gen ed—but in that lovingly compensatory Floyd way, he’d wrapped up his lamenting with some slyly sweet comment about how it couldn’t be that bad as long as he had his Shrimpy with him.
So you’d just rolled your eyes and smiled, returning the sentiment. As long as you had boy-eel-genius Floyd Leech to steal test answers from, you supposed you’d be alright. (He’d dismissed such a title with that radiating laugh of his, and so you were certain.)
And to this present day, he’s been a shining classmate, honestly. Meticulous lab partner, halfway decent notetaker. When he’s in the mood for it, is what everyone usually bellyaches about his redeeming qualities, but you have yet to experience a Floyd so stormy that he’s unwilling to lend you a hand or be sweet to you. And you’ve been waiting for it to happen, you really have—to catch him on a bad day, to be the one to say or do the thing that sours his mood before you can blink.
But it hasn’t, and you haven’t.
Ace and Deuce theorize it’s for reasons that make you go warm in the face. Please, who else is he that nice to but you? Because Floyd is notoriously an individualist to his core. Yes, he has a reputation for scaring underclassmen straight with a single glare. Yes, he heckles professors every chance he gets. Yes, he likes to skip out of class and wander the halls when lecture falls into a lull, but when he drags you with him, he never disappoints his MO of loathing boredom. He keeps you guessing—but, somehow, in a way that never exhausts or overwhelms you. If you’re thankful for nothing else that’s come out of the entire ordeal of being isekai’d into this terribly absurd pocket of existence, you’re at least softened by the opportunity to find beauty in places no one else gets to see, even if those places are renowned idiot Floyd Leech.
Like so many other things in Twisted Wonderland, he looks scarier than he is; the simple reality is that he doesn’t pay any mind to the narratives others fit him into, nor is he lacking in the depth that’s endeared him to you beyond your own expectations. He’s funny, he’s chaotic, he’s a quiet mind and a loud lover, reliable in his own right, predictable in his penchant for unpredictability. And one of your best friends!
Okay, so biology with Floyd goes better than what you might’ve expected it to.
It’s not like you’re going to complain. If he weren’t six-foot-whatever and heartwrenchingly pretty, you’d be so content with just best friends, but again, you’re picking your battles here. And Floyd, thankfully, doesn’t have to be one of them.
“Shrimpy,” he snaps, but when you look over, he’s grinning. Floyd tips your textbook shut for you; people are filing out of the classroom. You must’ve tuned out the bell. “Class is over. D’ja hear me?”
“Sorry,” you mumble, grabbing your bag. “What’s up?”
“I said you should study with me later,” he says, folding his arms beside you and tucking his chin into them. He looks up at you adorably. “Anatomy section’s kinda kickin’ my ass.”
Liar, you think at first—but then, maybe he’s not. Despite zoning out today, you recall the content of the past few classes—particularly, a class from last week, in which Crewel spent a whopping five whole minutes (if you were generous) taking a detour to a flimsy conclusion about how marine anatomy and physiology is so often glossed over on land, just by nature, by expectation, by separation or whatever, and for that reason, there isn’t really room for it in the syllabus. Or whatever.
You don’t remember the smart comment Floyd made at this gap in the curriculum, but you remember he made one. And if landfolk life science is by and large as foreign to merfolk as vice versa, you figure maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’ll actually study for once instead of goofing off like you usually do, ending up on the roof of Ramshackle, scrounging in the cafeteria for late-night snacks, or sneaking onto the bus to Foothill Town; his kicked puppy stare tells you so.
“Of course,” you say, gathering your things. “Mine or yours?”
“Mine, duh.” Floyd stands to trail behind you to your astrology class; he has a break after bio, but he always walks with you anyway. “Or send Sealie away, at least, if we do yours. Gotta get serious about this test next week.”
He still jars you a little when he talks so sensibly, but you chuckle anyway. “I can ask the uncles to babysit.” Your two now-sophomore Heartslabyul friends, you mean.
“You’re the best, Shrimpy.” Floyd tosses a jovial arm around your shoulders, and you tuck yours around his waist to keep yourself from tripping on his feet. “Can’t get ya to Trein late or he’ll have both of our asses. What were ya thinkin’ about just now, anyway?”
You, you could blurt, but you don’t. His fingertips toying with the shoulder of your blazer always make it harder for you to think clearly. Shouldn’t you have grown used to this by now? Floyd’s so open with physical affection when it comes to his friends; you hate when your brain makes it into something it obviously isn’t. Only it isn’t obvious that it isn’t, and you’d only ask if you were an iota more certain.
You hum. “Can’t remember.”
“Too bad. You looked real concentrated.” His chin knocks into your head, and you swat him away, laughing. “Love that lil’ brain of yours.”
Please, shut up. You’re not an easily flustered Shrimpy; Night Raven College knows this about you. So, you think, what the hell? “J’you just call my brain little, Leech?”
Cue sunshine laugh again. He doesn’t deny, nor does he confirm, but you know it’s out of love. Friendly love. Fuck, you’ve got it bad.
Before you break away from him to cross the threshold into astrology, Floyd takes you by the shoulders.
“I’m serious, I need help.” He’s got that whiplashingly serious look in his eyes when they snap to yours. “I’ll see you after dinner, yeah?”
You nod, smiling as you internally curse the indelible flush in your skin. You’re so irritatingly sensitive to his charms today. No doubt if he does end up wanting to bail on studying later, you’ll give in. “I’ll text you.”
“Cool.” In an instant, that toothy grin is back. He presses an amiable smooch to the top of your head (complete with loud mwah) and you swear you feel ten degrees cooler as soon as he begins retreating down the hallway. “See ya later!”
You toss him a wave as you duck into Trein’s. Kalim greets you brightly—he also immediately asks you why you look sweaty. You blink, sheepish, and say, “Good afternoon to you, too.”
What you didn’t expect out of biology was to have it so horribly for Floyd Leech.
Night Raven College knows, too, that you generally do a bad job at picking your battles.
It really kind of blows for the mer-students at Night Raven that they don’t teach their fucking anatomy and physiology in bio. Sure, the majority of them probably learn about it under the sea, but then to be thrown into landfolk A&P with no frame of reference to accompany? Talk about a learning curve.
It blows even worse that, right now, Floyd’s zeroed in on two blown-up diagrams right next to each other—the female and male reproductive systems—tongue poking out from behind his sharp teeth, brows knitted as he struggles to remember the names of everything he’s looking at. You’re pretty sure he was joking when he referred to the lymphatic system the limp-fantastic system (and maybe halfway intentional in making it sound like it moonlights as a Bizkit cover band instead of regulating fluids), but it is a lot to take in. Imagine him recounting the bones in the lower extremities some thirty minutes ago before getting to this.
“So, these are the…” Floyd’s circling both illustrations tentatively with his fingertip, and then taps harshly on one. “Okay, I know this is a penis. That’s a wiener. Duh.” He drags his finger, panning over to the other as you snort. “And this is where the babies are made. This is the babymaker. Yep.”
Your chin drops to your chest (even though he’s technically correct) and you sigh through a laugh. “Well, they… yeah.”
“Sorry,” he whines petulantly, more for himself than you, “this is hard! I ain’t never seen any of this stuff before, you know.”
But it’s less his human-anatomical incompetence that’s got you more dismissive than you ought to be for such intense material, and more the fact that since astrology all you’ve been thinking about is Floyd, Floyd, Floyd, just like you always do, like you’re a pathetic middle schooler lovesick for the first time, for their best friend no less. And now, words like penis and babymaker are leaving his mouth, and even though physiology specifically has got to be up there next to abstract algebra as one of the unsexiest areas of rote studying, having the guy you’ve got a massive crush on pick apart the literal stuff that’s inside you is making you feel some inconvenient (but not entirely unwelcome) things. You swear it felt a little romantic just watching and listening to him label the arteries, veins, and capillaries on and around the human heart.
“Weird as all hell I’m part’a this whole new species and I don’t hardly know shit about it.” He grumbles briefly about technicalities and vocabulary as he flops onto his stomach; your mattress creaks out its protest, but he just buries his head in his arms. You hear, muffled, “I’m sick’a this, Shrimpy, let’s do somethin’ else.”
Right, his borrowed human form.
It’s not even a second before you’re trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s inhabiting a body incredibly biologically compatible with yours. You disguise this train of thought beneath the sound of your textbook smacking closed before you opt to flop next to him, nosediving into your own arms in a similar fashion. Your skin feels like it itches.
Stupid Floyd and his stupid study session and his stupid mouth that never shuts up and that you absolutely want to kiss. You miss the way he peeks up at you quizically with one golden eye, but if you would’ve noticed, you’d be cursing his stupid receptivity that no one ever expects because he acts like a moron. You need to pull it together now. Quit being distracted by your stupid, attractive best friend, quit reminding yourself of his stupid human anatomy, and especially quit wondering if you could get him as worked up over nothing as he’s got you, in mer-form or otherwise, and how it would feel for him—if he’d like it, if he’d like you… If he’d—quit it, quit it, quit it, your stupid human brain chants like a mantra.
Think about anything else. His true form is probably so incompatible with yours, think about that. Think about how he’s actually, like, half a fish. Yeah. There. Crisis averted, battle picked.
“D’you feel alright?” he asks, fingers curling around your arm to feel your forehead. Ruined it, just like that. “You’re warm.”
“I’m fine,” you don’t mean to snap, but you do—even so, his hand doesn’t recoil. Floyd scratches your hair a little, the way one might do to a dog. You could scream at him not to touch you if you didn’t like it so much, but you do—painfully so—which is why you turn your head to face him while his fingers trace lazy half-shapes from your hairline to your temple. You try to sound chipper and not at all strained when you concede, “Let’s do something else. What’d’you wanna do?”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously dissatisfied with your dodge. He still traces, brushing your cheekbone as he studies you. “Something’s on your mind, Shrimpy.”
Stupid receptivity. “Just information overload,” which isn’t entirely a lie. “And I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. No marine A&P, my ass. You’ve got marine communities well within reach here, so not teaching it’s an outdated excuse for ignorance, if you ask me. But I guess humans are good for that wherever you go.”
Floyd hums, pulling away from you, rolling onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Yeah, that pissed me off, too.”
“‘M pissed for you.” You do give a shit, really, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have something to channel your intensity into right now.
Quiet settles over you both. You allow yourself a few seconds more of stewing and admiring his side profile, his sharp nose and bitten lips; Floyd looks like he’s pondering. You wish you could pick apart what’s inside him, too. He’s fascinating to you—you love his lil’ brain, too, you know, in more ways than one. It really is an injustice that landfolk don’t know more about merfolk and their glaring similarities and yet, major differences; Floyd’s an emotional, physical, scientific marvel to you. You don’t think you’ve met anyone more interesting. Or easier to love, for that matter.
Fuck.
“I know!” In an instant, he’s on his feet. “Let’s hit the pool. You’re all warm, it’ll cool you off—” He’s tugging you to your feet, grabbing his bag, bright, pointy smile lighting up all at once, “—it’ll be so fun. You can relax, and I haven’t swam in days…”
“That actually sounds perfect.” Yes, back to fish-form with the heathen. You’re quick to toss together a bag of swim things, eager to put mind-numbing, rage-inducing study material and complicated emotions alike to rest for the night. His unreserved laugh when you agree so readily still makes your heart flutter, but you plan to leave it at the door.
Surely, you can leave it at the door.
On the way to the mirror chamber, you’re so eager to leave it behind that you’re asking questions—your mood flipping with his, incidentally—because you’re disgustingly susceptible to him and, as noted before, you do give a shit. Ardent and full of curiosity, just like you always are with him, you shed the limitations of textbook-sanctioned inquiry and launch yourself full-force at reclamation of your own wall-hitting; you can and will get a fucking grip and be normal.
“Is it super different?” you ask.
“What?” Floyd’s rummaging in his bag as you both walk, already aware he forgot a notebook in your room. “Merfolk stuff?”
“Yeah.” You adjust your own bag on your shoulder. “Like, your A&P is probably as different to me as mine is to you. Where I’m from, scientists haven’t observed a whole load of shit about the ocean—it’s more of a mystery to us than outer space. There’s tons we don’t know about morays, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, I mean skeletal system-wise, there are bony fish, and then ones with more cartilage. And either way, the whole structure and makeup is so different since we got no legs, and…”
You listen to him talk all the way through the mirror, into the halls of Octavinelle, past the lounge and onto the sprawling pool deck—it’s empty, much to your relief, sparkling and humid; when you reach down to skim your fingers across the water, it’s refreshingly cool. Floyd’s submerged before you can blink, hardly pausing his spiel; you lift your shirt off and toss it aside, and suddenly he’s aquamarine and soft green, scaly and shiny and webbed and you would tell him to look away while you slip your bottoms on but it’s you who’s staring, really.
“And then merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish when it comes to reproduction and shit. Don’t really know how that happened, and I don’t even know how—I don’t think…”
For once in his life, he trails off. You settle at the edge of the pool, dipped in up to your knees, and he swims up to you. Wanna play mermaids? is what you’d usually joke, but as your kicking feet slow to a stop and Floyd’s arms curl up across your lap, all you can do is look down at him, ruminative and a little mystified (no matter how many times you see him in his true form, you’re always taken by its elegance).
“Whatever.” It’s the day of Floyd burying his face in his elbows and looking up at you in a way that makes you want to take a page out of his book and squeeze him until he pops; it certainly doesn’t help that, absentmindedly, your fingers move to card through his wet hair and he hums, low and sweet as you do, so that you feel it in your stomach. “Not like lookin’ at anything on a piece of paper does squat. I’m more of a hands-on learner.”
He blinks up at you through his wet lashes—it should be a criminal offense—and you grin down at him as he splays his palms across your thighs, tracing, tracing little shapes again (fuck, and now you’re looking at his biceps. Stop that!). Your face burns, but you mock confusion to play it off. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re flirting with me, Floyd Leech.”
Less a bold move and more placing the ball in his court because with Floyd, what you see is mostly what you get. Yes, he’s a horrible trickster, but you know him. And if you know him as well as you think you do, he’ll laugh that radiant laugh (which he does) and, next, you’re confident, brush you off and yank you into the water yelling about how his Shrimpy needs to learn to swim like he does so you can keep up with him—yes, he’ll wave the silly little theatrics behind you both and forget it even happened before tomorrow peeks over the horizon.
But he muses, “I am,” not at all coy, because coyness and Floyd don’t go hand in hand.
And you blink at him, all at once a little giddy and disbelieving. “No, you’re not.”
“D’ya not want me to be?” Schroedinger’s flirt. I mean it if you do, but if you don’t, then of course I’m totally joking.
His mismatched gaze is locked steadily on you. You wish he would ever let you hear the end of it if you covered your face with your hands, but he won’t, so you don’t; you just giggle, unable to not, unable to confirm or deny, unable to decide if it’d be better or not for him to say he’s messing with you. It’s always straightforward, except when it isn’t.
“Shrimpy, I’m serious,” he continues when you finally look at him again. He does feign urgency—or maybe he’s not feigning, like his words would imply, as he positively bores into you. “Do you not want me to flirt with you?”
“I—” You suppress your trepidation, doing your best to match his air. “I never said I don’t want you to.”
“Get in the damn pool, then,” he snaps a little bit, impatient—impatient for you, you realize; you’re smirking as he slinks down to tug at your ankles with no real consequence. “C’mon.”
“Make me,” you tease, and something dangerous ingnites in his eyes—something that makes you want to toy with your fingers and look away, but you don’t, because it’s always worth stifling yourself to feed Floyd a little bit of his own medicine. You’ve never watched it have this particular effect on him, though; when you grin evilly at him, he plants his palms on either side of you and rises out of the water to your eye level.
“Don’t piss me off,” he half-barks in your face—sometimes, if you poke him hard enough, you do feel like you’re catching a glimpse of the scary Floyd everyone’s warned you about, but you don’t slink away from it. You kick at him, go to pinch his nose—he makes an attempt to bite your fingers and you laugh and laugh, and he does, too, eventually, the two of you in a duel where you have the upper hand only because he chooses to give it to you (and his hands are literally occupied with holding himself above water).
You wrastle with him, landing a jab to his (infuriatingly well-defined) stomach, snapping your fingers in his face a bit, blowing air in his eyes—before you gather his cheeks between your fingers, squishing his face in a way that makes him scrunch his nose, lips puckered unwillingly, and you—you fucking kiss him. You land a quick peck to his mouth without even thinking, and you release him immediately; he pulls back, but only a few inches, just enough to look at you.
For a moment you think he’ll really get mad. You try not to shrink.
It’s quiet and you can’t tell if his expression is starstruck or disgusted.
A few seconds is a century.
“Kiss me again,” he barks right at you. Like he thinks you won’t.
Your face feels stuck, contorted into a sheepish grin; Floyd’s open mouth, taunting you, luring you in, lets you watch his tongue flick between his rows of sharp teeth and the thought of what they’d feel like in your neck jolts you toward him, your hands grabbing for his strong shoulders; he’s not sure if you’re about to shove him off or devour him whole, but he hangs in that lightning-quick moment of anxiety, thrilled to have your hands on him, all at once assured and with the only hint of apprehension you think you’ve ever seen on his face and you decide you have to, you must—what else could you possibly do but throttle yourself forward, into him, not at all soft or scared as the water envelops you from head to toe and he does just the same?
Beneath the surface is a pillowy, noise-cancelling limbo—you feel like you’ve plunged into a dream, eyes screwed shut and senses dulled where the only vivid things are his hands clutching your waist and his lips on yours. And you kiss him and kiss him, drifting up, suspended, cupping his jaw like you’d start breathing him if you could.
Before you hit oxygen, pockets of air bubble out from between both of your mouths; you’re laughing before you’re inhaling, finding yourself panting to catch your breath—unlike Floyd, who giggles so fully and unapologetic it echoes around the pool deck. The next thing you feel is a cool, slick tail twining around you—your hips, your waist, so you don’t have to flail to stay afloat.
“Here, hold onto me.” His tail slips away with his tense disposition, replaced by laughter that doesn’t cease as you link your ankles behind him at the spot where his human back gives way to his mer-half, and your wrists at the base of his neck. “There ya go.”
You’re not sure if you’re tingling from the impact to the water or from the way his pale teal chest rises and falls so rapidly against yours. He sways back and forth so subtly you’d almost think it was only the rippling of the water; you wane into silence in the crook of his shoulder, like you don’t want to be the first to speak.
