“That’s it, beautiful. Say my name when you come.”

It hits you suddenly, building and releasing quicker than you can blink.

“Fuck, Patrick.”

“Oh, shit. I’m coming, fuck.”

He collapses on top of you, heavy and spent.

“Do I need to gag you next time?”

“What’s that, gorgeous?”

“You were so loud, Patrick. No one needs to hear you moaning at 10pm on a Thursday night.”

“No?” he asks with a smirk, pressing kisses into your neck. “Not even you?”

“Not even me,” you laugh as you shake your head, trying to wriggle free. “Now get off so I can go and clean myself up.”

He rolls sideways, cocooning himself in the duvet as he does it. You’re about to ask him a question when you hear a gentle snore, scoffing in disbelief.

“That is record time,” you say into the room. “Fucking hell.”

You take your time washing your face and fixing your hair in the bathroom, lost in your thoughts. There’s electricity thrumming through your veins, untapped energy waiting to be released. It’s making you jittery, fingers tapping against the sink as you brush your teeth.

It’s becoming pretty frequent. Patrick has no problems making you come, in fact, he’s pretty good at it. You’ve been together long enough for him to know what gets you there. It’s just getting more and more… unfulfilling. You finish, and it’s like it’s not enough. It’s nice, and you’re grateful for it, but it’s… underwhelming. It leaves you wanting.

You’re sure it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been fucking his dad.

Declan makes you come so hard you see stars, trembling and gasping as your orgasm lasts for what feels like forever. It always takes you a while to recover, panting and sweating like you’ve run a marathon afterwards. With Patrick, you can get up and out of bed and go about your day.

You know it’s not fair to compare them. In fact, you know it’s inherently wrong. And yet you keep doing it, consciously or not. The way they touch you, the way they kiss you, the way they say your name. Everything is a competition - one that Patrick doesn’t even know he’s been entered into.

You splash your face with cold water once more, trying to pull yourself back to reality. You figure you’ll go and get a glass of water, before crawling back into bed with your boyfriend who loves you. Your boyfriend who you love.

You pad downstairs in your socks, running the tap and filling the first mug you can find. As you’re turning off the faucet, someone clears their throat from behind you.

“Fuck,” you jump, miraculously still holding onto your water. “What are you doing sat at the kitchen table in the dark, you maniac?”

“Couldn’t sleep. It was all a bit loud upstairs.”

You bite your lip guiltily, looking down at the floor.

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. You told him to be quiet multiple times.”

“You heard that?”

“I heard everything, sweetheart.”

“Sorry, Declan,” you say bashfully. “Not what you need in your own house.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if I could have heard you. But all I heard was him, and you telling him off. Not a single moan, darlin'.”

“I’m… good at being quiet.”

“That’s a lie.”

His matter of fact tone sends heat straight through the pit of your stomach.

“He didn’t make you come?”

“He did.”

“I didn’t hear it. Usually I can’t shut you up when you’re comin’.”

“It’s… different, with him. That’s all.”

“Worse?”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“It’s what ya meant though.”

Declan stands up from his chair, taking huge strides towards you through the dark. You instinctively take a step backwards, until you’re pressed up against the counter. He cages you in with both arms resting on either side of you, leaning in so he’s encroaching your personal space in a way that’s much too intimate to be between a man and his son’s girlfriend.

“I can feel it, you know.”

“Feel what?” you ask, voice shrinking more than you’d have liked.

“The buzz. The energy. You’re still high on it, aren’t ya? Still wired and ready to go.”

“Declan-”

“You want more, don’tcha? You’re still hungry for it.”

You’re shaking your head, trying to avoid his eyes as he shuffles in so his body is plastered to yours.

“Just tell me the truth, sweetheart. Tell me that if I slide my hand into those pyjama shorts, I won’t find you still wet and waiting. Hmm?”

You start to whisper under your breath, causing Declan to grip your chin and force you to look at him.

“You’ve gotta speak up, pretty. Use your words.”

His forehead is practically stuck to yours, breathing his orders into your mouth. You clear your throat, trying to speak as loud as possible without the sound carrying upstairs.

“He doesn’t make me come the way you do.”

“The way I do?” he asks with a cocky smirk.

“As hard as you do.”

“Ohh… that’s what it is, is it? You want more? Your boyfriend isn’t enough for you? You’re getting greedy, these days.”

You’d like to say that you hate it when he speaks to you like this - but that’d be a lie. It’s making you rub your thighs together, desperate for something, anything to relieve the ache.

“No,” you stutter, “he’s enough for me. He is.”

“Then why’d you keep crawling into my bed when he turns his back?”

All you can do is suck a shaky breath in, looking down at your socked feet to try and shy away from his piercing gaze. The heat is rolling off his body, blanketing you completely as he keeps you pinned in place.

“I should go to bed,” you whisper.

“Which one? His or mine?”

He’s not usually so brash with it, the whole affair thing. Sure, he loves to bring it up occasionally when he’s talking dirty, trying to rile you up and get you going. But he’s never been so arrogant, so self assured before. As if he knows who you’d rather choose. As if he knows you need him more than you’d care to admit. As if he can read your mind.

“I-”

“The way I see it,” he interrupts, “you’ve got two choices, sweetheart. The first is that you hop up those stairs and cuddle up next to Patrick, hoping that you fall asleep when really you’ll be staring at the ceiling fighting the urge to touch yourself.”

You inhale with a shudder, worrying at your bottom lip with your teeth.

“Or…”

“Or?” you dare to ask, as low as you can.

“Or, you slip into bed with me, and I’ll make you come so hard that you’ll struggle to walk back to his room afterwards.”

You know which one you should choose. You know exactly the correct thing to do, morally and emotionally. And yet -

“You. I want you.”

His lips are on yours before you can think, strong hands wrapping around your back to pull you into him. You can barely keep up with the frenzied pace, letting him take full control as he ravishes you whole. The countertop edge is digging into your spine, the tap is dripping slowly and your boyfriend is upstairs sleeping, blissfully unaware. But none of it matters.

The only thing that matters in this current moment, just like any moment spent with him, is Declan O’Hara.

“Upstairs,” he mumbles into your mouth.

He links his fingers with yours, pulling you to his bedroom insistently as if he’s worried you’re going to bolt the other way. You’re both tip toeing across the hard wood floors, praying the boards don’t squeak and give you away. You’d have no answer for the way you look right now. The game would be over before it’d even begun.

You’ve never been more grateful for how big The Priory is. Declan’s room is on the complete opposite side of the house to Patrick’s, which eases your mind ever so slightly. He only heard the two of you earlier because he was in the study, right underneath your floor. You should’ve known he’d be working late. As he always is.

“Strip.”

“Hmm?”

You’ve daydreamed your way to his bedroom, suddenly finding yourself in a place you’ve found yourself many times.

“Strip, darlin’. Don’t make me ask twice.”

“So bossy today,” you tease, doing what he wants anyway.

Your pyjamas hit the hard wood, leaving you stood in your socks and underwear. His eyes rove over you, looking at you as if it’s the first time he’s seen you undressed.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You wink and pull your underwear down and off, never breaking eye contact with him, despite how intense it’s getting. He’s staring at you with so much force, it’s like he can see into your soul. You’re stood bare but you don’t feel exposed. No, you feel seen.

“Do I need to warm ya up?”

He’s never one to skip foreplay, even if you’re short on time.

“Come find out.”

He practically dives at you, hands trying to sweep over any skin he can physically touch. They’re everywhere all at once, taking you in like he’s reading you in braille. Hips, tits, ass, waist… it’s like he can’t decide what he wants, overwhelmed by choices.

His fingers slip between your legs, swiping through your core to see what he’s working with.

“Oh you filthy girl.”

Your knees have gone shaky now he’s touched you exactly where you want. You grip his biceps for balance, taking a deep breath to calm you down.

“Who was it that got ya this wet?” he drawls into your ear, slipping a finger inside as he does it. “Was it him?”

You shake your head reluctantly, refusing to look at him.

“Answer me,” he spits as he crooks his finger, making your legs go jelly instantly.

“You,” you whimper, dropping your head onto his chest. “Obviously it was you.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He’s got that cocky smirk plastered to his face, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You wanna ride me, sweetheart? Or are you tired? Clearly he didn’t wear you out.”

The he sends a shiver down your spine, chilling and cold. Him. He’s talking about his own son, your boyfriend, while fingering you exactly the way you like it. And it’s only turning you on more.

You don’t trust your voice so you shove him backwards, pushing him so he’s laying flat on his bed. You’re straddling his hips immediately, settling into a place you’ve been many times before.

“Use me, darlin’,” he whispers. “Take what you want.”

You line him up and sink down with no hesitation, revelling in the stretch of him. He groans all low and slow, the vibrations of it rattling your bones.

“Perfect girl. Beautiful, filthy, perfect girl.”

“Declan. You feel so good.”

“Yeah, I do. Remember that, alright? Maybe you’ll come harder with him if you think about me.”

You slap a hand over his mouth to shut him up, moving your hips up and down to try to find your rhythm. He’s clearly having the time of his life, grinning like the cat that got the cream despite you trying to gag him.

You jolt forwards, trying to find that spot that he knows so well. His huge, rough hands are digging into your hipbones, hard enough to leave bruises that you’ll have to lie to Patrick about tomorrow.

Declan grabs your wrist from his face and twists it behind you, thrusting up as he does it to try and get a rise out of you.

“Atta girl,” he’s humming. “Take it like you were made for it. That’s it, don’t stop sweetheart.”

You smack your hands onto his chest, trying to keep your balance as he tries to throw you off it. He gets off on this, watching you desperately take what you need as he teases you relentlessly. He likes to watch you squirm, loves it when he feels like you need him so primally, so carnally that you’re willing to throw out all your morals for one kiss, one touch, one look.

He sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your back so there isn’t an inch of space between your bodies. This new angle forces him even deeper, both of you groaning at the change.

“Shhh, angel. You wanna get us caught?”

You shake your head, rolling your eyes at his stupid question.

“Quiet, then,” he retorts. “Shut that pretty mouth of yours.”

“That’s not what you usually say,” you manage to pant out.

“Dirty girl. You love this shit, don’t ya?”

You grab a fistful of his hair, yanking as hard as you can to hopefully inflict some pain to stop him talking. It doesn’t work, of course. He just eats it up and carries on.

He’s thrusting up as you’re winding your hips down, the both of you finding a perfectly synchronised rhythm as always. You work together so well, as much as you’d like to deny it. It’s not like this with Patrick and you both know it.

He wraps his mouth around your nipple, grazing his teeth over it and making you shiver.

“Fuck, Declan.”

“That feel good?” he’s asking, still with his mouth full.

“So good,” you whine as he licks the sweat from your sternum. “So fucking good.”

Your thighs are burning and you’re panting for air and your foot is a minute from cramping - but you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. You’re so close you can taste it.

“You wanna come darlin’?”

“Yes.”

“Beg for it then. Earn it.”

“Declan… please.”

He laughs at you cruelly, shaking his head.

“Oh, absolutely not. That’s not gonna cut it and you know it.”

“Declan- fuck- please. Please let me come. Please, fuck, it’s all I want.”

“Better…”

“Please, Declan. I’ll do anything, please.”

“Anything?”

“Yes, fuck, yes. Whatever you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says slowly, contemplating.

His hips never stop their movements, driving up into you and making you feel insane.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come for me. Now.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your back arches as your nails dig into his shoulders, clawing at him as you come hard. Your vision goes blurry, dizzy with all the chemicals coursing through your veins. You’re gasping for breath, sweat dripping down your spine. It’s bliss.

Declan finds his release as soon as he’s done watching you, the sight of you totally lost in the moment sending him over the edge. He’s never seen you look more stunning.

“Oh, fuck. That’s it, gorgeous girl. Fuck, that’s it. Perfect, beautiful girl.”

You go boneless in his hold, limbs all tangled together while you sit in his lap. You can’t tell where you end and he begins.

“You feel better now?” he’s asking while he traces patterns up the shape of your spine.

“I do.”

You’re muttering into his chest, your face pressed into the soft curls. He smells like musk and sweat and cigarette smoke, masculine and familiar. It isn’t boyish like Patrick’s aftershave. Declan is all man.

“I wish you could stay with me,” he whispers into your hair. “I’d love to wake up with you here, have you lying on my chest as the sun rises.”

“Don’t make me sad.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

“You know I would if I could, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

You raise your head to look at him, admiring the way his dark locks are all unruly and loose.

“I should get going.”

“That boy sleeps like the dead.”

“Thankfully. But we can’t risk it. Don’t need him getting up and looking for me now, do we?”

“Sensible girl.”

“Someone around here has to be.”

He chuckles, pushing your hair back from your face gently.

“At least rinse off in the shower before you go back to bed. You smell like sex.”

“And whose fault is that?” you tease as you climb off him, wincing as your feet hit the wooden floor.

“Guilty as charged. Arrest me, officer.”

“Bet you’d love that, filthy old man.”

“Who’re you calling old?” he’s laughing as he catches you around the middle with his arm, trying to drag you back into the sheets.

“You,” you giggle, writhing away and avoiding his grip.

“Excuse you young lady, but daddy dearest here just made you come so hard you saw stars.”

