Anime 4/2002

I am traveling to an eastern ally to consult with my brother. I will be gone for two days. Maintain order in my absence.

The proxies got it first, of course. Masky, Hoodie, Toby, and Kate assured him everything would remain as it is, before sending the message down the rest of the totem pole. But by the time the front door clicked shut behind him, the house already felt different. 

That was hours ago, when the mansion was still quiet enough you could hear the floorboards creak.

Now it’s so loud you think your eardrums might pop.

You weave through the absurdly crowded living room, your shoulder bumping against someone’s leather jacket—probably one of the many out-of-towners who showed up when the word got out that Slender was gone for the night. The coffee table in the center of the rug is buried under empty bottles and half-crushed solo cups. All the lights are on, even the Christmas string-lights that nobody had taken down since December, so it makes the space extremely overstimulating—and that’s not to even mention the music that bumps through the mansion so hard the paintings on the wall clatter. 

The party’s in full swing, the house lined back to front with weirdos and freaks of all shapes and sizes. Familiar and new faces pass by you in blurs, but that’s only because you’ve had just a couple of drinks.

But right now, you’re in desperate need of a smoke, and who else do you know for fact would have one besides Tim and Brian. The only problem is finding them in this bustling crowd.

Jeff’s perched on the back of the couch like a vulture, his jacket hood half-fallen, his black hair sticking up in greasy spikes, and the carved smile pulling tight around his teeth as he laughs too loud at something Ben just said, both of them passing a bottle of cheap vodka back and forth. They're surrounded by unfamiliar faces, but all of them are drunk or high nonetheless.

You’re almost clear of the living room, almost, when Jeff’s voice cuts through the noise like a dart.

“Hey! Wallflower! Don’t think you’re sneaking past without saying hello.” He has to half-yell it over the music, but if the intense slur in his words isn’t evidence enough, Jeff is drunk. 

Ben’s slouched deep in the couch cushions, his blond hair wild and falling into his eyes in uneven strands. The loose ring of unfamiliar faces who surround them part so you can step closer, making it easier for you to hear them over the pounding music.

Jeff grins and lifts the vodka bottle and waggles it in your direction. “C’mere. One sip.”

You step closer just enough to be polite, close enough that the sharp bite of cheap alcohol hits your nose even over the weed smell wafting from Ben. You take the bottle when he shoves it toward you, but you don’t lift it to your lips, just hold it for a second. You pass it to Ben without a word when you see him eyeing it greedily.

“My hero,” he laughs, already tipping it back.

Jeff snorts, leaning forward to really get closer to you, the smell of alcohol on him even stronger than Ben’s weed. “Prude.”

“Not prude,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Just not trying to blackout before I get a good smoke in and a spot to sit down.”

He laughs and slaps the couch cushion between him and Ben. “There’s a premium spot right here. Prime real estate. Saved it special for you. Right between the two coolest motherfuckers in the house.”

Ben lowers the bottle, smirking lopsided, his blond bangs sticking to his forehead, looking every bit the creepy elf. 

“I’ve got a better spot,” he barks, pointing to his open lap. Which, mind you, already has some spilt alcohol stains that could definitely resemble pee if you thought hard enough.

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. The room feels warmer suddenly, the bass thumping through the floorboards in time with your pulse. They’re both grinning like cats.

You shake your head, stepping back. “Tempting. But I’m looking for Tim and Brian. You guys seen them?”

Jeff shrugs one shoulder before he’s already reaching for the bottle again as Ben reluctantly hands it over. “Dunno. Probably sulking on the porch like the old married couple they are. Or Tim’s hiding in the basement pretending he’s a good boy for Slendy.”

Ben snickers into his sleeve. “Wherever one is, the other isn’t far behind.”

“Cool. Thanks for nothing,” you say, flashing them both a quick grin.

Jeff points two fingers at you like a gun. “Don’t think you’re off the hook forever. We’re breaking out the bong soon, and I’m gonna need to see you rip one for me.”

“Pass,” you call over your shoulder, already turning toward the hallway. 

Their laughter follows you out as you round into the hall.

You push through the kitchen door and the smell hits you—a wall of warm beer, vodka, and way too much cigarette smoke. The island counter’s been turned into a trash pile of red solo cups lined up in sloppy triangles, ping-pong balls bouncing everywhere, and half the surface already slick with liquid.

From what you can see through the bystanders, Nina and Kate are facing off at opposite ends, surrounded by a loose, rowdy circle of strangers and friends cheering them on. A couple of proxies from other mansions are slapping the counter in rhythm, hollering every time a ball even comes close.

Kate’s up to shoot. She’s swaying pretty hard, her black hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, her eyes narrowed to furious slits. She whips around suddenly, elbowing a tall guy who got too close to her back. 

“Fuck off.” she snaps, her voice thick and slurry. The guy laughs and steps back half a foot with his hands up. Kate mutters something vicious under her breath, lines up her shot, and hurls the ball way too hard. It smacks the rim of a cup, bounces off, and lands in a puddle on the floor. The crowd groans and laughs.

Nina’s turn. She’s got one hip cocked against the counter, giggling so hard her shoulders shake. Her braids are coming loose, the pink streaks bright under the overhead light, and she’s leaning sideways into some random girl’s shoulder because it seems she can’t stay upright on her own. She’s winning—like, by a lot. Kate only has three cups left, but Nina still has almost a full side. Nina lines up her shot, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, then flicks her wrist. The ball arcs clean and drops straight into the center cup with a satisfying plop.

The crowd roars.

“Yes!” Nina crows, throwing her arms up and nearly toppling into the person next to her. She catches herself on their shirt, her cheeks just as pink as she streaks in her hair. “Drink up, bitch!”

Kate snarls, grabs the cup, and chugs it in three angry gulps. Some of it dribbles down her chin. She slams the empty cup down so hard it crumples. 

“This is bullshit,” she cuts, already reaching for the next one. She whips around again when another stranger leans in to pat her shoulder. “Touch me and I’ll rip your fucking fingers off.”

You eye the scene over someone’s shoulder, biting back a smile. Nina’s all loose giggles drunkenly floaty, giggling and smiling at everyone. Kate’s the exact opposite—all red-faced, pissed-off, and getting drunker by the second, every missed shot making her even more mad. The crowd around them probably isn’t helping, people shouting encouragement, someone passing a joint along the edge of the circle, another person filming on their cracked phone.

You keep drifting along the edge of the crowd, scanning faces in the kitchen light. Most are strangers, but then you spot a familiar flash of orange goggles pushed up on a messy brown head of hair.

You round the island and slip into the quieter pocket where the cabinets make a little alcove in the kitchen area. The music’s still loud, but it feels muffled back here so you can hear better.

Toby’s in the middle, leaning back against the counter and flicking a pocket lighter open and closed against his fingers. Natalie is on his left, her side pressed comfortably against his, and one arm draped lazily over the back of his neck. Eyeless Jack’s on his right, all tall and broad, leaning in so the three of them form a tight little triangle. They look comfortable together.

Toby’s got a cigarette pinched between two scarred fingers, passing it back and forth with Nat. She takes a drag, then hands it over while Jack cracks open a beer with his claws. The three of them are chatting and laughing as you approach.

Toby spots you first. His head jerks up and he breaks into a wide, crooked grin that shows too many teeth.

“Yo! There yo-you are!” he hollers, his voice cracking halfway through. He waves the cigarette in your direction like a beacon. “C’mere, c’mere—room f-for one mo-more.”

Nat gives you a lazy nod, her single normal eye crinkling at the corner, the clock ticking softly on the other side of her face. Jack tilts his head toward you, the black voids of his sockets pointed in your direction.

You shuffle over, your shoes scuffing the sticky tile, and slide into the open spot across from them. The air back here smells marginally better than the others, but you think it might just be because of Nat’s perfume.

“Hey,” you smile, leaning one hip against the counter. “You guys seen Tim or Brian anywhere? I figured you’d know if they’re hiding, Toby.”

Toby laughs again, his shoulders shaking. He takes a quick drag off the cigarette before passing it to Nat. “T-Tim? Probably o-out on the porch. He’s too ol-old for this s-shit. Brian’s gon-gonna be right th-there w-with him.” He jerks his chin toward the back door. “They were headed that w-way last I sa-saw. Why, you trying to escape already?”

Nat smirks around the cigarette. “Smart thinking.”

Jack cracks open the beer with a soft hiss and wordlessly hands it over. You take it to be polite, even though you can still feel the warm sway of alcohol moving through your veins from what you’ve already had tonight. You take a small sip and hold onto it for now.

Toby’s smile lights up his scarred face. “See? Somebody kn-knows how to b-be polite. Unlike some people w-who chug everything in si-sight.”

Nat laughs under her breath as she takes another drag off the shared cigarette. She exhales, smoke curling around her face. “Speaking of chugging, Kate’s about two more drinks away from starting a fistfight in there. You see her whipping around like that? Girl’s gonna break someone’s nose before the night’s over.”

Jack leans heavier against the counter. “She always gets mean when she’s drunk. Just watch, she’ll start throwing stuff soon.”

Toby snorts, his shoulders jerking. “You can’t e-even speak, man. Every t-time you get bla-blasted, you’re out chewing o-on anything t-that moves.”

Nat bumps his shoulder with hers, grinning. “Says the guy who likes to take off running for miles. We always have to send a search party out for your ass the next morning.”

The three of them chuckle, and you laugh along, but eventually you push off and step back. “Alright, I’m gonna keep looking for those two before Jeff decides I'm too sober for his liking.”

Toby waves the cigarette at you. “Tell T-Tim I said he’s a b-bo-boring old man.”

You slip out of the kitchen, weaving through the hallway where the music pulses louder again. The front door’s propped open, but the screen door is still latched, letting in slivers of cool night air. You head that way, stepping out onto the front porch.

The crowd out here is still thick, bodies scattered across the wide wooden deck and spilling down into the yard, but it’s not as frantic as inside. There’s no yelling (though, you can still hear it from inside,) just low conversations, the occasional burst of laughter, and the steady hum of summer insects in the trees. The air feels clean and cool against your skin after the sweaty heat of the mansion, carrying that sweet pine and damp earth smell that always hangs around the woods at night, something you’ve always loved. You pause at the top of the steps and take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs and clear some of the fog from your head.

You scan the area. Out in the yard, Smile Dog is tearing around in wild circles, his tongue lolling out the side of his toothy mouth, chasing a very giggly Laughing Jack who keeps dodging behind trees and waving his long striped arms for the demon dog to chase. Further back, Helen leans against a thick tree, talking quietly with a small group of unfamiliar faces, captivating them with some sort of story. On the very edge of the property, half-hidden in the shadows near the tree line, you spot Liu lingering alone with his hands in his pockets and keeping his distance from the house. You think he’s definitely worried Jeff might catch sight of him and start something.

But right at the far edge of the porch, away from the main knot of people, you see them.

Tim and Brian are huddled together, leaning side-by-side against the porch railing. Tim’s got a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, his worn face scanning the yard and taking sips every now and then. Brian’s next to him, sucking down a cigarette lazily, the cherry glowing bright in the dull porch lights. They’re talking between hits of their respective substances, probably rambling on about how unconventional this party is.

You shuffle up to the edge of the porch where they’re posted up, nudging your shoulders between them with a small smile. Tim and Brian both shift without missing a beat, parting just enough to let you slide right into the middle. The wooden railing is solid under your forearms as you settle in, the three of you lined up.

Tim glances over first, the beer bottle dangling loose from his fingers as he taps it against his leg. “How’s the ruckus inside? Sounds like the mansion’s about to come off its foundation.”

You lean your weight against the rail, the cool night air brushing your skin. “Not as bad as it sounds. At least nobody’s dead yet.” You pause, then add with a little laugh, “Though, you might have to go pull Kate off someone before the night’s over. She’s losing in beer pong and furious about it.”

Brian lets out a low chuckle and sighs his amusement. He’s still working on his cigarette, the cherry glowing bright every time he inhales. You eye it without meaning to, the familiar craving creeping in, the object you’ve been searching for all night finally right in front of you. He catches you looking and the corner of his mouth ticks up. Without a word, he holds the cigarette out to you.

You trade him the half-empty beer can Jack gave you earlier. Brian takes it with a nod, and you bring the cigarette to your lips, pulling in a deep, slow drag. The smoke fills your lungs—warm, familiar, a little harsh from whatever cheap brand he’s smoking tonight. You hold it for a second, then exhale as steadily as you can to not make yourself have a coughing fit. Already you can feel your body loosening up, feel your shoulders dropping, the buzz in your head softening into something smoother, nicer. You lean more of your weight against the railing, the wood creaking quietly under the shift.

Tim watches you with a smirk, taking a sip from his fresh beer. “You look like you needed that.”

“Needed it bad,” you admit, passing the cigarette back to Brian. “The house was getting a little too loud. Toby, Nat, and Jack are holed up in the back of the kitchen, and Jeff and Ben are putting on a show on the living room couch.”

Brian takes a drag, then offers it across you to Tim. “Ah, this is their scene, isn’t it?” He leans in a little closer on your side. “Slender never really gives them breaks, so it’s good to let them get all their angst out.”

You laugh, accepting the cigarette when Tim passes it your way next. “Yeah, as soon as the boss walked out the door, Jeff and Ben were already calling people and sneaking out to buy booze.”

Tim shakes his head, accepting the cigarette back from you. He takes a pull, and you watch as smoke curls out as he talks. “Slender definitely knows what’s going on. Boss’ got eyes in the damn walls. He’s probably listening to us right now and deciding if he should kill us all for this.”

Brian nods, his shoulder brushing yours as he shifts. “Yeah, but I think he’s letting us have this one. We’ve been running hard lately. It’s been like the fuckin’ trenches lately.” He glances at you. “Figure we might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Before he drags us all back out there again.”

You take another drag when it comes back around.

“Guess that means we should make it count,” you say, exhaling toward the dark yard. “Before we’re all knee-deep in work again and trying not to go batshit.”

Tim bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “Exactly.”

You were about to smile and make a joke—when a loud, splintering crash cut through the thumping music from inside.

All three of you snapped your heads toward the house at the same time. Brian dropped the cigarette onto the porch boards instantly, his boot grinding it out under his heel. Tim was already moving, pushing off the railing with a muttered, “Goddammit.”

You fell in right behind them, the three of you cursing as you crammed through the front door. The crowd had already started drifting toward the noise like moths to the porch light outside, their bodies packed tight in the hallway. You had to elbow and nudge your way through, the air suddenly thicker again with sweat and spilled beer.