But he does (you’d be nervous if he were to be quiet); large, clawed hands slide from your waist to hold you up from beneath your ass.
“I could kiss you again,” he offers into your ear like it’s the most obvious thing—a was that okay? of Floyd fashion, an opening to tell him he’s silly, this was silly, to let you go. He listens to you for alarm bells. You don’t set any off. “Always wanted to do that. Could do anything you want, baby.”
Baby?
What world were you transported to when you resurfaced? It’s the first time he’s called you anything other than Shrimpy, or your name. Something flares in your chest, unfurls down your arms and into your fingertips which trail down to the planes of his chest.
Anything?
Your manner of yes, of promptly shutting that window, is a series of fluttering kisses beneath his ear, over subtle, pulsing gills you’ve never been close enough to notice before, let alone touch. You really can’t curse the A&P curriculum now—it’d be blasphemy. Look where it got you: nipping at your best friend’s throat, quick to wonder what bruises would look like blooming on his aqua skin. You tear into him gently, hearing him hum over hitched breath when you do.
“I mean, I think I could use an interactive lesson if I’m gonna have a shot on this test.” A minute ago, you were the one gasping for breath; now, Floyd sighs to maintain composure, accidentally puncturing your bottoms with his nails while you lick across his jaw. You can’t see his erection, but you can feel it, beginning to press up beneath you as his arousal grows. Merfolk fall sorta in the middle of the venn diagram between humans and fish, he had said; maybe you’re more compatible that you originally assumed, and the fact that you have him hard just from a little bit of kissing and biting is so pathetically cute. Floyd might look real tough, but he’s practically falling apart just the way you fantasized he would earlier today, just as quick if not quicker than you, his cute lil’ Shrimpy—his baby—who’s clearly had more control over him than he’s let onto until now.
You pull back to look into his olivey eyes and he’s half-lidded with something just to the left of restless yearning—like how a predator must look when it’s got its prey backed into a corner.
But you’re hardly prey.
His head cocks like a puppy waiting for a treat. “Ain’t’cha gonna help me out?”
Later, you’ll swear this was him begging, and he’ll deny it; he tries to distract you from it with that sly confidence, his eternal air of never taking anything too seriously, but you have him right where you want him.
Even if he does get one final jab in, sing-songy, grasping onto the last of his smugness. “You could get a little marine anatomy lesson in return, y’know.”
You want to make him squirm back—so you concede, “Alright,” like you’re doing him a favor. In reality, it’s so sweetly dizzying and surprising to drink in his desperation after he’s made you feel crazy for as long as he has. You untangle yourself from him, backing up until you hit the wall so you can hoist yourself upon it once more.
Floyd treads back up to you without having to be told. When you slip your bottoms off, you don’t ask him not to look.
“Ever touched a human like this before?” you ask, more to put him through answering than actually looking to know; you have a pretty good idea, anyway, from the way he just pouts up at you—an answer in itself. You prop one heel up on the edge of the pool and push his drenched hair away from his forehead as he settles a shoulder beneath your still submerged calf, downturned eyes shining.
You look at him so fondly, drag your gentle touch down his face before tilting his chin toward the apex of your thighs; if eels could blush, you’re certain you’d have gotten him with the way you wiggle forward to the edge and spread yourself open with two fingers.
You’d be kidding yourself if you said his hungry gaze and warm breath on your cunt doesn’t affect you just as terribly.
“So,” you clear your throat—this is an anatomy lesson, after all. You’re nothing if not committed to the bit. “A lot of my reproductive anatomy is inside—totally unreachable. But this—”
You demonstratively swipe a finger over your clit.
“—feels real good if you touch it.”
Floyd, self-proclaimed hands-on learner, doesn’t waste a second replacing your finger with his thumb.
You yelp, jumping a bit, for more than one reason. “Watch the claws, Leech.”
He bites his lip through a focused smile—he really is so hot when he actually gives his full, undivided attention to something, and the fact that you’re the something is even better. “Sorry.” He’s hardly sorry.
But he struggles to avoid scratching you up.
“Tell me what to do, baby,” he insists at your ow, ow, ow, lower and more invested than usual—it makes you clench around nothing, makes you feel so empty. You wish his fingers inside you wouldn’t maim you. You suppose that’s an excursion for his other form. His hands instead busy themselves grabbing at your thighs, opening you up, wanting more. “Can I just…?”
You don’t know if oral sex exists under the sea and you don’t really care—either way, Floyd’s unhinged enough to just go for it without you having to tell him, and you simply guide his head the rest of the way to you as his tongue licks a long, experimental stripe up your slit.
“Yeah,” you sigh, “yeah, that feels—”
He keeps licking. Enthusiastically, like one might an ice cream cone. You cover your smiling mouth for a split second before you continue, pushing him away to show him.
“Here, here, here.” Again, you touch yourself—so pulsing and hot compared to how chilly he is. “This little—above the hole, is the—”
“The Exorcist,” he insists, looking deadpan up at you, so Floyd in timing, that you can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
You try so hard not to snort. Sevens, what kind of media has he been consuming up here? At least he’s maybe, sort of trying? (His bio grade does depend on it, after all.)
“Clitoris,” you correct him, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of this whole situation. It’ll catch up to you in embarrassment if you don’t get his mouth on you in the next five seconds, you’re pretty sure. “See it? Feels really good to touch, lick, suck o—oh!”
Before you can breathe, he’s latched onto you—licking again and pausing where you’ve instructed him, suckling around you and twirling his tongue in a way has you pushing him into you instead of away, now, and you’re going to keep your voice, of course; you’d go as far as to call him somewhat of a natural, but you’re still going to instruct him like a good tutor.
“Y-yeah, that’s it,” you encourage him; his tongue feels long and a little frigid, so unlike anything you’ve felt before, and it’s certainly not working against him. “Just—don’t move down—yeah, like that. G-good boy, Floyd.”
He must like that, because he hums into you; the vibration sends your hips rolling forward into his mouth—you prop your other heel up to spread yourself even wider—and he peers up at you wetly like he wants you to say it again.
When you don’t, his eyes flutter shut, his brow furrows, and his tongue works harder—making you arch, making you croon.
And it falls from your mouth like you can’t help it, “Good boy, right there—mhm!”
Said tongue slips down, prodding your hole; you’re gasping all over again, biting into the back of your hand when Floyd moans into your pussy once more like he’s unaware of the shockwave it sends through you (he probably is), his hands landing at the small of your back to tug you into grinding on his face. He seems to enjoy alternating between tonguefucking you and making out with your clit—if how tight he’s holding you is anything to go off of, anyway, and with the way he moves, the way his elbows come up to rest under you, tense and holding himself up, it seems like he’s humping the pool wall.
The fact that he’s getting off on going down on you makes you want to lay back and curl your thighs around his head. But as much as you’d love to cum in his mouth, as good as his tongue feels drinking you down, now that you know he has a cock, you pretty much need him to fuck you with it.
“Floyd,” you whine, wriggling away from him. He’s hesitant to let you go; his eyes fly open like you’re taking away his favorite toy, which you may as well be. “Floyd—ah, I want you t’fuck me, please?”
That has him happily departing with a lewd smack, nails letting up on your flesh; he looks up at you with a dopey smile, like you’ve just injected him with something that’s sent him skyward, but it doesn’t last long—he’s determined as he pulls you back into the water with real firmness, catching you beneath your arms as you squint for the splash.
When you open your eyes, you’re met with a satisfied and glistening mouth, tongue poking out, lapping you up. “You taste good, Shrimpy.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me Shrimpy while we’re fucking.”
Floyd snickers. “Ya like baby better? Maybe I’ll use that all the time from now on.”
“You should,” you agree before he’s kissing you; you’re coiled around him again in an instant, tasting yourself in his spit, sliding a restless hand under the water between both your bodies to thumb his tip.
Floyd bites your lip as you circle him; you half-wish you could see him from an outside point of view, how his eyes are screwed shut, how his jaw flexes and releases when he chokes on his breath, but you know you can’t be anywhere but here—you fully don’t want to be anywhere but here—pleased at the way he bucks into your hand all needy.
When you maneuver him down to drag your cunt along him, you earn your first nasally, full-bodied moan from Floyd Leech—all at once obscene and uncorrupted; you wonder if he’s ever made himself sound like this, if he would even know how to; you nearly growl into his open mouth as his ridges and veins catch on your clit, your entrance. You wonder, too, just how soaked you are right now, riding along his length, which does not by any means feel small, by the way. When you close yourself around him to let him fuck your thighs, you feel his tip reaching past your ass.
And now that he’s started, he’s not going to shut up. “Oh, shit, that feels—Shrim—baby, oh, fuck.”
You wish you’d have dedicated some time to learning his cock—when you catch a glimpse beneath the surface, it seems to be the same darker shade of blue-green that contours the edges of the rest of his body; it’s undoubtedly naturally slick, also not unlike the rest of him, probably as pretty as it feels.
You bite into the freckles across his collarbone as you thrash against each other, all sweat and water and stickiness and teeth. “Want you,” you mumble in his webbed ear. “Spare me the lesson.”
“Alright,” he hisses, letting up like it’s painful. “Your turn.”
It’s in Floyd’s nature to turn on a dime. He was so docile while you let him explore you. His razor-sharp grin threatens you with ruin now that you’re letting him take what he wants, forgetting all about the subject at hand—the topic that got you here in the first place. Nonetheless, he intends to be strict, you can tell—even if you’re the one palming his cock, wetting your lips for more of his rough kisses, hooking your knees over his elbows and guiding him into your cunt.
“This how ya do it?” But he’s got the basics down by now—and with you lining him up, he’s got little more to do than thrust himself forward, but he decides the best way to go about this is to shake his head dismissively, almost annoyed, and bend your knees up to your shoulders, damn near to the pool wall, and all at once he’s in you, filling you up, hitting you deep.
“Floyd!” you squeal, stretched in more ways than one. “Chill!”
“Fuck—can’t,” he groans brokenly; he’s fucking into you already, steady and rigid. His next sentence tumbles out more like one long word, like it might be the last thing he ever says: “Oh, fuck, it feels so good, I gotta move.”
His long tail comes to wind tight and writhing around your middle as he pins you, leveraging your whole body as he keeps an experimental pace, but already, speech escapes him; still, Floyd doesn’t shut up, groaning through uneven whimpers, unabashed and frantic to let you know how you good you feel even if you’ve stolen his voice.
Water swashes around you and you can do nothing but cry out, tangling both hands in Floyd’s drenched hair, your forehead pressed to his.
“‘S’okay, baby, I want it all,” you whine.
And in a second, his hips are brutal against yours.
You can’t see anything below—the way he fucks you deliriously stirs up the water—but you reach down to touch yourself again, jaw slack to your chest as he bends and pounds you; Floyd’s so damn loud you’d worry about being heard if it wasn’t for the way you can feel his dick, ruthless in your guts, turning your brain to pitiable mush. He looks so pretty, eyes all teary and borderline crazed, teeth clenching closed just to be pried open by pitchy moans that send waves of heat straight to the orgasm building in your core.
When he gets his voice back, you’re losing yourself—reminding yourself to keep your eyes open, keep your gaze on him, because you’d rather die than miss the way Floyd looks when he opens his pretty mouth again.
“If you—fuck, ‘m gonna cum in you—‘f you could take it, I’d keep—keep fuckin’ you…”
“Want it,” you breathe, words all strung out and slurred, whole body jostling with the way he batters against your insides, “ngh’I want y’r cum.”
Floyd cusses a few more times—mouth just as filthy as the rest of him for you as you goad him—because you want him, you want him to cum in you, you’re so fucking tight and perfect around him that he knows he’s growing more and more addicting with each rapid-fire slam of his tip against your cervix but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, and from the way your hips jerk to the flexing and curling of your toes and the whines and moans you sing, muddled and noisy, into the air for him, he doesn’t think there’s a world that exists where he’d want to.
“This is where you’d release your clutch, if ya had one—oh,” he explains, breath quick and hot against your neck as you twitch—you’re so close, he can feel it, the way you clamp around him erratically as each stroke, each thrust distresses his words into little more than gasping and rambling. “A-and I’d—hah, fuck, I’d knock you up so good—”
In your hazy, foggy, humid upswing of pleasure your melting mind remembers his unfinished thought from earlier: I don’t even know how—I don’t think… And oh, fuck, just the thought of it sends you hurdling over the edge, cumming hard, but
the words, too, are leaving you before you can stop them, before you can think too hard about what it is your clipped and breathy voice is babbling—
“G’na breed me? Wanna fill me up with your kids, Floyd? Huh?”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah—” he chants back, ruined, “G’na fuckin’ take it all for me, aren’t’cha, baby?”
“Fuck, I need it,” you’re unsure if you whisper or scream—your nails are harsh in his shoulders and his teeth are buried in your neck, muffling rough, rhythmic cries as he cums, throbbing inside you; he cums so fucking much, you can feel it, filling you to the brim, coating every inch of you he can reach, trembling and spasming and fuck, he can’t stop—it feels like forever and too soon when he slows to a stop, buried in you, letting up on your neck and dropping your legs to grab either side of your head and kiss you long and hard, both of you half-humming, half-whining into each other.
Between labored breaths and lazy kisses you spend a good few minutes rocking into one another—biting at lips, hands wandering, tongues poking, until eventually you’re both just play-fighting, snickering quietly, touching in ways that are spent of sex and yet still wholly intimate.
When he calms a bit, scarily serious in that way only Floyd can get, he asks you, “You gonna be mine ‘er what?”
“I’m already yours, Leech.” You flick water at him, resigned, and wriggle a bit. One golden eye winks to dodge, and he’s grinning, so familiar; as he untangles himself from you, helping you back up onto the tile, he mocks relief.
”Good. Would be kinda awkward if you weren’t.”
Water settling is the only sound across the pool deck as you towel off, shuffle your shorts back on. In the silence, Floyd twirls around the water and starts to sing a stupid little song—totally off-key and fully content, I love my Shrimpy, I love my Shrimpy…
Until the lights start to flicker, and you hear the extremely vexed voice of a certain Mostro Lounge owner from the far hallway—
“If you’re done, get the fuck out! My students are trying to sleep!”
And in another blink, Floyd is human and wild-eyed, on the deck pulling his shorts on and running—he catches your hand in his, mumbling something about how he’s gonna ace this test and Azul can suck it—and he’s laughing, running, and you wouldn’t rather be doing anything but the same.
── .✦ 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!!!
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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!
professor!rengoku kyojuro x student!reader
synopsis: you signed up for history, but what you got was a semester of stamina training with your ridiculously hot professor. (w.c:21k)
tags: SEX, LOTS OF IT, but its SLOW BURN AF, college professor/student, smut, nsfw, rengoku is feral asf, creampie, doggy, p in v, wet dreams/day dreams, praising, worshipping, thigh riding, desk sex, manhandling, use of ‘mewl’ and ‘whimper’ idk, this is horny n nasty basically
notes: hi. i made him a bit more srs and mature? idk. i hope i captured baby daddy rengoku in this even the slightest. he’s 28 in this. reader is 24
the lecture hall buzzes with chatter as students shuffle in, the scrape of chairs and the hum of laptops filling the air. you slide into your usual seat in the front row, heart thrumming a little faster than it should for the first week of classes.
third time around. you’ve had him for electives before, but this time? history. professor rengoku, larger than life in every sense, commanding an entire room with that booming voice and contagious energy.
the door swings open and there he is — hair tied back, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, bright tie catching the light. his grin is as wide as ever when he sweeps in, clutching a folder, “good morning!” his voice rings out, scattering the last of the chatter. “welcome to the greatest adventure you’ll ever take — history!”
a few students laugh nervously, others groan good-naturedly, but you can’t help the way your smile stretches. he catches your eye as he sets his things down, and just like that, recognition sparks.
“ah,” he booms, pointing right at you. “back again, are we?” you grin, lifting your fist just enough for him to notice. he doesn’t hesitate — strides down the aisle, ignoring every pair of curious eyes, and bumps his knuckles against yours with that infectious laugh.
“i knew i’d see you again!” he says, quieter now, but still full of warmth. “couldn’t resist another round with me, huh?”
your chest flips,heat curling low, ‘pause?!’ , but you play along, cheerful. “guess you’re just that good, professor.” he beams, clapping a hand against his hip before striding back to the front of the room. “ha! i’ll take it!”
and just like that, the lecture begins — but you can feel his gaze returning to you more than once, lingering longer than it should.
he’s in full flow , striding back and forth at the front of the lecture hall, voice carrying like he’s narrating a battlefield. then his gaze swings back to you, and that grin sharpens, “of course, you already know the ropes,” he says, pointing directly at you again. “three classes with me—one might think you enjoy punishment!”
you let out a groan, loud enough for the front rows to hear, sinking lower into your chair. “um..shut up, professor. it’s not like i failed your class…” a ripple of laughter breaks across the room. a few heads turn toward you, whispering, curious about this obvious familiarity.
rengoku only laughs louder, his whole frame shaking with it. “ha! no, you didn’t fail—far from it! one of my best students, in fact!” your face heats, both from his praise and from the dozens of eyes now glancing your way. you shake your head, muttering, “you’re gonna get me jumped after class.”
he tilts his head, playful fire sparking in his gaze. “nonsense! they should all be taking notes from you.” and then, just as quickly, he sweeps the class back into the lecture, leaving you buzzing, the teasing warmth of his attention lingering like a touch.
—
the lecture hall empties slowly, students shuffling out in clusters, voices buzzing about the syllabus and upcoming assignments. you linger at your seat, scribbling something meaningless in the margin of your notebook, waiting until the tide of bodies thins and the room settles back into quiet.
rengoku is still at the front, larger than life even when the show’s over. his voice no longer booming, just humming under his breath as he coils the projector cable and tucks it neatly onto the desk. his tie is slightly loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the heat of his performance still clinging to him like it's his skin.
when the last student pushes through the door, you slip down the aisle, the echo of your steps on the stairs pulling his attention. he looks up immediately, eyes catching yours. “ah,” he says warmly, that grin of his softening just for you. “did you enjoy the first day?” you smile, sliding against the edge of his desk, close enough to catch the faint scent of his scent— cedar, with some aftershave, “yeah. it’s always good to be in your class. i feel like i’ve had half my college experience with you.”
he laughs, tossing the last marker into its tray. “third time, isn’t it? at this rate, you’ll have the whole set.” you roll your eyes. “don’t make it sound like i’m collecting you.” his gaze lingers, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
your breath stutters for half a second, and you cover it with a quick, casual laugh, “anyway. i wanted to catch up. how was your summer?” he leans back against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. up close, the stretch of his shirt across his shoulders is impossible to ignore. “busy. research in europe, hashira group trip. tengen shenanigans. i barely had time to breathe. but i wouldn’t trade it. and yours?”