“I knew that got under your skin.”

He looks at you quizzically from where he’s laying.

“That comment Patrick made at the party yesterday. Calling you daddy dearest in that sarcastic tone he uses when he gets defensive.”

“You can read him like a fuckin’ book.”

“I can read you, too.”

“Don’t I know it.”

You’ve pulled your pyjamas back on over the course of the conversation, like nothing ever happened.

“He always gets defensive when you try to criticise Cameron. I think he might still have feelings for her.”

“Sweetheart,” he soothes, moving to stand in front of you. His hands find your hips, squeezing gently. “He’d be mad to have eyes for anyone but you. Don’t worry about it, alright? He’s just a young man lashing out at his father occasionally.”

You take a deep breath, trying to let his words ease the ache you feel in your chest. Perching up on your tip toes, you press a slow kiss to his lips, all sweet and honeyed and full of warmth.

“For what it’s worth, Declan… I wish I was sleeping here tonight, with you.”

“Someday,” he assures, sweeping his thumb across your cheekbone tenderly.

“See you at the breakfast table,” you whisper as you leave.

“See you then,” he winks, watching you pad across the landing to the bathroom.

You dare to cast a glance backwards before you close the door, finding him leaning against his doorframe with the most mischievous look you’ve ever seen in his eyes. His gaze drops to your feet, dragging up your body slowly until he meets your curious stare.

He grins at you, before retreating back into his room.

You play that exact moment over and over in your head the next time you’re in bed with Patrick.

It does the trick.

When she walked into the precinct every morning, she noted each man that looked upon her with greed for her skin and bones.

Such was the way, and Rust watched.

With a degree in forensic psychology, naturally her job was a coffee-fetcher. Well, not exactly a coffee fetcher; her official title was “archives assistant,” but Major required her to be polite and do what the officers asked of her, wanna move up the ranks sometime, don’t you? Quesada would always say in a drawl that activated her daddy’s internal monologue in her head that was usually somewhat dormant.

January, 1995. Along came Dora Lange. Or more accurately, her corpse. She heard whispers, as she always did, while flitting about the office doing her morning tasks. Talks of a crown, of markings, of an altar. It stirred something in her, something she had felt since childhood, growing up in the swamp. Stories her grandfather would tell her of bog bodies coming to life, of how the marshlands could eat a man just as quickly as any cannibal would. This land had something dormant in it that was finally waking up, and she wanted to be there to greet it. Night had fallen over the precinct. The sun was still setting early; it was only 6 o’clock. Quittin’ time.

Like anything else, she thought about what she was going to do extensively before she did so. Rehearsed the speech in her head until the words swirled and swirled, not really making sense anymore. But she had to do it. It was tugging at her, had been tugging at her, like some ancient magic in her blood. She found Rust where he usually was after work, leaning against the driver door of his truck, burning a cigarette. She noticed his routine within a week of him working there. Like he was savoring his smoke before he had to get in his truck and leave, even though she was certain he probably smoked in his truck and in his home. She always parked with another car in between theirs, and she wondered if he noticed that the same way she noticed his smoking habits.

She tried to ground her breathing as she approached. She tried to pride herself on being calm and collected at the best of times despite being a brutally anxious person. Suck it up. He didn’t turn his head toward her until she was about a foot away. He tilted his head slightly. “Lenny,” he drawled, in that voice that she heard in her dreams sometimes.

“Rust,” she nodded back, taking a cigarette out of her own purse to light up. He offered his zippo, and she accepted, flicking a few times before the flame caught. Needed more fluid.

She gave herself two drags and then spoke.

“I want to talk to you about Dora Lange.”

She wasn’t looking at him but could feel his feigned indifference, could feel him bristle while trying to remain composed.

He took a drag of his cigarette; it was half gone now.

Sparing her the question of why someone with as low of a rank as her would be asking, he instead asked, “What do you want to know?”

She took a breath. “Were there really antlers?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yes.”

“And the spiral carved into her back?”

A terse nod.

“Hm.”

He takes one last drag before dropping the cigarette and crushing it with his boot.

“Any particular reason for this interrogation?”

“I want to be on the case.”

He turns fully toward her then, and she stays facing forward.

“On the case? You know Quesada isn’t gonna-” “Quesada doesn’t have to know unless you tell him.” she turns to him finally and meets his eyes.

She tries to communicate to him her immense need for him to trust her on this. Just this once. He folds easier than she thought he would.

He jerks his head towards the cab. “Hop in.”

—

Lenny could stand to say that Rust’s apartment was less than homey, but she found that it was distinctly him all the same. Upon walking towards the kitchen where he led her, she spotted a small circular mirror, like it had been cut from a bigger one, just about as big as someone’s eye. Any other person would think odd; Lenny thought, classic Rust.

She had been borderline obsessively keeping track of him since he showed up from Texas. A seed was planted in her that day: the tugging, rooting need to figure him out. To know Rustin Cohle in a way no one really wanted to around there, because she sensed he was infinitely interesting, and she happened to be infinitely bored. She would never admit that she looked through his files once (easy enough to do as an archives assistant).

Cohle, Rustin Spencer. She noted his switch from robbery to narco, from narco to undercover, a four-year gap, and then from Texas to Louisiana. Married once, with a child. She didn't know specifics about either of those. Originally from Texas, which she would have figured out anyway from his drawl and how he sometimes whistled on his S’s.

“Want a beer?” he offered, starting to open his small refrigerator door.

“I don’t drink.” Lenny responded. “You got water?”

“I got coke.”

“That’ll do.”

He closes the door and hands her the can. She moves to stand on the other side of the small kitchen island.

He sets his beer down and moves to get something out of his work bag and brings it back to the island. His large leather-bound ledger. He opens to a page and places it on the table, sliding it towards her.

On the page is a pen sketch of what looks to be a girl kneeling. Lenny notes the antlers. Her wrists are tied above her, her head bowed. There's a jagged spiral on her back, and there's not a stitch of clothing on her.

Around the sketch of her, are what look like to be sketches of sticks in triangular shapes, bount by something. Twine, maybe? There are different versions of them, but they're all the same fundamentally.

Lenny takes a minute or two. Scans. Commits to memory. This is not the kind of thing she wants to dishonor by forgetting. She knows Rust is watching and waiting, gauging her reaction. She takes a slow breath, grounding herself.

“It looks,” she stops and carefully selects her next words. “Like an altar.”

Rust hums in agreement. “I thought so too. Told Marty it would happen again, if it hasn’t already before this.”

Lenny nods. “The symbols... do you feel like they’re for show or for him only? It feels personal to me.”

Rust shifts and pulls out a cigarette. She was right about him smoking in his home then.

“Both. I think this goes deeper than either of us can logically process right now.”

Lenny’s brow furrows in concentration. “Anything about the scene that’s not on here?” she glances at the page of sketches.

“She was found in a cane field. The cane around her was burned.”

She sucks her teeth. “Cleansing?” she muses.

“Not a bad theory,” he takes another drag, and her stomach clenches at his approval. All she really ever wanted was to be taken seriously.

She turns around, her back to him, while she takes in the other half of his apartment. The bed isn’t really a bed but rather a mattress flat on the floor. There's a crucifix above it, and somehow Lenny knows it has absolutely nothing to do with God.

“Lenora.”

She slowly turns, eyebrows raised.

“Where’d you hear that?” Lenny asks; she tells everyone she meets her name is Lenny, and there’s no one that knows otherwise. It even says Lenny on her badge.

There’s a look on Rust’s face that makes her feel like he’s trying to solve her as one would a math equation. Well, that makes two of us.

“You ain’t the only one who’s been diggin’.”

Lenny’s mask slides a bit at being caught. How could he have known she looked at his file?

He doesn’t let her speak. “I know you have a degree that you want to make useful. Know you ain’t happy with what you do at the office. I’m aware. But I want to make sure you know what you’re gettin’ into here. This ain’t no cut-and-dry thing.”

Lenny gathers the courage to look into his never-ending eyes. She feels herself fall like Alice into Wonderland. She nods. “I can handle it, Rust.”

Then he resumed, tongue gliding up your dripping pussy in one slick motion, before giving it a wet, smacking kiss, and diving in tongue-first all over again. You jolted upward with a cutting exhale, but he held you in place easily, fingers curling into your hips. 

While he was busy with that, your hands fumbled for your phone until you found it. Panting, you checked the screen with cloudy vision.

It was your brother. 

“Fuck,” you whispered sharply, fisting Jungkook’s hair and pulling him away. His head jerked up, an annoyed glint in his eyes. 

“I told you they can wait,” he muttered, already pushing your phone away. 

“No, look.” You showed him the screen. “It’s Jimin.”

At this, he actually stopped. It was two in the morning and you hadn’t come home yet. Given Jimin’s protective nature when it came to his little sister, it was no surprise that whoever you ended up being with at this ungodly hour would have to face his wrath.

Even if it was Jungkook, who happened to be his best friend. 

“What should I do? I told him I was going out with some friends,” you said, shivering from the sudden coldness of the room, the heat in your womanhood subsiding from the sheer panic of the call alone.

Jungkook was exhausted.

How many times had Jimin unknowingly cockblocked him again? Since that fateful day in the car where you had confessed to him and destroyed all remnants of self-restraint, you and Jungkook had been clawing at any opportunity to get your hands on each other—to no avail, of course.

First, it was after you and Jungkook went on your very first proper date. It was simple; a movie at the cinema, dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant, and then a long drive to a secluded parking lot to watch the stars—and potentially fuck around a bit. Then, Jimin called and insisted that you had to get home in no less than ten minutes, or else he’d have the head of the guy who had you out so late (you told him you were on a date, but you did not specify with who).

Next time, it was when you were moving into your college dorm. You needed an extra car to take your stuff; Jungkook had one. Trying to sneak in a quickie in your dorm’s bathroom was maybe not the best idea, but you looked too good in your low-rise denim shorts and hot pink tank top. Sue him. Of course, you didn’t let him get too far—Jimin was only gone for a few minutes to grab something from the car, anyway.

The most recent incident was two days ago. Jungkook had been begging you to go on another date with him since it had been an eternity since the last one (it was one week), but you declined, citing Jimin as the reason why. 

“If some guy wants to go on more than one date with you a week, he has to man up and meet me first,” Jimin had apparently said. “That fucking greedy coward.”

But alas, now you were finally alone with him in his apartment—naked, horny, and unbelievably irresistable—and there was no threat of anyone finding out, unless you picked up Jimin’s call.

So, Jungkook decided to be reckless. 

Just this one time.

He snatched the phone from you and declined the call, tossing it away to be forgotten in the covers. You let out a scandalized gasp. 

“You did not.”

“I just did.” He smirked.

Before you could protest further, he kissed you—your lips, your neck, your collarbones—and brought his hand downward to see if you were still wet. You were.

He put a finger in, gliding his long digits against your walls in painfully slow scooping motions as you writhed beneath him.

“You’re crazy,” you breathed heavily. “Jimin is going to kill you if he ever—”

He covered your mouth with his free hand, effectively shutting you up. “Don’t worry about that right now, little miss,” he grunted.

He cupped your cheek, sliding his thumb into your mouth and exploring your inner cheek and tongue. 

“Suck.”

You obeyed. 

Without breaking eye contact, you swirled your tongue around his thumb, letting yourself gag on it as he pressed the roof of your mouth.  He seemed satisfied.

Below, he shoved another finger into you with his other hand. Your eyes rolled back as you whimpered in delight, saliva dribbling down your chin. His fingers curled, stretching your walls and making you cry out.

His cock was barely contained by his boxers, looking like it was on the verge of explosion.

“Need—” you panted,“—I need you inside me. Please.”

“Oh yeah?” Jungkook removed his thumb from your mouth, using that free hand to pull down his boxers. His tip was glistening with precum. “Can you handle it?”

A third finger. 

“Fuck!” you cried, heaving through desperate gasps. “Wanna—wanna cream on your pretty cock.”

And that was enough for him. 

Using his hands to spread open your thighs even wider, he lined up his cock to your entrance, dragging the length of it through your folds. Sometimes, he liked to push inside you slowly.  

But other times, like today, he preferred to slam into you with one, cruel thrust. You sucked him in immediately, walls taut, back arched, and toes curled.  The sudden stretch hurt like a bitch, but somehow that turned you on even more as your pussy spasmed and strained to fit his girthy length. The groan he let out was animal.

A second to catch his breath. A second for your walls to clench helplessly. 

Then, he was fucking you with a rhythm and consistency that could only be described as ruthless. 

“Oh my god,” you gasped. He leaned in, hitting you even deeper—so deep you could feel him in your lungs. “Fuck!”

As he watched you moan and cry beneath him, an idea struck. He fished for your phone, momentarily pausing. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you huffed, cheeks flushed and eyes cloudy, like you were asking: Why did you stop?

He faced the phone to you as he dialed Jimin’s number with a teasing grin. Horror painted your face as the phone rang, followed by a moment of relief and confusion when he ended the call two seconds after. Jimin hadn’t even picked up yet.

“What was that for?” 

“You’ll see.”

He didn’t give you time to ponder over it further. With your phone in one hand, he continued thrusting again, grunting as he stared at your bouncing tits, the obscene slap of his balls against yours filling the room.