By the time you broke into the living room, the scene was pure chaos in miniature.

Jeff and Kate were on the floor in a messy tangle of limbs and flying fists, both of them way too drunk to land anything clean. Jeff swung wildly, his mouth gaped in a big grin as his fist mostly hit the air beside Kate’s head. Kate snarled and kicked at him, her boot catching his ribs with a thud that probably sounded worse than it felt given how sloppy they both were. A lamp lay shattered beside them, glass sparkling across the floorboards and likely cutting their hands up.

Tim didn’t hesitate like everyone else. He waded straight in, grabbing Kate under the arms and hauling her up and backward to his chest and off of Jeff. “Alright, that’s enough—”

Brian was right behind him. The second Kate was clear, Jeff tried to scramble up, still spitting curses. Brian planted a hand on his shoulder and shoved him right back down onto his ass. “Stay down, you idiot.”

Kate was still thrashing in Tim’s grip, her face flushed red and dark hair all in her face. “He started it—called me a washed-up—”

“I said you—you’re a pussy—” Jeff laughed from the floor, blood already trickling from a split lip that honestly might’ve been there before the fight.

Tim shot a sharp look at Ben who was still hovering near the couch with wide eyes. “Cut the music.”

Ben flicked two fingers quickly. The music cut off mid-beat, leaving nothing but the low murmur of the crowd and the heavy breathing of the two idiots pulled off of each other.

The sudden quiet felt heavier than the noise had.

Brian straightened up, voice loud and carrying through the whole downstairs. “If you don’t live here, or you’re not fucking somebody who does—get the fuck out. Party’s over.”

A ripple went through the room. Some of the strangers grumbled, a few laughed like they thought he was joking, but most started shuffling toward the doors, bottles in hand, casting glances back at the mess on the floor.

You stood there between Tim and Brian, your heart still thumping from the sudden panic inside. Jeff was still chuckling to himself on the ground, wiping at his bloody lip with the sleeve of his hoodie. Kate had stopped struggling but was muttering curses under her breath, glaring daggers at everyone through her drunken slurs.

Within the hour, the last of the outsiders had trickled out into the woods, headlights cutting through the trees as cars bumped down the long driveway. The mansion felt suddenly bigger and smaller at the same time—only the residents left, scattered through the kitchen and living room to see what was left.

The place was trashed.

Red Solo cups everywhere, some still leaking onto the hardwood. The coffee table was shoved crooked against the wall with one of its legs cracked. Beer and vodka had pooled in sticky patches that were already starting to attract flies. The shattered lamp lay in glittering pieces near the couch, and someone had knocked over a bookshelf during the commotion, paperbacks and old magazines fanned out across the floor like fallen leaves. The fairy lights still hung lazily overhead, but one string had come loose and was hanging crooked, throwing weird shadows on the walls.

You learned the fight had started simple and stupid, the way most things did around here. Jeff had been messing with Kate during her and Nina’s beer pong match—leaning in too close, making dumb comments about her aim, then “accidentally” bumping the table right as she went to shoot. She missed. Kate, already three sheets to the wind and mean with it, had swung on him without thinking. Jeff, never one to back down from a scrap, swung back. From there it snowballed into the messy tangle you’d walked in on.

Now the house had gone quiet, the thump of music replaced by the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of glass as people started half-heartedly picking up.

You were sitting on the arm of the couch next to Jeff, holding a cold beer bottle against his split lip. The bleeding had slowed, but the cut still looked angry under the lights—which was funny considering how messed up his mouth already was. Jeff leaned back, one arm slung over the back of the couch and letting you hold the bottle there without complaint, but he kept wincing every time you adjusted the pressure.

“Easy, easy,” he muttered around the bottle. “You’re being rough.”

“Stop talking or I’ll press harder,” you grumbled. You shifted the bottle a little, the condensation dripping down your fingers. “You had to poke the bear tonight, huh?”

Jeff let out a raspy chuckle. “She was getting the lead on Nina. Couldn’t just let it slide.” He glanced sideways at you, eyes half-lidded. “Besides… everybody’s fine, right? Little fight never killed anybody. Much.”

Across the room, Toby and Nat had managed to get Kate upright between them. She was still muttering curses, her legs wobbly and not supporting her weight at all, but the anger had mostly burned out into drunk exhaustion. Toby had one arm around her waist while Nat supported her other side, both of them reassuring her that she’d be in her bed soon as they steered her toward the stairs.

The mess was worse once everyone actually looked at it and decided it needed to be handled.

A couple of people made a half-hearted start—Nina grabbing paper towels, Toby picking up random bottles—but it didn’t last long. Within ten minutes the whole group had drifted back into the living room, dropping onto the couch, the floor, the arms of chairs, too buzzed and tired to keep pretending they wanted to be responsible—especially with Slender still not back.

Tim stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, trying to rally. “Come on. The longer we wait, the worse it gets. Let’s just knock this out.”

Brian was right beside him, and just as firm. “He’s right. We’re not leaving it like this for him to come back to.”

Nobody moved with any real enthusiasm. Jeff was still sprawled on the couch with his head tipped back, the cold beer bottle now forgotten on the cushion beside him. Ben floated lazily near the window, picking at the label on a bottle. Eyeless Jack sat silently in the corner armchair, looking the most annoyed you’d ever seen him. 

Nina, cross-legged on the floor and still faintly giggly, finally broke the silence. “Okay, but who actually wants to clean right now? We’re all winding down anyway.” She tilted her head, pink-streaked hair falling over one shoulder. “How about a game? Losers clean one whole room. Winners get to sit and drink and have fun. Like… seven minutes in heaven?”

A few people groaned. Toby laughed. “That’s so st-stupid.”

“You know you want to,” Nina shot back with a grin.

Tim rubbed a hand down his face. “I’m not playing that shit.”

Jack’s head away. “Pass.”

Jeff sat up a little, wincing at his split lip. “I think it's a fantastic idea.”

It took some convincing. Tim kept shaking his head, muttering about how stupid it was. Jack stayed quiet but clearly uninterested. Brian looked like he knew exactly how bad this was going to end up. But the buzz was still there, the night still warm, and nobody really wanted to spend the next two hours on their knees with paper towels.

Jeff stood, crossing his arms to match Tim’s stature. “Just imagine it, Timothy. Seven minutes alone in a closet with this one.”

At that, he jabbed his thumb in your direction, and everyone’s eyes in the room darted to you.

“Jeff,” you hissed.

The room went dead quiet for a beat. Then Tim let out a long breath, rubbed the back of his neck, then muttered, “Deal.”

That single word cracked the silence. Suddenly everyone was nodding and chiming in.

“Yeah, alright,” Brian huffed.

Even Jack gave a slow, reluctant nod of his head.

You gawked at them with your mouth open. “Are you serious? This is perverted and stupid. I’m not doing this.”

Nat leaned over Jeff, shoulder-checking him hard enough to knock him back onto the couch. She snatched the beer bottle you’d been using on his lip and set it sideways on the coffee table right in front of you. The glass clinked against the wood with finality.

“We’ll use the hall closet,” she said calmly, single eye creasing with amusement towards you. “If you chicken out or don’t last the full seven minutes, you lose. You clean while the other person gets to sit back and drink.” She gave you a small, wicked smile. “You go first.”

You shook your head fast. “No way. Absolutely not.”

Toby’s grin widened, his tics spurring him to whistle through his teeth. “Then y-you can go ahead an-and start cleaning.”

You scanned the room, your stomach twisting. The place really was disgusting—sticky floors, broken glass still scattered, cups and bottles everywhere, that sour smell of spilled beer hanging all in the air. The thought of spending the rest of the night on your knees with paper towels while everyone else laughed and drank made your skin crawl.

With a frustrated groan, you reached forward and grabbed the bottle.

Ben flicked his fingers toward the stereo, and the music kicked back on again. Everyone leaned in a little closer—Jeff sprawled back with that dumbass smirk, Nina practically vibrating with excitement, Tim and Brian exchanging a look. Nat sat back on her heels, satisfied. Toby was already whispering something to her, both of them grinning like idiots. And everyone else sat back and watched silently.

The bottle sat heavy in your hand, cool from the beer that still sloshed around inside. You gave the bottle one firm spin.

It wobbled, then started turning fast on the coffee table, the fairy lights overhead catching on the spinning glass and throwing little flashes across everyone’s faces.

The whole room held its breath, eyes locked on the bottle as it slowed… slower… slower…

You.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ part 1 coming soon!

๑ back to my masterlists

It’s not just the thrill of power—though he couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed that too. No, it’s deeper, more primal, a fascination with the fragile line between trust and surrender.

Ever since you and Toby started this twisted little relationship, he’s found himself drawn to those moments when you’re at your most exposed, your defenses crumbling under his touch.

In sex, it’s intoxicating. The way your body yields to him, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as he pins your wrists above your head, his tics jerking his shoulders in erratic rhythms that only heighten the unpredictability. You arch into him, eyes wide and pleading, trusting him not to break you—even though you both know he could, if the urge struck. 

Day to day, it’s subtler but no less addictive. The way you lean into his side during quiet evenings in the decrepit cabin you share, your head on his shoulder as rain patters against the warped windows. Or how you let him wrap his arms around you from behind while you’re cooking, your laughter soft and unguarded when his fingers twitch involuntarily against your waist. 

“T-Toby, that tickles,” you might murmur, turning to press a kiss to his scarred cheek, oblivious to the storm raging in his thoughts—the urge to hold you tighter, to claim every inch of that trust.

But his favorite thing? 

God, it’s when you’re asleep. 

Curled up next to him in the narrow bed, your chest rising and falling in slow, even waves, so utterly at peace. The moonlight filters through the cracks in the blinds, casting silver shadows over your skin, highlighting the curve of your hip under the thin sheet, the way your lips part just slightly as if whispering secrets to the dark. 

You’re so vulnerable then, aren’t you? Trusting him completely to keep you safe in the dead of night, when the woods outside whisper threats and the monsters—real ones, like him—could so easily take advantage. Toby lies there, propped on one elbow, his dark eyes tracing every detail: the flutter of your eyelashes, the pulse at your throat, the way your fingers twitch in dreams he can only imagine.

He can’t help but watch you, his breath stuttering with each tic. Sometimes, he leans in closer, his hand hovering before gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. 

“S-so pretty,” he whispers to himself, voice cracking like static on an old radio. And then, because the pull is too strong, he kisses you—soft at first, a ghost of lips against your forehead, then trailing down to your neck, where he lingers, inhaling the warm scent of your skin. His touches grow bolder in these stolen hours—fingers skimming the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath to trace lazy circles over your stomach, feeling the heat of you, the softness that yields without resistance. 

You stir sometimes, a sleepy murmur escaping—“Toby?”—but you never fully wake, drifting back into oblivion, leaving him aching with the knowledge that you’re his to protect, to adore, to tear apart if he wants.

And that’s when it all really began.

It started innocently enough—or as innocent as things get in your world. One night, after a brutal mission left him wired and aching, Toby had stumbled back to the cabin late, the scent of blood and forest clinging to his hoodie. You were already asleep, curled under the blankets like a gift waiting to be unwrapped, your breaths soft and even. He hadn’t planned it, not really; he’d just meant to collapse beside you. 

But seeing you there, so trusting, so exposed… it ignited something feral. 

His hands had trembled as he peeled back the sheets, his shaky fingers tracing the curve of your thigh, dipping lower until he was between your legs, mouth watering at the thought.

You’d stirred only when his tongue delved in, lapping at you with desperate hunger, the taste of you pulling a guttural groan from his throat. Your eyes had fluttered open, hazy with sleep, finding him buried under the covers, his shoulders jerking as he devoured you, your panties snagged around your ankles. 

“T-Toby?” you’d murmured, voice scratchy and confused, but then understanding dawned, and you’d arched into him, fingers tangling in his messy hair. 

“Don’t stop… please.” He’d made you cum right there, your moans shrill and loud, until you were trembling and spent, pulling him up to kiss you fiercely.

From then on, it became his obsession—your obsession. Toby gets off so badly on it, the way your body responds even in sleep, pliant and warm, no barriers between you. 

He’d wait until you were deep under, drooling slightly on the pillow, your limbs heavy and relaxed, before sliding into you slowly, savoring every inch as you enveloped him without a word. The friction, the heat, the absolute surrender—it drove him wild, his hips snapping erratically as he fucked you into the mattress, whispers spilling from his lips like confessions. 

“S-so perfect… all m-mine…” And when you’d finally wake, eyes widening at the feel of his cock buried deep in your cunt, you’d cling to him immediately, legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back as you gasped his name. 

“Yes, Toby—harder—fuck—” It was his favorite, that moment of transition from dream to reality, your trust turning into raw need.

You loved it just as much, encouraging him with sleepy smiles in the mornings after. 

“You can do it anytime, Toby,” you’d whisper, nuzzling into his neck during lazy afternoons. “Fuck me when I’m asleep all you want. I like waking up to you like that—feeling you already inside me. It’s so good.” 

It made him feel powerful, needed, in a way nothing else could. Sometimes he’d come home from missions in the dead of night, still buzzing with adrenaline, and head straight for your sleeping form. No words, just shedding his gear and diving under the sheets, his mouth on you before you could even register the intrusion. Your eyes would flutter open to the sight of the blanket tented over his head, his hands gripping your thighs as he licked and sucked, bringing you to a shuddering climax that blurred your vision terribly.

So, of course, something like this would happen to him.

“It’ll be alright, Toby,” you say softly, thumb brushing over his stubbled jaw. “EJ just needs some material for his study. He said it’s just a little medicine to make me sleep for a bit, and I’ll stay on his medical bed until it wears off. He’ll keep good watch, I promise.” Your voice is steady, but Toby’s fingers twitch against your hips, a nervous tic betraying the calm he was trying to exude.

“N-not sure I like this,” he mutters, his voice low and gravelly, punctuated by the occasional jerk of his shoulder. “Y-you, asleep, down there with h-him? What if somethin’ goes wrong?” His protectiveness wraps around you like a heavy blanket, warm but suffocating. 

Toby’s always been your shield, his hatchet a promise of safety in a world crawling with things that go bump in the night. Letting you out of his sight, especially in a place as the Slendermansion, feels like a betrayal of that unspoken vow.