“quiet,” you admit. “i was trying to soak it in. this is my last semester before graduation, so…” your words trail, a sudden weight in them. his expression softens, the usual fire dimmed to something steadier, more personal. “your last semester.” he nods slowly, looking you over like he’s truly seeing you for the first time. “i’m proud of you.”
the words settle into your chest, hot and heavy, and before you lose your nerve, you add, “that’s kind of why i wanted to ask. i need letters of recommendation. and… i was hoping you’d write one for me.” and he doesn’t hesitate, “of course.” his voice is lower now, but with the same upbeat cheerfulness, “it would be an honor.”
the silence that follows is charged, broken only by the faint tick of the clock above the door. you’re close enough to see the sheen of sweat still at his temple, close enough to notice his eyes dip once before snapping back to yours.
you slide your notebook across his desk, pages marked with notes and highlights. “i can send you my resume too, if that helps for the letter.” he thumbs through the notebook, nodding. “that would be good.” then his eyes pause on the way you’d underlined one of his quotes, written it back in the margin. he lingers on it a little too long.
when he looks up again, his words come out softer, unguarded. “you always listen to me more closely than anyone else.” you blink, caught off guard. “oh.” the sound slips out before you can stop it, heat rushing to your cheeks.
he realizes immediately, his face flickering in panic. “ah—i meant—” his hands fumble the notebook closed. “i only meant your attention in class. you… you focus. that’s all. you’re very diligent.” his grin is a little too big now, an awkward cover for the stumble, but it doesn’t hide the way his ears burn pink. you bite your lip, smiling despite yourself, “that’s… still a big compliment, professor.”
he clears his throat, eyes darting back to the papers on his desk as though they might save him. “well. it’s true.” the silence that follows hums with more than professionalism, the tick of the clock filling in the space he doesn’t dare.
your lips curl, the blush on your cheeks giving way to a sly smile. “so i’m your favorite, then?” his eyes widen just a fraction, and he shakes his head quickly, too quickly. “no. i don’t play favorites.” you lean an elbow on his desk, tilting your head. “mm, could’ve fooled me.”
the tips of his ears flame red. “it’s just a joke,” he insists, his voice dipping lower, trying to wave it off. “i joke with all my students.” you raise a brow, enjoying the sight of the unshakable professor scrambling in front of you. “you fist bump all your students, too?” that catches him, his mouth opening and closing once before he settles into a stiff smile. “yes!” he says firmly, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than you.
you laugh, the sound light and bright against the heavy quiet of his office. “sure, professor whatever you say.” his gaze lingers on you a moment longer than it should, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting back a real grin.
you spin your pen between your fingers, leaning casually against his desk. “so, are you going to the welcome-back-to-school event this weekend?” his head lifts instantly, that signature fire sparking in his eyes. “of course!” he booms, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “i never miss it.”
your lips twitch into a smile. “never, huh?” he nods firmly, grin broad. “my nephew—well, practically my nephew—tanjiro will be there. he’s starting this semester, and of course i have to be there to support him.”
you blink in surprise, then chuckle. “of course you do. you’d probably embarrass him, too, won’t you?” rengoku laughs, loud and unabashed, his shoulders shaking. “that’s my job! i’ll introduce him to everyone, make sure he knows the campus inside and out.” you shake your head, amused, though the warmth in your chest lingers. his enthusiasm is infectious, and even when he’s talking about someone else, that same brightness he gives you is still there, wrapping around every word.
your smile sharpens, emboldened by the thought that this is your last year—your last chance to toe lines you never dared cross before, “guess i’ll see you there, then,” you say, tucking your notebook back into your bag. your tone is light, but there’s a glint in your eye when you glance up at him. “don’t get too distracted embarrassing tanjiro to notice me.”
for the first time, his booming confidence falters. it’s small. a flicker in his expression, the quick dart of his gaze over your face before settling on your eyes again.
he recovers with a grin, a little too wide. “i always notice my students,” he replies, but the words land heavier than they should, thick with something unspoken. you sling your bag over your shoulder, the corner of your mouth curling. “hm. we’ll see about that.”
the silence that follows hums in your veins, electric, before you finally head for the door. his eyes linger on your back, steady and unshakable, until it clicks shut behind you.
—
thursday’s lecture is quieter, more relaxed. rengoku still held the room, but his booming energy is tempered by the focus of the first real lesson. he dives straight into chapter one, weaving history into a story so effortlessly that most of the room hangs on every word.
you should be scribbling notes. you should be following along. instead, your gaze drifts.
his sleeves are rolled again, forearms flexing every time he gestures, the cords of muscle shifting beneath fair skin. even from the front row you can see how his shirt stretches just slightly over his biceps, how his chest strains when he plants his hands on the desk and leans forward to emphasize a point.
your pen hovers uselessly over your notebook. your thoughts slip, spontaneous, wondering how broad his shoulders really are under the fabric, how defined his torso is beneath the clean lines of his dress shirt. does he wear an undershirt? or is it just skin, hot and smooth, waiting to be uncovered?
“—and you,” his voice cuts sharp through your haze. your name rings out, and your head snaps up, heat rushing to your face. he’s watching you, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes glint like he knows exactly where your mind just wandered. “what do you think? care to share with the class?”
you blink at him, caught like a deer in headlights. “uh—i…” your voice cracks, a nervous laugh bubbling up as a couple students in the back snicker.
rengoku’s smile widens, patient, expectant. “well?” you straighten in your chair, force your face into something serious, and say solemnly, “i was… thinking about what i want for dinner after class.”
a ripple of laughter spreads through the room, heads turning toward you. you keep your gaze steady, refusing to break.
rengoku booms a laugh, loud and bright, shaking his head. “honest! very good!” his eyes linger on you just a fraction longer than necessary, and that glint is still there, hot under all that mirth. “though perhaps next time, think about the question at hand, hm?”
“yes, professor,” you mutter, your cheeks burning, but you can’t help the smile that slips across your lips.
he chuckles again and dives right back into the lecture, though every now and then, you catch his gaze flicking to you like he’s still amused—and still curious.
..
the lecture trickles to an end, students shuffling their books and laptops as rengoku’s voice booms one last reminder about readings for next week. as the hall fully empties, you shoulder your bag and beeline straight to the front, your pulse still tapping hot from earlier.
he’s tucking his notes into a folder when you stop beside his desk, glaring at him. “what the hell, dude?” he looks up, eyebrows shooting high. “language,” he chides, too cheerfully. you huff, crossing your arms. “that was so uncalled for. calling me out like that in front of everyone? i thought we were cool.”
his grin softens into something slyer, his eyes glinting as he straightens a stack of papers with deliberate calm. “were you really so upset?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
“yes!” you insist, heat creeping back into your cheeks. “i mean—”
he slides a paper into his folder, then glances up at you with mock innocence. “then tell me. what were you so distracted over?” your breath stalls. the memory of his sleeves rolled, the stretch of fabric over his chest, flashes hot across your mind.
“i—I was just—” you stammer, suddenly finding the scuffed floor tiles incredibly interesting. “umm. umm…”
the corners of his mouth twitch, and though he doesn’t push further yet, the silence is damning—thick and charged. his eyes narrow just slightly, a flicker of fire beneath his usual warmth. “you can’t even lie properly,” he says, voice quiet but certain, cutting straight through your stammering.
you freeze, caught. the words tumble out before you can stop them. “fine! you looked really good in that shirt, okay? i was—” you wave your hands, mortified, “i was day dreaming over how hot you looked.”
the silence that follows is deafening.
rengoku blinks once. twice. the mighty, unshakable professor—stunned into stillness, folder half-closed in his hands, mouth parted like he’s not sure if he heard you right.
your face burns so hot it could light the entire lecture hall. “forget i said anything!” you squeak, yanking your bag higher on your shoulder. “seriously, just—pretend i didn’t—”
and before he can find his voice, you practically bolt out the door, your footsteps echoing down the hallway like you’re fleeing a crime scene.
behind you, he remains at his desk, staring after you with wide eyes, the faintest trace of color creeping up his ears as your words replay in his head.
—
saturday settles over campus with the hum of music, voices, and the smell of food drifting from the quad. banners flap in the breeze, students clustered around tables handing out flyers, everyone buzzing with the giddy, chaotic energy of a new semester.
you slip into the crowd in your tennis skirt and sweatshirt, hair brushed just right, sneakers tapping against the pavement. casual, comfortable—yet you know exactly how you look. cute as hell.
heads turn as you pass. a couple of classmates call your name, waving you over, but your eyes are already scanning the sea of people.
professors mingle with students near the refreshment tables, cups of soda in hand, laughter carrying over the speakers. somewhere behind the gym, the basketball team warms up for the game, the echo of bouncing balls and sneakers squeaking across the court.
and then—there he is.
rengoku, larger than life even in casual wear. a university sweatshirt stretched across his broad chest, his laugh boisterous over the area as he claps a colleague on the shoulder. hair bright, smile radiating, impossible to miss.
your stomach flips. for the first time since thursday, the embarrassment comes rushing back, mixing with something sharper, sweeter, as his eyes start to sweep the crowd.
you weave through the crowd toward the snack table, the hum of laughter and music wrapping around you. it doesn’t take long to spot mitsuri—her hair bouncing as she waves wildly the moment she sees you. obanai trails beside her, hands in his pockets, muttering something that makes her giggle before she pulls you into a hug.
“you look adorable!” mitsuri gushes, spinning you by the wrist to get the full effect of your tennis skirt and sweatshirt. “like, so freaking cute. right, obanai?” obanai just grunts, eyes flicking away, though the tips of his ears are red.
you laugh, leaning against the table as you chat with them about classes, professors, and who’s already stressing over midterms. mitsuri fills the silence with her bubbly chatter while obanai cuts in with dry little quips.
but then you catch it—across the quad, professor rengoku’s gaze. he’s standing tall among a cluster of faculty, but his eyes are locked on you, fixed and unblinking. for just a heartbeat, his booming laughter falters, something unreadable flashing in his expression as he takes in the curve of your skirt, the swing of your hair, the way you laugh with your friends.
and then—
“rengoku!” a familiar voice pipes up. tanjiro, bright-eyed and beaming, tugs at his sleeve. “come on, they’re starting the warm-up for the game!” rengoku blinks, tearing his gaze away, that broad smile snapping back into place. he claps tanjiro on the shoulder with his usual fire, letting the boy pull him toward the gym, though his eyes linger one last time in your direction before he disappears into the crowd.
the three of you make your way into the gym, the thump of basketballs and squeak of sneakers echoing off the walls. the bleachers are already filling with students, but mitsuri leads the charge, spotting a row near the front.
rengoku is already there, of course—towering presence, laugh loud as he talks to a couple of colleagues. tanjiro sits beside him, bouncing with excitement, his eyes flicking to the court. “kyojuro!” mitsuri calls, waving with both hands. her voice rings above the crowd, and rengoku’s head snaps up immediately.
his grin widens at the sight of her. “mitsuri! obanai!” he claps both of them into his arms without hesitation, crushing hugs that make mitsuri squeal and obanai grumble.
“it’s been forever!” mitsuri beams, pulling you forward with her. “and this—well, you know her already, don’t you?” rengoku’s eyes land on you, his smile softening, dimming into something quieter for just a beat before it flares back into brightness. “ah, yes. one of my very best students.”
your stomach flips. tanjiro blinks between you both, then bows slightly, polite as anything. “hi, i’m tanjiro. it’s nice to meet you!” — “you too!” you reply as you introduce yourself, smiling warmly before mitsuri tugs you toward the open seats.
you end up sliding in beside rengoku, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him even through the press of the crowd. he smells faintly of subtle aftershave and cedar again, his thigh brushing yours when the bleachers creak under the weight of everyone sitting down.
the game kicks off with a whistle, but your focus wavers, attention caught by the steady presence at your side—the professor who shouldn’t look at you the way he does, who shouldn’t sit this close. and yet here he is, laughing loudly with mitsuri, clapping tanjiro on the shoulder, his arm brushing yours every time he shifts.
the whistle blows, and the game starts with a burst of energy—sneakers squeaking across the polished court, the ball bouncing in a fast rhythm. students cheer wildly, waving handmade signs and rattling noisemakers.
rengoku is loudest of all. his booming encouragement rises over the crowd every time someone scores, his whole body leaning forward with excitement. “yes! splendid shot!” he bellows, clapping so hard it makes the bleachers rattle. tanjiro grins beside him, cheeks flushed with pride, while mitsuri cheers with the same loudness, and obanai shakes his head at rengoku’s sheer volume.
you can’t help but laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. he glances at you at the sound, his golden-red eyes crinkling with warmth. “enjoying yourself?” he asks, pitched low so only you can hear. you nod, smiling. “you’re… very spirited, professor.”
he laughs, unabashed. “one must cheer with all their heart! anything less would be disgraceful.”
mitsuri leans across you then, pink hair swaying. “he’s always like this,” she stage-whispers with a grin. “basketball, volleyball, even chess club tournaments—he’ll scream himself to death!”
obanai mutters something dry under his breath, but the fondness in his voice betrays him. “loudest man alive.”
the warmth of it all settles deep in your chest—the laughter, the cheering, the easy camaraderie of friends who’ve known each other for years. the game plays on, and for once, you let yourself just sit there, pressed shoulder to shoulder with him, soaking in the bright, wholesome energy.
—
the game ends in a roar of cheers, the crowd spilling out of the gym in every direction. tanjiro waves excitedly to a pair of boys calling his name from across the quad—zenitsu bouncing on his heels, inosuke practically shouting to be heard over the noise—and he rushes off to join them.
“i’ll catch you later!” he calls back, grin bright.
before you can say much else, mitsuri’s already looping her arm through obanai’s and tugging him toward a cluster of faculty. “come on! i see shinobu! and giyuu!” obanai groans but lets her pull him along, muttering under his breath as she beams, waving like she hasn’t seen them in ages.
and then it’s just you and rengoku, the crowd buzzing around you as you fall into step together toward the common area where the music and lights of the party are gathering. you glance at him, his hair catching the lamplight like fire, and laugh. “you nearly blew out my eardrum in there. you know that, right?”
he throws his head back, laughing loud and unashamed. “nonsense! one must cheer with their whole being!”
you roll your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his as you walk. “i think the entire county heard you.”
he grins down at you, warm and unbothered, and somehow the two of you slip into easy conversation—joking about missed shots, the referee’s questionable calls, and how serious the chess club must be if he really does yell the same way at their tournaments.
the sound of your laughter blends with his as the lights of the party draw closer, music swelling, the crowd thickening again—but for now, it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you, side by side.
the music bumps steady in the background, colored lights flashing across the quad as clusters of students laugh and sway. you and rengoku drift through it almost absently, picking up cups of soda from the refreshment table and walking the perimeter where it’s quieter, the crowd thinning into shadowed patches of grass and lamplight.
he’s unusually subdued now, his voice softer when he finally says, “i wanted to apologize. about thursday.” you glance up at him, surprised by the way his usual booming confidence dips into something more private. the music and laughter feel far away, his words just for you.
“no, it’s fine!” you shake your head quickly, clutching your cup tighter. “seriously. i overreacted.” he studies you, eyes steady, unreadable in the glow of the lamplight. “but what you said,” he presses, low enough that no one else could ever hear. “was it true?”
your breath hitches, heat crawling up your neck. “professor—” you laugh nervously, shoving his arm with your free hand. “stop teasing me.” he doesn’t laugh. no grin. just tilts his head, gaze still pinned to yours. “i’m not.”
the weight of it makes your pulse stutter, the warmth of his body beside you suddenly overwhelming as the party noise hums in the distance. your heart bangs in your chest, and for a moment you can’t look at him, afraid your face is giving everything away. but then—he chuckles.
the sound ripples straight down your spine, heat pooling in your stomach so fast you almost stumble. it’s devastating. hotter than it has any right to be. low. rough. quiet in a way you’ve never heard from him before.
jesus christ, am i touch starved? the thought screams through your head—except the flicker in his expression tells you it might not have stayed there.
“what?” he asks, brows raising, that smile still tugging faint at his lips. your breath catches, blood roaring in your ears. “n-nothing!” you blurt. he studies you with quiet curiosity, as though he already knows better, as though he’s weighing whether to press or let you squirm.
the bass from the party thrums faint in the background, but all you can hear is your own pulse, all you can feel is the heat of him beside you and the echo of that laugh curling through your body.
his eyes linger on you, fiery in the lamplight, the warmth in them sharper now. he leans just slightly closer, enough that you catch the faint spice of his cologne under the smoke of the food stalls and the sugar in the air.
“not nothing,” he says, voice pitched low, coaxing. “you said something.” you shake your head quickly, clutching your cup. “professor—”
“tell me,” he urges, softer now. it’s dangerous like this—intimate, deliberate, every word curling around your ribs. your mouth goes dry. the truth buzzes at the tip of your tongue, humiliation and heat mingling until you can’t tell one from the other. you bite down on your lip, glancing away, then back again, his gaze steady, unrelenting.
finally, it slips out in a whisper, barely audible. “i… i said i must be touch starved.”
silence. his eyes widen just a fraction, and then that low chuckle rumbles again, softer, darker, curling through you like smoke. “ah,” he says simply, his smile small but knowing. “that explains a lot.”
your cheeks flame, heart stuttering, and you’re not sure if you want to crawl into the ground or grab him by the collar. maybe both! your jaw drops, heat rushing to your face. “hey! what the fuck, that’s rude!” you swat his arm with the back of your hand, half-playful, half-scandalized.
he doesn’t even flinch—just grins wider, voice slipping back into that teasing lilt. “language.”
you throw your hands up. “i’m twenty-four, professor rengoku! i’m an adult! you don’t get to scold me for swearing.” that makes him laugh, full and rich, his shoulders shaking with it. you catch yourself staring at the way his mouth curves, the way his chest rumbles, and you have to look away before it wrecks you entirely.
when the laughter ebbs, he glances back down at you, his tone quieter. “but… is it true?” your stomach flips. “what?”