Then the phone started buzzing. Jimin was calling back.

With the most smug look on his face, he pressed the bottom of the phone to your clit.

Your eyes lit up in a mixture of shock, mortification, and ecstasy. 

“You can’t just—“ the phone vibrated against your clit, eliciting a high pitched whimper. “You can’t do this! This is—this is weird.”

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, faltering for just a moment with trembling arms and eyes screwed shut. “Then tell me why you got tighter, huh?” 

He kept going, wincing in pleasure as you pulsed around him, squeezing him tighter as the phone thrummed relentlessly in steady increments against your sensitive nub. With his dick ramming into you, he angled your hips upward so you could get a better view of the lewd sight.

His pace quickened. Your high pitched whimpers echoed alongside the hum of your phone’s vibration. When you dared to open your eyes, he was above you in all of his sweaty, naked glory, looking every bit as desperate as you were.

To top it all off, his free hand came up to grasp your neck, blocking your airway and turning your loud wails into hysterical wheezes. 

“You take me so fucking well,” he hissed, glaring at you from above. “Makes me wanna fucking ruin you.”

 It all was too much and not enough at once. 

Vibrations pressed firmly onto your clit. His cock throbbing against your walls. Hand squeezing your neck. 

And then you orgasmed—violently.  

You couldn’t even begin to describe whatever horridly primal sounds you made, but it was apparently the breaking point for Jungkook, too. Heat bloomed inside of you, spilling out in steady, white bursts as he trembled from above, his pace slowing down with every thrust and groan—leaving you both clammy and gushy.

Panting, he collapsed onto you, bare chest meeting yours. You both took a moment to catch your breath. 

“You’re sweaty,” you finally said. 

His chuckle rumbled against your neck. “You loved that.” 

“Hm,” was your sleepy, half-assed reply.

Eventually he rolled over, planted a quick peck on your cheek, and started getting up to clean. You laid there motionless, still recovering. A few moments later, your phone went off again. 

Four missed calls from Jimin. 

Scrambling to sit up and sound like you were in your right mind, you cleared your throat and answered. 

“Hi.”

“Where are you? Why are you out so late on a Saturday night? Why haven’t you been picking up my calls?” he blared.

“Sorry,” you started, glancing at the door to make sure that Jungkook wouldn’t waltz in yapping about something and risk being heard. “I think I’m gonna stay over at Mei’s place tonight. We just got back from the bar and I’m super tired. I must’ve butt-dialed you accidentally. My phone was on silent so I didn’t realize you were calling.”

Jimin huffed. “You’ve been going out a lot recently. You’re still studying hard, right?”

“Of course.” You bit your lip. 

“Okay,” he finally said. “Are you gonna come home tomorrow or stay at your dorm again?”

“I’ll come home.” You tried to not sound too relieved that he didn’t question you further.

“Alright. Take care.” He sighed. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line ended. 

Without you realizing, Jungkook had already entered the room, leaning on the doorframe, equipped with towels. “Did he buy it?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, tossing your phone away. “But we can’t do shit like that again.”

He pouted. “Why not?”

Jungkook climbed into bed, handing you a towel. You began to wipe yourself. 

“It’s too…” You struggled to find the right words as you cleaned up your lady parts, wincing when the rough towel grazes your sensitive areas a bit too harshly. 

“Reckless?” Jungkook finished for you. 

“Yes, exactly,” you confirmed. “We can’t act like this all the time.”

Jungkook flung his towel away having cleaned himself, gesturing for you to hand him yours, which he promptly did the same with. All dry now, you quickly found a home in his warm, solid arms. He pulled you closer so that you’d be chest to chest with him.

“Okay, fine,” he finally said, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face. “But what about sometimes? Just here and there, when we know we can pull it off without getting caught?”

You thought about it for a moment, already feeling drowsy.  Closing your eyes, you snuggled into his neck and took a deep whiff of his natural post-sex scent. You managed to say one more thing before drifting off to dreamland for good.

“Maybe.”

Then he resumed, tongue gliding up your dripping pussy in one slick motion, before giving it a wet, smacking kiss, and diving in tongue-first all over again. You jolted upward with a cutting exhale, but he held you in place easily, fingers curling into your hips. 

While he was busy with that, your hands fumbled for your phone until you found it. Panting, you checked the screen with cloudy vision.

It was your brother. 

“Fuck,” you whispered sharply, fisting Jungkook’s hair and pulling him away. His head jerked up, an annoyed glint in his eyes. 

“I told you they can wait,” he muttered, already pushing your phone away. 

“No, look.” You showed him the screen. “It’s Jimin.”

At this, he actually stopped. It was two in the morning and you hadn’t come home yet. Given Jimin’s protective nature when it came to his little sister, it was no surprise that whoever you ended up being with at this ungodly hour would have to face his wrath.

Even if it was Jungkook, who happened to be his best friend. 

“What should I do? I told him I was going out with some friends,” you said, shivering from the sudden coldness of the room, the heat in your womanhood subsiding from the sheer panic of the call alone.

Jungkook was exhausted.

How many times had Jimin unknowingly cockblocked him again? Since that fateful day in the car where you had confessed to him and destroyed all remnants of self-restraint, you and Jungkook had been clawing at any opportunity to get your hands on each other—to no avail, of course.

First, it was after you and Jungkook went on your very first proper date. It was simple; a movie at the cinema, dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant, and then a long drive to a secluded parking lot to watch the stars—and potentially fuck around a bit. Then, Jimin called and insisted that you had to get home in no less than ten minutes, or else he’d have the head of the guy who had you out so late (you told him you were on a date, but you did not specify with who).

Next time, it was when you were moving into your college dorm. You needed an extra car to take your stuff; Jungkook had one. Trying to sneak in a quickie in your dorm’s bathroom was maybe not the best idea, but you looked too good in your low-rise denim shorts and hot pink tank top. Sue him. Of course, you didn’t let him get too far—Jimin was only gone for a few minutes to grab something from the car, anyway.

The most recent incident was two days ago. Jungkook had been begging you to go on another date with him since it had been an eternity since the last one (it was one week), but you declined, citing Jimin as the reason why. 

“If some guy wants to go on more than one date with you a week, he has to man up and meet me first,” Jimin had apparently said. “That fucking greedy coward.”

But alas, now you were finally alone with him in his apartment—naked, horny, and unbelievably irresistable—and there was no threat of anyone finding out, unless you picked up Jimin’s call.

So, Jungkook decided to be reckless. 

Just this one time.

He snatched the phone from you and declined the call, tossing it away to be forgotten in the covers. You let out a scandalized gasp. 

“You did not.”

“I just did.” He smirked.

Before you could protest further, he kissed you—your lips, your neck, your collarbones—and brought his hand downward to see if you were still wet. You were.

He put a finger in, gliding his long digits against your walls in painfully slow scooping motions as you writhed beneath him.

“You’re crazy,” you breathed heavily. “Jimin is going to kill you if he ever—”

He covered your mouth with his free hand, effectively shutting you up. “Don’t worry about that right now, little miss,” he grunted.

He cupped your cheek, sliding his thumb into your mouth and exploring your inner cheek and tongue. 

“Suck.”

You obeyed. 

Without breaking eye contact, you swirled your tongue around his thumb, letting yourself gag on it as he pressed the roof of your mouth.  He seemed satisfied.

Below, he shoved another finger into you with his other hand. Your eyes rolled back as you whimpered in delight, saliva dribbling down your chin. His fingers curled, stretching your walls and making you cry out.

His cock was barely contained by his boxers, looking like it was on the verge of explosion.

“Need—” you panted,“—I need you inside me. Please.”

“Oh yeah?” Jungkook removed his thumb from your mouth, using that free hand to pull down his boxers. His tip was glistening with precum. “Can you handle it?”

A third finger. 

“Fuck!” you cried, heaving through desperate gasps. “Wanna—wanna cream on your pretty cock.”

And that was enough for him. 

Using his hands to spread open your thighs even wider, he lined up his cock to your entrance, dragging the length of it through your folds. Sometimes, he liked to push inside you slowly.  

But other times, like today, he preferred to slam into you with one, cruel thrust. You sucked him in immediately, walls taut, back arched, and toes curled.  The sudden stretch hurt like a bitch, but somehow that turned you on even more as your pussy spasmed and strained to fit his girthy length. The groan he let out was animal.

A second to catch his breath. A second for your walls to clench helplessly. 

Then, he was fucking you with a rhythm and consistency that could only be described as ruthless. 

“Oh my god,” you gasped. He leaned in, hitting you even deeper—so deep you could feel him in your lungs. “Fuck!”

As he watched you moan and cry beneath him, an idea struck. He fished for your phone, momentarily pausing. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you huffed, cheeks flushed and eyes cloudy, like you were asking: Why did you stop?

He faced the phone to you as he dialed Jimin’s number with a teasing grin. Horror painted your face as the phone rang, followed by a moment of relief and confusion when he ended the call two seconds after. Jimin hadn’t even picked up yet.

“What was that for?” 

“You’ll see.”

He didn’t give you time to ponder over it further. With your phone in one hand, he continued thrusting again, grunting as he stared at your bouncing tits, the obscene slap of his balls against yours filling the room.

Then the phone started buzzing. Jimin was calling back.

With the most smug look on his face, he pressed the bottom of the phone to your clit.

Your eyes lit up in a mixture of shock, mortification, and ecstasy. 

“You can’t just—“ the phone vibrated against your clit, eliciting a high pitched whimper. “You can’t do this! This is—this is weird.”

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, faltering for just a moment with trembling arms and eyes screwed shut. “Then tell me why you got tighter, huh?” 

He kept going, wincing in pleasure as you pulsed around him, squeezing him tighter as the phone thrummed relentlessly in steady increments against your sensitive nub. With his dick ramming into you, he angled your hips upward so you could get a better view of the lewd sight.

His pace quickened. Your high pitched whimpers echoed alongside the hum of your phone’s vibration. When you dared to open your eyes, he was above you in all of his sweaty, naked glory, looking every bit as desperate as you were.

To top it all off, his free hand came up to grasp your neck, blocking your airway and turning your loud wails into hysterical wheezes. 

“You take me so fucking well,” he hissed, glaring at you from above. “Makes me wanna fucking ruin you.”

 It all was too much and not enough at once. 

Vibrations pressed firmly onto your clit. His cock throbbing against your walls. Hand squeezing your neck. 

And then you orgasmed—violently.  

You couldn’t even begin to describe whatever horridly primal sounds you made, but it was apparently the breaking point for Jungkook, too. Heat bloomed inside of you, spilling out in steady, white bursts as he trembled from above, his pace slowing down with every thrust and groan—leaving you both clammy and gushy.

Panting, he collapsed onto you, bare chest meeting yours. You both took a moment to catch your breath. 

“You’re sweaty,” you finally said. 

His chuckle rumbled against your neck. “You loved that.” 

“Hm,” was your sleepy, half-assed reply.

Eventually he rolled over, planted a quick peck on your cheek, and started getting up to clean. You laid there motionless, still recovering. A few moments later, your phone went off again. 

Four missed calls from Jimin. 

Scrambling to sit up and sound like you were in your right mind, you cleared your throat and answered. 

“Hi.”

“Where are you? Why are you out so late on a Saturday night? Why haven’t you been picking up my calls?” he blared.

“Sorry,” you started, glancing at the door to make sure that Jungkook wouldn’t waltz in yapping about something and risk being heard. “I think I’m gonna stay over at Mei’s place tonight. We just got back from the bar and I’m super tired. I must’ve butt-dialed you accidentally. My phone was on silent so I didn’t realize you were calling.”

Jimin huffed. “You’ve been going out a lot recently. You’re still studying hard, right?”

“Of course.” You bit your lip. 

“Okay,” he finally said. “Are you gonna come home tomorrow or stay at your dorm again?”

“I’ll come home.” You tried to not sound too relieved that he didn’t question you further.

“Alright. Take care.” He sighed. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line ended. 

Without you realizing, Jungkook had already entered the room, leaning on the doorframe, equipped with towels. “Did he buy it?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, tossing your phone away. “But we can’t do shit like that again.”

He pouted. “Why not?”

Jungkook climbed into bed, handing you a towel. You began to wipe yourself. 

“It’s too…” You struggled to find the right words as you cleaned up your lady parts, wincing when the rough towel grazes your sensitive areas a bit too harshly. 

“Reckless?” Jungkook finished for you. 

“Yes, exactly,” you confirmed. “We can’t act like this all the time.”

Jungkook flung his towel away having cleaned himself, gesturing for you to hand him yours, which he promptly did the same with. All dry now, you quickly found a home in his warm, solid arms. He pulled you closer so that you’d be chest to chest with him.

“Okay, fine,” he finally said, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face. “But what about sometimes? Just here and there, when we know we can pull it off without getting caught?”

You thought about it for a moment, already feeling drowsy.  Closing your eyes, you snuggled into his neck and took a deep whiff of his natural post-sex scent. You managed to say one more thing before drifting off to dreamland for good.

“Maybe.”