“He’s your friend, Toby,” you remind him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, where the scar tissue pulls tight. “You trust him, don’t you? And besides, I’m the only true human around, so Jack was very eager.” 

It’s a gentle nudge, and though Toby’s jaw clenches, he nods reluctantly, his hand squeezing yours.

“F-fine,” he says, exhaling sharply. “But I’m comin’ with you. N-no way I’m lettin’ my ba-baby sleep in some creepy b-basement without me.” His resolve is unshakable, and you can’t help but smile.

The trek to the Slendermansion is quiet, the forest swallowing the crunch of your footsteps under a canopy of gnarled branches. Toby’s hand stays clasped around yours, his hatchet slung over his shoulder, its blade catching slivers of sunlight. The mansion looms ahead, a decaying monolith of cracked stone and shadowed windows, its presence oppressive yet all-too-familiar. You descend the creaking stairs to EJ’s basement abode, the air growing cooler, tinged with the sterile tang of antiseptic and rust.

Eyeless Jack waits in his makeshift lab, a cavernous space lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs. Stainless steel tables gleam under the light, littered with vials, syringes, and notebooks scrawled with cryptic notes. His eyeless mask tilts toward you as you enter, the black voids where eyes should be unnervingly blank, though his voice is calm, assertive. 

“Thanks for coming,” he says, his tone devoid of the menace his appearance suggests. “This won’t take long. I’m studying physiological responses under induced sleep—heart rate, blood pressure, neural activity. The sedative is mild, FDA-approved for short-term use. You’ll be out for about fourty-five minutes, and I’ll monitor everything from here.” He gestures to a medical bed in the center of the room, its white sheets crisp and uninviting.

You glance at Toby, who’s eyeing the setup with suspicion, his fingers twitching against the handle of his hatchet. “J-just data, huh?” he asks, voice sharp. “No weird s-stuff? You’re not cuttin’ her open or nothin’?”

Jack shuffles off his old mask, placing it onto his desk in the company of friends. He smirks, just enough to aggravate the boy. 

“No cutting, Toby. Just sensors and vitals. She’ll be safe, I swear.” He holds up a small syringe filled with a clear liquid, tapping it lightly to dispel air bubbles. “This is the sedative. It’s fast-acting but wears off quickly. She’ll sleep, I’ll collect my data, and she’ll wake up feeling rested.”

You squeeze Toby’s hand, stepping closer to the bed. “See? It’s fine. Just a quick nap, and you’ll be right here.” You climb onto the bed, the cold leather creaking beneath you, and Toby follows, perching on a stool nearby, his gaze darting between you and Jack.

“Alright,” Jack says, approaching with the syringe. “You’ll feel a small pinch, then it’s lights out for a little over half an hour.” The needle slides into your arm, a brief sting followed by a cool rush through your veins. 

Toby’s hand tightens around yours, his breathing uneven as he watches. “I-I’m right here, okay?” he whispers, his voice softer now, almost tender. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

The world begins to blur, your eyelids growing heavy as the sedative pulls you under.

Damn, that was fast. 

Jack’s voice fades into a distant hum, explaining something about monitors and baseline readings, but all you can focus on is Toby’s thumb stroking your knuckles, grounding you as you slip into the dark. 

The last thing you hear is his stuttered, “S-sleep tight, baby,” and then you’re gone.

—

Toby’s grip on your hand is tight enough to bruise, but he can’t help it. 

Your fingers are slack in his, warm and soft, the way they always are against his always cold ones. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too clean, and the air smells like bleach and metal and enough rust to make his stomach twist. Jack’s gloved fingers move over your skin, and every time those fingers brush your collarbone or the inside of your wrist, Toby’s shoulders jerk hard enough to rattle the stool he’s perched on.

“Easy,” Jack murmurs, not looking up from the electrode he’s pressing just above your chest. “Just a sensor. Heart rate, nothing invasive.”

Toby’s jaw clenches. “I know wh-what it is.” He doesn’t. “J-Just don’t linger.”

Jack’s face tilts—a silent acknowledgment—and his hands move faster. The beeping starts up, matching the rise and fall of your chest. Toby watches the line on the monitor like it’s a lifeline. Seventy-two beats per minute. Seventy-one. Seventy-three. Your pulse, alive and thumping.

Jack starts up an IV drip, and slides a blood-pressure cuff up your arm, velcro rasping. Toby’s free hand twitches toward the pocket knife tucked in his belt, then curls into a fist instead. 

He’s not gonna do anything reckless. Jack’s his friend. Jack swore. 

He has got to calm down.

But the sight of you laid out like this—shirt skewed up just enough to expose the soft skin of your stomach, legs slightly parted on the bed—makes something dark and hungry coil in his gut. Same as it does when he crawls into bed at 3 a.m., still reeking of dirt, and finds you drooling on the pillow, thighs warm and open under the sheets.

He remembers last week. Came in from a job, knuckles split, head buzzing. You’d been out cold, one arm flung above your head, mouth slack. He’d peeled your panties down with his teeth, buried his face between your legs before you even twitched. The way you’d woken up gasping, hips already rocking against his tongue, fingers scrabbling at his hair…

“Toby, fuck, don’t stop—”

But this isn’t the cabin. This isn’t his bed. This is Jack’s lab, and Jack’s watching your vitals like they’re a puzzle to solve, and Toby’s trying not to think about how easy it would be to slide his hand up your thigh right now, just to feel you clench around his fingers while you’re still gone.

“Toby.”

Jack’s voice cuts through the static in his head. The demon’s standing at the foot of the bed now, arms crossed. “Youre zoning out.”

Toby drags his eyes up. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to pass out. Calm down.” Jack nods at the monitor. “She’s stable. She’s dreaming, probably. See the REM?”

Toby glances at your face. Your eyelids flutter, just barely, and your lips part on a soft exhale. A thin line of drool glistens at the corner of your mouth. His cock twitches, traitorously hard against his thigh, and he shifts on the stool, hating how obvious it must be.

Jack notices—of course he does. “Fourty-five minutes,” he says, softer now. “I’ll have what I need. Then you can take her home. Alright?”

Toby’s throat works. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches, thick and humming with the monitors’ steady beeps. Toby’s thigh bounces under the stool, the hard line of his cock trapped against his zipper, impossible to ignore. Every time you shift—just a twitch of your hips, a soft, breathy sound that might be a dream—he feels it like a jolt straight to his groin. Your fingers flex in his grip, limp and trusting, and he squeezes back harder, knuckles whitening.

Jack’s head tilts. The demon doesn’t have eyes, but Toby feels the stare anyway. A low, amused exhale hisses through the demon’s teeth as takes several deep breaths of the air.

“Jesus, Toby. You’re stinking up the whole lab. I can smell your hormones from here.”

Toby’s shoulders jerk. “F-Fuck off.”

Jack chuckles, the sound wet and gravelly. “Relax, I’m kidding. But seriously, how many times have you two fucked while she’s out cold if you’re this horny watching her sleep. You’re practically vibrating.”

Toby’s jaw locks. He knows Jack meant it lightheartedly, but Toby was never very good at covering his true feelings. He doesn’t answer. Just stares at your mouth—parted, glossy with a thin line of drool—and remembers the way you’d whimpered last night when he’d pushed in slow, your body clenching around him before your brain caught up.

Jack groans, realizing. “Oh, you are a freak. Please tell me you’re not just feeling her up while she’s unconscious.”

Toby’s head snaps up. “S-She likes i-it.” The words come out sharp, defensive, but there’s pride in them too. “She a-asks for it, di-dipshit.”

Jack leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “Elaborate.”

Toby’s eyes flick to you and he swallows. 

“I-I mean, it’s not… n-not all the time,” he starts, voice cracking on the first syllable. His thumb keeps rubbing the same small circle over your pulse, grounding himself. “Just… som-sometimes. When I come in late. Or, uh… when s-she’s already out.”

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh. Just waits.

Toby swallows. “She-she’ll be on her side, or… or her stomach. Mouth o-open. Little wet spot o-on the p-pillow.” His shoulders jerk once, hard. “I just… pull the sheet down. She’s n-not even wearing clothes ha-half the t-time.”

He risks a glance at Jack. The demon’s head is cocked now, listening like he’s taking mental notes.

“I’ll… touch her f-first. Just-just fingers. See if she’s…” He trails off, cheeks burning under the hood. “Wet… She always is. Even i-in her sleep. L-Like her body knows.”

Jack hums, low. “And then?”

Toby’s voice drops to a near-whisper, glaring. “Then I… I go d-down on her. Under the blanket. She-she makes these li-little noises. Just… dreaming. Her hips move on their o-own.” His stutter worsens, words tripping over each other. “I-I keep going ‘til s-she’s close. Then I… I slide i-in. She clenches around me b-before she even opens her uh-eyes.”

He stops. He can’t look at Jack now, just focuses at your face—peaceful, lips parted, a flush on your cheeks from the sedative.

“She wakes up needy,” he mutters. “Al-Always. Wraps her legs around m-me like she’s scared I’ll stop. Tells me—tells me not to. Every t-time.”

Silence. The monitors beep. Thirty minutes left.

Jack finally speaks, voice neutral. “And she remembers?”

Toby nods, jerky. “Y-Yeah. Says it’s like waking up i-inside a dream. That she feels m-me even when she’s not conscious. Likes it.”

He risks another look. Jack’s still, but there’s something in the set of his shoulders—fascination, maybe. Or recognition.

“Interesting,” Jack says quietly. “The body responding before the mind. Physical actions manifesting through brain matter.”

Toby’s grip tightens on your hand again. “Don’t… don’t make it weird.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Too late for that.”

Jack’s boots scuff across the concrete as he crosses to the desk, the sound too loud in the humming quiet. Toby’s pulse is in his throat now, a frantic drum against his collar. He tries to think of anything else, but your soft exhale pulls him right back. Your lips part on a tiny, sleepy sound, and his cock jerks so hard he has to shift his hips to keep from groaning.

Jack scribbles something on his clipboard, reading the monitors, then pads back. He stops just outside Toby’s personal space, voice low.

“Fuck her.”

Toby’s up in a flash, stool clattering. “F-Fuck off,” he snarls, body jerking so violently his neck cracks. “You don’t g-get to—”

“Purely medical,” Jack cuts in, palms raised. “I want the spike in her limbic system when she climaxes under sedation. Arousal response without conscious filter. Thirty seconds of data, max. Then you take her home.”

Toby’s laugh is sharp, cracked. “You’re a f-fucking weirdo.” He’s already leaning over the bed, sliding one arm under your shoulders, the other under your knees. Your head lolls against his chest, warm and heavy, and the feel of you limp in his arms makes his stomach flip with something between panic and hunger.

Jack doesn’t move. “Can’t get weirder than you bragging about railing her unconscious, Toby. I keep my back turned. Won’t look. Just the readings and vitals. One orgasm. You walk out and I never mention it again.”

Toby freezes. Your hair brushes his neck, your breath fans warm across his collarbone. He can smell your shampoo, and the thought of sliding into you right here, with Jack ten feet away pretending not to listen, makes his vision blur at the edges.

He stands there a beat too long, arms full of you, heart hammering against your ribs.

Jack’s voice drops, a velvet rasp that makes Toby’s skin prickle. “Think about it, Toby. How good it’d feel to make her cum and she doesn’t even realize it. No waking up mid-thrust, no sleepy eyes blinking open to pull you closer. Just her body giving in.”

Toby’s breath hitches, your limp weight in his arms suddenly heavier, warmer. He can picture it too vividly: your thighs trembling under his hands, the slick heat of you pulling him deeper, your pulse spiking on the monitors as you shatter around him. A shiver races down his spine, electric and wrong, making his knees buckle just a fraction. Nervous sweat beads at his temples, his tics firing off in erratic pops of his joints.

“She’s always so fragile when you do it at home,” Jack presses, stepping closer, his eyeless voids swallowing the light. “You go gentle, don’t you? ‘Cause one wrong move and she’s waking up. But now? With this?” He nods at the IV drip in your arm. “She won’t wake. You could pin her down, fuck her raw—no holding back.”

Toby’s mind fractures. 

What would you want? The question loops, frantic. You’d laugh it off in the morning, maybe—cup his face, kiss the scar on his cheek, murmur, “Toby, baby, if it feels good, do it. I trust you.” Or you’d arch a brow, teasing, “You know I love waking up wrecked. Don’t stop on my account.” But this isn’t the cabin’s creaky bed, isn’t your shared sheets tangled with familiarity. This is here, with Jack’s gaze on the data, your vitals beeping erratically. His teeth grind together, molars aching, as the old permission echoes back. “You can do it anytime, Toby.”

Jack sees it—the crack in his armor, the way Toby’s arms tighten around you like he’s already imagining the leverage. The demon leans in, voice a conspiratorial purr. “Come on, Toby. Give her the kind of orgasm that brands her insides. The one where she squirts without knowing why. You know you’ve always wanted to push that far.”

Toby’s hips jerk involuntarily, a low groan clawing up his throat. Heat floods his groin, sticky and insistent—his cock leaking pre into the front of his jeans, soaking through the denim in a dark, shameful patch. He’s crumbling, vision tunneling to the curve of your neck, the flutter of your pulse. 

Twenty-seven minutes left. Fuck.

Jack opens his mouth, but Toby’s had enough..

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

Jack’s jaw clicks shut.

Toby stares at you. Long. Too long. Your head lolls against his forearm, hair spilling over his skin like silk. Your lips are parted, breath warm and slow. His eyes trace every inch like he’s memorizing a map he’s already burned into his brain.

Then he looks at Jack. Hard. Dead in the mask.

“Nobody ever k-knows,” he grunts. “Not a word. Not a jo-joke. You keep your back turned. You don’t s-speak. You don’t look. You see t-the numbers, that’s it.”

Jack nods, slow. “Done.”

Toby’s chest heaves. One more beat. Two. He closes his eyes, jaw clenched so tight the scar pulls white. Then he moves.

He lays you back on the table with a gentleness that he reserves only for you, your body settling into the padded leather. He angles your hips toward him, one knee nudged between yours, your thigh brushing his. The sheet pools at your feet. Your shirt rides up, exposing the dip of your waist, the soft skin just above your shorts.

Jack turns and shuffles to his desk, sitting down on his chair, back facing the two of you.

Toby doesn’t look at him again.

Toby’s hands settle on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft inner flesh just above your knees. He spreads you open slowly, trying his best not to let you lay too uncomfortably. Your legs fall apart with no resistance, knees bending, hips tilting up toward him in unconscious invitation. A low, animal sound rumbles in his chest.