“what you said.” his eyes lock with yours, steady, searching. “about being… touch starved.” he pauses, then, gentler, “about me.”
your face burns hotter than ever. you groan, dragging a hand over your eyes. “oh my god. fine. yes. i think you’re attractive. happy?”
for a beat, he just stares at you, stunned again like in his class. then the corners of his mouth curl up—not his usual broad, booming grin, but something smaller, something that feels just for you.
“very,” he admits, warmth threading through the single word.
his gaze dips, just for a moment, before it returns to your face. “you look good tonight,” he says, voice still low, private. his eyes flick down again, lingering at the hem of your tennis skirt. “especially in that skirt. i wouldn’t mind if you wore it around me more often.”
your blood pressure spikes so hard you swear your ears are ringing. “w-what—” the word dies in your throat, your body burning so hot you almost feel lightheaded.
and then, mercifully—or not—mitsuri comes bounding over, her grin wide and her arm already looping around your shoulders. “kyojuro!” she sing-songs, tugging you against her. “stop bothering her, you’ll make her faint!” you sputter, “i—he wasn’t—” but mitsuri’s already dragging you off toward the crowd, waving cheerfully back at him.
in the shuffle, you feel it: the brush of his fingers against yours, a slip of paper pressed discreetly into your palm. you clutch it tight, your heart hammering, until you’re swallowed by the music and mitsuri’s chatter.
when you sneak a glance down, your stomach lurches—his number, scrawled in his neat handwriting.
the night hums on around you—music thrumming from the speakers, laughter spilling over the lawn, clusters of students darting between tables. mitsuri keeps you close, her arm looped through yours as she gushes about how cute obanai was earlier when he tried (and failed) to win her a prize at the ring toss booth. obanai himself grumbles nearby, but his eyes soften when she squeezes his hand. you laugh, chiming in here and there, but your palm still burns around the slip of paper crumpled tight in your fist. every few minutes, you glance across the crowd, searching—finding him.
rengoku is impossible to miss.he commands the space around him, his laugh carrying loud above the music. he stands with shinobu and giyuu now, animatedly retelling a moment from the game, his hands carving arcs in the air. and yet, even mid-story, you catch it: his eyes flicking to you. a stolen glance, swift and sure, before he returns to his audience.
you turn back quickly, heart hammering, pretending to be fully invested in mitsuri’s story about her first-year dorm days. but when you risk another look—there he is again, gaze steady on you, softening just enough to make your stomach twist.
it’s maddening, this dance. laughing with your friends, smiling at their stories, all while his number is burning a hole in your pocket and his eyes keep finding yours across the party lights.
and so you sigh. you crane your head to Mitsuri, “i am going to head out..” you drag, mitsuri pouts the moment you tell her, her lips quivering, “already? but the night’s just starting!” obanai gives you a sharper look, head tilting. “she doesn’t look sick,” he mutters, and you shoot him a glance.
you hug your arms tighter around yourself, forcing a small smile. “i’m fine, really. just—my stomach’s off. i’ll feel better once i get home.” mitsuri’s pout softens into concern, her hand squeezing yours. “okay, but text me when you get back, alright?”
“promise,” you say, and with that you slip away from the crowd, their voices fading into the bass and laughter that still buzzes across the quad.
—
the cool night air feels like a shock against your flushed skin, every step away from the party easing the press in your chest. but your heart is still racing, and you know it isn’t from the music or the noise.
it’s him.
no one’s ever looked at you like that before—like you’re more than just a face in the front row, more than just another student. his laugh in your ear, the way his voice dropped when he asked if what you said was true, the weight of his compliment about your skirt—it all crashed over you in waves, too big, too fast, leaving you drowning in it.
but before you get too far, your name cuts through the air, clear and warm, and it stops you in your tracks. you close your eyes for half a second, dragging a hand down your face. great. here we go again.
turning slowly, you spot him a few paces back, standing tall beneath the street light. the crowd of students blurs behind him—laughing, shouting, heading toward the common area—but rengoku might as well be alone in the quad. hair catching gold in the glow, his presence is magnetic enough to make the air feel heavy.
“where are you going?” he asks, voice pitched lower. no loud declaration this time, just something softer, focused entirely on you. you hitch your bag higher on your shoulder, clearing your throat. “home. i told mitsuri i wasn’t feeling well.”
his brow lifts, a flicker of skepticism ghosting across his features. “weren’t?”
you cross your arms, shifting under his gaze. “still not. just—needed some air. it’s a lot, y’know?” you wave vaguely toward the music and chatter spilling from the party. “the noise, the people. overwhelming.”
he studies you in silence, his expression unreadable but his eyes intent, like he’s seeing straight through the excuse. the sounds of the event pulse in the distance, laughter and bass spilling into the night, but here, with him, it’s quieter, the space between you sharp with unspoken things.
his expression softens, shoulders relaxing as he takes a step closer. “then let me walk you home,” he says simply, like it isn’t a question at all.
your breath catches, but you nod, tugging your bag strap tighter. “yeah. sure.”
the two of you fall into step, the buzz of the party fading behind you as the quieter paths of campus stretch ahead. your sneakers scuff the pavement, his stride steady and unhurried at your side.
for a while, silence holds. not uncomfortable, just heavy. it lingers until he glances down at you, his voice low, careful. “do you want to talk about it?” you exhale slowly, the sound almost a groan. “ugh. i don’t know.” your shoulders sag. “it’s just… a lot.”
his gaze doesn’t waver. “a lot?”
you chew your lip, words sticking before they finally spill out. “the feelings. the attention. it’s all hitting me at once and—it’s overwhelming.” your laugh comes out thin, strained. “i’m not used to someone like you looking at me that way. not used to anyone looking at me that way, really.”
the confession hangs between you, raw and bare under the hum of the street lights. your steps falter for half a beat, waiting for him to laugh, or scold, or brush it off, but, instead, he just walks steady beside you, the weight of his silence somewhat comforting you.
he listens quietly, his expression softening with each word you spill. when you finish, he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “i should apologize,” he starts, “it’s not… appropriate. not at all. if you want, i can take a step back. assume my professionalism. keep things where they should be.” the thought makes your stomach sink, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt, “no. don’t.” his eyes widen slightly, and you rush on, cheeks hot. “i mean… i really am enjoying it. the attention. you. it’s just—I got overloaded tonight. that’s all.”
he slows his pace, studying you like he’s trying to memorize the lines in your face. “even so… i’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a rough edge now, like he’s fighting with himself.
you shake your head, managing a weak laugh. “you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
for a beat, silence stretches again. then his lips twitch, the faintest spark of humor breaking through. “the number,” he says, nodding toward your hand where the paper still crinkles in your fist. “that’s only if you need help with homework.”
you stare at him, a shocked laugh bubbling out of you, “homework?”
he grins wider, eyes glinting in the light, “history is a demanding subject. i expect excellence.”
your blood pressure spikes all over again, and suddenly you’re grateful for the cool night air as you swat his arm with your crumpled fist.
you shake your head, laughing under your breath. “yeah, right. sure. homework.”
he presses a hand to his chest, feigning offense, his eyes wide with mock sincerity. “it’s true! strictly academic.”
you narrow your eyes at him, lips curling into a smirk. “mm, no. i don’t buy that for a second.”
his grin falters just enough for a flicker of something else—heat, amusement, maybe even nerves—to slip through. “you don’t?”
“not even a little,” you fire back, tucking the slip of paper out of your pocket and waving it around his face. “professor, if this number was just about homework, you wouldn’t have slipped it into my hand like we were trading secrets.”
that gets him—his laugh bursts out, low and warm this time, his head tilting back. the sound ripples through you again, making your knees feel unsteady. “ah,” he says, recovering, eyes glinting down at you. “you caught me.”
you cock your head, folding your arms like you’re ready to grill him, but your mouth tips up anyway. “uhuh. and what do you have to say for yourself, professor rengoku?”
he doesn’t flinch at the teasing. instead his smile softens, and his voice drops into that low, steady place you’ve learned to listen for when things meant more than a lecture, “i want to get to know you better. outside of academia. you’re graduating soon. i’d like to keep in touch with you.”
for a second the words hang there plain and honest, and you feel something warm and dangerous uncoil in your chest. you let yourself be bold. “so this is an offer? not a syllabus requirement?” you say, deadpan, though the tremor in your laugh gives you away.
he steps a fraction closer, the lights catching the edges of his face. “not a requirement. an invitation. dinners, hikes,movie nights. help with your applications, if you want. or nothing complicated at all—just time.” his fingers brush against your wrist like he’s anchoring you to the moment. “i don’t want this to end when you graduate.”
you study him, the sincerity in his eyes, the way he says your name like it matters. you picture saying yes and how everything after that might tilt and shift. it feels risky and electric and exactly what you want. you nod once, quick and certain. “okay. then yes. but only on two conditions.”
he arches a brow, curiosity sparking. “name them.” you grin,“one: you stop pretending you don’t get nervous around me. two: you actually answer your texts sometimes, even if it’s ‘i’m grading papers.’”
he laughs, full and immediate, and the sound wraps around you like heat. “deal,” he says, and then quieter, like a promise, “i will make time.”
for a breath the quad feels small and private. he reaches out and tucks the folded scrap of paper back into your hand, his fingers lingering an instant longer than necessary. when he leans in, it’s almost negligible—a quick, soft press to your temple, warm and utterly personal. “goodnight,” he murmurs.
you watch him walk back toward the campus, his silhouette steady against the lights, and you feel that pulse again: equal parts thrill and a strange, calm certainty.
you cave a little after midnight, lights low, phone screen a soft blue on your sheets. you type your name, then something safe first, just to test the waters.
“thank you again for earlier”
you toss the phone on the pillow, brush your teeth, pace your tiny kitchen because your stomach is doing flips for no reason. an hour later it buzzes.
“sorry for the delay. went to work out, then a shower. are you alright?”
you smile into the fridge light like a lunatic. you text back as you steal a grape.
“yeah. overwhelmed earlier. better now. hydrated and everything.”
“good. keep hydrating,” he sends, then a beat, “i’m glad you texted.”
you sit on the counter, heels knocking the cabinet door. “what are you doing this weekend?”
the dots pulse. stop. pulse again. “going out with my friend tengen tomorrow night. he insisted. noise, lights, flashiness.”
you can practically hear the resigned fondness in that. you thumb a reply. “i’m probably staying home and catching up on tv shows. i have a backlog the size of a thesis.”
“which ones,” he asks, not a question mark. you list a few, a historical docuseries, a junky dating show you can’t laugh at and watch tiktoks over.
“i have seen none of those,” he admits. “i would accept recommendations.”
“i’ll make you a syllabus,” you type, grinning at your own audacity.
“i grade hard,” he sends, then adds, “but i attend every lecture.”
you press your mouth into your shoulder to swallow a sound you do not trust. the apartment hums, a fan turning lazy circles, your laundry clicking in the dryer like a metronome. you tell him you might reorder your bookshelves and live off scraps, that you might wear the same sweatshirt all weekend and argue with your television when the plot gets dumb.
“argue with it out loud,” he replies. “i want a report!”
“bold of you to assume i won’t live text you my opinions,” you shoot back, thumb hovering, heat blooming low when his dots appear again.
—
you crash face first on the pillow sometime after one. you don’t even remember dropping the phone. morning crawls in, slow and honest, sunlight cutting clean lines across your floor. you sit up with hair in your mouth, check the time and wince, then roll into a little autopilot. open windows. kettle on. dishes. a podcast in the background while you scrub the stovetop like it personally offended you. laundry in, laundry out. you stack your textbooks in a tidy column and knock out two readings just to prove to yourself you can.
your phone stays facedown on the counter until the vibration rattles it toward the edge. you snatch it up on instinct.
rengoku: good morning! proud of you for surviving last night. today’s mission: eat something real, drink two big glasses of water, crush one assignment. you can do this f your brain gets loud, take a walk around the block and text me your favorite thing from outside!
you stare at the screen, a stupid grin warming your cheeks. you type with your hip against the counter.
you: i absolutely fell asleep on you. tragic. my bad.. house is clean, homework pile is smaller, hydration status impressive.. uhh, favorite thing pending
his reply lands a minute later like he had the phone in his hand the whole time.
rengoku: excellent! naps are heroic
rengoku: send proof of hydration. i accept photos of intimidating water bottles
you snap a crooked picture of your tumbler beside your station and toss it over.
rengoku: formidable
rengoku: i head out with tengen later, but i am on call for academic emergencies and television opinions until then
you sink onto the couch, tuck your feet under you, and let your shoulders drop. the apartment smells like lemon cleaner and coffee. the quiet feels earned.
you: copy. if a documentary breaks my heart i’m blaming you personally
you: also the skirt comment from last night is still echoing around my skull so that’s rude, sir
the typing bubble pops in and out, like he’s choosing his words with care.
rengoku: noted!
rengoku: you looked very good!
rengoku: i am working on better timing for such thoughts..
your pulse does an embarrassing little skip. you flip a page in your notebook like that might cool you off.
you: better timing accepted. compliments accepted. extra credit available if you send a voice memo of you saying “hydrate” in your teacher voice
a beat. then your phone pings with a short audio. his voice comes through warm and bright, but lower than lecture, close enough to feel like breath against your ear.
“hydrate. eat. learn something small and beautiful today.”
you bury your face in the couch cushion, kick once like a child, then sit up and pretend you’re normal.
you: ok captain. go do your tengen thing later i’ll be here pretending tv is more fun than you.
you set the phone on your thigh and pull your laptop closer, the cursor blinking on an empty document while the message thread glows at the edge of your screen, an open door if you want to wander back through it
you grab your throw pillow and fucking scream as loud as possible
‘YOU DUMB BITCH OH MY GODDDDD’
—
you are halfway through folding warm laundry when your phone lights the room from the counter. his name. a simple opener.
rengoku: heading out with tengen. it might be loud. i will keep my phone close.
you lean on the counter and type with your thumb.
you: have fun. i’m home and boring. tv and noodles.
a pause. then:
rengoku: boring can be good. send me one small good thing from your night later
you smile without meaning to. you say you will. you set the phone down and let the show run, but you keep listening for the next vibration. it comes after a while, softer this time.
rengoku: stepped outside for air. thought of you
rengoku: what are you watching
you tell him the title. you say you like how the narrator sounds like morgan freeman. he answers with a picture, not of himself, but of the street in front of him. wet pavement, a ribbon of light through a puddle, his shadow long and steady at the edge of frame.
rengoku: this is the street here. it smells like rain and smoke
rengoku: what line did you like
you thumb back to the episode and quote one about ordinary people and the weight of small choices. he types for a while. when it lands, you exhale.
rengoku: i like that you look for the small things
rengoku: you did that at the game too. you watched the bench when everyone watched the ball. you laughed when the coach fixed a kid’s shoelace. i noticed
you sit down on the floor like your knees turned jelly. you tell him you are trying to pay attention to what matters. you ask if he has eaten. he sends a tiny laugh.
rengoku: yes. a hearty meal! did you eat?
you send a picture of your empty bowl, a crooked fork, the curl of steam still ghosting the rim.
rengoku: good. also, i am glad you texted last night. i was worried i had overwhelmed you
you stare at the word worried. you type slowly.
you: i was overwhelmed. by my own head. not by you. but thanks for walking me… i slept hard
a new bubble appears, then disappears. then a voice memo arrives. you press play. his voice is close and low.
“breathe in for four. out for six. drink a little water. keep me company with your show if you want.”
you hold the phone to your chest for a second like that will keep it warm. you write back that you are drinking. you tell him the episode just turned sad. he answers with care.
rengoku: i am still outside. tell me the part that hurt and i will stand here with you until it passes
so you do. you describe the scene that made your throat tight. he replies with a memory of a museum he visited in the summer, how a guard pressed a hand to the glass when a child leaned too close, how gentle it looked. he says care is often quiet, almost invisible, and that is why it matters.
time slides. the city in his pocket moves. your apartment stills. he checks in again.
rengoku: i will head home soon. tengen is happy. i am a little tired
rengoku: do you have enough blankets on the couch
you look at the folded throw by your ankle. you tell him yes. you send a picture of your socks by accident and decide not to delete it.
rengoku: strong socks.i will text when i am back. if you are asleep, that is also good
you tell him you might be up. you tell him the last small good thing from your night is the way the apartment smells like lemon and the scene where the narrator was quiet for a full second before speaking again. he sends one back.
rengoku: my small good thing is the rain starting again. it sounds like someone turning a page
when the next message lands, it is simple.
rengoku: home. shower. water. bed soon. thank you for writing to me
you type with your cheek on the cushion.
you: thank you for answering! sleep well. tell me the first thing you notice in the morning
the typing bubble returns, patient and warm.
rengoku: i will. if you wake first, send me your favorite sentence from whatever you read before breakfast
you set the phone on your chest and watch the ceiling blur. the thread stays open, quiet and alive, waiting for morning to reach into it.