Instead, you find yourself alone in the heart of Atlanta, in the apartment you used to live. Your legs dangle from the edge of the tiny balcony, and in your hand you clutch a half-empty bottle of vodka. It’s cheap, the kind you can’t hold back a grimace every time you swallow, but it gets the job done — and more importantly, quickly. Five big gulps in and you can’t even taste it anymore.

The city looks so eerie from up here, empty and dead silent save for the distant groans of walkers below. Every now and again you’ll see one drag itself along the street, aimlessly making its way into one of the nearby buildings or further into the city, oblivious to your presence ten stories above. You briefly entertain the thought of tossing the cap of the bottle down into the concrete, just to see if you could hit one of them from this distance, if they’ll be smart enough to look up and spot you.

Just as you’re considering the pros and cons, the sliding door behind you opens.

Your heart jumps inside your chest and it feels like the vodka hits you all at once, making the world spin and blur around you. You whip your head towards the sound, your eyes taking a second longer to catch up to the movement and to make sense of the shape invading your vision.

“Shane,” you gasp, half in surprise and half in relief. Not a walker. You don’t want to think about how, if it was one, you’d have nowhere to run to except maybe jumping down and taking your chances with the pavement. “What are you doing here?”

“Lookin’ for you. What else would I be doing here?” Shane looks pissed, like he can’t decide whether he wants to snap at you right now or if he should wait until you’re not half-hanging out of the frail balcony fence. He draws in a deep breath, seemingly in an attempt to calm himself down. “You can’t just sneak out like that. We were worried.”

“Sorry.”

You’re not sorry. You don’t even try to sound sorry. You bring the bottle to your lips, swallowing down a mouthful of vodka that goes down your throat like liquid fire. You only vaguely feel it, like your entire body is a limb that has fallen asleep.

Of course Shane would know you’d be here. None of the other remaining survivors in the group would know where to look, but he’s not just any stranger you’ve been camping with for the sake of survival. He had rescued you and your mother from this very place in his departure from Atlanta, before the bombs from the military started coming down on the city.

Shane crouches down beside you, his eyes taking note of the bottle but not lingering on it.

“We’re leaving the camp today,” he tells you. You don’t react save for a tiny nod around another sip of vodka.

“Where to?”

“CDC, or Fort Benning. We’re still working it out.”

You don’t voice your opinion; both sound fruitless to you. Silence stretches on for long enough that he must get the hint, because he takes the opportunity to say, “You’re coming with us.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine here,” you reply, your words slurred as the alcohol works its way through your system.

“You can’t be serious.” He rubs at his face, the same exasperation in his gesture as in his voice. “You’d die in a week, kid.”

The pet name instantly gets on your nerves, even if he’s called you that since the day he met you.

“I come here all the time and I’m still not dead.”

“For supply runs. How the fuck do you expect to live here? All alone? Look around you,” he gestures to the street below, where a walker crosses the street towards an abandoned store. “You’ve never even killed a walker.”

“I can learn.”

“It ain’t that simple.”

“How hard can it be? Everyone else does it.” You can’t pinpoint the exact moment you went from buzzed to drunk, but you realize now you’ve crossed that line a long time ago. Your voice goes from soft and nonchalant to increasingly, irrationally annoyed at his concern. “‘Sides, if I’m that useless why’d you want me to come along? I’d just slow you down.”

The worst is you know he has a point. You’re not a fighter; never have been, really. Your entire life, the one thing stopping you from becoming a sitting target was your ability to run, both literally and figuratively. You’re fast, sneaky, crafty. Qualities that have served you well, but they can only take you so far in this new brutal world. What happens when you can’t run? What happens when someone else is cornered and you can do nothing to help them?

There’s still blood from last night under your nails, no matter how hard you scrubbed your hands clean at the river.

“I’m sorry about your mom.”

The words, the genuine, unexpected gentleness of his tone, it feels like a knife being jammed into your stomach. You only shake your head, unable to look at him; unable to, even now, admit that you can’t decide whether you’re devastated or relieved that she’s gone. That that woman was capable of leaving you with the deepest scars without ever laying a finger on you.

You stare down at the street. You still don’t cry.

“She would’ve wanted you to keep going,” Shane insists.

Your eyes finally meet his. “You clearly didn’t know my mother, Shane.”

You watch the surprise in his eyes as he tries to make sense of it. Still, he doesn’t relent. He pushes himself back to his feet.

“Come on, we need to go while there’s still daylight.” When you don’t move nor give any indication that you’ve heard him, you feel a hand circle around your forearm.

“I said no!” You yank your arm back like he burned you, even though the touch was gentle. “You’re not a cop anymore. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I sure fucking can when you’re bein’ a danger to yourself.” He grabs you again, this time firmly enough to pull you to your feet. You stumble, too drunk for something as simple as balancing yourself. “Let’s go.”

You do the only thing that crosses your mind — you swing the bottle at him.

It doesn’t break. There’s just not enough power in the movement, no real intention to hurt him; you just want him to let go. It hits him on the shoulder, splashing vodka everywhere as it falls and crashes into a million pieces in the pavement below.

The crash is so loud in the silent city.

Shane’s got you back inside the apartment in an instant, in the bedroom that was once yours. You thrash around in his arms like a wild animal, the differences in strength between you and Shane as well as the alcohol running through your veins making your attempts at best comically futile.

“Stop! Christ, the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“It’s pointless, Shane!” You keep on fighting even when you know you’re overpowered, when you can barely move against his grasp. “I’m dying either way! What difference does it make if I die here or at Fort Benning or wherever the fuck!?”

“You ain’t dying, that’s what I’m tryna stop from happening!” He’s got you effectively trapped, your back pressed against the wall and his arm across your chest. “Why do you gotta be so fucking stubborn?”

You try to move away; you can’t. His arm applies pressure across your chest, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe it’s just how close he is — close enough that you can feel the body heat emanating off him, your faces inches from touching. You can see every pore on his skin, the light stubble starting to grow, the way his nostrils flare with anger.

“You think you’re the only one who lost someone?” he says. “We all did. And you’re the only one needin’ to be cared for like a little kid.”

“Who did you lose?” you snap back. “Far as I can see, everyone you love is doing just fine. That boy, your girlfriend. Even your buddy came back to steal her away.”

He pushes you even harder against the wall for that, his muscles flexing with how impossibly tight he’s gripping you. Your breath caught in your throat, you try to kick him away only to find his knees also trapping your legs in place, so much of his body pressed flush to yours it’s making you a little dizzy.

“You gonna drag me back, or are you gonna fuck me?” you ask, all drunken defiance and bravado. There’s no way a sentence like that would ever leave your lips if not for the copious amounts of alcohol clouding your judgment. “‘Cause I’m getting some mixed signals here.”

You can tell you’ve caught him off-guard, but neither of you have an opportunity to react to what you’ve just said. Somewhere in the hallway, there’s a bang as something is pushed to the floor, followed by the unmistakable groans and heavy footsteps of a walker.

Shane spins you around so fast you nearly fall over again. His arm circles around your waist, and before you can even think to object, his free hand clamps over your mouth.

He drags you both into the walk-in closet, closing the door as silently as he can. It’s a dark, cramped space, the mess of clothes making it feel even smaller. Shane’s right behind you, his chest molded against your back and arms wrapped around you, his hand still covering your mouth even though you wouldn’t dare to make a sound.

All you can do is listen: Shane’s breath so close to your ear, your own racing heartbeats inside your chest, the walker that has now found its way into the bedroom.

For a few long moments you’re both still as statues, listening in to the sounds outside the closet. Your mind races with the worst possible outcomes; what if there’s more than one walker? What if they realize you’re both here, with no way to escape except for the same door you came in from? What if you both end up dead, and it’s all your fault for coming back here in the first place?

Seconds stretch into minutes that stretch into what feels like an eternity. The walker — or walkers — circles the room quite a few times, in no rush to leave. At some point, you see its shadow right in front of the door, standing there for several beats before it finally, finally walks away.

Shane waits even longer, until you’re certain you can’t hear anything on the other side. Only then does he slowly unwrap his hand from your mouth. He reaches for the door, still holding onto you, pushing it open just enough that he can peek out at the bedroom.

“I think it’s gone,” he whispers. “It probably went to the other room, but we can—”

He looks at you, and his voice dies out in his throat when he realizes you’re weeping.

You don’t know when it began, but the tears just keep on coming, rolling down your cheeks and into your shirt. They’re silent save for a few quick pauses for air, and your body shakes ever so slightly with your sobs, so soft and subtle it could’ve just been mistaken for fear if he couldn’t see your face. You want it to stop, to get your shit together or at least hide from Shane, stop him from watching you fall apart like this.

His grip around your waist loosens, but doesn’t release you. Instead, he carefully wraps his other arm around you as well, cradling you in an embrace.

It’s like the final pillar holding you together crumbles, and you let it all pour out of you, all those emotions you don’t even know how to name taking the shape of tears. Shane feels like a warm blanket at your back, reminding you that things can still feel good, somehow, in the midst of so much sorrow. He coaxes you to turn around to face him, and you immediately burrow your face into his chest, arms clinging to him like a lifeline.

“It’s okay,” he shushes, resting his chin on top of your head. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“You can’t know that,” you breathe, your voice quieter than a whisper, but he hears you.

“Yeah, I can. Y’know why?” He pulls back just enough to see your face, the gun callouses on his fingertips scratching your skin when he wipes away a tear. “‘Cuz I’ll be right here the whole time, and I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

You know it’s an empty promise, that this is something he can’t possibly guarantee. But he says it so earnestly, like really means it. And, for a moment, you let yourself believe it, let him pull you out of the closet and into an imaginary world where things will be okay.

.

CDC was the right choice, after all. It’s disheartening to see it empty rather than bustling with doctors and scientists, but there’s electricity, there’s hot water, and there’s dinner with plenty of food and wine, and that’s more than you could ask for.

You continue the party in the room you’ve claimed as your own, with yet another bottle you managed to sneak from the cabinet. It takes you nearly the entire bottle and over an hour of psyching yourself up before you bring yourself to knock on the door you’d seen Shane retreat into.

He doesn’t answer for long enough that you wonder if you should knock again or go away. Right when you’re about to make a decision, the door opens.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he asks, his voice slurred.

“Just wanted to ask if you wanted a drink.”

He looks like hell. Attractive, of course, as he always is, but disheveled. His hair is all over the place, shirt ruffled and open just enough for you to catch sight of the tattoo on his chest. There’s an edge to his gaze, matching the red, angry scratches on his neck.

Even in this state, he cracks a smile when he sees the bottle in your hand, the liquid inside not even enough for a full glass.

“Drink what? There’s barely anything in there.”

You smile back. “You have more, don’t you?”

Of course he does. He’s just as drunk as you, and you know for a fact he didn’t get to this point by just drinking a couple of glasses of wine at dinner. Shane runs a hand over his face, pausing to softly pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Look, kid, ’s not a good time.”

You try not to let your disappointment show, or to feel discouraged. “Come on, I bet I could cheer you up.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but perhaps he finds your confidence endearing, or he simply doesn’t have the energy to send you away. With a tiny sigh, he steps aside to let you in.

You and Shane, alone in a room with a bottle of liquor. It sounds like something you would only dare to fantasize about in the depths of your brain, except it’s happening right now. He doesn’t turn on the lights save for a small lamp at the corner, engulfing the two of you in warm dimmed lighting as you sit on opposite ends of the couch.

“D’you always do that?” he asks.

“What?”

He nods at the bottle in your hand just as he reaches for one of his own, a liquor you can’t make out in the darkness. “Drink like your liver is indestructible.”

You breathe a light chuckle as you bring the bottle to your lips. “Considering everything, I think my liver is the least of my problems. And you’re not too better off tonight.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a grownup. I can drink.”

You roll your eyes with a scoff, finally finishing off your bottle.

“I’m not that young.”

“How old are ya, anyway?”

“Twenty-four.” You leave the empty bottle on the coffee table. “And you?”

“Older than you.”

“No shit.”

“Too old for you, kid.”

Here it is; the closest either of you have gotten to giving voice to whatever it is that exists between you. There’s a part of you that had hoped he’d never notice it — the stolen glances and excuses to spend time around him and the way your smile lingered the longest for him than for anybody else —, while the other desperately hoped he felt it too, that he would make the first move you couldn’t find the guts to make.

The rejection burns, as subtle and implicit as it was. If you were sober, maybe this would be it; but you’re not, and your booze-soaked brain refuses to give up that easily.

“I’m not a child, Shane.” You hold out a hand, vaguely gesture to the bottle he’s drinking from. He lifts an eyebrow, but hands it over.

You’re expecting wine; it’s whiskey. You try to push through the burn down your throat, but you choke on it just a fraction of a second later, covering your mouth with your hand as you cough.

In the midst of desperately trying to swallow down the last bits of it, you hear Shane laugh.

“Yeah, sure you aren’t.”

“Fuck off.” You huff in embarrassment and genuine annoyance, taking a deep breath to steady your voice again.

“I believe ya, no need t’drink yourself into a coma to prove it to me.”

“There’s a lot of things I could do to prove it to you.”

The sentence just jumps out of your mouth before your brain even catches up to it, surprising you as much as it does him. He recovers quicker, snatching the bottle back from you.