He steps in, knees nudging the table’s edge, and presses. The hard ridge of his cock, trapped behind denim, drags along the seam of your shorts. Heat blooms through the layers, and he can’t stop the shudder that rips up his spine. His hips roll forward once, testing, grinding the length of himself against the clothes. Fuck. You’re warm even through the fabric, and the friction is maddening.

“Sh-shit,” he breathes, barely a whisper. His fingers flex, digging into your thighs hard enough to leave pale prints that flush pink when he eases up. 

His hands slide upward, palms skating over the curve of your hips, thumbs hooking under the hem of your shirt. He pushes it higher, higher, until the fabric bunches beneath your breasts. Cool air kisses your stomach and goosebumps rise in its wake. Toby’s mouth waters. He leans down, forehead brushing your sternum, inhaling the scent of your skin. His tongue darts out, tasting the salt just below your ribs, and he has to bite back another groan.

He straightens just enough to watch your face. Your lashes flutter, your lips part on a soft, breathy sound that isn’t quite a moan but close. It goes straight to his cock. He grinds again, harder this time, the denim rasping against you, the pressure exquisite. Pre soaks through his boxers, sticky and hot, smearing against the inside of his jeans with every roll of his hips.

His fingers find the button of your shorts. They tremble—just once—before popping it open. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs, the fabric dragging over your hips, catching for a heartbeat on the swell of your ass before sliding lower. He has to lift you slightly, one arm sliding beneath your lower back, arching you up so he can peel the pants down your thighs. They pool at your ankles and he kicks them aside.

You’re bare to him now except for the thin scrap of panties, darkened at the center with arousal you don’t even know you’re giving. Toby’s breath stutters. He palms himself through his jeans, squeezing hard, trying to rein in the urge to rip everything off and bury himself to the hilt. Not yet. He wants to savor.

His hands return to your thighs, pushing them wider until the muscles tremble. He drops to his knees beside the table, eye-level with the soaked cotton. One thumb traces the edge of your panties, teasing the elastic, then slips beneath. 

The heat of you is staggering enough to make him smile. He drags the pad of his thumb up your slit, parting your folds, coating his finger in your slick. 

He looks up at your head turned slightly, cheek pressed to the padding, mouth lazily open. Another soft noise escapes you, dreamy, and Toby’s vision whites out at the edges. He presses the heel of his hand against his cock, grinding into his own touch, his hips jerking helplessly.

Jack’s chair creaks. A low, muffled grunt comes from across the room, followed by the shuffle of his palm dragging over the lower half of his face. The air is thick, drenched in the sour-sweet scent of your arousal and the heady, muskier note of Toby’s own need. It clings to the back of the throat like smoke, and he thinks he’ll choke on it.

Toby doesn’t look up, doesn’t care. His world has narrowed to the slick heat between your thighs, the way your skin flushes under his mouth, the soft, involuntary roll of your hips when he drags the flat of his tongue up your slit.

He hooks two fingers into the soaked crotch of your panties and tugs. The elastic snaps against your hip, then gives, and he bunches the fabric in his fist, holding it aside like a curtain. Cool air kisses your bare folds and you shiver, thighs twitching open another inch.

His first kiss lands on the tender inside of your thigh, teeth grazing, then soothing with a slow lick. He works inward, open-mouthed presses of lips and tongue mapping every inch of soft skin until he reaches your center. He exhales, hot and shaky, against your folds, and you make the smallest sound—a breathy ‘mmph’ that isn’t quite a moan but makes his cock throb so hard his vision blurs.

He licks you open, slow and filthy, tongue curling up to circle your clit with the same lazy rhythm he uses when you’re half-awake and clinging to his shoulders. Your body answers without thought—hips tilting, a tremor in your thighs, slick coating his chin. He keeps the pace gentle, even as his own need claws at his spine. His free hand drops to his lap, palming the rigid line of his cock through denim, squeezing in time with each swirl of his tongue.

Toby has never made it to fucking you without you waking up. He’s only ever gotten the tip in before you’re blinking awake and smiling lazily at him.

He loves it, he does.

But knowing that he’s about to fuck your cunt as hard as he wants—without you waking up—he can barely hold himself back.

Your clit swells under his attention, flushed and glistening. He sucks it softly, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, then releases with a wet pop. Another slow lick, base to tip, savoring the taste of you just like he always does. Your fingers twitch against the padding, your head turns, cheek pressing deeper into the table, lips parted on a silent gasp—but you still don’t wake up.

Toby’s hips jerk forward, grinding into his own hand. Precome leaks steadily now, soaking through layers of fabric, making the slide of his palm slick. He groans against you, the vibration rumbling through your core, and your thighs try to close on reflex, but he wedges his shoulders between them, keeping you spread.

He could stay here forever. Could lick you open until the sedative wore off and you woke up mid-orgasm, confused and dripping and begging. But the monitors beep faster now, your heart rate climbing, brain waves flickering into theta, and Jack’s pen is scribbling just as fast.

Toby doesn’t care. He licks you again, slower, deeper, and feels you flutter against his tongue.

His mouth seals over your cunt, tongue spearing deep, curling inside you like he’s trying to taste your heartbeat. The wet heat of you clenches around him, tight and pulsing, and he groans into your folds like he’s stumbled upon water in the desert. His fist loosens on your panties, the elastic snapping back to press against the jagged gash on his cheek, the fabric soaked and clinging to his skin. He doesn’t care, doesn’t feel it. He only feels you and your walls fluttering, your hips rocking in tiny, unconscious thrusts.

His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs small, frantic circles the way he knows you need when you’re close. Your thighs tremble and your breath hitches in a soft, sleepy whine. He answers with a harder press of his tongue, fucking into you in short, sharp thrusts, then dragging back up to lap at your clit again.

He pulls back just long enough to slide two fingers through your folds, giving him an eyeful of your messy cunt, then pushes his middle finger inside. One knuckle, two, curling hard against that spot that makes your back arch even in sleep. Your cunt grips him like a vice, and he adds a second finger, stretching you open, scissoring gently before curling again. His mouth returns to your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking in time with the thrust of his fingers.

He’s moving so fast he’s dizzy.

Your body responds like it’s been waiting for this—hips rolling, thighs tightening around his shoulders, a soft, breathy “ah—” slipping from your lips. The monitors spike, your heart rate stuttering, brain waves flickering into sharp, frantic peaks. Toby feels it in the way you clench around his fingers, the way your slick coats his thick fingers and drips down his wrist.

He doesn’t slow down, just fingers you faster, tongue lashing your clit, thumb pressing hard circles until your thighs quake and your cunt flutters wildly around him. 

Come on, baby, he thinks, teeth grazing your clit just enough to sting. Come for me. Let me feel it.

You’re close. So close. He knows it. He knows you.

Toby’s eyes snap to your face the second your moan slips out, soft and drowsy, like you’re half-lost in a dream you don’t want to wake from. Your head rolls back against the padding, neck arching as your lips drag open into a lazy gasp. One arm lifts, fingers curling near your cheek before flopping back down, and your feet kick once, twice, heels scraping the leather in tiny, helpless jerks. It’s so you, so fucking cute even when you’re drugged and forcibly open for him, that a crooked, lovesick grin splits his face against your cunt.

He doubles down—tongue spearing deep, thumb grinding hard circles over your clit. His fingers pump faster, curling against that spot inside you that makes your hips buck. Your thighs clamp around his ears, trembling, and he feels it, the tell-tale lock-up of your muscles, the way your breath catches in a high, broken gasp.

There it is.

He pulls back just enough to mumble into your slick folds, voice muffled and raw, “C-C’mon, baby, give i-it to m-m-me. Fuck—”

Your body seizes. A full-body shudder rips through you, thighs clamping down, back arching off the table. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, pulsing in hot, wet waves as you cum, disgruntled moans and whines spilling from your lips. Slick gushes over his tongue, dripping down his chin, pooling under your ass. He drinks it, lapping greedily, tongue flicking through your folds to catch every drop, thumb still rubbing your clit in slow, soothing circles as the aftershocks roll through you.

Your hips twitch. Your toes curl. Your head lolls to the side, mouth open, drool glistening at the corner, and Toby groans into you, the sound vibrating against your oversensitive skin. He doesn’t stop until you’re limp again, until the last tremor fades and your thighs fall open, boneless.

He pulls back slowly, lips shiny, chin dripping. 

The monitors are screaming now, brain waves spiking into sharp, shaky peaks, heart rate fluttering like a trapped bird. Jack’s pen hasn’t stopped moving the entire time.

Eleven minutes left.

“That’s it,” Jack says, turning. “We’re—”

Toby’s already on his feet, belt clanking, zipper rasping down quickly. His jeans shove down just enough to free his leaking cock, the tip a terrible shade of red, twitching wildly in his palm. His hand wraps around the length, jerking once, twice, hips stuttering forward like he can’t not move.

Jack’s mouth opens. “Toby—”

“Shut up.” His growl is low as he speaks. “Stick t-to your fucking n-notes.”

Jack’s gaze hones onto your spread thighs—still trembling, slick and swollen, panties twisted to the side. Toby drags the head of his cock through your messy folds, coating himself in your release, smearing it up and down your slit. A broken moan tears from his throat when the tip catches on your entrance.

“Toby, the sedative’s wearing off in—” Jack starts.

Toby pushes in. One smooth, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your cunt flutters around him, still sensitive, still dripping. His head falls back, eyes rolling, a guttural “Fuck—” punched out of him as he bottoms out.

Jack spins on his heel, chair creaking as he drops into it, back rigid and facing the wall. The monitors spike again with your heart rate jumping, a sharp, involuntary clench around Toby’s cock bullying into you.

Toby doesn’t wait. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging bruises into soft flesh, and he thrusts. Hard. Deep. The table rocks under the force, leather squeaking. Your body jolts with each snap of his hips, breasts bouncing under your rucked-up shirt, head lolling to the side. A soft, confused sound slips from your lips, but your eyes stay closed—but you stay asleep.

Toby leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up to palm your breast, thumb flicking your nipple. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, hips slamming into yours with wet, filthy sounds. “Dammit,” he rasps, voice cracking. “M’sorry—”

Jack’s pen scratches furiously, pretending he can’t hear the slap of skin, the broken moans, the way your cunt squelches around Toby’s cock with every brutal thrust and the mind-numbing smell of it all.

Toby doesn’t care. He fucks you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out.

He watches the back of Jack’s head like a predator, eyes narrowed, breath ragged. Jack’s claws rake through his own hair, dragging over the scalp in sharp, frustrated pulls. One hand drops to his face, palm pressing hard over his nose, trying to block the thick, heady scent of sex filling the room. His leg bounces, boot tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor.

Toby smirks, crooked and vicious, and lets the moan rip out of him, loud, shameless. “F-fuck, yeah… take i-it, baby—” His voice cracks on the stutter, but the words are clear. Another thrust, deeper, the wet slap of skin echoing off concrete. “You w-wanted this, Jack. Science, right?”

Jack’s shoulders stiffen. A low, uneasy sound escapes him, cursing under his breath. His claws scrape over the desk, leaving faint gouges in the wood. Then his hand drops, fumbling at his belt. The clink of metal, the rasp of a zipper. He doesn’t turn around, just hunches forward, forearm pressed to the desk, one clawed hand wrapping around his own cock. He strokes once, slow, then faster, hips jerking into his fist.

Toby’s eyes lock on the movement, the way Jack’s back arches, the way his claws dig into his own thigh for leverage. The sight punches a fresh wave of heat through him, cock throbbing inside your oozing cunt. 

“Shit, l-look at you—” he rasps, voice breaking. “J-jerking off to me f-fucking her. Freak.”

Jack doesn’t answer. Just strokes harder, claws clicking against the desk, breath hitching behind bared pointy teeth. His leg stops bouncing. His whole body tenses, coiled tight.

Toby leans over you, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. He thrusts harder, faster, the table rocking dangerously. “G-gonna fill her up,” he growls, eyes never leaving Jack’s hunched form. “Gonna make h-her drip with i-it. You’ll sm-smell me on her for d-days.”

“Fuck—” Jack’s claws scrape the desk as his fist pumps faster, hips jerking into his grip. His arm presses harder against the wood, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the shadows.

Toby laughs, breathless. “Y-you were all gung ho about t-this five minutes ago,” he pants, hips snapping forward, your cunt squelching around him with every thrust. “N-now you’re j-jerking off to it? Nasty f-fucker.”

Jack’s hand stutters, but he doesn’t stop. His claws dig deeper into the desk, leaving fresh gouges.

Toby leans up, sweat dripping from his brow. He slides his hands under your knees, hooking them in the crooks of his elbows, spreading you wide. Your legs dangle, limp and open, hips tilted up to take him deeper. The new angle drags the head of his cock against your front wall with every brutal thrust, and your body answers with a loud, dreamy whimper, thighs trembling.

“T-turn around,” Toby rasps, voice cracking on the stutter. “L-look at her. Look how g-good she’s taking it.”

Jack doesn’t move. His fist keeps moving, faster now, the wet sound of it gentle compared to the mess behind him.

“Jack.” Toby’s moan is filthy, teasing. “L-look at what you s-started. She’s dripping for m-me. F-fuck, she’s gonna cum again—”

Your cunt clenches hard, a fresh gush of slick coating his cock, and Toby’s head falls back, scarred cheek twitching up into a nasty smile. “See?” he snarls, hips slamming into you, the table scratching against the concrete floor. “She’s amazing, and you’re h-hard as fuck listening t-to me ruin her—”

Jack’s shoulders jerk. A broken sound tears from his throat, but he still doesn’t turn.

Your head lolls off the table’s edge, neck crooked, hair spilling messily over the side. Each thrust punches a loud, broken moan from your throat—raw, unfiltered noises that even Toby has never heard before. The sound ricochets off concrete, wet and desperate, and it’s the final crack in Jack’s restraint.

His chair spins. Head tilted, sharp teeth bared in a snarl that’s half-hunger, half-rage. His cock juts up, flushed dark, slick with precum that drips over his knuckles as he fucks his fist in frantic, uneven strokes. His nostrils flare, drinking in the thick, heady cocktail of sex and sweat and both of you.

Toby laughs, breathless and vicious. “Th-there he is,” he pants, hips snapping harder, the table creaking. “F-fucking look at her, Jack. Look h-how she moans for me.”