—
monday breezes by like water. you slip through classes, eat something passable between buildings, text him in little pockets of quiet. he answers in bursts that make you feel accustomed to the routine. how was the quiz? drink water. a picture of sunlight on his office floor. you send him the scribble you liked from your notebook and he sends back a line from a book you haven’t read yet and it sits in your mouth sweet the rest of the day.
tuesday you dress on purpose. soft cotton shorts again, but the shirt is different this time, snug enough to trace what you usually hide. when you catch yourself in the mirror you almost talk yourself out of it, then you don’t. campus is warm, the hallway smells like dry erase and old wood, your pulse climbs a step for no reason.
he sees you the second you step into the lecture hall. it’s not dramatic or anything. just a pause. a beat where his gaze lands and holds and his mouth goes still before that big cheerful smile slots back into place. sleeves rolled, tie a little crooked, he taps the folder against the desk like he needs the noise. you take your seat front row and feel his attention slide off and then drift back like a tide.
class starts. he’s all fire and story again, sweeping the room with his voice until people who never talk are sitting taller. when he looks at you to make a point his tone dips and you feel it in your ribs. you answer a question cleanly, your throat dry, his eyes bright like he knew you’d say it that way.
when break hits he strides down the aisle like he always does, and when he reaches you he doesn’t even think about it. knuckles up. you meet him halfway, a quick quiet fist bump that sparks through your skin more than it should. he leans in just enough for the scent of his soap to find you. good to see you, he says low, and it’s nothing and it’s not nothing. you manage a quick smile and pretend to fuss with your pen and he goes back to the front like he didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs for a second.
the second half he pushes hard through the first chapter, chalk dust ghosting the cuff of his sleeve, a little crease between his brows when he sketches a timeline. you watch his hands, the way his forearm flexes when he underlines a date, the way the fabric across his back shifts when he turns to the board. he calls on you once more, something easy that he lets you knock down clean, and a couple of students near you whisper like they can’t help themselves.
when the final slide clicks and the room erupts into backpacks and zippers you linger, stacking your notebook slow. he’s half turned away, sliding the marker cap on, and then his gaze finds you again like a thread pulling taut. you stand, the hem of your shirt catching on a breath, and he reads every inch of it before dragging his eyes back to your face with care. the smile that comes is smaller, private, almost a secret.
you could walk out. you could walk up. your phone buzzes in your pocket and you know it’s him because the timing is ridiculous and perfect and you haven’t even looked yet.
you hang back at the end of the row, letting backpacks and chatter flood the aisle first. the room thins in waves. your phone buzzes against your thigh like it knows the cue.
rengoku: you look very good today. the shirt suits you
your mouth tips up before you can help it. you glance to the front. he is surrounded instantly, a semicircle of students firing questions about the first quiz, the readings, the curve. he listens with that bright patience you know too well, nodding, pointing at the syllabus, answering out loud.
your phone hums again.
rengoku: i will update the study guide tonight. chapter segments, primary sources, sample short answer…and yes i saw you try not to smile
you choke on a laugh and cough like the air is dusty. he does not look at you. he keeps his phone low at his hip, screen tilted toward his leg, the quick flick of his thumb hidden by the pile of papers in his other hand.
you: you are texting in class sir. scandal
rengoku: i am technically off the clock
rengoku: also i am respecting privacy
someone in front of him asks about office hours. he tips his chin toward the times on the board, voice carrying, and your phone trembles again.
rengoku: if you need me before thursday, i am here at seven tomorrow
rengoku: early suits me
rengoku: you could bring coffee and pretend it is academic
you lean into the desk and type slow.
you: what a coincidence i was planning to be very academic at 7 a.m! want me to bring you something specific
rengoku: anything hot, with a lid.
you can see him smile at nothing. a girl beside him is asking about citations. he takes her paper, shows her a neat example, praises a line she chose. his thumb moves again without anyone catching it.
rengoku: the color looks good on you too
heat spikes under your skin. you tuck the phone into your pocket and try to breathe normal. the crowd around him starts to break apart, a few last questions, a thank you or two, a chair squeak. he looks up briefly, just a second, like a compass finding true north, and the glance pins you clean through.
rengoku: go on ahead. i will see you tomorrow morning
you: copy that professor… behave
rengoku: i am trying very hard
you slide out into the aisle, the last of the chatter washing past your shoulders, the message sitting warm against your leg as you step into the hall and the door swings on its hinge and nothing is settled in your chest at all
your room is warm and stupidly cozy, a little pile of laundry still warm from the dryer on the chair, a soft playlist whispering from your laptop. you’re half curled on the bed with your phone, texting mitsuri as she live critiques your closet.
mitsuri: send options
you: i have a new bra and i am not above letting it do the heavy lifting
mitsuri: pic or it isn’t real
you laugh into your pillow, slide the drawer open, and pull it out. soft satin, tiny bow. it makes your shoulders sit differently because you know what you’ve got under there. you lift your shirt enough to frame it, quick mirror snap, crop to collarbone, tasteful but lethal. you attach. send. drop the phone onto the duvet while you pad to the kitchen for water like you didn’t just commit a social crime.
you’re halfway back to the bed when your phone starts buzzing like a trapped bee. one buzz. two. three. something in your ribs goes tight. you scoop it up and the world tips.
you sent it to rengoku.
the chat is right there. your photo sitting clean and bright. under it: delivered.
your body does that cold then hot thing. your fingers scramble, typing too fast.
you: do not open that
you: wrong person
you: please delete i’m begging
you: that was for mitsuri
you: i’m going to bury myself in the yard goodnight
you slap the phone face down like it might explode. you pace a tight line from bed to door and back, hand in your hair, heart up in your throat. you consider throwing the entire device into the sink. you consider moving to a new city. you consider texting mitsuri and then decide you cannot look away from the disaster you created.
you flip the phone over. typing bubble. it blinks. disappears. comes back. your lungs forget how to cooperate.
rengoku: i think this was not meant for me. i saw it before i realized. i’m sorry
you sit. you do not feel your knees. your fingers shake.
you: i know i know i’m so sorry please pretend you are blind
you: please delete it
you: please pretend i am also blind
a longer pause. then:
rengoku: i will delete it if you want
rengoku: but before i do
rengoku: you looked beautiful
your brain makes a dial tone. your cheeks are on fire. you press your forehead to your knee and breathe, counting stupid numbers that don’t help.
rengoku: breathe. you are safe with me. tell me what you want me to do and i will do that
you stare at the ceiling like it has answers. the ridiculous part is how gentle he is about it. no jokes. no teasing. just the weight of his attention landing careful.
you: please delete
you: and please don’t make fun of me i might actually die
rengoku: i would never make fun of you
rengoku: deleted
rengoku: for the record
rengoku: i am honored you trusted me even by accident
your chest loosens a fraction. your hands still shake. you lie back, stare at the soft wash of your ceiling light, and type with a small, mortified laugh stuck in your throat.
you: i didn’t trust you i am an idiot who can’t text
you: thank you for not making it worse
you: i’m going to go throw my phone into the moon now
rengoku: please do not
rengoku: bring it to me at seven instead
you clutch the pillow to your chest and kick your feet once, helpless and overheated and alive, the thread still open and waiting for what you say next you don’t even text first. you hit call with shaking hands and the second mitsuri picks up you’re already screaming. it’s one long vowel and her end explodes into delighted static.
“oh my god what happened,” she gasps, but she’s laughing, you can hear it, bright and thrilled.
“i sent him the bra pic,” you choke, pacing a groove into your carpet. “i sent it to rengoku. not you. him. my professor. i am moving to the woods.”
there’s a tiny pop like she covered the receiver to shriek and then she’s back, breathless. “shut up you did not. what did he say. tell me everything!”
you flop face first onto the bed, kick your feet, muffle your voice in a pillow. “he apologized for seeing it, asked what i wanted him to do, said i looked beautiful, then deleted it when i asked. i am decomposing. i am a fossil.”
mitsuri squeals so loud you have to hold the phone away. “are you kidding me. he’s perfect. he is so respectful. you two would be so cute together.”
you sit up so fast you get lightheaded. “that’s my professor,” you hiss, like saying it out loud might conjure an ethics committee in your room. “my professor.”
“two consenting adults in love,” she sings, utterly unbothered. “also you’re graduating this semester, so it’s basically a countdown until the world stops caring. also did you hear yourself? he said you looked beautiful. i’m going to faint on your behalf.”
you groan, drag a hand through your hair, stare at the ceiling like it owes you answers. “don’t say love,” you whisper, even as your pulse trips. “don’t. i can’t breathe.”
“okay okay,” she soothes, but you can hear her smile. “then say this. two consenting adults who like each other a lot. who are extremely hot and extremely polite about it.”
you drop onto your back, the phone balanced on your chest. “he told me to bring my phone to him at seven. coffee.”
“seven a.m. coffee,” she repeats, proud like she invented it. “that’s a date with homework in a trench coat! wear something that makes you feel hot. and take deep breaths. he is already careful with you. that’s the part that matters.”
you exhale, long and shaky, and the air settles around you. “what do i even wear. if i put on another tight shirt i’ll spontaneously combust.”
“no combusting,” she says firmly. “cute top that shows a little skin, maybe your skirt again? and text me the second you’re out of there.” you hum, closing your eyes as you picture it. the quiet campus, the soft light in his office, his voice low instead of booming. “okay. i’ll try not to die.”
“you won’t,” she says, gentle now. “you’re brave. and he’s already meeting you in the middle.”
you end the call with your heart steadying, the apartment suddenly too small for how big it feels inside your ribs. the slip of paper with his number is still on your nightstand, his message thread open on your phone. you set an alarm you absolutely do not need, line up your outfit across the chair, and lie there staring at the ceiling while the room dims, breathing in counts until the countdown in your chest settles into something almost calm.
you last fifteen minutes pretending to be calm, then cave. the apartment is quiet except for the hum of your fridge and the soft tick of your wall clock when you type it out.
you: hi again. sorry for earlier. still mortified. promise to regain brain cells by morning
the reply lands fast enough to make your breath catch.
rengoku: it’s okay. truly
a second bubble appears. lingers. sends.
rengoku: if you’d like to show me in person, i can rate the bra
you sit bolt upright like the mattress burned you.
you: PROFESSOR !!! what the hell
there’s a beat, and you can see him smiling without seeing him at all.
rengoku: academically. quality of construction, fit, support…. stitching integrity
you throw a pillow at absolutely nothing.
you: i’m blocking you
you: i can’t believe you typed that.
rengoku: you won’t
rengoku: i would only look if you wanted me to… and i would say thank you properly if you ever did
your pulse skitters. you lie back and stare at the ceiling like it might translate that into a language you can breathe around.
you: i hate you
you: i don’t hate you
you: i’m going to combust at 7 a.m.
rengoku: 7 a.m. is a safe time to combust
rengoku: bring whatever makes you feel strong
you: your serious face is illegal. what do you even drink
rengoku: large black coffee. also, text when you arrive so i can meet you at the door
you stare at the screen, thumb hovering, then decide to step into the heat you started.
you: fine. and for the record the bra is very supportive. five stars. excellent stitching integrity
you: goodnight
a pause. then:
rengoku: goodnight
rengoku: sleep if you can
you set the phone on your chest, the thread still open, the outfit you picked draped over the chair, the idea of his hands around a paper cup already sitting warm in your throat while you think about how you’re going to walk into his office and keep any of this off your face
—
morning gnaws at you like a hangnail. your alarm is cruel, the mirror worse, your hands a little shaky as you tame your hair and try to look like a person who can form sentences. you grab two coffees on the walk over, lids snapped tight, sleeves snug around the cups so your fingers have something to cling to. campus is hushed and blue, sprinklers ticking somewhere.
the history building is half asleep. hall lights hum, your footsteps are too loud, and the door to his floor sticks until it sighs open. you text him at the threshold with your knuckle because both hands are full. here. please rescue me. you stare at the wood grain while your heart tries to climb out through your throat.
the lock turns. the door swings a crack and then wider, and there he is in a soft shirt and rolled sleeves, hair still a little damp. his face does that small shift when he sees you, like something bright narrows and warms. you hold up his cup like a peace offering. “black. large. lid.”
“perfect,” he says, quiet and ridiculously pleased, fingers brushing yours as he takes it. his office is warm behind him, lamp on, papers squared, a sweater thrown over the back of his chair. he steps aside so you can slip in, the door clicking shut on the sleepy hallway as he sets your cup on the desk and looks at you like he has been awake for hours just for this.
you breathe out a laugh that shakes a little. “confession. i don’t actually have a reason to be here. homework’s done. i’m prepped for the test. i just… showed up.” his mouth curves around the rim before he sips, eyes warm over the lid. “this is enjoyable regardless.”
you slide into the chair across from his desk, knees bumping the wood, steam curling up between you. the office smells like coffee and his scent and something faintly papery. “how are your classes?” you ask, pretending you’re not watching the way his sleeves hug his forearms. “how’s tanjiro holding up so far?”
the switch flips. bright again, all sunlight. “splendid. the first-years are nervous but eager. tanjiro is already helping people find their rooms and giving directions he learned yesterday.” his laugh is soft but still big enough to make the lamp light feel warmer. “he joined two clubs by accident and now he’s committed to both! it suits him.”
you grin into your cup. “of course it does. he has main character energy.”
“he does,” he says, delighted. “as for classes, the morning seminar asked three questions that made me rethink a lesson i’ve taught for five years. i love when that happens. history is a conversation. it should change when we do.” his hands move when he talks, sketching invisible shapes in the space between you, chalk dust memory ghosting the edge of his cuff.
you nod like you’re not cataloging every small thing. “i peeked the study guide you posted,” you say, toe bumping the wheel of his chair. “you’re generous. they’ll survive.”
“i hope so. i want them challenged, not crushed.” he settles back, that careful attention sliding over you again, warmer for how close the room is. “and you. if you’re already ready, maybe we pick a chapter to argue about. or you tell me which source bored you to tears and i defend its honor.”
you curl a knee under yourself, the chair creaking a little, and set your coffee on the corner of his desk so your fingers have an excuse to be near his.
you glance at the door like it’s suddenly very interesting. “is that locked?”
he follows your look, presses his thumb to the latch without moving from his chair. “yes.” a sip of coffee, then, almost casual, “and the walls are noise proof, in case you were wondering.”
you choke on a laugh. “haha, nope. wasn’t wondering.”
his mouth tips, bright again. “administration implemented them last year. students kept saying office hours felt exposed. if you’re going to ask for help, you should feel like your secrets are safe with us!” he rolls the cup between his palms, gaze soft. “people cry in here sometimes. panic. ramble. the point is they can do that without thinking the hallway hears.”
you settle a little deeper in the chair, the quiet suddenly heavier and kinder around the edges. the lamp hums. his sweater on the back of the chair smells faintly like cedar and detergent. “so hypothetically,” you say, eyes on the rim of your cup, “if a person wanted to confess something deeply embarrassing, the room would be on their side.”
“hypothetically,” he echoes, amused, “yes.” you look up through your lashes. “and professionally you would take it in stride.” — “professionally,” he nods, like you’ve offered a quiz question, “i would listen. i would thank you for trusting me.” his knuckles tap the desk once. “then i would ask what you needed from me next.”
your pulse stutters. you press your palms to the paper cup until the cardboard warms your skin. “bold of you to assume i’m brave enough to say anything that needs soundproofing.”
“you showed up,” he says simply. “that’s already brave.” he leans back, the old chair sighing, and glances at your folded notes like he might tease you back into syllabus talk if you bolt. “we can argue about chapter one instead. or we can let the room do what it’s built for and speak plainly.”
the clock ticks in the hall. the campus is still a blue hush outside his window. you sit there, caught between the safety of ethics and the heat of everything else, and the way he waits makes the choice feel like it belongs to you.
after a minute he tips his cup back, eyes glinting over the rim, and when he sets it down again there’s a little tilt to his smile. “so.. what’s the hypothetical confession?”
you blink, caught, words skittering. “oh—i didn’t actually think of one.”
his brow arches, voice dropping just enough to make it feel private. “or,” he says, playful but threaded with weight, “you just don’t want to say it.”
the air in the office shifts. his hand rests against the desk, close enough you could reach across the grain if you wanted. the way his eyes hold yours makes it feel like he’s already reading your not so secret confession in your face.
you sigh, the sound small and embarrassed and a little relieved all at once, like you’re admitting to a secret that’s been crowding your chest. “okay,” you say, voice a notch thinner. “i—when you saw me, um… i felt like dying. but also—i liked it. the attention. the compliment. and yes, i may or may not be wearing the bra under my shirt right now.”
he’s still for half a heartbeat, like the universe paused to let the confession land. then his mouth quirks, not the big laugh this time but something quieter, almost fond. “you did not look like someone who should die,” he says, and it sounds like praise folded into concern. his eyes drop for a beat to the line of your collar, and whatever he sees there moves through him like a small, private warmth.
your cheeks flame hotter. you want to tuck your chin, to hide, to laugh it off. you twist the cardboard of your cup between your fingers and wait for him to do the thing professors do when they are suddenly aware they’ve crossed a line. instead, he leans forward, one hand braced on the desk, the motion slow enough that it feels deliberate. “i am sorry i surprised you,” he says. “that was not my intent.” his voice is steady. “but if you enjoyed it—if it was pleasurable for you—then i am glad i did not make it only awkward.”
you laugh, short and a little breathless. “god, that sounded terrible. i mean—i’m glad too. but it’s complicated, and i don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
his eyes are soft but firm. “we will be careful,” he promises. “i will be careful. i will not do anything you do not want. and you will tell me when something feels wrong.” the words are practical and simple. there is a teasing curve to his smile then, the kind that always used to make your notebook margins look like doodled hearts. “also,” he adds, voice dipping into mischief, “i did not just appreciate the stitching. the whole thing suited you.”
you almost drop the cup. “professor—” you start, but the sound catches and turns into a laugh, because of course he would say that, and because of course you would combust at something that exact and simple
he watches you laugh, and for a second the room narrows to the two of you. then he reaches out. his fingers close around the back of your hand, warm and firm and tethering, like an anchor and an invitation all at once. “stay,” he says, quiet. “talk. or don’t. sit. i will be here.”
you feel the absurd power of that offer, the way a single sentence can flatten the bright buzzing in your chest into something steadier. you nod, because your brain and your mouth are both temporarily out of order, and because the idea of sitting here with him, with walls that keep secrets safe, feels like choosing a place to breathe.
he squeezes your hand once, then releases it, sliding back just enough to make space. “i will make the study guide now,” he says, a little too cheerfully, the voice like a bridge back to ordinary. “and i will annotate it with secondary sources that do not contain any accidental lingerie photos.”
you shove a grin at him. “i hate you.”
“no you do not,” he replies, and his chuckle is soft and low and entirely his. the office hums around you, and the lamp light pools on his desk, and there is a small, dangerous sort of ease settling over the two of you, like the beginning of something that hasn’t decided yet what it wants to be.
you peel a pink post-it, write “teacher’s favorite” and stick it to his tie right under the knot. he looks down, hums like he’s considering the evidence, then reaches for your cup with slow fingers and prints “danger” across the sleeve in his neat hand. you take a sip so he can watch you grin around it.
you tug the end of his tie like a bell pull, smoothing the fabric against his shirt. “crooked,” you say, lying. his eyes go heavy for half a second anyway. he reaches up and tucks a loose piece of your hair behind your ear. “fixed,” he answers, not even pretending it’s academic.
you steal three paperclips and make him a little bracelet, clip by clip, then catch his wrist to slide it on. his pulse is a steady drum under your thumb and you hate him for how calm it sounds. his skin felt calloused. that little fact turns you on. he returns the favor by looping a binder clip on the edge of your sleeve like it’s jewelry. when he leans in to fasten it, your knees bump. neither of you move away.