“I’m cuttin’ you off, you’ve had enough tonight,” he says. It’s his turn to take a generous swig of the whiskey, swallowing it down like it’s nothing.

You watch him as he drinks, near-mesmerized for a brief moment. The scratches on his neck are in full view now, exposed to you, but you don’t dare to ask where they came from. His jaw is a firm, set line, clenched and tensed. You’ve seen him stressed enough times to know that this is what it looks like.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothin’.”

“Is it this place?” He doesn’t respond, but you discard the possibility. This is by far the safest, most comfortable place the entire group has spent the night since fleeing the city. Your mind flies to the one other issue that could be on his mind. “… Girlfriend problems?”

Shane sighs, and you can’t tell whether it’s resignation or a warning, like he’s telling you to tread carefully.

“Stop calling her that. She ain’t my girlfriend.”

“I’m sure she isn’t now that she’s got her husband back, but—”

“Never been.” He peels off the edges of the label of his drink. “There’s nothing goin’ on between us.”

You wish that were the truth, yet you doubt it. You shift on your spot so that you’re turned fully towards him.

“Then why do you look at her the same way I look at you?”

The silence that follows is heavy, building into something unknown. You force yourself not to look away when Shane finds your gaze, to not take back your words even though your heart is doing cartwheels inside your chest. To your surprise, he doesn’t scoff dismissively, doesn’t blame it on the drinking or point out your age difference again. He only regards you with those dark, glassy eyes, as if this is the first time he’s ever seen you clearly.

“What good is looking if you won’t do something about it, sweetheart?” his voice is low, raspy, daring you to take a step further.

He doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

Breath caught in your throat, you push yourself to a stand. It feels like the floor under you is spinning, but it’s slow and gentle, like you’re dreaming rather than just shitfaced. Somehow, you manage not to stumble in your own steps, not to make a complete fool of yourself as you make your way towards him. For a moment all you do is stand there right in front of him, eyes locked on his like his gaze is pulling you in. Then, slowly, you plant your knees on both sides of his legs on the couch, and lower yourself onto his lap.

Adrenaline runs through your body like you’re fighting for your life. You’re barely able to think, consumed by the glint of hunger in Shane’s eyes.

He rewards you by laying his broad hands over your hips, pulling you forward until your body is flush with his. He tastes like whiskey when you kiss him — you must taste the same, because he parts his lips for you immediately, greedily sliding his tongue into your mouth as if he wants to intoxicate himself through you. You return the kiss with the same enthusiasm, the exact same intentions.

You exhale a soft gasp into his mouth when his hands slide up your waist, taking your shirt with them, brushing against your bare skin in the process. His hands are so warm and you feel like you’re burning up, skin blazing everywhere he touches. You let him pull the shirt up and off your body, even if you breathe a disappointed whimper when he breaks the kiss to stare at you.

You expect those hands to explore the skin that’s just been exposed, but instead they settle into the small of your back, pushing you into a deeper arch. “This what you wanted?” he asks into your ear, drawing a shiver out of you.

“Want you to fuck me.” As usual, the alcohol makes you bold, but honest. There’s so much more you want to do with him — getting on your knees for him, for starters, or feeling his thick fingers stretch you out —, but you can tell neither of you will last that long in your drunken state. There’ll be more time for that later, you hope.

You’re only wearing thin shorts while he still wears denim, the roughness of the fabric drawing a moan from you as you rub yourself over the growing hardness between his legs, your knees digging deep into the couch cushions.

His lips press kisses down your neck, along your collarbones. You buck your hips involuntarily when you feel a wet tongue circle your nipple. “Shane,” it leaves you in a small sound, embarrassing if you weren’t far past the point of caring. Shane replies by pushing his hips up against yours.

“Take it out,” he orders. “See what you’ve done to me.”

Your usual defiance and disregard for authority goes out of the window as you find yourself immediately obeying, bringing your hands down to his belt. He removes his shirt while you work to pull his cock out from his boxers. You can’t resist wrapping your fist around it and giving it a few slow pumps.

The sound he makes goes straight to your groin. You pull away to kick off your shorts and underwear as quickly as you can, and Shane grabs you impatiently, pulls you back into his lap like you never left. Your hands are on his chest immediately, covering as much bare skin as they can.

You feel dazed when he lines up his cock with your entrance, unable to see or think about anything other than the way he grunts and shuts his eyes as you slowly sink down on him. For a moment you’re floating, but gravity is soon to pull you back, quite literally; the stretch more intense with every inch you take inside of you.

“Goddamn it, hold on,” you tell him, even though he hasn’t moved yet, even though he’s not even all the way in and you know it. He’s bigger than you’re used to, and you haven’t done this in a long time. You pause for a few moments, thighs trembling with the strain of keeping yourself still.

Shane’s chest heaves with soft pants, but he lets you take your time. He has the beginnings of that usual infuriating cocky smirk at the corner of his lip, like he loves watching you squirm and struggle to take him in.

Only when you start to slowly, tentatively circle your hips does he move, his hands grabbing rough and possessive where your ass meets your thigh. “Gonna take me all the way in, baby?” You feel yourself spread open even more under those strong hands, feel yourself being lifted up with just that grip, then pushed back down. Your head drops to his shoulder with a long moan. “I’ll help you.”

And he does. He guides you to move up and down his cock, controlling the pace with a tight grip on your hips. It starts slow, with long thrusts that demand you feel every single inch of him, gradually growing into a frantic pace that has the room filled with the sounds of skin slapping on skin as well as your combined sighs and moans. It occurs to you that you’re being too loud, that you should probably keep it down, but every sound of approval that leaves Shane’s lips just makes you ride him even harder, eager to hear more.

Once he feels like you’ve got the hang of it, he lets go of your hips and lets you move on your own. His hands run up your body, circling your breasts and your throat before a thumb presses over your lips. You part them obediently, welcoming it into your mouth without losing your momentum.

It’s when that thumb comes to press against your clit that your hips stutter, pulling almost all the way off Shane before you all but jump back down on it.

“That’s it.” He strokes you in firm circles, grunting when you clench hard around him. “That’s good, kid.”

“Fuck, d-don’t call me that.”

You don’t know how to feel about the fact that this is what tips you over the edge despite your protest, his raspy voice in your ear and that damn pet name echoing in your mind. You can’t even feel the strain on your thighs anymore as you keep on moving, uncoordinated but desperate not to lose that high. Shane thrusts up into you and it drives a broken shout of you, like the sensation takes you by surprise, intensifying the pleasure that runs through every vein of your body.

When you come back to Earth, you’re all but collapsed against him, shuddering in his arms that he wraps around you like you’re cold. He’s still inside. Still hard, poking into your sensitive walls. He’s merciful enough to give you the lightest, gentlest thrusts, helping you ride out the last few waves of your orgasm but giving you time to recover.

Out of strength to lift up and down, you focus on clenching around him as hard as you can, on grinding yourself down against his pelvis.

Lifting your head off his chest, your eyes settle back on the mysterious scratches on his neck. Without thinking about it, you lay your lips over them.

It’s like you can feel the heat of them burning into your own skin, before it goes cool against you and you have to push a little bit harder to feel it again. You trace the cuts with your lips, with your tongue, the coppery taste of dried blood overflowing your senses.

Shane moans your name like a warning. It only makes you take the skin there between your teeth.

He growls, a rumble deep in his chest, and before you can soothe the bite with a kiss he’s grabbing at your sides and pushing you to lay down on the couch. You give a sound that’s half a moan, half a yelp of surprise as he digs back inside you, fucking you like a ragdoll. His pace is harder and faster than before, thrusts too rough and erratic for you to push back into any kind of rhythm, to do anything other than lie there pinned under him and take it.

He comes in just a few seconds, a few hard thrusts before he’s pulling out just in time to shoot his release over your stomach. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, grunting and breathing hard against it, occasionally kissing it like a quiet apology.

Shane moves just enough to give you more room, and you feel him fall asleep just a second before you do, both of you still clutching each other tight.

.

The hangover hits you before you even open your eyes in the morning; the worst one you’ve had in a very, very long time. You sigh, wrap your arms around the pillow underneath you, scared that any sudden move might make you sick. You’re naked, but wrapped up in a warm blanket. The pillow and the cushions still carry the warmth of someone else, but you’re alone.

The memories hit you in flashes, one after the other — surreal, dizzying, unbelievable. But you never once wonder if it was just a dream.

These what if scenarios always took a turn toward the convoluted the moment anyone declared themselves built for survival, so you thought it best to keep it simple: the second shit hit the fan, you’d already be on your way out. That answer never satisfied the masses. Or rather—Maggie, and the two musketeers you’d come to call your “friends” nowadays.

“Okay, sure, but how?” Jackie dragged out the last syllable, like it might coax a different response out of you than the first five times she’d asked.

“I already said it depends,” you replied, raising your eyebrows, amused at how worked up your non-answers had gotten them.

“That depends is doin’ too much of the heavy liftin’,” Tony huffed, reaching across from you to get the joint Maggie was putting up for grabs. “Ya’ gotta acknowledge there’s more painful ways to go than others—and most importantly, I don’t think ya’ got it in you.”

“Ya’ questionin’ my suicidal tendencies now, Tony?”

“You could say that.”

He took a slow draw before passing the joint to Jackie, smoke spilling from his mouth in a steady, hypnotizing stream. Holding your gaze, he lifted two fingers to the side of his head.

“This thing we got up here’s hardwired to survive despite all odds. You get put in some crazy situation, ya’ go into default mode—and surprise, it ain’t killin’ yourself. ‘Less you’re sick in the head.” His eyes narrowed. “You sick in the head?”

You scoffed. “I don’t know. Maybe I am.”

“Shit,” he muttered. “You just might be, girl. But I know you got a mean streak in ya’. Just ain’t had the chance to let it out.”

You frowned, puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just sayin’,” he continued, “someone who carries a gun on ’em at all times don’t smell like someone that’s lookin’ to die anytime soon.”

Jackie hummed in agreement. Maggie visibly stiffened. Whatever bit of amusement you’d been holding onto faded.

“How’d you know that?” The question came out more like a demand.

“That little bag ya’ carry with you everywhere weighs suspiciously like a .38 Special,” Jackie chimed in. “Or is it a nine?”

“Oh, cut the crap, Jack,” Tony grimaced before turning back to you, deliberately avoiding your stare. “Jack’s pop owns that gun shop down in Sharpsburg. Let’s just say client confidentiality ain’t exactly standard practice for him.”

“I mean, I was shocked to hear Miss Georgia Tech was lookin’ for a gun and didn’t even stop by to say hello ’fore skippin’ town again,” Jackie sang, humor lilting her voice.

“This ain’t about you, Jack,” Maggie snapped.

“I know, I know. Just left me wonderin’ who mama was plannin’ to scare off at nerd school to be buyin’ a whole Glock.” Jackie laughed, glancing at Tony like she’d named the elephant in the room.

Tony dropped his eyes, picking at the floorboard beneath him.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with havin’ one,” he said finally. “We been keepin’ it to ourselves for months. Just curious, is all.”

You couldn’t tell if your anger was justified—or if you were more annoyed that your careful under-sharing had somehow turned into a full-blown interrogation.

“Aw, you don’t gotta say nothin’,” Jackie started. “We’re just pokin’—”

“It wasn’t for me.”

Silence.

“The gun,” you clarified. “It wasn’t for defendin’ myself.”

The weight of the room shifted, heavy as wet air, crickets and cicadas rushing in to fill the space where laughter had been. After a few beats, you couldn’t take it anymore, eyes flicking around the loft, fixing to find where the hell that joint had gone—at least then you’d have something to occupy yourself with while the rest of them processed whatever the fuck that was.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said at last.

You shook your head. The last thing you needed right now was pity.

“But, ma’am,” he added, pushing himself to his feet, hands on his hips, “I’m afraid you may be under arrest.”

You froze, incredulity creeping across your face.

“It’s illegal to purchase a firearm for a non-registered, unscreened individual in the state of Georgia.”

“Boy, what in the hell are you gettin’ at?” Maggie giggled, watching him exaggeratedly adjust his belt, widening his stance, sucking his teeth and looking around the room until his gaze fell on you again.

“Ma’am,” Tony said, dropping his voice into a gruff parody, “I’m gonna need you to stand up.”

“Officer, I think the hell not.”

“Failure to cooperate will result in detainment.”

“Oh, right,” you smirked. “You mind showin’ me your badge?”

His eyes narrowed as he switched his weight from one leg to the other, before reaching up under his arm, flashing you with an invisible badge for a millisecond before shoving it back into an imaginary pocket. Georgia summers were too hot and sticky for jackets, even at night—so, imaginary jackets for sake of drama would have to do.

And it sure did it.

You burst out laughing, Jackie and Maggie following close behind, and just like that, the moment passed.

“I’m fixin’ to join the Academy in September.”

“You serious, Ton?” Maggie asked, pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah. ’Bout damn time,” he shrugged. “Can’t be livin’ off my old man’s VA money—not if I wanna get outta here anyway.”

He leaned over, brushing his fingers against yours as he took the joint from your hand.