Your moans climb, louder, sharper, hips jerking in tiny, helpless circles. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering wildly, and Toby’s grin turns slack, eyes widening. “She’s g-gonna—”

You cum. A full-body shudder rips through you, back bowing off the table, thighs quaking in the crooks of his elbows. Slick gushes around his cock, dripping down your ass, pooling beneath you. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream, then another broken moan, “T-Toby—” 

It’s so slurred, and breathy, and garbled through sleep-thick air—but it’s enough to make both boys crazy.

Toby’s moan cracks into a growl. Jack’s follows, breathy and snarled, claws digging into his own thigh as his fist flies over his cock, precum splattering his jeans.

Their faces lock over your writhing body, then flick back to you, then to each other again, a silent, electric circuit.

Jack’s chest heaves. “Fuck, that was hot,” he rasps, voice gravel against the strain not to moan.

Toby’s grin is all teeth. “Y-yeah? Told you she’s perfect.”

Jack’s fist slows, slick with precome. “G-gonna cum?”

“Fuck yeah.” Toby’s hips stutter, cock dragging through your spasming cunt. “C-cum with me, Jacky.”

Jack’s nod is sharp, desperate. His claws dig into his thigh as he pumps himself faster again, eyes glued to where Toby disappears inside you.

Toby leans in, voice low and filthy, mocking his Jack spoke to him before this whole fiasco. “Imagine that f-fist is her tight little cunt, Jack. Warm. W-Wet. Squeezing you dry.” He thrusts hard, your body jolting. “She’d milk you, wo-wouldn’t she? Beg for it in h-her sleep.”

Jack groans, hips bucking. “God, yes, keep talking.”

“Bet she’d whimper y-your name,” Toby purrs, eyes gleaming. “‘Jack, p-please, deeper—’”

Jack’s head drops back, mask tilting to the ceiling. “Fuck, Toby—”

“Cum in her,” Toby hisses, thrusting deep, grinding against your cervix. “Paint h-her insides. M-Mark her.”

Jack’s moan rips free. His cock pulses, thick ropes of cum splattering his fist, his hoodie, his jeans. It drips over his claws hot and messy as he rides it out, hips jerking into his grip.

Toby follows a heartbeat later. “Now—” He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing as he unloads, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt. “Take i-it, baby—” He grinds deep, milking every drop, eyes locked on Jack’s spent, trembling form.

The room is thick with the after-scent of sex—sweat, cum, and the sharp tang of everyone’s arousal. Toby’s chest heaves, his cock still twitching inside you, every pulse a lazy throb against your oversensitive walls. Jack’s claws are slick, hoodie streaked, head tilted back just enough to show the glint of sharp teeth as he catches his breath.

They’re both opening their mouths to make some awkward statement or nasty joke, when a sound cuts through the haze.

A low, drowsy groan. Your arms shift, hands dragging up to rub at your eyes. Your knees tug weakly, thighs trying to close, but Toby’s still got you folded open in the crooks of his elbows. Your body jerks once, confused, then stills as the awkward angle registers.

Your eyes blink open, slow and syrupy.

Jack’s right there face slack-jawed, cock still in his fist, cum dripping from his claws onto the floor. You blink again, pupils blown wide with sleep and confusion, gazing at him upside down from where your head hangs off the table’s edge.

“…Jack?” Your voice is hoarse, cracked from unregistered moaning. You shift, and that’s when you feel it—Toby buried deep, stretching you, filling you, the wet heat of his release starting to leak out around him.

Your head lifts, hair sticking to your cheek. Toby’s grinning down at you, smiling like an idiot stupidly in love. “H-Hey, baby,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Welcome b-back.”

Your eyes dart from Jack’s spent cock to Toby’s smug face, then down to where your bodies are still joined. A slow, sleepy smile curves your lips.

“…Did I miss something fun?”

Jack lets out a long, mortified groan that echoes off the concrete.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry,” he mutters, yanking his hoodie down over the mess on his lap and shuffling sideways like a crab. One clawed hand fumbles for a cupboard handle, towels spill out in a frantic white avalanche. He snatches a fistful and turns his back, ears burning deep purplish.

You laugh, absolutely delighted.

“Filthy perverts, both of you,” you tease, voice still husky from misuse. Toby hasn’t moved an inch, he’s still buried deep, hips flush to yours, cock twitching every time you clench around him. His fingers brush damp hair from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest flutter.

“I thought I was having the best dream,” you murmur, grinning up at him. “Turns out it was just you two being gross.”

Jack shuffles beside the table, cheeks flaming, and starts peeling monitors off your skin. The sticky pads come away with little rip sounds, one wire is hopelessly tangled around your arm from all the rocking. 

He untangles it with careful claws, muttering, “Got everything I needed. The data’s gold. I, uh… don’t need anything else. Sorry for the, um… fuss.” He gestures vaguely at the cum-streaked table, the puddle on the floor, his own sticky claws. “My perversion, not yours.”

Toby snorts, leaning down to press a lazy kiss to your cheek. “T-told you she’d be cool with it.”

“Did you now?”

Your hand snakes up and back, fingers hooking into Jack’s belt loop with a lazy tug where he stands a bit away from you. His jeans are still open, zipper half-down, and the motion drags him forward until the bulge in his boxers is right at your face, the heat of him radiating through the thin cotton. Toby’s grip on your thighs tightens, nails digging crescents into your skin as he watches, pupils blown wide.

Jack’s hands hover in the air, claws flexing, unsure where to land. “I—I’m good, really—”

“Shh.” You cut him off, voice syrupy and drowsy. “You didn’t get to touch me, right? And since Toby’s always a greedy little hog…” You roll your hips in a slow, deliberate circle, making Toby’s cock slide shallowly inside you, he whines your name, high and wrecked. 

“Hush,” you murmur, then tug Jack’s boxers down just enough to free him again.

His cock springs out, flushed dark, still slick with his own release, a fresh bead of precome pearling at the tip. You wrap your fingers around him, and Jack jerks, a sharp, startled moan ripping from his throat. His claws finally settle on the edge of the table, knuckles white.

Toby’s hips stutter, shallow thrusts chasing the heat of your hand on Jack. “F-Fuck, you’re evil,” he pants, but he doesn’t stop you, just watches, transfixed as you stroke Jack slow and steady, thumb swiping over the head to spread the mess.

Jack’s head drops forward, head tilting, breath fogging the air. “Shit, I—” Another moan, broken, as you twist your wrist just right.

Your smile is wicked, still drowsy around the edges.

“Aw, I’m sad I missed the fun,” you murmur, tongue darting out to wet your lips. “Tell you what… if I pretend to be asleep again, will you two fuck me as hard as you want?”

Toby’s grin is feral. Jack’s head leans back, a low, hungry growl rumbling behind it. They lock eyes—a confirmation, a challenge—and both nod like starved wolves.

You hum, satisfied, and guide Jack’s cock to your mouth. The slick tip slides between your lips, salty with his own release, and you take him in just past the head. A soft, sleepy moan vibrates around him as your eyes flutter shut, lashes fanning your cheeks. Your body goes lax again, head still hanging off the table’s edge, mouth slack and open.

Toby’s hips snap forward once, hard, burying himself to the hilt again. Jack’s claws dig into the table, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as your tongue flattens against him, warm and wet and perfect.

They don’t wait.

Toby sets a brutal rhythm, hands pressing under your knees to fold you open further. Jack threads careful claws into your hair, guiding your mouth down his length in shallow, greedy thrusts. The room fills with the wet slap of skin, your muffled moans, their ragged breathing.

Asleep, you take it all, and they give you everything.

๑ back to my kinktober masterlist

The forest had grown thicker the farther you drove. Roads narrowed. Trees leaned inward like sentinels, their black limbs threading above your car like rib bones. The GPS had lost signal over twenty minutes ago, replaced by static and silence—but it was clear where you needed to go. The road dwindled until it barely fit your car alone, then the asphalt turned to packed gravel and weed-ridden dips. Until eventually, it all cleared out.

When the gates came into view, you didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath.

Tall wrought iron—laced with crawling ivy and something white growing through the slats, maybe fungi—stood wide open as if expecting you. Past them, the long gravel drive curled like a spine through mist that sat heavy on the ground, never quite clearing. It clung to the trees, to the stones, to the windows of your car like breath on glass. A crow watched from a crooked wooden post as you passed, unmoving, eyes beady and coal-black.

And then the manor revealed itself—huge, victorian, timeless.

It loomed at the top of the hill, its grey stones slick with dew and age. Ivy bloomed like veins across the façade. Balconies with wrought-iron railings curved out like ribs. Candles—real, flickering candles—lit the windowpanes, casting warm amber light through the dusk. Even from the drive, you could see the tall banisters inside the grand entry. The flames along them shivered into being as you approached, one by one. Unlit—then lit. Unlit—then lit.

The house was alive—sort of. Motion sensors are the face of the future nowadays.

You still weren’t sure why he’d left it to you.

Your great-uncle on your mother’s side—a man you hadn’t seen since you were seven—had died quietly in his sleep three months ago. No funeral. No obituary. Just a letter from an estate lawyer in an envelope that looked like it had been typed on a typewriter and licked shut.

“The Estate now belongs to you, as dictated in the will. The property is in your name. Immediate possession granted upon arrival. All expenses pertaining to the upkeep, facilities, and maintenance of the Estate shall be covered by the remaining balance of the previous owner’s account, per his final wishes.”

That was it. No explanation. No fine print. Just a manor no one in the family had spoken about in decades, and a name barely remembered from a childhood photo album.

But something in you hadn’t questioned it. Not really. Not when you saw the photos. Not when you sold your old place in less than a month. Not when you packed your life into a car and followed the map into fog.

Who gets a chance like this, right?

You parked beneath the massive archway, engine sputtering as you shut it off. You stepped out, the cool air hitting your face like a whip, the smell of gravel and moisture heavy in the dense air. For a moment, there was only silence—so full and thick it almost rang. Then the soft crunch of gravel behind your car.

You turned quickly.

A tall man in a thick ochre jacket stood just beyond the back of the vehicle, his arms crossed, the black of his gloves matching the dark mess of his hair. He looked rough around the edges—broad-shouldered, with tired eyes and a permanent scowl carved into his scruffy face. He has dark facial hair and a scowl that could kill.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered, not unkindly—more matter-of-fact. “You drive like an old woman.”

“…Excuse me?”

He jerked his head toward the house, already walking past you. “Tim. I’m the groundskeeper. You’ll meet the others eventually. I told ‘em you’d be late. You are.”

Charming.

You rolled your eyes, but there was something oddly comforting about how blunt he was. No sugar-coating. No fake sympathy about the death of your great-uncle—whom you hadn’t seen since you were seven and barely remembered. Just blunt honesty and a noticeable scent of soil, herbs, and faint cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

You popped the trunk and started pulling your suitcases out, straining with the last one when another figure appeared from the fog near the left side of the manor.

This one was leaner, a little taller, wearing a layered brown hoodie with a tool belt slung diagonally across his torso. Shorter light brown hair, less facial hair, and a better demeanor. His face was tense too, but not nearly as much as Tim’s—just the face of a man who worked all day. There was something… still about him. Gentle, but unreadable. He came forward quietly, gave you a nod, and took your last suitcase without a word.

“Uh—thanks,” you said, a little startled.

He looked at you for a beat longer than most people would. Not creepy. Just… deliberate. Like he was learning your shape. “Brian,” he finally said, voice low and smooth. “I handle the house, miss.”

And then, just as quiet as he’d arrived, he turned and headed up the wide stone stairs, suitcase in hand like it weighed nothing. His boots made no sound. Tim took a larger duffle bag in your hand, and made his way inside too.

Okay then.

You followed after them, feet echoing slightly on the stone. The doors were already open—enormous double slabs of oak carved with swirls and vines, polished but ancient. The inside of the manor was even more beautiful than you’d imagined.

It was like stepping into another century.

Marble floors half-covered in velvet rugs. Staircases that twisted up to balconies you couldn’t yet see. A chandelier that glittered like it was dripping crystals. Paintings of people you didn’t recognize lined the walls—eyes too lifelike, almost following you. And everywhere: those damn candles. Lit. Flickering, soft, and low like breath on skin.

“N-Nice, huh?”

A new voice behind you—lighter, raspier, but playful.

You turned to see a man standing in the wide hallway with a hatchet strapped to his belt and sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had on a flannel jacket over a hoodie, one side of his mouth pulled into a sharp grin. His eyes were bright and wild behind shaggy brown hair and orange safety goggles, and his head tilted just slightly when he looked you over. A large medical patch was taped over his left cheek, obviously covering some injury underneath. Height wise, he was in-between the two others, but was more muscular if the veins in his forearms had anything to say about it.

“You’re smaller than I th-thought you’d be,” he added, then stuck out his hand, bandages and tape covering most of his digits. “Toby, ma’am. I’m the one that makes shh-sure the place doesn’t get eaten by the fo-forest.”

He seemed to have a stutter, accompanied by the occasional jerk of his neck or pulse of his arm, but you ignored it. You took his hand, firm grip. “Nice to meet you.”

He snorted. “You say that now.”

“…What?”

“J-Joking.” He winked. “Mostly.”

Tim passed behind him with your second bag, muttering, “Don’t scare the damn girl yet, boy.”

“I’m not scared,” you said flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder.

Brian, who had disappeared around the corner, reappeared beside the bannister. “We’ve got your room ready. East wing. End of the hall. It’s the only one with a red door. You’ll find it.”

That last part sent a chill down your spine. “…Find it?”

His head tilted. “You’ll see.”

And then, without another word, he turned and vanished up the stairs. You stood in the grand hall for a moment—your bags by your feet, your heart a low thrum behind your ribs—as the fog outside thickened against the windows like steam.

The manor wasn’t crumbling. It wasn’t rotting. It wasn't disgusting and falling apart like you predicted it would be. It was thrumming with life, with energy. Evidently, these men had taken care of it in your great-uncle’s wake. 

It made the unease in your stomach dwindle—if only a little.

By the time Tim sauntered back down the steps, slightly out of breath, you decided it was time to settle in.

The grand staircase curved like a serpent’s spine, the banister warm beneath your palm as you ascended. Brian had said east wing, end of the hall, red door—but you hadn’t expected the house to feel like a cathedral inside a labyrinth. Every turn led into a new corridor. Every wall held art that didn’t look hung, but placed with purpose.