“two truths and a lie,” you say, because you can now. “chapter one was too easy, you missed me last week, and you thought about that bra again.”
his mouth curves like he can’t help it. “truth, truth….and… truth,” he says, maddeningly simple. your laugh breaks halfway out of you and you have to look at the ceiling like there is oxygen up there.
he takes your pen from between your fingers, stands behind you, and guides your hand across his legal pad to underline a date you already knew. his palm covers your knuckles, warm and impossible to ignore. “good form,” he murmurs against the crown of your head, and it is a stupid little line that still goes straight through you.
you tip your head back the barest inch, close enough to look up at him. “say something i can’t put on the study guide,” you dare, voice low.
he considers you like he is choosing a thesis sentence. “your shirt is my favorite thing in this room,” he says finally, quiet and clean. “no, that’s not true. you are.” he waits like he will let you push him for more, or let you laugh it off, whichever you need. you look away and grab a piece of paper.
you write “biased grader” on a post-it and slap it to his chest to save yourself. he peels it off slowly, eyes never leaving your face, then tucks the note into his pocket like another secret. you feel absurdly claimed by a square inch of paper and the way he keeps it.
the game keeps looping. your knee presses his chair again. his fingers ghost your wrist when he hands your pen back. you trace a dumb little star on his calendar where seven a.m. lives now. he dots the star with a tiny heart that he pretends not to have drawn. you let him pretend and you let the room hold the sound of your quiet, ridiculous laughter as if you both were always meant to be this close.
you circle his desk with some flimsy excuse about helping him sort the stack he’s grading, fingers already reaching for the top paper. his hand closes around your wrist before you make contact, warm and steady, and the look he gives you is so calm it short circuits your brain.
“not that one,” he says, voice low.
you try to laugh it off, try to tug free, but he doesn’t let you. he pulls gently, guiding you in beside his chair until your knees brush his. then he just tips his chin like he’s asking you to come closer, and you do. his hands find your hips and he sits you down on his thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you were meant to be there. and.. well.. FUCK
the chair sighs under both of you. your breath stutters. his thigh is solid beneath you, heat bleeding through the fabric, and the way he settles you exactly where he wants you turns your spine into electricity. you brace one palm on the desk to steady yourself and the other on his shoulder, feeling the stretch of muscle under his shirt.
“okay?” he asks it quiet. you nod, too fast, then manage a whispered, “yeah.”
his hand slides from your hip to your waist, fingers spanning you, thumb pressing a slow arc into your side like he’s anchoring you. the other hand traces the hem of your shirt, not pushing, just resting there, daring heat into your skin. he shifts once under you and you feel it everywhere, a slow pull in your belly that makes your lips part.
“you came in with no questions,” he murmurs, breath warm against your jaw. “so let me ask them.”
your mouth curves without your permission. “that’s cheating.”
“i am a creative educator.” the smile ghosts his voice. his hands tighten, angling your hips until the seam of his pants is exactly where he wants it under you. he looks up, so sweetly patient you could scream. “show me what feels good?”
you move, slow at first, a careful press and glide, and the drag of it knocks a sound out of you you didn’t mean to make. his breath hitches against your cheek. he doesn’t hurry you. he just fits you there, big palm guiding your rhythm, a quiet hum in his chest every time you find the angle that makes your thighs tremble.
“this,” he says under his breath, like he’s studying. “here.” you nod again, helpless, a little gasp catching. his mouth brushes your temple, then your hairline, then lower, slow and careful, until his lips hover at the edge of your jaw. his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, the lightest stroke along your waist that makes your back arch. when you arch, you grind down a little harder and both of you feel it.
“rengoku,” you whisper, and the name sounds nothing like a question. “mm,” he answers, the sound low, as if he’s tasting it.
you roll your hips again, a tighter circle, and his thigh flexes under you. he squeezes your waist, steadying you through the shiver, then trails that hand up, slow and respectful, pausing just under the band of your bra. he waits. he’s still waiting when you cover his hand with yours and press down.
“yes,” you breathe, and the way he exhales sounds like relief.
his palm cups you over the bra first, warm and sure, thumb skimming the edge of lace like he’s cataloging it. “supportive,” he says, soft and teasing, and you bite a smile into your lip that dissolves when his thumb drags across your nipple through the fabric. your fingers curl in his shirt. you rock against him again, more pressure now, and the small, quiet sound he makes in your ear ruins you.
“tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, somehow steady, his mouth brushing the line of your jaw, the sensitive spot just under your ear. “say it how you say the answers in class. clear. confident.”
“don’t stop,” you say, and your voice doesn’t even shake. he nods, mouth tipping into a small smile you can feel against your skin. his hand slips under the bra, fingers hot and careful, and the first bare touch knocks your head back with a soft, broken sound. his other hand keeps your hips moving, a slow pull forward, a steady press back, the desk edge biting into your palm as your rhythm finds something greedy and true.
“that’s it,” he murmurs, praise threaded through every word. “take what you want.”
your thighs burn and your stomach tightens and the world narrows to the drag and the heat and his breath at your ear. he kisses your collarbone, open mouthed and slow, like he’s tasting the morning on your skin. when you roll a little harder, chasing it, he groans into your shoulder and the sound makes your whole body stutter.
“you’re making a mess of me,” you whisper, half laugh, half plea. “mutual,” he says, voice rougher now, hand firming on your waist, guiding you through another grind that makes your toes curl in your shoes.
you turn your face and catch his mouth, a quick, hungry kiss that lands too hard and not hard enough. he chases it, kisses you again, slower this time, patient and deep, like he’s trying to remember exactly how you taste at seven in the morning, coffee and nerves and something he’s not allowed to name. his hand on your breast tightens when you moan into him and it goes straight down your spine.
the chair creaks. the lamp hums. the locked door is a whole world away. you ride his thigh with a steadier rhythm now, shameless and sure, and each pass drags more heat up your belly until you’re trembling, until your breath breaks on his name, until your fingers dig into his shoulder hard enough to leave half-moons.
“good,” he says against your mouth, the word almost a groan. “again.”
you do. you chase it, hips rolling in tight, desperate circles, chest heaving, his hand and his thigh and his mouth giving you everything you ask for without you saying it out loud. when you start to fall apart, it’s quiet and sharp and a little messy, a choked sound caught in his kiss, your whole body tightening around the heat he’s built in you, the wave breaking and breaking until your muscles go soft and your forehead drops to his shoulder.
he strokes your back through the aftershocks, slow, steady lines that keep you from floating away. his thigh is still solid under you. his mouth presses a kiss into your hair. your heart bangs against your ribs like it’s trying to catch up.
you breathe. he breathes with you. his hand is still under your shirt, splayed warm over your ribs, and you don’t move it. his other palm covers your knee, thumb tracing a lazy line like he’s smoothing a crease out of paper.
“i have office hours at ten,” he says eventually, voice hoarse in a way that makes your stomach flip. “which gives us time to behave, and also time not to.” you sit there helpless on his thigh, heartbeat still a little crooked, trying to catch up with your own body. the lamp hums. your coffee has gone warm and sweet, forgotten on the corner of his desk. his hand is a quiet weight under your shirt, palm spread over your ribs like he is holding something together.
you tilt your head and he is already watching you. not the professor stare. the other one. the one that feels like being pulled into a room only he has the key to.
“i need to say something,” he murmurs, like he is testing each word for sharp edges before he gives it to you. “i am not teasing. i am just telling the truth.”you nod, small, your fingers still caught in the cotton at his shoulder.
“i am touch starved,” he admits, “i have been for a long time. i am careful because i have to be. i am careful because i want to be a good man in your life, not a problem. but i crave you all the same.” his thumb drags a line along your waist, slow, like he is drawing the feeling. “i crave you. i think about you sitting in the front row and i hold the podium too tight so i do not come find you. i think about this desk every afternoon, about putting you on it, hands on your knees, asking you to open for me.” he swallows, voice roughening. “i fight myself every day not to do it.”
the words go hot and low, pooling under your skin. you can feel your pulse against his mouth where it sits near your jaw. it is almost embarrassing how quickly your body answers him, a little tremor in your thighs, a fresh sting of want curling in your belly like it never left.
“i do not want to frighten you,” he adds, and there is a ragged honesty there that makes your throat ache. “i do not want to cross any line you do not draw. tell me no and i will make tea and quiz you on chapter two. tell me yes and i will make you forget there is a chapter two.”
you breathe, slow, your fingers sliding up to his neck. you feel the heat of him under your palm, the tendon shifting when he swallows again. your voice comes out softer than you expect. “i like hearing it.” you angle your hips just enough to make his breath catch. “i like that you want me.”
his eyes lift to yours, open, a little wrecked. you tip forward and kiss him once, nothing pretty, just heat and teeth and the taste of black coffee. when you break it, you are already moving, sliding your hand down between you to the buttons of his shirt. your knuckles skim his chest and his lashes twitch like the touch shorted something inside him.
“show me,” you say, the words barely louder than the clock down the hall. “show me what you fight.” he exhales hard, like you knocked the wind out of him, and then his hands are back on your waist, sure again, guiding you as you shift off his thigh and he stands with you, the chair creaking, the desk a steady line at your hip. his mouth finds the sweet place under your ear and you feel yourself melt forward, fingers fumbling one more button before you give up and drag his shirt free of his waistband instead.
“tell me if you want me to stop,” he says again, closer now, breath warm at your cheek.
“i won’t,” you jest, turning your face to catch his mouth, your back nudging the desk edge as his body crowds yours, the morning thick and bright around both of you as his palm slides lower and the paper on his desk skitters with the first nudge of your hip against the wood.
his hands are gentle when they want to be and unyielding when they have to be. he turns you with easy strength, lifting you onto the desk like you weigh nothing, papers sliding to the floor in a slow drift you both ignore. his palms bracket your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of you, guiding you to the edge until your knees open for him like a habit.
“there,” he says, quiet and pleased, kissing your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then lower, “good. beautiful.”
you make a small sound that betrays you. he smiles against your jaw, the curve of it warm on your skin. “i like that one,” he murmurs, as if collecting the noises you make and tucking them away. “i like all of them.”
he manhandles you without hurry, just firm intent. a slow drag forward. a shift of your thigh over his shoulder when he kneels. a steady hand flattening at your stomach to keep you from floating off the desk when his mouth finds the inside of your knee and starts working its way up. he kisses like he has time to worship every inch, respectful without being careful, lips and tongue tasting your skin like this is what mornings are for.
“you are so beautiful,” he says into the crease of your thigh. “you know that, don’t you.” he nips lightly and your breath hitches. “i think about you when the room is full and when it is empty. i think about you when i lock this door.” your fingers sink into his hair, helpless. “professor,” you breathe, trying to bite down on your smile and failing. he lifts his head at the name, eyes dark, and slides your shirt up with both hands, mouth tracing a hot line up your stomach to the band of your bra.
“this,” he says, voice a little rough, “looks perfect on you.” his thumbs stroke along the edges like he is testing the truth of his own words. “can i see you.”
you nod so hard your earrings brush your neck. he laughs under his breath, sweet and a little wrecked, and unhooks you with practiced care, easing the cups aside. the first lick of air over your skin makes you shiver, the first kiss to your breast makes you moan. he mouths at you like he has missed the taste of you for years, one big hand holding your side, the other massaging you, thumb dragging slow until your back arches.
“look at you,” he whispers, glancing up as your color blooms high on your cheeks. “my god. that face.” he kisses the corner of your open mouth. “so flustered. so pretty.”
“stop,” you mumble, which only makes the heat climb, which only makes him smile wider. “never,” he counters.
he stands again, crowding you, lifting your hips with both hands to slide you closer. you feel how easily he moves you, how he sets you exactly where he wants you, how he keeps checking with the tilt of his brow, the brush of his mouth, the press of his palm. every time you nod he gives you more. every time your breath slips he praises you for it.
“you take direction so well,” he says softly, kissing your chin, your throat, the hollow at the base where your pulse lives. “and you ask for what you want—even better. i have been pining for this. for you.” his nose skims your cheek, his voice a low heat against your ear. “i want you in my hands. i want you on this desk. i want you in every part of my life.”
you are a mess under him, flushed and trembling, fingers clutching at his shirt like you need him closer even when there is no closer left. he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, then pins your hand flat to the desk, lacing your fingers with his. “stay with me,” he murmurs, the words more praise than command.
your thighs tense when he rocks you against him, slow and guided, fabric dragging exactly where you need it. the sound that breaks out of you is shameless. he groans at it, forehead tipping to yours, his breath all over your lips.
“that’s it,” he says, a little hoarse now, worship bleeding into hunger. “good. take it. let me see you.” he kisses you again, deeper, his free hand sliding under your thigh to tip your angle, the room spinning down to the heat of his mouth and the steady press of his palm and the warm words falling between kisses. “beautiful. brave. mine to praise if you want me to.”
your laugh stumbles out, bright and wrecked. “you’re not helping,” you manage, biting your lip because your body keeps confessing for you. “i am,” he counters, smiling against your mouth, delighted by how undone you are. “you look perfect like this. all red and shy and proud of yourself.” he kisses your flushed cheekbone, your nose, the bow of your mouth. “i could spend all morning telling you how pretty you are.”
your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling. “you’d really do that.”
“yes,” he says, like it is obvious. “and then i would show you again.” he squeezes your hand where it’s pinned to the desk, the smallest squeeze, like a beat of patience inside the heat. “tell me where you want me and i will go there.”
you’re so flushed you can feel the heat in your ears, words falling out of your mouth in pieces. “i… i don’t… prof- i mean…” his smile goes soft and hungry at once. “i love when you stutter,” he murmurs, thumb stroking slow under your jaw. “you sound so good flustered.”
your fingers fist in his shirt like you might float away without anchoring yourself. “rengoku…” it slips out on a shaky breath, habit and heat colliding. he tips your chin up with two fingers, eyes burning gentle. “kyojuro.”
the correction lands like a kiss. you swallow, try again, smaller this time, almost a prayer. “kyojuro.” he exhales like you just let him touch sunlight. “it sounds so good when you say it.” his mouth finds yours, unhurried and deep, like he wants to drink every syllable straight from your lips.
you say it again because he asked you to, because you want to, because his name tastes sweeter each time it leaves your tongue. “kyojuro.”
“again,” he whispers into your open mouth, guiding your hips with his palms, setting that slow rhythm that turns your bones to sugar. “let me hear it.”
“kyojuro,” you breathe, stuttering on the last vowel when his hand slides higher under your shirt and settles you exactly where he wants you.
“good,” he praises, voice low and sure. “that’s it. just like that.” he kisses your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the hollow of your throat, every touch a soft brand. “say it until you forget what you were shy about.”
you do, voice breaking, cheeks flaming, his name catching and catching as he works you through that honeyed heat, and he keeps praising you for it, keeps telling you how pretty you are like this, how proud he is of every little sound you make, how perfectly your mouth shapes his name when you can barely breathe.
bold creeps up on you like heat. your palm slides down the front of his shirt, over the buttons he didn’t bother to finish, then lower, the heel of your hand pressing into the hard line under his waistband. he gasps, sharp and honest, his whole body tightening like you flipped a switch.
your fingers curl around him through the fabric and the weight of it makes your breath stutter. he flushes high on his cheekbones, color blooming down his face, eyes going heavy in a way you’ve never seen in a classroom light. your heart skips so hard you have to bite your lip just to keep your balance.
you kiss him for it. slow at first, then deeper when his mouth opens under yours, a broken sound slipping out of him like he forgot how to hold it back. his hand tightens on your waist. the other finds the edge of the desk like he needs the anchor.
you stroke him through his pants, a long, testing pass with your fingers that makes his hips twitch against the desk. “careful,” he murmurs, but it’s not a warning. it’s a plea dressed as a compliment. you do it again, feeling the heat soak the fabric, the shape of him big and thick and aching under your palm.
“okay?” you whisper, because you need to hear it.
“yes,” he breathes, voice rough, forehead tipping to yours. “please.”
you tug at his belt with one hand and he helps without thinking, the quiet clink of metal loud in the small room. the zipper goes down like a sigh. when your fingers slide inside the waistband and wrap him fully, his moan lands right in your mouth, warm and helpless, his lashes fluttering like he’s trying to keep his eyes on you and failing.
he’s hot in your hand, slick already at the tip, and the way he says your name when you thumb it makes your knees go loose. you stroke him slow, just enough pressure to make his breath hitch every time your fist glides down. his hips try to follow your pace and you pin him with your free hand on his stomach, grinning against his mouth when he groans for the control you steal.
“god, you feel good,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his jaw, the pulse there jumping under your lips.
“you’re going to ruin me,” he answers, voice shaking in a way that makes you want to hear it again. “keep going. let me hear you while you touch me.”
you drag your hand a little tighter, a little faster, twisting at the top, and his head falls back, throat bared, a low sound spilling out that he can’t swallow. you chase it with your mouth, teeth grazing the tendon, your fingers working him while his grip on your waist slips and tightens, slips and tightens, like he can’t decide whether to pull you closer or beg you for mercy.
“kyojuro,” you murmur against his skin, just to feel him shudder, and he does, eyes snapping to yours like the name yanked him back to the surface. “that’s it,” he manages, breath ragged, hips stuttering under your palm. “say it again while you touch me.”
you do what he asks like it’s the only thing your mouth knows how to do. “kyojuro,” you moan, soft and wrecked, and his whole body answers you. your hand works him slow then tighter, stroking him in long, greedy pulls, and he groans into your cheek like you’ve got him by the spine.
his fingers travel, patient at first, tracing the edge of your waistband, knuckles brushing your belly in a way that makes your thighs try to close. he keeps them open with one warm palm and slips lower, under the band, under the heat, finding the soft wetness of your pussy with a touch so careful it makes your eyes snap shut. the noise that falls out of you is helpless. a tiny sound, bitten off and honest. he hears it and breathes something that sounds like a prayer against your jaw. “that’s it,” he murmurs, thumb drawing a slow circle that makes your knees go watery. “god, that’s perfect. you feel incredible.”
you gasp his name again, shaky, and your fist falters on him when his fingers press just right. he catches your wrist, guides you back into rhythm, praise curling warm up your throat. “keep touching me,” he says, voice rough but steady. “you’re so good like this. you’re making me lose my mind.”
his middle finger slides lower, testing, learning, the pad of it slick as he moves through you. your hips tip into his hand on instinct, searching for more, for speed, for pressure, and he reads every twitch like a map. “do you like that,” he asks, low, eyes on your face.
you nod, hard, breath breaking. “yes. yes.”