You stared at the place his fingers had been before looking back up at him. “Officer Mendes?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, sitting up straighter, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Pray tell,” you said dryly, “how are we thinkin’ ’bout passin’ that drug test with the little ganja addiction you got goin’ on?”

“Well, first of all, you can’t get addicted to this stuff and secondly—or rather, moreover, or should I say, additionally—”

“Tony,” Jackie groaned, flinging loose hay at him.

Unfazed, he continued. “I can drop this whenever I want.”

You raised your brows, an oh, really? written plainly across your face.

“Mhm,” Tony said, glancing down at the joint. “Just not today.”

He takes a hit, earning him a series of eye rolls and scoffs.

Whether or not anyone believed Tony could drop his dependency on weed and make a good cop became the finishing debate of the night.

If you were asked, you honestly couldn’t say. For all of Tony’s charm, there was something sharp beneath it—a prejudice, an absoluteness. He’d call it a mean streak. To you, it felt like the kind of thing that acted first and figured out if it was right later. Maybe you were confusing assertiveness for overconfidence. Maybe narcissism. Either way, you weren’t sure you wanted to be anywhere near Tony with a badge and a gun.

Soon enough, it was just you and Maggie left, legs swinging off the side of the loft as you watched your friends make their way down onto the dirt.

You leaned forward, craning your neck toward the farmhouse at the top of the hill. All the lights were off, the house looming and still as mist rolled in—signs that Hershel was asleep and wouldn’t scold the two of you for staying out so late, stinking like skunks.

He ran that farm and his girls like a ship. But even he could never quite tie you and Maggie down. These little escapades, sneaking friends onto the property in the dead of night, letting the sticky Georgia summer breeze slip through the gaps in the wood and settle on your skin—they gave you peace. A small taste of solace to appease the ache that had taken residence in your chest.

Life was full of ups and downs. A life without them was like a flatlined heart, your mother used to say, like clockwork every time something went wrong—the highs and lows meant you were still alive. As time went on, things seemed to go wrong more often than not, and you’d catch yourself letting out a cynical chuckle at the thought that if life was a beating heart, then the days, weeks, and months leading up to your mother’s death had been a fucking heart attack.

Smoke slipped from your mouth, smooth at first before catching in your throat. You coughed, a burning pain searing through your chest.

“Two months still ain’t enough, huh?” Maggie asked, roughly patting your back to let it all out.

“Just got in my head,” you croaked, amused despite yourself.

She nodded. “Probably for the best. Don’t wanna see you turn into a pothead like the rest of ’em.” Maggie nodded her head towards your guests who were clumsily making their way out through the field.

“They’re your friends.”

“They got mildly good pot and stayed ‘round while the rest of us left soon as we could.” She said plainly, hitting what remained of your shared joint before ashing it on the wood floor and flicking it onto the dirt below.

“And what?” you asked, a short, humorless laugh escaping you. “You think they’re less because of that?”

“No,” Maggie said quickly. “I just know you’re better than this.”

She turned toward you fully now, brows pinched together, eyes soft in that way you’d grown far too familiar with over the last couple months. A lecture was imminent.

“Maggs, don’t start—”

“—tell me you signed up for classes this fall.”

“Maggie—”

“Tell me,” she insisted, voice firm but pleading.

“I did!” you snapped, exasperation spilling over. “Okay? But that don’t mean I’m goin’.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” You turned on her, brows drawn tight, eyes sharp. “Because it’d be a waste of money if I just flunk out ’cause I’m in a funk.”

“But that’s the thing, girl—this ain’t no funk.” She gestured between the two of you. “Your momma died, and you ain’t talked to a soul about it. You think this—” she waved her hands vaguely through the air, “—is enough?”

You stayed quiet, lungs growing heavier with every breath.

“You gotta get back up and go talk to someone.”

“You think a shrink’s gonna fix me?” you scoffed. “That it? You think I don’t already know what they’d say?” You looked up toward the sky, fingers curling into exaggerated quotation marks. “‘Grief is a process.’ ‘Time will heal.’ ‘Keep busy, it’ll help you get over it.’” You let out a bitter laugh. “Bull. Shit.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes.” Maggie shifted closer, reaching out to rest a hand on your arm. You would’ve flinched away if it’d been anyone else. “Nobody’s tellin’ you to get over it. Truth is, I don’t think you ever will. I sure haven’t.”

You look down, a portrait of a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties sitting over a fireplace mantel, coming to mind. Josephine Greene had died from a terminal illness a couple of years after that picture was taken, survived by her husband, Herschel, and a then 5 year-old, Maggie.

“I was real young, yeah,” Maggie continued. “And folks don’t believe me when I say I got memories of her, but I do. No one tells you how hard it’s gonna be. How that shit sneaks up on you at the worst times. That black hole they leave behind once they’re gone.”

She looks off to the field again, catching a glimpse of headlights pulling off onto the road.

“That void ain’t goin’ nowhere,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry to tell you that. I wish I could. But you do learn how to live with it. You learn how to shrink it down and carry it in your pocket, ’cause gettin’ rid of it completely means forgettin’ them.”

Your eyes burned. You tilted your head back, staring up into the sky, fighting the sting of hot tears threatening to spill. You were exhausted of the pain, the constant burn behind your ribs, the migraines from crying too much and refusing to drink water, the racing thoughts that refused to let you sleep.

What if you’d been there?

What if you’d left the gun under her pillow, the one she always refused to accept despite your pleas?

“I get what you’re sayin’,” you said finally, voice tight. “And I appreciate it. I do. But you don’t know this kind of pain.” You paused, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “The autopsy came back. You know that?”

Maggie shook her head slowly, her hand retreating from your arm, the warmth replaced by something cold and hollow.

“They thought the first blow to her head killed her,” you continued. “Said she wouldn’t’ve felt anything after that. But you know what the real cause of death was?”

Maggie’s shoulders curled inward, her arms wrapping around herself.

“Positional asphyxiation,” you said, the words tasting foul. “She was still alive when they put her in that trash bin, Maggie.” Your voice cracked. “She felt everything he did to her. Died gasping for air. That motherfucker took everything from me, and knowin’ he’s still out there, still breathin’—”

“He’s in federal prison—“

“He could be rottin’ in fucking Guantanamo,” you snapped. “He don’t deserve to fill his lungs with air if my momma can’t. This ain’t just grief, Maggie—it’s rage, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it!”

Your voice vanished into the night.

“If I could put a bullet in his head right now, I would,” you went on, chest heaving. “Maybe then I could go back to Atlanta, sit in lectures, pretend I ain’t different from all the other bitches there.”

“That ain’t the point either.”

A dry laugh slipped out. “Fuck, Maggie. If I learned anything these past couple months, it’s that there ain’t no point to any of it.”

That, finally, silenced her.

Her gaze dropped to the loose thread hanging from the sleeve of your shirt, fingers twitching like she might fix it if she could just figure out how. Her mind worked overtime, searching for something—anything—to pull you back from the edge. But every thought sounded like a broken record. Or worse, like Father Gilroy during Sunday mass.

Truth was, Maggie didn’t think she was built for this. But she realized soon after coming home for summer break that everyone else around you was even less prepared. Hershel would bury your head in a Bible. Shawn, as kind as he was, didn’t know the first thing about talking feelings. Beth was too young, too hopeful. And Annette—your blood aunt, Maggie’s stepmother—had tried at first, but she’d lost her sister too. She’d retreated into the church, devotion becoming her armor.

You’d tried it yourself. For about a month.

Maybe your heart hadn’t been in it. Maybe you just wanted an excuse to be near Annette, who looked so much like your mother it hurt. But after three weeks, you couldn’t keep pretending. Even you felt ashamed, faking faith in the house of God. There had to be a special place in hell for that kind of thing. You wouldn’t know—you’d never paid much attention in church anyway.

“I’m hurtin’ so bad, Maggie,” you sobbed, tears falling like boulders onto your lap. “And I know it ain’t gonna be like this forever, but I’m never gettin’ my life back. It’s gone. She’s gone.”

Your breathing hitched, the words choking off as your throat closed. Maggie pulled you into her chest, cradling your head as her fingers threaded through your hair.

“I know, baby,” she murmured, her own tears now rolling down her cheeks. “I know.”

She wasn’t made for this, but for you, her soul sister, she would be. Maybe she didn’t have the right words or the wisdom that came with age, but she’d be there. Every time. Letting you bleed the pain out one tear at a time until there was nothing left to cry.

When dawn finally crept in, the night’s critters quieting one by one, the two of you climbed down from the loft and began the slow walk back toward the house in a comfortable, fragile silence.

That night would stay with you. Painful, yes—but never lonely. Not really. Not if you let yourself be held by the people who loved you.

You never could’ve known how tightly you’d cling to that memory in the months to come. How badly you’d need it just to stay sane.

As you turned to look back toward the field one last time, something caught your eye.

A figure.

Maybe a drunk—disheveled, unsteady.

But no.

It was moving wrong.

In the days, weeks, and months that followed, you would think about it more than once. You would wonder if it had been punishment. Punishment for stepping foot in God’s temple while cursing His name. For the bloodlust you carried for the man who killed your mother. For mourning a life already lost while taking the rest for granted.

Life as you knew it was taken from you the day your mother died.

And it was taken from everyone else on a hot August day.

Richie groaned as you nibbled at his earlobe, your chest pressing against his. His hands caressed your hips, squeezing every so often. You’d done this a million times before—just making out on the couch. But you’d never gone all the way. Not with him. Not with anyone.

Except Richie didn’t know that last part. You hadn’t told him until now because you’d never felt like things would escalate to that point. Until tonight.

Something was different. The way he held you felt more desperate. The air was charged.

So you pulled back from Richie’s neck, holding onto his shoulders as you looked at him. He opened his eyes and watched you as you stared at him. His hand came to rest on your cheek.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I…” You bit your lip. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Richie blinked, his gaze steady but something shifting behind his eyes—an unexpected seriousness settling in. You took his silence as an opening.

“I’m a virgin.”

Huh, he thought. Okay. That’s... something.

He swallowed the jumble of thoughts threatening to spill out and instead kept his voice low, careful.

“Okay... why’re you telling me this now?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated for only a moment before meeting his eyes.

“Because I want to… you know,” you whispered, eyes moving from his frame to around the room.

“You want to have sex? Is that it?”

You nodded.

“Right now?”

“Jesus, Richie! Yes, I want to have sex right now!”

“Wow, okay. No need to get angry.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“You don’t gotta apologize, babe. I just wanted to make sure.” He gave you a soft smile, his thumb tracing over your cheek.

“So… can we?”

Richie couldn’t help but smile. He placed a kiss on your lips, resting his forehead against yours.

“Course we can. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Richie took a deep breath, like he was anchoring himself. You could feel the shift in him—like he was still Richie, still cocky and warm and kind of ridiculous, but suddenly… focused. Intent. His hand slid from your cheek to your neck, thumb brushing the corner of your jaw as he kissed you again. This time slower. Deeper.

You melted into it.

His other hand stayed steady at your waist, grounding you in a way that made your stomach flutter. You didn’t feel nervous anymore. Not really. There was a calm inside the heat, a quiet trust that wrapped around you as much as his arms did.

Richie kissed along your jaw again, but softer now. Less rushed. He let his lips trail to your throat and back up, pausing just under your ear.

“We don’t gotta rush,” he murmured. “You tell me what you want, alright? We take it slow.”

“I don’t want slow,” you whispered back, almost a whine, surprising even yourself. “I want you.”

Richie pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, searching. He was checking—really checking—that you weren’t saying it just to say it. That you weren’t swept up in the moment or trying to prove something. You gave him your answer with your eyes. With the way you leaned into his touch.

“I’ve wanted you for a while,” you admitted quietly, voice cracking slightly. “Not just like this. I mean… everything. The dumb jokes. The texts. The way you make me feel like I’m not crazy all the time.”

Richie’s hand tightened a little on your waist. His expression softened. He opened his mouth like he might say something, then closed it again. He wasn’t used to hearing that kind of stuff. Not without a punchline waiting behind it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, a little unsteady. “You’re killin’ me here.”

He leaned in and kissed you again, and this time it felt like everything. Not just heat, but comfort. Familiarity. All the unspoken shit between you, wrapped up in lips and teeth and breath.

Then he stood up with you still in his arms, making you squeal a little as you held onto his shoulders.

“Richie!” you laughed.

“Hey, I’m not doing this on the fuckin’ couch. You deserve better than some half-assed backseat makeout scene, alright?”

He carried you through the apartment, still half-laughing under his breath, before setting you down gently on the bed. You watched him, heart thudding, as he knelt in front of you, undoing the buttons of your jeans like he was unwrapping something precious.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said softly. “Promise.”

Richie kissed the inside of your thigh as he slid your jeans down your legs. Every touch was slow, like he was reading you through your skin. You lay back against the pillows, heart hammering, chest rising and falling fast—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of it. 

When he looked up at you, his hands resting gently on your knees, his voice was low and steady. 

“You good, sweetheart?”

You nodded, and then, after a second, you whispered, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

Richie smiled, soft and crooked. “That’s alright. I’ll go slow. We’ll stop whenever you want, okay?”

“Okay.”