Your footsteps echoed as you walked. The silence swallowed them just as fast.

Candles flared to life as you passed—always just ahead, as if the house anticipated you. The flame never flickered when you got close. It simply burned steady, golden and watching.

You passed tall windows with thick velvet curtains, some drawn closed despite the dusk. The ones left open showed nothing beyond the glass but fog. No trees. No horizon. Just the endless, soft swirl of grey.

The walls were paneled in dark wood, inlaid with carvings of ivy and thorns, suns and moons, spirals and strange, knotted symbols you didn’t recognize. Beneath your boots, the floor shifted from rug to tile to smooth, gleaming wood again.

Then there were the paintings.

One hall was lined with portraits of people in archaic clothing—Victorian corsets, fur-lined coats, high collars and hollow eyes. The longer you looked at them, the more it felt like they weren’t portraits at all. Like they’d been preserved.

A woman in crimson lace. A boy holding a raven. A man with a scar beneath one blind eye. None of them smiled. All of them stone and stern. They looked like pieces you’d find in a haunted house.

You swallowed hard and kept walking, turning what felt like your third corner when you saw it: a tall, narrow door painted a dark oxblood red. The only color in the whole corridor wasn’t mahogany or black.

Brian had said the door would be red. You gripped the handle. It was iron—cool, almost damp. You pushed.

The room beyond was enormous.

Your shoes sank into an old but pristine rug patterned with intricate swirls and designs. The walls were a smoky, soft green, the ceilings high with beams that stretched like arms above your head. A chandelier hung here, too—smaller than the one in the entry, but full of dusty crystals that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the room in warm, golden webs.

There was a canopy bed, dark wood and velvet drapes, tall as you and made up with sheets that looked untouched. A writing desk sat in front of a window, and beside it, a small table cluttered with books. The spines were cracked and hand-bound. Some of them had no titles at all.

And everything—everything—looked too valuable to belong to someone like you.

You set your bag on the bed and stared for a second.

This was yours now.

All of it. The velvet. The crystals. The creaking floorboards and carved lintels and echoing halls.

It felt impossible.

And yet… right.

You opened your suitcase, started unpacking—folding clothes into drawers that looked untouched for decades, placing a few familiar things on the desk: a small photo frame, a worn notebook, the brass key your great-uncle’s lawyer had mailed you with the deed. The only thing in the envelope aside from that eerie letter.

For a moment, as you placed the key down, the candle beside it flared—not wildly, but like it had sighed. There really wasn’t any electrical lighting in the building from what you could see, so even now, the candles swirled and shifted the shadows around the thing.

You stared at it.

Your manor. Your estate. Your workmen taking care of it.

You smiled.

── .✦

You nearly got lost on your way back down—nearly—but you found your way.

The door at the back of the manor opened with a groan—deep and deliberate, like it hadn’t been used in years, yet still expected to swing open for you. A chill crept in through the frame, damp and heavy with mist, and you stepped out into the fog like crossing into a dream.

The air smelled like moss and wet stone. Somewhere, a wind chime rang softly, even though the air was still.

The backyard, if you could even call it that, unfurled in soft, uneven layers—stone paths winding through hedges and overgrown rose bushes, patches of ivy crawling over marble statues half-swallowed by time. The fog was thinner here, but still present, blanketing everything in that same quiet veil. It didn’t obscure so much as… blur.

You followed a winding path with grass growing between the stones, passing under an old iron arch where climbing roses had once bloomed. Now only a few deep crimson buds clung to the vines like drops of blood.

And then the garden opened wide. It was vast. Wild.

Bushes trimmed into winding mazes. Tiered flower beds that had long since spilled into one another. Tall wrought-iron trellises swallowed by tangled vines. A dry fountain with a statue of a weeping angel at its center, moss growing at her feet.

It looked like someone had manifested the pages of The Secret Garden right before your eyes—untamed but alive. Like it was waiting for someone to bring it back.

You smiled to yourself and wandered deeper.

Farther down the slope of the property, just beyond the edge of the garden, you spotted them—old horse stables, sunken slightly into the earth, their wooden frames dark with age but not ruin. You imagined them alive again: the soft sound of hooves on hay, the glow of lanterns, the scent of saddle oil and cedar shavings. You’d never owned a horse in your life, but the fantasy settled in your chest like a childhood wish remembered.

Maybe someday.

And then you noticed the lights.

Not in the manor—but past the stables, nestled beneath the trees. Three small homes. One with string lights blinking dimly around the porch. One with smoke curling from a chimney. One with an open window and the distant flicker of a lamp.

Tim. Brian. Toby.

Each of them lived just far enough to be separate, but close enough that the house was still central. Like planets orbiting the same haunted sun.

You watched the lights flicker for a few seconds before the cold began to settle into your arms. Evening had started its slow descent. The sun would vanish behind the trees soon, and you hadn’t eaten since morning.

You turned back toward the manor.

The kitchen, as you found it, was toward the back—through a side hall lit with lower, warmer candles and lined with faded cookbooks and hanging bundles of dried herbs. The door was thick and swinging, and it opened to reveal a space that looked untouched by time but somehow still in use.

It was enormous—long wooden counters, copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack, a cast-iron stove the size of a small car tucked into the far corner. The stone walls were smooth and soot-darkened, the floor a patchwork of cool brick. There was a wide sink with a spout shaped like a lion’s head, and an old-fashioned icebox humming softly in the corner like it shouldn’t even still work.

A long wooden table sat near the center, clearly used more for prep than dining. A thick butcher’s block was stained with time and something darker. But it was warm. Comforting, even. Like this place had fed generations.

You moved slowly through it, your fingers trailing across aged surfaces, and opened one of the cabinets to find a neat row of mismatched mugs and stoneware dishes. Another held jars labeled in someone’s looping script—dried lavender, thyme, dried lemon peel, powdered bone—

You closed that one quickly.

Your stomach gave a soft growl, and you leaned back against the counter with a slow exhale, still adjusting to the fact that this was yours. All of it.

Even the strange parts.

Especially the strange parts.

You rummaged until you found a pantry hidden behind an old cabinet door, stacked with dried goods and preserved jars. Salted meats wrapped in wax paper, bundles of dried root vegetables, and jars of cloudy olive oil lined the shelves beside sealed tins of flour and herbs.

You found a small iron pan, lit the stove with one of the long matches in the ceramic jar, and started cooking—nothing fancy. Just some chopped root veg in oil, crisped alongside strips of cured venison. The smell was rich and earthy, grounding. By the time you slid everything onto a plate and sat at the long wooden prep table, the sun had fully dipped behind the trees. The fog outside pressed thicker against the windows. The only sign of life being those three little lights in the distance.

You’d just taken your second bite when the kitchen door swung open with a loud creak and a gust of cold air.

You jumped, nearly dropping your fork. “Woah—”

There in the doorway stood Toby, orange goggles pressed up into his curly hair, boots muddy, cheeks flushed from the cold. He carried a huge bundle of chopped wood in his arms, his sleeves dusted in bark shavings and tiny splinters. He didn’t even notice you until he looked up.

“Oh—s-sorry,” he said, voice scratchy with fatigue. He stepped carefully around your chair. “Didn’t m-mean to freak you out. D-Doors around here—never shut r-right.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, setting your fork down. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone. What’s the wood for?”

“You haven’t seen?” He shifted the bundle in his arms, nudging it higher against his chest. “For the f-fireplace. Main one. B-Brian says if we d-don’t keep it lit, the d-damp creeps in too fast. Makes th-the whole place… w-weird.”

You raised a brow. “Weirder than it already is?”

That earned a low laugh from him—half-muffled, like he didn’t quite mean to let it out. “C-Come on. I’ll show you.”

Abandoning your plate, you followed him through the side hall, past narrow windows and walls lined with dusty trimmings, until you reached a massive arched doorway you hadn’t noticed earlier. Toby shifted the firewood to one arm and pushed it open with his shoulder.

What lay beyond nearly took your breath away.

The living room—if you could even call it that—was huge. The ceiling stretched two stories up, supported by beams carved with twisting flowers and vines. Velvet armchairs and an enormous, half-moon couch faced the grand fireplace—a gothic structure carved into the far wall, its stone mantle etched with wolves and trees and a crescent moon overhead. It looked big enough to walk into.

“This used to be the h-heart of the house,” Toby said, dropping the firewood into a copper bin beside the hearth. “B-Brian says it was the first room built, like… b-before the rest of it. S-So, uh. It d-doesn’t like being empty.”

You watched as he crouched near the hearth and began arranging kindling with practiced ease. He struck a match and lit the fire slowly, methodically—like a ritual.

“So, are you guys all… like… hired workers? Or did you know my uncle?”

Toby paused as he fed in a piece of bark, letting the flames catch. “W-We’ve b-been here a long time,” he said slowly, without looking back at you. “Not hired. Not really. M-More like… we s-stay. Keep the place g-going. Make sure it d-doesn’t fall in on itself. We knew your uncle, though. He was a go-good guy.”

“That sounds… ominous.”

Toby snorted and tossed in a larger log. The fire flared golden, shadows dancing up the walls.

“It’s not so b-bad. Beats working in town.” He stood and dusted off his hands. “Less p-people. More ghosts.”

You gave him a look, trying to decide if he was joking.

“I—uh, I’m k-k-kinda kidding,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean. S-Sort of.”

A soft silence settled between you. The fire cracked and popped, filling the room with heat and flickering light. The velvet cushions looked more inviting now, less like relics and more like they belonged to someone real.

“So, uh…” Toby glanced at you, then away. “Y-You like it here? Or is it all t-too… creepy?”

You sat on the edge of the couch, curling your hands in your lap. “I think… it’s weird. But beautiful. And a little overwhelming. I’ve never had this much space. Or… history. Or silence. I used to live in town before this.”

He nodded, shuffling his boot across the rug. “It’s a lot. Y-You’ll get used to it. The h-house’s kinda like a dog. If you d-don’t freak out, it won’t either.”

That made you laugh quietly. “So I just have to let it sniff me and offer it a treat?”

Toby grinned. “E-Exactly.”

You both sat for a moment in the warm, flickering quiet. It was still awkward—but nice. Like two people orbiting the same strange world, slowly working up the courage to say more.

“Thanks for the fire,” you said softly.

He shrugged, eyes still on the flames. “Yeah. Any t-time.”

── .✦

The next morning, the sun filtered through the tall windows in slanted beams, catching the dust in the air like floating gold. For the first time since arriving, you could see the full shape of the manor’s interior in daylight—and now, it felt less like a haunted fairytale and more like a massive, elegant mess.

So, naturally… you grabbed a broom.

It started small. One corner. One rug. But by midday you had swept the grand hall, dusted two of the massive stair banisters, wiped cobwebs from the corners of three corridors, and even mopped the kitchen’s stone floor—nearly breaking your back with the old wooden mop you found hanging in the pantry like a forgotten relic. The house didn’t resist it, either. In fact, it almost felt like it appreciated the attention.

When you finally stopped for a break, your face was flushed and your arms ached.

You rolled your sleeves up, dug out a few actual lemons you’d found in a ceramic bowl in the pantry—clearly fresh—and squeezed them into an old pitcher you’d washed clean. The sugar was slightly clumped, the mint was just a little wilted, but the icebox had cubes in its tray, and somehow, miraculously, the lemonade turned out perfect.

You sipped once. Then twice. Cold. Tart. Sweet.

You stared at the glass. “…How the hell are these lemons fresh?”

And then the thought hit you. Tim. Maybe the boys would want some.

You weren’t sure what their dynamic was with one another—roommates? coworkers? allied cult members?—but there was something grounding about them. Like each had a place here and welcomed you smoothly. And after Toby’s kindness the night before, it felt right to offer.

You made your way out the back again, pitcher in one hand, two mismatched glasses in the other, and followed the path toward the garden. The fog was lighter in the daylight, but still hung low like a lazy ghost on the lawn. The breeze smelled of basil, wet stone, and rosemary.

You found Tim kneeling in the main garden bed.

His jacket was slung over the fence post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands deep in the earth as he repotted a thick clump of herbs beside a basket already filled with tomatoes, squash, and—yep—lemons.

So that’s where they came from.

You approached slowly. “Hey.”

He didn’t look up at first, just kept working the soil between his fingers. “You clean the whole damn house or just beat it into submission?”

You blinked, then laughed. “Both.”

That made him glance up, dark eyes narrowing slightly against the sun. His face was ruddy from the heat, jaw dusted with stubble, hair mussed from sweat and wind. Despite his constant scowl, there was something steady about him. Like a wall you weren’t meant to get past—but if you did, you might find something behind it.

“I made lemonade,” you offered, lifting the pitcher a little. “From your lemons, apparently.”

He grunted and wiped his gloves on his jeans. “Guess you didn’t poison it. I’ll bite.”

You poured him a glass and handed it over. He took it, sipped once—and let out a very small, very faint huff of satisfaction. “…It’s good,” he admitted. “Better than the crap Toby tries to make.”

“Oh? What’s his specialty?”

“Filling the pitcher halfway with sugar.”

You laughed again, and Tim smirked into his glass. He leaned against the garden fence and nodded toward the manor.

“So. You settlin’ in?”

“I think so,” you said, looking back at the looming silhouette of the estate. “Still feels like a dream. Or maybe a hallucination. One with antique rugs and self-lighting candles.”

Tim tilted his head, expression unreadable. “You don’t remember it? From when you were a kid?”

You shook your head. “Not really. My great-uncle didn’t visit often. The few memories I do have feel… blurry. I definitely don’t remember it being this big”

He looked back at the soil, swirling the lemonade in his glass. “House has a way of messing with memory. Not on purpose, just… that’s what time does here. Gets soft around the edges.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched him press a few leaves flat against his palm and sniff them, as if checking their oil. His movements were efficient, practiced. You realized then—he didn’t just tend the garden. He knew it.

“So all the herbs and things in the kitchen are from you?” you asked, curious.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “If we don’t have the soil to grow it here, I make runs to town and restock on the weekends. Brian rigged up the cellar to keep things fresh longer. I grow it, he preserves it. Toby tries not to eat it raw.”

You giggled, and he looked vaguely amused at that. “I appreciate it,” you said sincerely. “The food, the garden, everything. It makes this place feel less… haunted.”

Tim raised a brow. “Don’t worry. You haven’t seen haunted yet.”