“good,” he says, a smile in his voice you can feel without seeing. “i want to know everything that makes you feel good.” his thumb finds your clit and settles into a deliberate pace, slow and sure, exactly the way you like it when you can’t think. “show me. tell me. all of it.”
you whimper and obey without pride, grinding into his hand while your own tightens around him, your pulse kicking wild when he praises you for the way your body answers him. “just like that,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your open mouth, then your throat, then lower, each touch a soft brand. “tell me when it’s right. take what you need from me.”
you whimper his name and your hand tightens on him like instinct. he breaks on it, eyes rolling back for a second, breath knocked out of him in a low, ruined sound that goes straight through you. whatever careful control he was holding snaps; he grabs for your mouth and kisses you messy, all heat and teeth, nothing like the coordinated professor voice, just want. your legs start to tremble, thighs quivering where his hands are holding you open on the desk, and he swallows the shaky noise you make like it’s the only thing he’s hungry for.
his hips rock forward, helpless, and the blunt heat of him finds you, the tip nudging your entrance. you gasp, fingers curling in his shirt, the world narrowing to that single point of contact. he shudders, forehead pressed to yours, voice rough. “wait,” he pants, dragging in air like it burns. “give me a second.”
his hand leaves your waist, slides the top drawer open without looking. the small rip of foil. your stomach flips at the sound. he kisses you again, softer for a beat, like thank you for waiting, then rolls the condom on with quick, practiced care. when he comes back, he cups your face in one palm, the other steady on your hip, eyes searching yours. “tell me,” he says, quiet. “yes?”
“yes,” you breathe, and the word comes out like a plea.
he lines up and pushes, slow at first, careful, the stretch stealing your breath; you clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as he sinks into you inch by inch until you’re full to the point of dizzy. he groans, low and broken, like he’s been fasting for years and finally let himself eat. “god,” he murmurs against your cheek, the praise wrecked and prophesied at the same time. “you take me so well. so warm. so perfect.”
you try to answer and only a sound comes out, a tiny desperate thing, and he bites a smile into your jaw like he’s proud of it. his hands adjust you, a slow drag of your hips forward, his thumbs pressing into your skin until the angle hits just right and your breath shatters. “there,” he says, a little frantic now, “that’s it, isn’t it.”
you nod hard, cheeks hot, legs shaking where they wrap around him. he starts to move for real, slow pulls and deeper pushes, a deliberate rhythm that builds in clean lines, every stroke dragging a sound out of you he swallows like it belongs to him. your nails catch his back through his shirt and he hisses, hips stuttering, then he finds the pace again and it’s all heat and friction and the soft slap of skin, the desk creaking in complaint.
“look at me,” he says, voice hoarse, and when you do his face is wrecked in the prettiest way, color high in his cheeks, eyes dark and focused, “that’s it. beautiful. tell me if i need to slow down.”
“don’t,” you whisper, already gone, and he answers with a deeper thrust that makes the lights behind your eyes flash. he kisses you through it, sloppy and sweet, praise tumbling between your mouths. “good girl. so brave. keep saying my name.”
“kyojuro,” you moan, and he makes a noise you feel all the way down your spine, hips grinding in tight, hungry circles that make your thighs quake around him. his hand slides between you and finds your clit, thumb working in steady, devastating pulses that match his thrusts. your back arches, a gasp cracking into his mouth, and he murmurs right against your lips, “tell me everything that works. tell me and i’ll give it to you.”
you do, shameless, tipping your hips into his hand, chasing the angle he’s giving you, breath breaking on his name every time he hits it. he listens with his whole body, adjusting, pressing, taking your cues like scripture. your vision fuzzes at the edges, heat pooling tight and hot low in your belly, the desk edge biting delicious at the backs of your thighs, his chest a wall of aftershave, cedar, and warmth against you, his mouth everywhere he can reach.
“that’s it,” he whispers, and it sounds like begging and worship at once. “shake for me. i’ve got you.” he swallows the next sound you make, his thumb unrelenting, his rhythm tightening, and you feel it coiling fast, faster, right there under his hand where the line between praise and ruin blurs and you lean into it because there’s nowhere else to go.
his hand slides up your belly and settles low, warm weight pressing right where everything is tight and aching. when he pushes down your eyes fly wide, the shock of it sparking straight through you, then they roll back as the feeling hits, white-hot and blinding. your fingers clamp on his shoulder, nails catching in the fabric, a broken sound tearing out of your throat.
“there,” he breathes, like he’s been looking for this switch. “that’s it. let go for me.”
you do. you shatter, pulsing around him hard enough that your thighs shake, heat spilling and slicking the drag of him. he curses into your mouth, praise tumbling out in rough, low pieces as he keeps moving through it, never letting you float away. “so good. so strong. look at you. my pretty girl. that’s it.”
you mewl, helpless, the sound high and thin, every nerve buzzing. he keeps his palm steady on your lower stomach, the pressure just enough to hold the pleasure right where it crests, his thumb still working you in tight, patient circles that make your legs twitch and your hips chase. the desk creaks. his rhythm goes a shade deeper, thicker, like he wants to feel every squeeze you give him and you give him all of it, clutching him close, begging without words.
“breathe,” he murmurs against your cheek, kissing the corner of your open mouth as you whimper his name again and again. “good girl. i’ve got you. you’re perfect like this.” his hand slips to your hip, guiding you through the aftershocks, then presses low again, and your body answers with another sharp little ripple that makes him groan and thrust deeper, eyes dark and hungry.
your thighs won’t stop trembling. he loves it. you can hear it in the way his voice breaks, in the way he says your name like you’re his messiah, in the way he keeps praising every tiny sound you make while he keeps going, chasing more from you as heat builds all over again.
his thumb is still slow on you, patient and sure, when his mouth brushes your ear. “do you want me to go faster,” he asks, voice rough but careful. “or harder.”
you nod, dizzy, fingers shaking where they hold his shirt. “yes. please.”
he kisses your cheek, a quick seal on the answer. “okay. try not to scream too loud,” he murmurs, the edge of a smile in it. “it may be soundproof, but we can never be too careful.”
you choke on a laugh that breaks into a gasp when he shifts your hips. his hands are all certainty, one lifting your thigh higher, the other bracing at your waist. the change in angle is outrageous. he draws out slow once more, pushes back in deep, and then the pace breaks open, hard and clean, the desk nudging across the floor an inch at a time.
you bite his shoulder to catch the sound in your throat. he groans like you shocked him and tips your chin up anyway, sliding two fingers to your lips. “here,” he says softly. “take these.”
your lips close around his fingers and he watches your mouth for a heartbeat like he’s drowning in it. when your tongue curls and your eyes flutter he swears under his breath, then sets the rhythm he warned you about. sharper. deeper. each thrust knocks a tiny noise out of you even with his fingers pressed to your tongue.
“good,” he breathes, eyes locked to yours. “quiet for me. that’s it.”
your legs shake where they wrap around his hips. his hand never leaves your stomach, pressing low when you start to float, thumb finding your clit again and working it in tight, ruthless circles that match the drive of his hips. your body lights up under the double pressure. your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulder and he praises you for it, kissing the corner of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, your forehead..
“beautiful,” he says, the word breaking. “so good for me. keep taking it.” you try to nod, eyes rolling when he hits that place again and again, each pass hotter, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. he hushes you, gentle, mouth at your ear. “i know. i know. breathe. stay with me.”
you moan around his fingers and he loses composure for a second, a raw sound punching out of him as his hips slam in deeper. he drags his hand from your mouth to your jaw and kisses you sloppy, messy, like he can’t coordinate anything but wanting you. his pace doesn’t falter. the desk creaks. the lamp hums. the room feels too small for the heat you are making together.
“tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours.
“no,” you manage, voice shredded. “don’t stop. please.”
his eyes burn. his palm slides lower and presses into your belly again and your whole body bows, a wounded little sound clawing out of you that he swallows with his mouth. “good girl,” he whispers, rhythm tightening. “let me have all of it. let me hear you, quiet and sweet.”
you try. every thrust trips another mewl, every circle of his thumb winds you tighter, and the way he looks at you while he ruins you makes your brain fucking melt. he keeps praising through the roughness, keeps asking for more with his hands and giving more with his mouth, keeps you close and held while he drives you toward that edge again, careful even inside the feral, like he was built to carry you through exactly this
his rhythm tightens, breath hot against your cheek. “i’m close,” he mumbles, the words frayed, hips stuttering like he’s fighting it and losing.
you lock your legs around him and roll up to meet each thrust, greedy now, chasing the heat that keeps blooming under his hand. he presses your lower stomach again and the world whites out at the edges. your mouth falls open. his name slips out broken.
“that’s it,” he says, voice rough, almost begging. “stay with me. just like that.”
he drives in deep, deeper, the condom stretching hot over him, the drag perfect and ruinous. his thumb doesn’t stop, tight circles that snap you back over the edge. your whole body seizes around him, slick and pulsing, and a sound spills out of you that you can’t swallow, high and soft, a mewl he catches with his mouth.
he breaks on it.
the last few thrusts are desperate, hips jolting, jaw clenched, a low groan punching out of him as he buries himself and spills into the condom. he holds you there, pressed full, shuddering through it while you flutter around him, still clenching, still shaking. his hand stays firm on your belly like he can pin the pleasure in place a second longer.
you breathe like you forgot how, forehead tipped to his, the room a warm hum around the slick sound of your bodies settling. when he finally looks at you, it knocks something loose in your chest.
his eyes are red-gold and hazy, blown wide, color high in his cheeks, mouth parted. there’s a heat in them that isn’t loud at all. it’s quiet, wrecked, a little awed. he looks like fire after rain. “beautiful,” he whispers, like he can’t not say it, and you feel the word all the way down your spine. he kisses you once, slow and soft, still breathing hard, still inside you, and for a long moment neither of you moves. you just stare at him, at those bright eyes gone glassy with pleasure, at the way he looks at you like he’s never going to forget this exact second.
after a while he eases out of you, one hand steady at your hip like he’s keeping you from floating. the condom slides free with a quiet, careful touch; he knots it, wraps it in a tissue, and drops it into the little bin under the desk. a pump of sanitizer, a quick swipe of his palm on a clean towel from the drawer, and then he’s back between your knees, soft-eyed, all patience.
“hey,” he says, low, a thumb skimming your cheek. “breathe.”
you do, and he’s already moving gentle, gentleman through and through. a packet of wipes appears from another drawer, cool against your skin as he cleans you up—slow, unhurried strokes, checking your face for any flinch. you’re fucked silly and humming, a little dazed; he hums too, quiet and sweet, pressing a kiss to your wrist before tucking your bra back in place, smoothing your shirt, fixing the strap like it matters to him that it lies flat.
“water,” he remembers, and presses his bottle to your hand. your fingers shake and he covers them with his palm until the tremor settles. he straightens your skirt, gathers the scattered papers from the floor with a wince of theatrical apology, and sets them aside. when your legs wobble, he slides his jacket over your lap like a blanket, warm from his body, the lining soft on your thighs.
he buttons himself back up, belt clicking, color still high on his cheekbones. then he’s in front of you again, close, kneading gentle circles into your thigh with his thumb, checking, always checking. “okay?” he asks, and when you nod he smiles like you just aced something. “good. you were… god, you were perfect.”
you bite your lip; you’re still flushed head to toe. he notices and grins, softer than you’ve ever seen, kissing the heat high on your cheek. “pretty when you’re shy,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret only the walls get to keep. he tucks a stray hair behind your ear, passes your coffee back into your hands, and rubs another slow line down your back, grounding you while the room falls quiet around the lamp’s hum and the faint tick of the hall clock, steady and patient as his breath against your temple while you decide whether to sit in his lap again or slide off the desk and take the chair he pulls close, knees touching, the morning still stretching wide in front of you.
he helps you off the desk like you’re breakable, hands firm at your waist, the softest little “easy” under his breath. he guides you into the chair and sets your water back in your palms, then fusses with your hem and the strap on your shoulder like he can’t help himself. the lamp hums. the room smells like coffee and paper and you.
you both drift into nothing talk because it’s safer to float for a minute. you tell him the documentary line that stuck with you. he tells you some tengen shenanigans. you ask if he caught the last sumo highlights and his eyes light like a match, hands describing footwork in the air. he says the farmer’s market peaches are peaking and you should go early before the crowd. you promise you will if he texts you which stall.
the clock clicks forward. his glance flicks to it, then back to you, bright again, a little rueful. “i have to prep.”
you nod, smoothing your hair, breathing finally steady. he reaches for a sheet from his stack, folds it once, twice, and scribbles quickly in the margin before sliding it across the desk. “for cover,” he says, not hiding the smile. on the page: a few bullet points about primary sources and a tiny circle drawn like a sumo ring near the corner. under it, in small neat letters, a time and a place that isn’t a classroom.
you tuck the paper into your notebook and stand. he opens the door, the cool hall air brushing your face, and his hand finds the small of your back just long enough to feel like a secret.
“text me when you get there,” he says, voice easy, like any other morning.
you nod, fingers tight on the notebook, and step into the quiet corridor, the hum of his lamp still in your ears as you go.
—
the longer you texted the more your relationship built, and the more your relationship built the more times he was fucking your brains out, like the two of you had been starving for years and finally found the door to the kitchen left open.
first it’s the very next week, 7 a.m. again, when the study guide becomes an alibi and his chair rolls back just long enough for him to hook your knees over his thighs and drag you down onto him, slow and mean with patience, his palm firm on your lower stomach while he kisses you quiet and praises you for remembering to breathe, for letting him fit you exactly where he likes you, whispering pretty and brave into your open mouth while the lamp hums and the locked door stays a whole world away
then it’s his apartment after sumo, a bowl of noodles each and his voice high and excited as he explains footwork, how a perfect grip turns the match, how timing matters more than size, and you are nodding, listening, until his fingers slide under the hem of your shorts on the couch and you lose the thread entirely, your knees framing his hips while the play-by-play murmurs in the background and he says show me your timing and you do, rocking down on him slow and deliberate, riding him until the commentary turns to static and he tips his head back, undone, telling you you’re winning, you’re winning, take it all
another night it’s the library stacks, empty and cold enough to make your breath cloud, his jacket around your shoulders and his mouth hot under your ear, a slow hand up your thigh as he murmurs quiet now against your skin, a soft laugh when you bite your lip too hard, his fingers working you open while you hide your face in his chest and shake, then his zip, the quick rip of foil, the filthy pull of him pushing in from behind while your palms flatten to the shelf and books rattle gently in time with the low sounds he can’t swallow, the praise landing soft in your hair with every thrust, you’re safe, you’re good, don’t run from it, let it take you
sunday morning he runs before sunrise and you meet him at his door warm from the shower, hair damp, towel slung low on his hips, steam rolling out past you as he pulls you into the bathroom and sets you against the tile, water still dripping from his jaw while he drops to his knees and eats like a man who finally got to break a fast, worshipping and greedy, big hands holding your thighs open while he learns every way you shiver, every angle that makes your knees fail, coming up to kiss you and say mine to praise .
there’s the farmer’s market morning that turns into peaches at your place, juice sticky down your wrist while he sucks the sweetness from your fingers and you forget to breathe, his mouth following the drip to your wrist, your elbow, your shoulder, laying you back on the kitchen table with a ridiculous little laugh when you gasp at the cool wood, lining up and sliding in so slow you swear you’re going to cry, his hands controlling your hips, dragging you up and down his length until the fruit knife clatters somewhere to the floor and you’re saying kyojuro over and over like it’s the only word you learned all year.
he takes you apart on his desk again, of course he does, patient and feral in equal measure, the same hand low on your belly, the same careful checks, and when you tell him harder he gives it to you, a rhythm that makes your legs quake, two fingers pressed to your lips for quiet while his eyes pin you in place, red-gold and wrecked, his pace tightening until he’s cursing softly into your cheek and filling the condom while the soundproof walls hold your mewled yes like a secret they were paid to keep
there’s a rainy evening with sumo highlights where he teaches you a belt grip by actually lifting you, palms under your thighs, your back to the wall, his laugh breaking when you squeal, and then he’s inside you, your ankles locked behind him, the slap of water off the windows and his forehead to yours, whispering breathe, good girl, i’ve got you between kisses that taste like tea and rain
one afternoon it’s nothing but clothes on and a locked office door and his thigh, the same one you learned on, and he sits back and makes you ride it, hands light on your hips so you do the work, murmuring yes, faster, there, you’ve got it, while you grind yourself stupid against the hard muscle and make a mess of his slacks, your hands in his hair and your voice breaking into his mouth when he slips two fingers under your waistband and finishes you.
at your place he cooks and you sit on the counter, dangling your knees while he tells you about a first-year who asked three questions that made him rethink a decade-old lecture, and then he steps between your legs and slides your underwear aside with two fingers, seals you open with his mouth, hums against you, then stands, turns you around, and bends you over the sink, fucking you slow while the water boils and your breath fogs the window, one of his hands flattened on your stomach, the other keeping your cheek safe against the cool glass, praise pouring steady into the back of your neck until you’re gone.
there’s a hike where you stop at the overlook and he fucks you in the back seat with the car rocking on its shocks, one knee propped on the door, your palm squeaking on the window glass, his mouth open against your throat while he whispers don’t be shy, let them hear it, then laughs quietly and says i’m joking, just me, just me, give it to me and you do, body shaking so hard he has to hold you through it, shuddering after you with a low, helpless groan that you feel in your bones.
on a late night grading binge he drags you into the empty classroom and sets you on the podium he swears he’ll never abuse, then immediately does, slow push after slow push, eyes locked on yours while the projector fan ticks cool in the dark, the room smelling like dry erase and paper, his voice a raw thread as he murmurs tell me what works and you tell him and he gives you everything, steady and relentless until your head tips back and your name breaks in your throat and he says quiet, good, stay with me, i’ll carry you the rest of the way and does, shivering when he finishes, forehead to your sternum like he’s praying to you.
in the shower he soap-slicks you and fucks you against the tile, face to face, the water loud enough to make the world disappear, hands everywhere, mouth everywhere, his yes yes yes stacking in your ear like a heartbeat while you cling and shake and he laughs into your kiss when you gasp that you can’t feel your knees and says i will lend you mine and holds you up until the hot runs out
and always, always, that soft after, the gentleman in him showing up with a towel and water and the sweet bad habit of kissing your wrist like an apology for how hard he just ruined you, tucking you back into yourself, smoothing your clothes, calling you beautiful when your cheeks burn hot, asking are you okay with that and listening to your yes like it’s the best thing he learned all day, texting you later a photo of the sky or a line from a book and in the same breath a filthy memory from the morning that makes you sit down wherever you are, promising he’ll be at your door at seven with coffee, an umbrella, and exactly the pair of hands you asked for.