He leaned over you, kissing you again—slower than before, deeper. His hand moved to your shirt, fingertips brushing your stomach before tugging it up. You lifted your arms so he could pull it over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra, and you felt his breath hitch just a little at the sight.

“Jesus,” he murmured. His eyes trailed down, drinking you in like you were something sacred. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

You flushed, but you didn’t look away. He’d seen you naked before, but he felt the same awe every time he did. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before his mouth followed. He kissed one, then the other, tongue flicking teasingly over a nipple until you gasped. His grip on your hips tightened like he was holding himself back.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered against your skin, “way too many times.”

You shivered.

Then his hand slid down between your legs, pressing over your underwear, just enough to make you squirm.

“Can I take these off?”

You nodded. “Please.”

He peeled them down slowly, exposing you inch by inch, and once they were off, he just looked for a moment—his hand brushing the inside of your thigh, so gentle it made you ache.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good, alright?” he said.

“I will.”

Richie leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh again, then again, closer now. His breath hit you before his mouth did, and when his tongue finally slid through your folds, you gasped, your back arching.

“Oh—fuck…”

He moaned like you were the one giving him head, like the taste of you had knocked the air out of him.

“You’re so wet already,” he breathed. “Goddamn.”

His tongue moved with purpose—slow and deliberate, circling your clit, then dipping lower before coming back up. He worked you open with his mouth and his hands like he wanted you to come undone just for him.

And you were. Your legs were already trembling, your hands gripping the sheets, your voice soft and broken as you whimpered his name.

“Richie—oh my God—”

He slid one finger inside you, slow and careful, his eyes flicking up to watch your face. You tensed just a little, but he didn’t move until he saw you exhale.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yeah—keep going.”

He added another finger a minute later, scissoring them gently as he curled them just right. All the while, his mouth stayed on you, tongue working your clit with unrelenting focus, like he wanted to draw every sound out of you.

Your orgasm hit fast—unexpected. Your body tensed around his fingers and you cried out, clutching at his hair. He didn’t stop until you were shuddering, limp, breathless.

Richie pulled back and kissed your thigh again, then your stomach, then your lips.

“Still good?”

You nodded, dazed. “That was… that was really good.”

“Better than your birthday?”

You smiled at the memory. You’d been in the kitchen making coffee when Richie had come up behind you to say he had a birthday surprise for you. He’d been so desperate for you that day, you hadn’t even made it to the couch. He’d eaten you out right there on the counter. It had been the best head you’d ever gotten.

“Close competitor.”

Richie smiled at that, moving up to kiss your lips again. 

“Think you’re ready for more?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges now. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, how tight he was holding himself back.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I want you.”

Richie sat up and undid his belt, pulling his jeans down just enough, then reached into the drawer beside the bed for a condom. You watched him roll it on, your mouth going dry at the sight of him. He was thick, flushed, and you felt that flicker of nervousness again—but mostly, it was anticipation.

He settled between your legs, positioning himself carefully, eyes on yours.

“I’ll go slow, alright?”

“Okay.”

You felt him press against you, and slowly, steadily, he began to push in. You clung to his arms, jaw tight. It burned a little, but not in a bad way. It was just… intense. Full.

“Jesus Christ,” Richie muttered, voice strangled. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good.”

Once he was all the way in, he paused, breathing hard, resting his forehead against yours.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

He waited. He didn’t move until you gave him the okay. And when you did, he started slow. His hips rocked into you gently, barely pulling out before sliding back in. The pace let you feel every inch of him, every shift in pressure, every shaky breath. Your nails scratched lightly down his back as you kissed him again, moaning into his mouth. The pain faded, replaced by a slow-building heat that started to unravel you all over again.

“Richie—faster,” you whispered.

He didn’t argue. His pace picked up, still careful, but more desperate now. His mouth found your neck again, your breasts, your shoulder. You could hear yourself—soft cries and gasps filling the room. You felt his hand slip between you again, rubbing your clit as he thrust harder, deeper. It was overwhelming in the best way. Raw and messy and perfect.

“I’m not gonna last,” Richie said through gritted teeth. “You feel too good, babe—I’m gonna—fuck—”

“Come with me,” you gasped. “I’m close—don’t stop—”

A few more strokes and your body tightened again, everything clenching around him as the second orgasm crashed through you. Richie followed with a loud groan, burying himself deep inside as he came, arms wrapped tight around you.

He held you like that for a long time, his face buried in your neck, your fingers caressing his hair. The room smelled like sex and sweat and skin, but you didn’t care. All you could feel was him.

Eventually, Richie pulled back just enough to kiss your forehead, his voice hoarse.

“You alright?”

You nodded, smiling sleepily. “Perfect.”

He chuckled, brushing your hair back. “Didn’t hurt too bad?”

“No,” you said honestly. “It was really good.”

Richie’s eyes softened. “Good. ‘Cause you deserve good. All the fuckin’ good.”

He stayed there with you, just holding you. And for once, Richie didn’t have anything smart to say—just quiet, steady breathing and his fingers drawing lazy patterns on your back.

Then curiosity started chewing at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

You lifted your head so you could look at him from your spot on his chest.

“Sure.”

“How come you’ve never done this before?”

Sure, you were a bit younger than him, but you had experience—Richie knew that much from his time with you. And you’d mentioned you’d had other partners before, so he couldn’t help but wonder why not.

You let out a soft sigh, thinking about how to answer.

“I guess I’ve just never wanted to before.” You gave a small shrug. “Guess I was waiting for the right person.”

Richie blinked up at the ceiling, the weight of your words settling into his chest. You weren’t saying it to be dramatic or manipulative or even romantic. It was just the truth. Simple and sure.

And yet, it landed like a punch to the gut.

Not in a bad way. In a real way.

He looked back down at you, his arm tightening around your waist. “Fuck,” he whispered, shaking his head a little. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You smiled against his skin. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” he said softly. “That good.”

Silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm. Full. You laid your head on his chest again, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat calm your own.

He ran his hand up and down your back, slow and steady. “You really mean that?” he asked after a while. “About waiting for the right person?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not like I had it all planned out or anything. I just never felt… safe enough, I guess. Or seen.”

Richie let out a breath, like someone had just taken a weight off his shoulders he didn’t even know he was carrying.

“Well,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Thanks for seeing me, then. Even with all my fuckin’ baggage.”

You smiled, fingers absently tracing over his chest. “I like your baggage.”

He snorted. “You’re outta your goddamn mind.”

“Probably,” you said, grinning. “But I still like you.”

Richie went quiet again. You could feel the shift in his breathing—like he was holding something in his mouth he didn’t know if he should say.

Then, finally, he let it out.

“I think I love you.”

You froze for half a second—not in fear, but in surprise. It wasn’t what you were expecting. Not tonight. Not like this.

You lifted your head, just enough to look at him. “You think?”

He rolled his eyes at himself. “Fine. I know. I know I love you. Just didn’t wanna freak you out by saying it right after I got laid.”

You laughed, full and breathless, before leaning down to kiss him. It was soft. Grateful. Familiar now.

“I love you too.”

Richie let out a shaky laugh, like something inside him had finally loosened. He kissed you again, pulled you in close, and didn’t let go.

You spent countless days stark naked on your knees, on the hard ground of Victor's laboratory. Many more still strapped to his lab table, wrists and ankles shackled for hours.

The time on your knees was primarily spent with Victor's cock in your mouth. He worked constantly, hour after hour, but wanted his cock warmed or pleasured, either in your mouth or in your cunt, while he worked, making detailed sketches he never let you see.

Some days it was harder work than your duties as a maid, or at least more exhausting.

When you agreed to the free use of your body, you thought he meant mere sexual encounters. He did. His mouth and fingers and cock had explored every inch of you, dozes of times over, and the reverse was also true.

You knew him in intimate ways you never thought possible or proper to know a man. You had learned precisely how to lick him, the force with which to suck him, how often and how hard to swallow his tip. You'd uncovered where to put your fingers, where to stroke and massage and probe. You'd discovered things with Victor you never knew a man wanted to have done to him.

He took you regularly, at a moment's notice, all over the laboratory, each night in his chambers, in the bath, and even two nights ago, in the garden, under a full moon. He made you feel wild and passionate and scandalous, writhing naked in the dirt, moaning his name for anyone to hear.

The pleasure was endless, that much you could admit to yourself. And nothing could compare to luxurious baths with expensive soaps and salts. Exquisite balms and treatments for your weary skin soothed the ache of kneeling on hard ground.

And sleeping in a rich man's bed was reward enough. You grew accustomed to your routine, and even trained yourself to ignore the judgmental stares and scandalous whispers from the other servants.

According to them, you were, at best, a whore. At worst, the bride of Lucifer himself, sent to corrupt their master. You apparently lured him, day and night, to the "dungeon" to chant and dance naked and all manner of debauchery. Most of what they said wasn't very far from truth.

You no longer cared what they thought. Your job here was to serve your master. You were serving him. In return, you enjoyed his company, he taught you science and anatomy, you experienced endless pleasure and you slept warm, comfortable and safe each night.

But Victor acted differently the past few days. He excused you from his laboratory and sent you back to your normal duties. You tended to his needs, since you were the equivalent now of a lady's maid or gentleman's valet. So you still helped him dress, but also fetched his meals and delivered them to bottom of the stairs near the laboratory. And you waited.

You tried to busy yourself with other chores, but it was different, working on your own after weeks of his presence and attention.

He stumbled into his chambers early in the morning, not long before dawn, reeking and soaking wet.

"Draw a bath," he ordered, pulling dark red gloves from his hands and shedding his jacket. Dried blood stained his face and the corded column of his exposed neck, as well as his white shirt.

"Master, are you injured?" You cried, hands boldly checking him all over.

A withering glare halted your fussing. "A bath. Now."

"Yes, Master." You quickly bowed and rushed to obey. He loved his title on your lips so you said it often.

Minutes later, he sank into the warm water, an exhausted sigh passing his perfect lips.

You hated to disturb him, but he was filthy and seemed utterly spent.

"Shall I wash you?" You hesitantly questioned.

"Leave me," he mumbled, head resting against the edge of the tub as his eyes drifted closed.

With a quick bow, you swallowed thickly and took your leave. He must be greatly distressed. Either that, or you'd displeased him somehow.

Several minutes later, you heard wild splashing and a string of curses, which prompted you to return to him after preparing his bed. You rushed to find him pushing his sopping wet curls out of his eyes, gasping for breath.

"Are you well?" You asked, reaching to help him steady himself.

"Dozed off, I'm afraid," he returned, wiping water from his face.

"Here, let me," you insisted, reaching for a cloth to wash him.

He made a sound of protest, but ultimately relaxed under your soothing touch. You dragged the cloth over his smooth skin, pausing when you reached a stain of deep crimson, nearly brown.

"Is this blood, Victor?" Your gaze met his unflinchingly. You knew it was. And not from the frog's he'd experimented on.

He breathed out sharply through his nose. "I have no time for questions."

"Yes, Master," you immediately responded, playing your dutiful role, working to rub his skin clean. "I only worry for you."

"I know you do," he softly replied, his fingers brushing the length of your arm. His gaze slowly flickered to meet yours. "But you must not."

"Why musn't I?' You whispered.

"Because I will not be stopped." His eyes flashed with conviction as his jaw clenched. "You must keep your distance from my laboratory in the coming weeks, Petal."

"Weeks?" The cloth dropped to the water's surface with a flop as your lip trembled. "How have I displeased you?"

"You have never displeased me." His answer came as easily as drawing breath. Noticing your distress, he realized his response did not appease you.

He allowed his expression to soften, his fingers slipping from your arm down to your hand. "I remember the first time I had you, here in the bath. Do you remember?"

Your eyelashes fluttered prettily, your breasts heaving as you struggled to follow his change of subject. He wet his lips as you swallowed hard, skin heating as he leaned closer. "You've forgotten so soon?"

"No, of course not. I remember it nightly," you rushed to confess, your breath ghosting his cheek as he touched his forehead to yours.

He kissed your lips and instructed you to finish washing him. Then he took you to bed and tucked you against his body, covering you both with a luxurious blanket.

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

You missed being in Victor's lab, but honestly it was nice to get back to your regular duties, especially since you got to be close to him at night. You slept soundly, dreaming of a world where he regarded you as more than a servant. You really shouldn't waste your time dreaming of becoming a baroness - a wife, a mother to his heirs.

But he was a teacher to you. You'd learned so much from him. He even let you cut some of his frogs. You became more interested in anatomy and other sciences, which was so much more stimulating than a maid's duties.

But as you slept, you could not stop your desires from consuming your dreams.

Even now, you dreamt you felt a delicious, wet pressure between your legs. A languid sigh passed your lips as pleasure coiled in your center, rousing you languidly.

Victor's curls were nestled between your legs, his tongue swiping heavy and hungry at your cunt. His bare cock rubbed against your foot, pressing it into the mattress with the vivaciousness of a rutting animal.

You clawed your way to full consciousness, hungry for his attention after weeks without it. Before you could even say his name, your body seized in rapture, shaking as your climax overtook you.

He climbed out of bed and went back to work. Only then did you realize the sun had risen.

The days went on as such. Victor worked alone, long hours, returning to his chambers covered in blood an filth. You would wash him and then he would find rest in your arms.