The way he said it—casual, with a smirk—made you shiver just slightly. He downed the rest of his lemonade and handed you the glass. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, already moving back to his plot. “And for cleaning. House hasn’t looked that awake in years.”

You blinked. “Awake?”

He crouched again in the dirt. “Yeah. You’ll see.”

── .✦

You wandered farther beyond the garden, past the sun-dappled hedges and the old stables, where the sound of rhythmic chop… chop… chop echoed between the trees. The scent of pine and cedar lingered in the warm air, carried on a breeze that whispered through the taller grass near the edge of the property.

There—beneath a crooked elm tree, stood Toby.

A heap of split logs lay stacked at his feet, the head of his axe buried in the next round of wood. He stood with his back toward you, moving with casual precision. Swing. Split. Breathe. Repeat.

He’d shed his jacket and hoodie, leaving only a pair of low-slung work jeans held by a belt and scuffed boots. His torso was lean but corded with muscle—not bulky, but built like someone who worked. Real work. Outdoor, constant, unforgiving work. His skin was pale beneath the sun but marked with the story of old violence: scars, some deep and thick, others more chaotic—slashing, jagged. A faded bruise bloomed low on one side of his ribs, yellowed at the edges like it had been there for weeks.

Were those from chopping wood? Or maybe losing a grip on his axe once in a while.

You swallowed, caught somewhere between curiosity and concern. “Hey,” you called gently, lifting the pitcher. “Brought you something.”

He turned, surprised—but only for a second. His orange safety goggles were high on the bridge of his nose, but he pushed them up into the mess of his hair and out of the way. A grin spread across his face as he wiped his hands on his pants and crossed the grass toward you.

“You’re just makin’ the r-rounds today, huh, ma’am?” he said, his voice lighter than yesterday. “Let me guess. B-Bribing the help?”

“I prefer the term being friendly.” You handed him a glass. “It’s lemonade. Your friend Tim said you have a habit of eating things raw, so I figured this was safer.”

Toby barked out a laugh. “Fair.”

He took the glass and tipped it back without hesitation, drinking deep. A small sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a growl of satisfaction.

“Holy s-shit, that’s good.”

You smiled. “You’ve been out here a while?”

“Mmhm.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Couple hours, g-give or take. Need to s-stock up before sunset. Fires keep the ro-rooms warm, and Brian gets pissy when the h-hearth runs cold.”

Your eyes lingered a little too long on the lines of his shoulders, the thin sheen of dirt across his forearms, the livid scarring at the base of his throat. It wasn’t just that he was shirtless—it was the contrast. The way he looked so at home out here, in the open air, alone with the work and the trees and the sound of his own breath.

“You’re not sweating,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve been chopping wood in full sun and there’s nothing. You’re completely dry.”

Toby shrugged one shoulder, his smile still crooked but looser now. “Ah. Y-Yeah. I don’t really… d-do that.”

You blinked. “Don’t do what? Sweat?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the trees. “Got this we-weird thing. Got a lotta weird things, a-actually. Basically means I don’t feel pain, and my b-body doesn’t know how to cool itself. S-Sweating’s for fancy people with functioning nerves.”

“Oh,” you said softly, surprised by his bluntness. “Does it bother you?”

He shrugged again. “Not really. Gets dangerous sometimes. Gotta be careful not to o-overheat, but I grew up with it. You l-learn.”

There was something in the way he said it—matter-of-fact, no self-pity. Like this was just another fact of his body, same as height or eye color. You respected that.

“Well, I think you’re officially the most interesting groundskeeper I’ve ever met,” you said lightly, sipping from your own glass.

He smirked. “What, y-you meet a lotta g-gr-groundskeepers in your spare time?”

You raised a brow. “Recently, yeah.”

That pulled another laugh from him, softer this time. He stepped back to his chopping block, gripping the axe again but not lifting it yet. “You h-headin’ back in soon?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d find Brian before lunch.”

Toby gave you a look—still playful, but more pointed. “He’ll probably be d-down in the basement. Or the attic. Or inside the w-walls, depending on his mood.”

You smiled. “Duly noted.”

“See you t-tonight?”

The question hung in the air a little longer than it needed to.

You nodded. “See you tonight.”

Toby tilted his head, grin widening, then brought the axe down with a solid crack that echoed through the clearing as you turned and started back toward the manor.

── .✦

Back inside the manor, the temperature shifted again—cooler near the baseboards, warmer near the windows. You set the empty lemonade glasses in the sink, then wandered deeper through the halls, listening for any sound of life.

But the house had gone still again.

Brian hadn’t been in the kitchen. Or the study. Or any of the main rooms you’d passed on your first night. You called his name once—softly—but the silence felt too thick for your voice to carry. Like the house was holding its breath.

You were halfway up the second staircase when you noticed the attic door was cracked open. Faint scraping sounds drifted down from above. Metal against wood. A low, intermittent hum. You crept upward, hand brushing the railing, and carefully pushed open the door at the top.

The attic stretched wide—long beams crisscrossed beneath the sloped ceiling, and narrow windows filtered in beams of afternoon light muted by fog. Dust motes danced in the air, and the scent of old cedar and metal filled your lungs.

Near the far wall, surrounded by tangled cords and open toolboxes, was Brian.

He was crouched with his back half to you, one gloved hand propping his weight, holding a flashlight between his teeth, and the other arm elbow-deep in a fuse box he’d clearly carved into the paneling himself. Wires looped over his shoulders, slung like bandoliers across his chest. A bundle of bulbs and a roll of copper wiring sat nearby, along with an ancient notebook opened to a sketched schematic of the manor.

You stepped into the room. “Wow. This is… intense.”

He paused, flashlight still clenched in his mouth. Then, without turning around, he pulled it free and said simply, “Didn’t hear you come up, miss.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

He sat back on his heels, then finally looked over his shoulder. A black balaclava covered his face, pushed up above his nose—but even from here, you could tell he was flushed and dusty, a smudge of soot on his jaw. He dusted off his hands on his thighs and pulled the balaclava up over his eyes—clean-shaven, pale, and faintly freckled, though dust clung to the edge of his lip like he’d been breathing in drywall for hours. His face was flushed from the heat of the attic, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You looked at him sideways. “You always wear that thing while you work?”

“Helps with insulation dust,” he said simply, tugging off one glove with his teeth. “And anonymity. Never know when you might need to do something suspicious.”

You stepped closer, eyeing the schematic. “So, you’re installing power? I thought this place ran on candlelight and ten-thousand windows.”

Brian gave a quiet huff—his version of a laugh. “Most of it does. But some rooms don’t hold flame well. Too damp, too old. Wiring’s a mess—wood’s not standard, walls shift more than you’d think. Takes work to keep it functional. Trying to at least get wiring set up.

You noticed the marks on his hands as he peeled off his second glove—faint burns, small healed cuts, calluses thick across his palms. This wasn’t a hobby. This was his life.

You took a few steps closer, careful not to trip on the wires, and held out the last glass of lemonade you’d saved. “I’ve been passing these out like a traveling salesman. You’re my final stop.”

He accepted the glass without hesitation, fingertips brushing yours briefly. “I knew I smelt something good in the kitchen earlier.”

He drank slowly, savoring it. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, the soft sigh of contentment that followed.

“And you do this all yourself?”

“No one else wants to. Toby’s a hazard with anything that sparks, and Tim gets bored and walks off halfway through. So it’s me.”

You watched him reconnect a copper strand and twist it into place, working with efficient silence. “Do you like it?” you asked after a moment.

He glanced up. “The house?”

You nodded.

Brian leaned back slightly, resting one hand on his knee. His eyes were unreadable—grey, but storm-dark, thoughtful. He looked past you for a moment, toward the narrow attic windows where the fog curled thick around the edges of the glass. “…It’s alive,” he said finally. “Not in the fairy tale way. More like a forest. Or an animal. Old. Temperamental. But loyal.”

You let that settle, then smiled. “You sound like Toby talking about the fireplace.”

Brian smirked faintly, then stood—slow and fluid, brushing dust from his thighs as he did. “So you’ve been making the rounds,” he said. “Cleaning, lemonade, talking to the help.”

“I’m trying to settle in. Or make friends. Or at least figure out what kind of weird energy field I walked into.”

He tilted his head. “How’s that going?”

You gave a half-smile. “It’s all weird. But… nice. You and your friends are kind.”

He considered that for a moment, then pulled the balaclava back down over the lower half of his face, just as casually as one might tuck away a strand of hair. “It’s lunch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been at it since morning. So has everyone else. We usually raid the pantry for lunch, but it’s been a bit since we’ve had an actual person living here. Still putting my bets that Toby is in the kitchen, though. Come on, miss.” He turned toward the attic door, already descending without looking back.

You stared after him, eyebrows lifted, then followed, suddenly aware of how hungry you really were.

── .✦

The kitchen door creaked open as you and Brian stepped inside, the familiar scent of lemon peel and old stone greeting you like an old coat. The light had shifted—afternoon now, golden and slanting through the small windows, catching dust motes dancing lazily in the air.

You sat the now-empty pitcher into the deep sink, finding that two empty cups were also there.

Toby was already at the prep table, chewing on something that looked suspiciously like a raw root vegetable. He blinked at the both of you, eyes bright behind his shaggy hair.

“I d-didn’t wanna wait,” he said around the bite. “W-Wasn’t sure if anyone was actually comin’ to feed me.”

“That’s a turnip,” Brian said flatly, dropping his toolbox near the door. “You’re not a rabbit.”

Tim followed a second later, stepping in through the back with dirt still on his hands and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “It’s better than that jerky he found in the cellar. Looked like it was from the civil war.”

You set your hands on your hips. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll cook something.”

That made all three of them pause. Brian raised an eyebrow. Toby tilted his head like a curious dog. Tim blinked, as if processing the idea of being cooked for was not something that happened often around here.

“I mean. If you’re okay with that?” you added, unsure. “Just something simple.”

Brian, mercifully, nodded. “That sounds good.”

Tim grunted and lit his cigarette, exhaling through his nose like a dragon. “Long as it’s not raw.”

You laughed, rolled up your sleeves, and made your way to the pantry. The garden haul was still fresh on the counter—squash, some greens, and a bundle of tomatoes. There were eggs in the icebox, too. A cast-iron skillet and a few minutes later, something vaguely resembling a vegetable hash with fried eggs was sizzling on the stove.

The boys stayed seated while you cooked, lounging like tired lions around the kitchen table. Tim smoked slowly and passed the cigarette over to Brian, who took a pull and said nothing as the smoke curled around his jaw. Toby kicked his boots up on the bench and tapped the side of his glass of water with a rhythm that might’ve been a song if it weren’t so off-beat.

“So,” Tim said, looking at you as he handed the cigarette across the table to Toby. “You still freaked out?”

You flipped something in the pan. “Define freaked out.”

“New house. Dead relative. Haunted furniture.”

You snorted. “I think I’m still waiting for it to hit me. My great-uncle was basically a ghost in my memory. Nice enough guy when I met him as a kid, but I didn’t know him. Just stories and whispers from family reunions.”

“You ever visit the manor back then?” Brian asked, voice soft.

You shook your head. “No. I think my mom didn’t want us here. Something about it spooked her, but she never said much. He sent me letters once or twice when I was little—super formal, written like he was from another time.”

“Sounds like him,” Tim muttered.

“I didn’t expect to be left all this,” you said, more quietly now. “It doesn’t feel real. Like I’m house-sitting for someone who’s just… gone forever.”

The kitchen settled for a moment—just the sizzle of the skillet, the soft knock of Toby setting his boots back on the floor.

“He must’ve l-liked you,” Toby offered after a second. “People don’t leave big fancy m-manor houses to folks they hate.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Maybe. Or maybe the house picked me.”

Tim grunted. “Wouldn’t put it past it.”

You plated the food and set it down in front of them, one after the other. It wasn’t much—just hot, real food—but the way they looked at it, you would’ve thought you’d handed them steak and gold.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing your own plate and sliding into a seat. “As long as you guys keep this place from falling apart, meals are on me.”

Toby immediately dug in with no hesitation. “Marry me,” he mumbled through a mouthful of squash.

Brian chuckled, quiet and low, and Tim actually gave a gruff, “Not bad.”

The four of you ate in warm silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of fork against plate or soft exhale from one of them. There was something peaceful about it—something unspoken and good. You didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Not really.

Just… someone sitting at a worn wooden table with three men who belonged to a house that might’ve just decided to keep you, too.

── .✦

Later that night, the manor had settled into its usual hush—the kind that pressed into your ears and made even your own heartbeat sound too loud.

You padded barefoot through the parlor in your sleep shirt, arms folded loosely as you stepped into the familiar glow of the main hearth. Toby was already there, kneeling in front of the massive fireplace, stacking wood with one hand and shielding the sparks from catching his hoodie with the other.

He glanced over his shoulder as you entered, his hair falling into his face and eyes flickering in the firelight.

“W-Wasn’t sure if you’d be up, ma’am,” he said, reaching for the iron poker. “But I figured you’d wanna w-wake up warm.”

You offered him a small smile, arms hugging your sides. “I appreciate that.”

Toby gave a short nod, pushing one last log into place and prodding the fire until it flared and caught fully. The light bloomed across the room, casting shadows behind every antique and over every tapestry like they were breathing.

You hesitated before speaking again. “Is this all you do? All day, every day?”

“Mhm. Nothing m-much else to do.”

That made your brow knit slightly, but before you could talk further, Toby stood up and brushed ash from his palms onto his jeans.

“I’ll l-leave you to it,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the stairs. “Don’t stay up too l-late.”

And just like that, he was gone—boots creaking faintly down the east corridor as the fire cracked behind you.

You lingered for a moment, watching the flames twist, before taking a deep breath and heading for the stairs. The candles along the banisters were already lit, flickering gently in their iron sconces. You didn’t remember lighting them.

The house felt different tonight.

Still, you made your way up the stairs, letting your hand trail the smooth wood of the railing, eyes flicking from room to room as you passed. The air had cooled. The quiet was too quiet.

And that feeling—that skittish, crawling feeling—had started just halfway up the second floor.

The sensation of being watched. Not from a doorway. Not from the windows. From behind.

You paused on the landing, turning sharply, expecting to see someone—or something—lurking just out of view. Nothing. Just the usual dim hallway behind you, cluttered with towering paintings and narrow furniture too old to move without it groaning.

You swallowed and walked faster, arms crossed now, fingers clenched.