Hey there! I loved giving Malleus a stone as an accidental proposal! It would make sense to me that mers would also see it as that! Could we possibly get one with Floyd Azul or Jade?
omg yes absolutely! Thinking about it, merfolk probably would also take it as a proposal! Especially with their culture being inspired by The little mermaid and she loved to collect things. I love this request! For those of you who haven't seen the Malleus part, it's linked below!
Request rules and Masterlists
Accidentally proposing to Malleus with a rock
Accidentally proposing with a rock (Octavinelle)
Floyd:
It was an innocent gesture. You wanted to give Floyd a rock to show you care about him. A simple gift that you thought he'd like. Well, you think he likes it a little too much.
When you gave the rock to Floyd, his eyes went wide, and he quickly smiled and pulled you into a tight hug (careful not to hurt you too much), "Awwww of course!"
He seemed so happy to get the rock, it honestly surprised you. Then he started lurking around you more. Like, hovering behind you and picking you up at random times to carry you around anywhere. When you asked, he said he had a right to carry and lurk now.
You also caught Jade snickering more than usual at you and Floyd, like he knew something you didn't. But both him and Floyd didn't elaborate. Instead, Floyd laughed and wrapped his arms around you, setting his head atop yours, "Silly silly~"
It wasn't until later when you visited the Mostro Lounge's VIP room that you got a hint of what was happening. Normally you'd just go there to hang out, but you'd noticed Azul was unusually frustrated today. When he saw you, it only seemed to set him off on a rant as he paced about the room.
"I can't believe this. Of all the things you could've given, and to all the people...I can't even begin to imagine what's going through your mind. You must be as impulsive as him to do this and with such short notice! Now he wants to use the whole lounge for a day and dumps all these things to prepare on me. Could you not have waited until I've graduated at least so I wouldn't have to put of with this? You two could at least help me instead of leaving me to figure out how to cater for an entire wedding without giving me any specifics-"
At this point, you kind of zoned out because you were stuck on the whole "wedding" part. What?
As Azul paced around the room and ranted, without you fully listening, your mind was working to put together the pieces. He clearly was blaming you for something, and impulsivity could only mean Floyd was involved. That, and he mentioned giving him something...
Oh no...
Right on time, Floyd had strolled into the room, completely interrupting Azul's rant. But the second his eyes landed on you, his expression lit up and he'd made his way over to you. His arms quickly wrapped around you and he basically leaned all of his weight on you as he cheered, "There you are. I've been looking all over for you. What're you doing here with Azul?"
Hesitantly, you had to ask, "Floyd, what's going on?"
Tilting his head, he rested his cheek on top of your head and hummed in amusement, "Ah. Azul's just jealous of us. Getting married while he's stuck talking all business and contracts."
You're what? Did you hear that right?
Before you could ask anything else or try and explain anything, he'd picked you up again, and started walking out of the room with you. A very frustrated Azul calling out to you two, "At least give me something!"
Only for Floyd to wave a hand dismissively as he carried you out, "Nah. You got this. We're busy."
Something told you he wasn't going to let you just back out or call it a friendship rock...
Jade:
You like to think you know Jade pretty well. You've spent a lot of time together, so you thought it'd be a great idea to give him a little gift. So when you found this nice smooth and pretty rock, you knew it'd be the perfect gift for him. It's even practical since he can put it in one of his terrariums!
He even seemed happy when you gave it to him, after brief shock of course, and he had that sharp-toothed smile you knew well.
"Well well, I must say I never expected you to be so bold to give me something like this, but I accept."
That was all he said. You weren't really sure why it'd require boldness, but he didn't elaborate and instead brushed it off and quickly left saying he had work to do.
The day carried on as normal until you saw Floyd. He ran up to you and swung you around, "There you areee~ Welcome to the family! Ma's gonna love ya!"
Disoriented, dizzy, and confused, you had to ask, "Floyd? What are you talking about?"
He swung you around once more before finally setting you down, "Ah, you know. Proposing to Jade like that? Real brave of you."
Huh? Proposing?
But in a true Floyd fashion, he just ginned and waved goodbye as he scurried off, leaving you with many questions. The only way you'd probably get answers is to ask the man himself. So, you quickly made your way to the Mostro Lounge.
There, Jade was setting up some tables, as composed and collected as ever. Seeing you, he straightened up with that same sharp-toothed smile as earlier, and welcomed you, "Good, you're here dear. We have a small dinner to celebrate our engagement before we can begin making preparations."
Stunned by the wildness of it all, you tried to nervously correct him, "Jade, I feel like there might've been a slight misunderstanding-"
"Nonsense," He began, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around you, "It's common knowledge that gifting a special rock is a marriage proposal among merfolk. You're mine now, dear."
Azul:
Azul and you are really close. There was no denying it when you spent so much time at the Mostro Lounge VIP room just hanging out with him. So you thought you’d do something nice for him and get him a little gift.
Then there was this perfect rock you found. It was smooth and round with specks of blue and purple, perfect for Azul.
You didn’t expect him to act so…odd when you have it to him. You held it out in your hand towards him, and he just stared at you in shock. His face turned about as red as Riddle’s hair, and you could tell he was struggling to speak. If Jade and Floyd were here, they’d no doubt tease him for the look on his face.
After a few moments of stunned silence (you figured it was best to just be patient and wait for him to collect himself), he took the rock with slightly shaky hands. He held the rock close to him, over his heart, and took a deep breath. Then, he cleared his throat, and tried his best to answer, “I…wasn’t aware you felt so strongly, but it’s clear now. Don’t you worry, I can handle this. I’m…delighted to receive this.”
Not thinking much of his words, you simply smiled at him. It wasn’t uncommon for Azul to get a bit flustered by small gestures. He wasn’t treated well as a child, so you know little shows of appreciation mean a lot to him.
He scurried off with the rock to his office moments later, and there was silence for a moment before you heard him sputtering on the other side of the door. He probably would be embarrassed if you listened in though, and you wanted to spare him (this time).
The day went on as usual for a while. Classes went by, you spoke to some other friends, and went to visit the Mostro Lounge again later.
But the Lounge was…busier than normal. Students who worked there were scrambling about trying to serve customers and clean and adjust the smallest of details on things. Several of them looked super stressed, and some looked like they were about to pass out. Jade and Floyd, were the only calm ones who stood off to the side, watching them all with amused smiles.
You went up to them to ask what was happening, but Floyd spoke before you could, “Can ya let Azul flounder a bit longer? This is fun to watch.”
Azul was floundering? But he’s usually so calm and collected when he’s working. He couldn’t still be flustered from your gift earlier, right?
“What’s going on with Azul?”
Jade chuckled and was the one to answer you, “You sent him on quite the spiral. He’s got everyone working overtime to make sure everything is perfect for you.”
Now more confused, you had to ask, “Me? What did I do?”
At that, the duo only laughed more, clearly knowing something you don’t, but refusing to elaborate at you and everyone else’s expense. There was only one way you were going to get an answer; from Azul himself.
Marching past the two, you made your way to Azul’s office, barely knocking before going in.
And boy was he startled. The second you entered the room he sat up straighter and his cheeks turned pink, but he quickly tried to hide it behind his hand and muttered, “Ah, you’re here. My apologies, I’m still working on the contract right now.”
Walking up to his desk in complete confusion, you asked, “What contract? What’s going on?”
There was a moment of silence throughout the room. His gloved hands fidgeted with the pen and papers on his desk in front of him, trying to figure out the right words to say.
Then, he slid the paper over to you for you to read. Well, you only read the top before sitting stunned.
‘Contract of Marriage’
Huh???
Now it was your turn to be stunned into silence. So, he filled the silence, “I…was quite surprised by your gesture earlier, but I accept. If you’ll have me, I’d love for you to sign this. It’s quite possibly the best contract I’ve ever written.”
Reader has Empath abilities where she can feel others’ emotions, her mind can’t be read by either, and if she touches someone she can make them feel what she feels.
"Ah so I get to now officially meet the two little thieves who tried to steal my bike-"
Leon face flushed magenta with embarrassment at Logan little jab-
"It.. looked really cool"
He mumbled, looking down. Kurt shaking his head with a smirk- He knew most parents would be mad however the imagery was at least funny.
Logan rolled his eyes tossing Leon a greasy breakfast sandwich who opened it without a thought and chowed down.
Milo however just slowly opening his own as he looked to Logan with a raised brow.
"So safe to assume you're a Mutant too? Since you know mom and.. " Milo paused- looking to Kurt as he didnt know how to address him yet. Which made Kurt deflate a little.
The man huffed through his nose as he held hand up and let his claws slide out. Both boys eyes lighting up at the sight.
"Thats So Cool!!"
Leon shouted, Excited as he immediately teleported from his spot in the kitchen right next to Logan still opened claws-
Like a fucking idiot-
Kurt body moving fast as he knew that the landing would not be favorable given how teleporting can be.. Off.. at such a age.
Kurt hand was fast as he grabs the boys collar, His eyes wide at his own reflexes. Leon now dangling by his shirt and tail suddently between his legs at the sudden sway-
There only a few inches from Logans claws which the man had quickly drawn back in at the irresponsible teenager with a growl.
"Lets.. Not teleport infront of sharp blades.. Ja?"
"Don't be fucking stupid kid-"
Logan hissed, Feeling am acute pain in his temple.
Milo stared at the scene before him, before snorting a laugh and covering his face a bit similar to the way Kurt just did not too long ago- Drawing the trio to look at him.
"..You look like a cat grabbing a kitten by the scruff of its neck-"
Kurt looked and after a second saw the similarity of Milo analogy as he smiled himself and lowered the teenager back on his feet.
"I don't look like a kitten-"
"No a kitten would be smarter- "
"Shut Up!"
"You shut up!-"
This turned into Leon jumping to tackle his brother as the two brother tumbled and fought. Kurt now once again getting that whole cat analogy as well as an acute pain behind his left eye.
Kurt stared at the two as be sighed softly. Looking to Logan who smirked, These were his kids so his problem..
Kurt Rolling up his sleeve as he knew he was about to wrangle out both teens from hitting each other.
'The child support and apology to (Y/N) has only grown- How did she handle this by herself'
It took almosy 30 minutes for Kurt to seperate the two of them- now having them all there sitting with some level of separation.
Kurt sighing softly as he opened his own breakfast sandwich.
"I did see, You two looked different yesterday. Can go from looking blue to like you Mutter?"
Milo nodded calmly as he a flip of scales going over himself as the sapphire blue skin turned into a completion matching (Y/N)-
Logan raised a brow at seeing the scale trick and even sat up a bit straighter- Reconizing that style of mutation immediately and feeling a squirm of being uncomfortable.
"So you can go back and forth between these two? Wonder if you can change to different people like Raven..."
"Who's Raven?" Leon asked quickly now on his third breakfast sandwich.
"My Mutter.. Your Oma if you will. She can shift to look like other people" Kurt said with a soft smile. Deciding to leave out anything else besides that- However this still seemed to peak both teenagers interest.
"Oh that's wicked- what like a shape-shifting type?"
"Yes actually" Logan mumbled.
"Can you do that too?" Milo asked his head cocked to the side.
"You have scales like hers- I am fuzzy, so I don't change appearance. Besides the watch that the professor gave-"
Kurt said cheerfully as he showed the watch as he turned the dial on and off for example. This seemed to catch Milo ear, He looked to his hand as he turned on and off the scales.
Humming in thought about that. Logan however feeling a bit uneasy at that deep look of focus and working ideas- It reminded him far too much of Raven.
Leon looking to his twin clearly forming ideas which made his lips curl in a imp like smile- Now drawing a similar unease in Kurt as he saw what could only be seen as mischief..
Both men getting a odd chill down their spine.
This couldn't lead to anything good..
...
(Y/N) pulled into the driveway that evening, her body well past exhaustion at this point she tried to steady herself on whatever she had to walk into.
Good or Bad-
Sure it had been one hell of a gamble to have Kurt watch the boys but she was trying.. Sure she was beyond angry at Kurt and could probably strangle him with his own tail.
But that was still the father of her kids..
'My children deserve a father.. My children deserve a father- Even if he is a cowardly asshole-'
She groaned as she rested her head on the steering wheel.
'Fuck my life'
Hoping from the car already trying to plan some script into what she would say if certain topics were brought back up again or if she had to have another session with Kurt asking for apologies.
Till a flash of red snapped her from those thoughts.
She looked up to see Jean standing there not far from her at the end of the drive, awkwardly and hands closely clasp together as if ready to start praying.
Notes: A month later, I present to you part four 🤌 Hopefully it satisfies. Major writer's block has been stumping me
Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, mentions of smut, language, cutie Hyunjin
<prev next>
It has been a few days since you've been home due to a business trip, and you were itching to reach your computer.
You were desperate to meet more of the guys...AI? You weren't sure. But they felt real to you. Painfully real.
You wondered if they were based on real people while away, and even tried looking up their names or the unknown logo on the main screen.
Nothing.
It's almost as if it never existed.
You even asked about it on a few platforms but no one had any idea.
You had contacted a game geek too, but have yet to have gotten a response.
You didn't talk to your friends about it, however.
You could only imagine the judgement on their face when you mention that you masturbated to one of the characters.
But only if they knew how beautiful these men were.
But you wouldn't show them.
It almost felt like a secret that you had to guard or else someone would take them away.
It's crazy that you felt this way for zeroes and ones, guys that unfortunately weren't real. People that made you feel comfortable and appreciated.
You sighed, unlocking your apartment door, slipping in, kicking off your shoes.
You stretched in your doorway before shrugging off your coat, trotting to your room.
It was fairly dark in the house until you moved to your room. The light from the computer illuminated your walls, and you squinted at the brightness.
You don't remember leaving it on.
"Y/n?"
This voice was unfamiliar to you, but it was smooth like buttermilk, and just as sweet.
"Hello?"
You figure it was one of the guys, since clearly no one was in your home.
You stepped closer to the screen, and saw a light gray background with a transparent art app open, a silhouette of a person behind it.
On the transparent app was a beautiful in color painting of the tree outside of your window, and your heart picked up as you saw the hand of the silhouette move to the minimize button.
Once it shrunk, you saw him.
Your lips parted as you took in his appearance.
He was lanky, but muscle visible under his pale skin.
He wore a sleeveless shirt, the screen stopping you from seeing the rest of him.
He had a mole under his eye, and his a beautiful rust brown.
"Which file are you?" You asked, a bit dazed.
He smiled, which in turn made you as well.
Contagious.
"I'm Hyunjin. But I'm more than just a file...I thought you already figured that out with the others,"
You blushed.
"Your right. Sorry," you nodded embarrassed.
"It's okay. I'm sure it's weird. We're definitely a different code," He giggled.
You nodded.
"One of the best I've ever seen,"
Your words made his cheeks darken.
You sat in your chair, making yourself comfortable as he watched you with an endearing gaze.
"So...your a painter?" You remembered the icon that was up when you entered.
He nodded, bringing the app back, small enough so that you could still see him.
"I looked out your window. You left the curtain open, and the tree...it was begging for my attention. Channie Hyung said I could open the app while you were gone,"
You tilted your head.
"How though? I shut the computer off before I left."
He shrugged.
"But you left the cartridge in. Our coding is...I'm not sure how to say it,"
You waited, but suddenly, one small sliver of the screen showed that light pink you memorized from the first time you opened the game.
Then you heard Chans voice.
"Our coding lets us control certain things, as well as see certain things. But don't worry. We won't abuse that power. Hyunjin wanted to paint is all,"
You didn't see Chans face, but you nodded.
For being told that your computer could be controlled by any of the eight men at any time, you were pretty calm about it.
Despite these being AI, they did nothing so far that alarmed you.
You trusted them.
"Hi Chan!" You waved, even though Hyunjin, who was painting with a smile as Chan explained, was the only one on the screen.
"Hi y/n!" He said cutely, his Australian accent present, as well as his hand appearing from the right side of the screen.
It was gone as soon as it appeared, and the pink faded into Hyunjins pale gray.
"He really likes you, you know," Hyunjin said softly, looking at you through the screen.
You blushed.
"I like him too. I like all of you. Even the ones I have yet to meet,"
His toothy grin made your heart stop.
"Jeongin is eager to meet you. He is...he would be the youngest if we were people. He was the last avatar added before the game was completed. He's still learning," Hyunjin explained, signing the digital painting, and clicking save.
"Well perhaps Jeongin will be next," you giggled, wondering what the youngest was like.
You watched as he opened your files, and opened a separate folder away from your personal things, which warmed your heart.
He labeled the file,
Stray Kids' Flower
You smiled softly.
He placed the saved painting into the folder, and closed out of it, not bothering to look at anything else.
And he did it all with his hands instead of a cursor, which mesmerized you.
"There. All done," he clicked his tongue, and winked playfully which made you laugh.
"It's beautiful, Hyunjin,"
"Thank you, Flower," He smiled, and you paused.
A pet name? You never really thought you wanted one, but the way he said it made you want to change your name to Flower permanently.
You blushed, making him grin.
"It's getting late, and I'm sure your trip took a lot out of you," he said softly, dimming the screens brightness.
Your eyes burned, eyelids heavy and body taught.
He was right.
You didn't realize until he said something, but you were grateful.
Each one of the men you had met so far always ended the meeting early to make sure you take care of yourself, and you wondered if you'd ever find that in the real world.
But that thought made you pause.
You didn't want the real world.
You wanted these men. The digital AI that for some reason has insane programming that makes you feel like your conversing with real people.
You felt lucky that you found this sim.
You nodded with sn unexpected yawn.
"Thank you Hyunjin. It was nice to meet you," you waved politely.
"Likewise. Can't wait to see you again," he said all giddy, which made you smile.
"Do you want me to stay, or do you want quiet?" His face showed you that he would do either happily, and for once, you just wanted darkness.
He nodded when you told him, a smile still bright on his face as he said goodnight before the computer turned black.
The light at the bottom went from blue to red, signalling it was off.
You smiled as you curled back into bed, hugging a few pillows, pretending it was the four men you had met.
As you slept, your phone notifications went off like crazy, but it was on silent.
The game geek you had messaged the day prior finally understood the game you had gotten.
-Game_Boy_666
>Got your message
>It's manufacturer discontinued the game due to unknown reasons.
>All I know is that two women before you that was in possession of that game got rid of it because it didn't work properly