But this night, you fell asleep waiting for him to clamber up the stairs. Your eyes burned from forcing them open, and you could swear there was light in the sky before you finally gave in to your exhaustion.

You felt a familiar flaring rapture in your center - insistent yet delicious. Your body moved, seemingly of its own accord, bare back against smooth, luxurious sheets.

"There you are," Victor's breath, hot and tinged with alcohol, met your cheek. "Your cunt is so tight when you sleep."

He pulsed inside you, hips rotating, grinding hard, slow and deep. A slight sting caused you to flinch. Noticing it instantly, Victor slipped his hand between your bodies, fingers massaging your sensitive, throbbing bud as he snapped his hips faster.

"Relax, Petal," he commanded. "Your dry cunt has taken my cock many nights without you waking."

The thought of Victor fucking you in your sleep flooded his cock with your desire. Your back arched as you moaned, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts.

"You are insufferable," you boldly declared.

The corners of his eyes crinkled where he smiled at you with an odd mixture of amusement and condescension. "Is that so? You seem to be enjoying my insufferable cock."

Even as he goaded you, his fingers teased your entrance, an embarrassing squelching alerting you to how quickly you went from dry to soaked.

"You ignore me for weeks and fuck me while I sleep? Insufferable." He seemed amused by your antics, so you playfully swatted his arm. "Selfish beast."

"I come to bed so late. I did not wish to disturb you," He explained with mock innocence. By now, his fingers returned to pulsing around your clit rhythmically.

You moaned as he worked you over, demanding you hush and give into your pleasure.

"Victor," you panted, locking your arms behind his neck, twisting your fingers into his dark curls to tug demandingly. "Disturb me."

He chuckled into a messy, salacious kiss, bringing you to delicious, heavenly release. He allowed you you enjoy it, revel in it, working you all the way through it before gripping your thighs and pounding his way to his own end, corded neck straining as he spilled deep and hot into you.

You longed for him to kiss your mouth and hold you close as the sun rose, but, after making a mess of you, he descended to his laboratory in nothing more than his robe.

✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧ ---------- ✧

“Listen,” Victor rasps. “Please.”

The Creature bends closer.

Victor shuts his eyes, steadying himself. When he opens them again, they are wet.

“I was not… only your creator,” he says. “But I was father to another.”

The Creature doesn’t move. He barely breathes.

Victor swallows, the sound harsh in the quiet cabin. “A daughter. Born of my foolish youth. My secrecy.” His voice catches. “My shame.”

The Creature’s brow furrows. “A daughter.”

“Yes.” Victor nods once, trembling. “She lives. I have wronged her. As I wronged you. As I wronged everyone who ever loved me.”

He coughs, agony tearing through his chest. The Creature’s hand steadies him, instinctively protective. For a moment, Victor leans into it like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“Find her,” Victor gasps. “Not to comfort me… but to give her what I cannot. To tell her the truth I buried. To—”

His voice breaks.

“To ask her forgiveness, as you have given me yours.”

The Creature feels something cold and unfamiliar thread through him. 

Responsibility.

Purpose.

Victor’s gaze blurs, drifting toward a memory only he can see. “You are the only one who can carry this,” he whispers. “Promise me.”

The Creature grips his creator’s hand more firmly. “I will find her.”

Victor’s breath stutters. “And?”

“I will ask for her forgiveness.”

A faint, shaking exhale escapes Victor. Relief. Gratitude. Regret woven into all of it.

Outside, the wind howls against the wooden hull like a creature in mourning.

Victor looks at him one last time. “Thank you… my son.”

His fingers go slack.

The lantern flickers.

The ship creaks.

And for the second time in his life, the Creature kneels beside the body of the man who created him.

× × × × 

It is dusk, the hour when candles are lit and the town exhales after its long day. You sit by the window above the bakery, needle moving in steady strokes as you mend your mother’s only Sunday dress. Flour dust drifts through the floorboards from below; the scent of warm bread clings to everything you own.

Your world is small, but it is yours.

You don’t hear the knock at the door.

You only feel the faint tremor of the floorboards beneath your feet, then see your mother freeze in the doorway—her work apron still tied around her waist, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned in the haste of a long day.

Her hand lifts to her mouth. Her eyes widened. And then you see the letter pressed into the stranger’s gloved hand.

Thick paper. Red seal. Wealth written all over it.

Your mother snatches it as if it might vanish, nods shakily to the courier, closes the door with trembling fingers.

She turns toward you.

And the look in her eyes… You have never seen that before.

Something like hope. Something like disbelief. Something like salvation arriving too late yet exactly in time.

You frown, setting the needle aside. “What is it?” you ask, brows knit.

She doesn’t answer back.

Instead she walks to you, slowly, as though afraid the moment will dissolve. She places the letter on the small table, then gently lifts the dress from your lap and sets it aside.

Her hands take yours.

Warm. Shaking.

Tears gather in her eyes.

“My heart,” she whispers, voice cracking, “your life has changed forever.”

You stare at her as she squeezes your hands tighter, tears spilling now—relief and fear and joy tangled together. You want to ask more, but she only shakes her head, unable to speak, pressing your knuckles to her lips as if giving thanks for something she thought would never come.

From the bakery below, the bell on the shop door rings, as ordinary as ever. But your mother’s trembling smile tells you nothing—nothing—is ordinary anymore.

Three long days after. . .

The carriage rumbles up the long stone path, wheels crunching through gravel you’ve never walked before. You sit beside your mother, clutching the faded bag that holds everything you own: three dresses, your mending kit, and a handful of keepsakes.

Three acreages.

Three plantations.

And the vast Frankenstein estate.

You try not to think of it. You still feel like a girl who lives above a bakery, paid in bread and a cot by the window.

When the carriage stops, the door swings open and a man in a worn but tidy coat steps forward. The groundskeeper. He bows—an actual bow—and says your name as though it belongs to someone far grander.

“Welcome home, Milady.”

Home. The word feels so out of place.

You step out onto the gravel.

The estate rises before you like something carved from a dream—massive, pale against the fading sky, windows dark as watching eyes.

You move to the base of the stone steps, your mother just behind you. The air is colder here. Sharper. It prickles the back of your neck.

You pause.

The world quiets.

Something crawls up your spine, subtle and instinctive. The feeling of being observed. A weight on the air, the kind that tells you you are not alone.

Your gaze snaps to the treeline.

Tall pines stand in rigid rows, shadows stretching long between them. You scan the dark shapes between the trunks, waiting for something—movement, breath, the glint of an eye.

Nothing.

Just the forest. Just the estate. Just the wind brushing the hem of your dress.

Still… the feeling lingers. Watching. Waiting.

The groundskeeper clears his throat gently. “Milady? Shall I show you and your mother inside?”

You turn back toward him, trying to shake off the strange tightness coiled in your chest.

But before you follow, you glance once more at the trees.

No movement. No sound.

Yet something—someone—is out there.

And you feel it.

Even if you cannot hear it.

× × × ×

The Manor swallows you whole.

It is enormous. High ceilings stretching into dark rafters. Corridors branching like arteries. Rooms large enough to echo even your footsteps.

You stick close to your mother, because one wrong turn and you could vanish into this place forever.

The air smells faintly of old books, polished wood, and time. The groundskeeper leads you down the grand hall. And then—

You stop.

A portrait hangs above the nearest staircase. Tall, gilded frame. Heavy with importance. The man inside painted with a solemn expression, dark curls, haunted eyes.

Victor Frankenstein.

Your father.

Your mother’s breath stutters; she looks up at the portrait like it’s a ghost. The groundskeeper pauses too, seeing where your attention has landed.

You tilt your head, arms crossing loosely as you study the painting.

Then, casually—almost politely—you speak, “Are we allowed to remove that?”

The groundskeeper nearly chokes.

“Excuse me, Milady?”

You gesture at the portrait again. “The painting. May we take it down?”

Your mother stiffens beside you. Her eyes widen so sharply it is a miracle they don’t fall out of her skull.

The groundskeeper blinks, utterly baffled, as if this is the first time anyone has ever dared to ask such a thing.

You look between both of them, confused by the sudden tension. “What? It is not as though he was—”

Your mother lunges forward.

“She jests!” she blurts out, grabbing the groundskeeper’s arm with a nervous laugh. “She is… merely overwhelmed by the grandness of the place!”

You frown. “I am not jest—”

Your mother’s hand slaps over your mouth so fast the wind from it practically knocks your bonnet askew.

You blink at her.

She gives a smile—wide, trembling, painfully desperate—to the groundskeeper. “You know how young ladies are. Playful with their words. She means nothing by it.”

You pull her hand off your face. “Mother,” you hiss, “I meant it.”

Her palm slaps over your lips again. Even harder this time.

The groundskeeper is caught somewhere between amusement and horror, his eyes darting between you two like he’s unsure if this is a private family dispute or a spectacle he should politely ignore.

At last he clears his throat and says, carefully, “The master’s portrait has hung there for decades, miss. It is… rather significant to the estate’s history.”

You lift your brows, prying your mother’s fingers off your mouth one by one. “Yes. I can see how significant a man must be to have such a large portrait after telling his own daughter she was a mist—”

Your mother clamps both hands over your face.

You let out a muffled, insulted noise.

The groundskeeper’s jaw drops.

Your mother’s smile becomes so tight and strained that it could snap. “She is… exhausted from travel.”

You nod behind her hands, eyes narrowed in betrayal.

“Well,” the groundskeeper says, flustered, straightening his coat. “Let us… continue the tour.”

Your mother drags you away before you can speak another syllable, whispering furiously,

“Can we please arrive before you cause a scandal?”

You smother a glare and glance over your shoulder.

The portrait still stares down at you.

And for the first time, you stare back without fear.

Only indifference.

× × × × 

The house sleeps like a beast.

Every corridor, a throat. Every doorframe, a rib. Every painting, an eye.

You lie in your enormous, unfamiliar bed, sheets cold against your skin. The moon spreads a silver path across the floorboards, and the wind rattles the balcony shutters just enough to keep your pulse awake.

At first you think the shape is part of a dream.

A shadow. Tall. Broad.

Standing just beyond the glass balcony doors, unmoving, like it had been waiting there long before you looked.

Your breath catches.

You blink.

The shadow does not.

It is a figure. A full, human silhouette. Shoulders too wide. Height wrong in a way your brain cannot quite accept. Not just a man. Something… larger.

Your throat tightens.

Slowly, you sit up, the mattress creaking beneath you. The figure turns — or you think it does — tilting its head as though listening to something.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

And then it moves.

One step back.

Then another.

Then gone, swallowed by the darkness just beyond the balcony rail.

You fling off the blankets and hurry across the cold floor, push open the glass doors, breath fogging in the night air.

Nothing.

Only the empty balcony.

The whisper of pine trees beyond the estate.

And a coldness that feels like someone had just been standing exactly where you are.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

You know what you saw.

You know.

You close the doors, latch them firmly, and return to your bed — but sleep will not come. Every creak feels pointed. Every painting feels watchful.

You lasted an hour before you gave up.

You pad down the hall, nightdress brushing against your ankles, bare feet whispering against the wooden floor. Soft candlelight glows beneath your mother’s door. You knock first out of habit, even though she may not hear the faint tap.

You let yourself in.

She is awake, propped against the pillows, reading her worn Bible by a stub of candle. Her face softens when she sees you.

You climb into the bed beside her and curl into her warmth like you did as a child.

“Can’t sleep?” she murmurs.

You shake your head. “It feels cold,” you whisper. “And it feels lonely. And…”

You hesitate.

“And I feel as though I’m being watched.”

Your mother snorts a soft laugh, closing her book. “In this grand place? With its rooms and its shadows? My dear heart, that’s nerves. You’re old enough to stop frightening yourself with ghost stories.”

You lift your head sharply. “I am not making it up.”

She gives you that indulgent, tired, fond look — the one she uses when she thinks your imagination has taken the reins.

You sigh and pull her arm around you, needing the contact. “When I tried to sleep, the paintings felt like… like a hundred eyes staring at me. And I saw a shadow on the balcony.”

“When you opened the door,” your mother says, smoothing your hair, “was anything there?”

“No.” But your voice is thin, uncertain.

She chuckles again. “Then there was no one, my love.”

You sit up a little. “You do not understand. I know what he did.”

“Who?” she asks.

“Victor.” His name tastes like metal. “I know his reputation. You let me read his notebook, remember? The one with those grotesque drawings… the bodies… the pieces he stitched together.”

Your mother’s expression flickers — guilt, regret, something protective.

You continue anyway, voice dropping to a whisper. “What if the souls of those corpses are after me? What if they follow blood? What if they know I am the only living thing connected to that man?”

She bursts into a laugh before she can stop herself.

You glare.

She wipes her eyes, still smiling. “Forgive me, my heart. You speak of it so seriously. But you truly expect the dead to climb out of their graves simply because you share a wicked man’s blood?”

“Yes,” you say simply.

Her laughter fades, replaced with gentler softness. She cups your cheek with a warm, work-calloused hand. “No one is coming for you. Ghost or otherwise. You are safe. The house only seems frightening because it is new.”

But you are not convinced.

And when she blows out the candle and the room folds into darkness, you cling to her a little tighter.