Your door was an even deeper red during the night. You reached it quickly, opened it quicker, and stepped inside.

But the feeling followed.

You shut the door. Locked it. Turned slowly, eyes scanning the room. You checked behind the wardrobe. The curtains. Even peeked under your bed with a half-nervous laugh.

There was nothing there.

But your skin prickled. The air had shifted. The warmth from the hearth hadn’t followed you up here. And the candlelight didn’t seem to push back the dark in quite the same way. You crossed the room and stood in front of the large arched window, pulling the heavy curtain aside to let the cool air in through the old glass.

The garden stretched wide below you, cloaked in fog, silvered in moonlight.

At first, there was nothing.

And then—movement. A low, fast shape darting between the edge of the hedges and the tree line. It skittered unnaturally, fast and hunched, limbs too long, too bent. Animal-like, but not quite right. Not quite animal.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat.

Gone.

Just like that—whatever it was had vanished into the mist, leaving only the rippling hush of the trees and the slow churn of fog behind it.

You stood at the window long after it disappeared, heart beating too loud, hand still clutched around the curtain.

This place was beautiful.

But beautiful things always have ugly secrets.

── .✦

The days began to blur, in that soft, timeless way that only came with old places and new beginnings.

Each morning started the same: the manor bathed in cold light, the fog peeling back just enough to make out the treetops from your window. The air always smelled like moss and stone and smoke from last night’s fire.

You’d wake, dress, and wander through the halls with a hand grazing the banister, slowly learning the rhythm of the house. You knew now that the second door on the left in the east wing led to a linen closet that always creaked when you opened it. That the library had a slant in the floor that pulled your steps just slightly downhill. That the attic moaned louder on rainy days.

And—most importantly—that the back kitchen always got the best light come late morning.

You cooked there more often now. It had become a kind of ritual. Every day around noon, you’d gather what you could from the pantry or the garden haul left near the sink, and make something simple but warm. Always enough for four. Toby started showing up early, tracking dirt and twigs through the hall. Tim came in with his sleeves rolled and arms flecked in soil. Brian, reliably, walked in last—quiet, steady, with his tool belt slung low and a smudge of dust near his jaw.

You talked over meals now. Little things.

Toby cracked dumb jokes and asked you about your favorite horror movies. Tim corrected your technique when chopping herbs but grunted approvingly when the food came out good anyway. Brian listened more than he spoke, but when he did, he always made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

And it was good. Better than good. It felt normal in a place that refused to be.

But when the sun went down… that’s when the house changed.

You told yourself it was the shadows. The candlelight. The wind through the rafters. You didn’t want to be dramatic. But the sense of being watched hadn’t gone away—it had only grown. Like something just outside the light was waiting for you to pass by. Some nights you couldn’t shake the thought that the house itself was testing you. Watching how you moved. What you touched.

And then came the window.

It had been four or five days since you arrived. You’d just finished washing the dishes from dinner and had said goodnight to Toby at the fireplace. The manor was dark now, lit only by flickering wall sconces and the low burn of the fire still dying in the main room. You were halfway up the staircase, your hand brushing the banister, eyes on your feet so you didn’t trip—

SLAM.

Something hit your window. Hard. Glass rattled. Wood groaned. Your heart nearly tore out of your chest.

You stopped cold on the stairs, breath caught in your throat. Your room was on the second floor. Nothing should’ve been able to hit your window. A bird, maybe. But what would a bird be doing flying around at this time of night?

You waited. Listening. Chest heaving. But there was no follow-up. No footsteps. No scraping. Just the fire crackling below, and your own blood thudding behind your ears.

You didn’t go to your room right away. You waited, perched halfway up the stairs with your back to the wall like it would protect you. You watched the hallway. Watched the ceiling. Watched the window across the corridor in case something tried again.

Eventually, you climbed the rest of the stairs and locked your door. You didn’t even peek outside. Not this time.

You slept with the candles lit and the covers pulled up tight.

And in the morning, when the sun finally reached your windows and the world felt solid again…

You knew you had to tell someone.

── .✦

You stood beside Brian at the window, arms folded tight across your chest as the early morning light filtered through the glass. The fog hadn’t burned off yet. It never did this early. The world outside still looked bleached and still, like it was holding its breath.

Brian thumbed the latch and pushed the window open with a soft groan of old hinges. The cool air rolled in, sharp with pine and wet earth. He leaned halfway out, peering around the frame, his gloved fingers dragging carefully over the wood.

“No cracks,” he muttered, inspecting the pane from the inside now. “Seal’s still good. No warping. If something hit it, it didn’t leave a mark.”

“I know something hit it.” You didn’t mean to sound so insistent, but the memory of it—the sound of it—was still buzzing under your skin. “It wasn’t a branch or some little bird. It hit like a body.”

Brian glanced at you, eyes stern and inspecting, his balaclava pushed up above his forehead. “A bat, maybe,” he offered gently. “Sometimes they clip the glass on a dive.”

You shook your head. “No. Too heavy. I heard the weight in it.”

He studied you for a moment, expression unreadable.

The manor groaned above your heads, one of its long, slow creaks that had no clear source. The sound felt like a sigh in the bones of the house.

Brian turned fully to you, closing the window with a soft click. “This place… it’s old,” he said finally. “Built with too many corners and not enough insulation. It creaks, and talks, and stretches. Gets inside your head if you let it, miss.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked back at the glass, as if something might still be out there, watching from the fog.

Brian stepped a little closer, tilting his head to your eye level, lowering his voice. “But just in case,” he said, “I’ll do a sweep.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “A sweep?” you repeated.

He nodded once. “Top to bottom. Every locked door, every loose board. I’ll even check the cellar if that makes you feel better.”

You exhaled slowly. The knot in your stomach didn’t unravel, but it loosened enough to let you breathe. “Thanks, Brian,” you said, voice soft. “I know it sounds crazy, but… I just need to know it’s only me in here.”

Brian looked at you for a beat longer, then gave the smallest nod—firm, final. “I’ll make sure of it.”

── .✦

You couldn’t sit still.

Your hands ached from scrubbing. Your shirt was damp with sweat from dragging rugs across the floors and beating dust from the curtains. The bucket sloshed at your side as you scrubbed down a banister that hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

The manor felt like it was pressing in on you. Like every wall had inched closer. Like the air was just a little too heavy to breathe.

Somewhere above you, Brian was still checking the upper floors. You could hear the occasional creak of boots overhead. The creak of doors opening. Closing. The quiet, focused hum of him doing his job for you.

You stayed on the main level, brushing cobwebs from molding and muttering to yourself as you wiped a smudge that wasn’t coming out.

“This fuckin’… Damn piece of…” you said to no one, shoving the rag harder against the banister.

“You know you’re talkin’ to yourself, right?”

The voice made you jump, nearly dropping the rag. You turned to see Tim standing just inside the hall, shoulder propped against the doorframe and a sweat-damp towel slung around his neck. Dirt clung to the knees of his jeans. His arms were still dusted with the morning’s garden work.

He watched you for a beat, then glanced down at the overly-clean railing. “Place looks like it’s about to sparkle off the foundation,” he said. “You alright?”

You gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. Just… keeping busy.”

Tim grunted. “I can see that.” He took a few steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly. “Or you’re spiraling. Hard to tell.”

Your smile wavered.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked. “What?”

“C’mon,” he said, already turning back toward the hall. “I know a spot. You need fresh air, and this place isn’t gonna give it to you.”

You hesitated, rag still in hand, heartbeat too fast from everything—not just the window, but the sense of something looming. Like waiting inside too long would rot you from the inside out.

You dropped the rag into the bucket and followed him.

Tim didn’t talk much as you walked. He led you through the kitchen, out the back door, down past the garden rows where tomatoes were just starting to bloom fat and red on the vine. The fog had thinned, but the air was still cool and wet with mist.

You followed him through a break in the hedges you hadn’t noticed before, tall green walls parting like a quiet secret, and ducked beneath an old iron gate barely hanging on its hinges.

Beyond it was a pocket of quiet earth. The path widened into a small, shaded clearing, half-eaten by time. And there, rising from the center like a breath held for a hundred years, was an enormous willow tree. Its sweeping branches curved down to kiss the ground, green veils of hanging limbs dancing gently in the windless air.

You stepped into the space like stepping into a memory.

Tim watched your face as you looked around. He didn’t smile, but he did seem… softer.

“Used to keep horses back this way,” he said, nodding toward the leaning remains of a corral beyond the willow. “Gate’s been rusted shut for years now. No one really comes back here. Figured you could use a place the house hasn’t sunk its claws into yet.”

You turned to him, your voice quieter now. “How did you know?”

Tim shrugged, looking away. “You clean like someone who’s tryna stop thinking. And you keep looking around like you’re being followed.”

You swallowed, arms folding loosely across your chest. The sound of the willow’s leaves whispering overhead filled the silence.

“Something hit my window last night,” you murmured.

Tim’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

“It was loud. Heavy. And we’re not talking about a squirrel kind of hit. It felt like someone threw themselves at the glass.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he walked to the edge of the clearing and plucked a long reed of grass, chewing on the end thoughtfully.

“Brian’s got the house,” he said finally. “If something was inside, he’ll find it. But out here…” He glanced up toward the tree line beyond the clearing. “Out here, sometimes things pass through.”

You followed his gaze, but the trees offered no answers. Only shadow. “I don’t like that,” you admitted quietly.

“Good,” he said, flicking the grass aside. “Means you’re smart.”

You gave a weak chuckle. He nudged your arm gently with his elbow. “You’re not alone here, y’know. Even when it feels like it. We’re all just down the path if you ever need company at night.”

You looked over at him. He wasn’t looking back—just staring at the tree, brow furrowed like he was looking for something.

Still, the words stuck with you.

── .✦

The clink of dishes in the sink echoed lightly through the kitchen as you wiped your hands on a towel and glanced toward the table. Tim and Brian sat opposite each other, both half-reclined in that unbothered, post-dinner kind of way—full stomachs, tired limbs, quiet minds. The air was warm with the smell of roasted root vegetables and fried herbs, smoke curling faintly from the open window where Tim had lit another cigarette.

Brian leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-lidded under the pulled-up balaclava. “Did a sweep top to bottom,” he said, his voice that same low, gravel-soft hum. “No one in the house but us. A few mice in the attic, but I scared ’em off.”

You nodded, your hands pausing over a plate. “Nothing in the cellar?”

Brian shook his head. “Didn’t check the cellar. Thought I’d leave that to the guy who actually enjoys being in it.”

Tim snorted. “Or the guy who’s not scared of black mold.”

Right on cue, the back door creaked open.

Toby stepped inside, arms full of chopped logs, boots leaving faint mud prints on the tile that you would have to mop tomorrow. His shirt was still grimy with dirt across the collarbone, and a few wood shavings clung to his forearms. He dropped the load with a thunk near the door, then stretched with a groan and popped his neck side to side.

“F-fire’s gonna feel good tonight,” he said, brushing off his palms.

Brian stood, and Tim followed, stretching his back with a wince. The three of them wandered to the main room, you trailing behind after flicking off the kitchen light that Brian has recently installed—a single swinging bulb above the prep table. You had thanked him vigorously for actual lighting.

The living room glowed dimly in the candlelight, the grand hearth yawning cold in its frame. Toby knelt in front of it and began arranging the wood with jerky hands. The kind of casual rhythm that came from years of repetition—stack, crumple, spark. He muttered something under his breath as the kindling caught, and soon the flames licked high, warm and golden.

They all settled on the old furniture—worn velvet armchairs, the moon-shaped grand couch, the kind of low coffee table that had probably held everything from chamber music sheet music to ashtrays. You perched near the edge of the couch, leaning back as the fire cracked.

Tim lit another cigarette and passed it lazily between himself and Brian. Toby, cross-legged on the rug, stared into the fire.

Then, casually—too casually—he said, “Was down in the c-cellar earlier. Thought I’d check the foundation near the—uh, near the south wall.”

Brian raised a brow. “Since when do you care about the foundation?”

Toby smirked. “I d-don’t. But I do care about the crate of whisky I found tucked behind an old wine rack.”

Tim straightened a bit. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” Toby said, popping the ‘p.’ “Unopened. Labeled. Looks like it hasn’t been touched since… I d-dunno. Prohibition?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Toby looked up at you and grinned, a little sideways and lazy. “I mean, w-would be a shame to let it go to waste. C-call it a housewarming gift. Or a—uh—a rite of passage, since no one’s drunk in th-this house in… hell, probably a hundred years.”

Brian gave a short, amused grunt. “I’m not carrying your ass back to your place if you go blind.”

“I’ll g-get my own ass back home, thank you very much.”

He stood with a groan, brushing ash from his jeans and glancing toward you. “C’mon, ma’am. You wanna see the scariest r-room in the house?”

You hesitated for half a second—but only half.

“Lead the way,” you said, rising to your feet and grabbing a candle off the mantle.

Tim chuckled as you passed. “If you come back with a ghost attachment, I’m not helping you do an exorcism.”

“D-don’t listen to him,” Toby muttered as he opened the cellar door for you, grinning. “The ghosts down there are friendly. M-Mostly.”

The stone steps creaked beneath your feet as you followed Toby into the cellar, candlelight dancing against the old walls. The air shifted as you descended—cool, dense, and heavy with the scent of soil and something metallic. Your breath fogged faintly as you exhaled.

The cellar was cluttered chaos. Dust-covered furniture leaned against each other like drunk old men at a bar, and crates were stacked two or three high, marked with fading labels and water stains. Cobwebs stretched across the ceiling beams like forgotten lace, and somewhere to your left, something scurried behind a box.

“Cozy,” you muttered.

Toby snorted. “W-wait till you see the whiskey.”

You ducked under a low archway as he led you to a darkened corner of the room. He tugged an old steamer trunk aside with a grunt, then leaned over a wooden crate tucked behind it. The top creaked as he pried it open with a pocket knife, and when it gave, you both leaned in.

Eight bottles, dark amber liquid sealed and labeled, nestled in straw like buried treasure.

“Holy shit,” you whispered.

Toby let out a breathy, delighted laugh. “Still sealed. Damn near g-glorious.”

He reached in and pulled out a bottle, holding it up to the candlelight. “You think this still tastes like p-piss, or—?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” you grinned.

He looked at you, his expression playful, then uncorked the bottle with a pop and took a swig without hesitation. His face soured, then relaxed into something pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, that’s smooth,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Gimme,” you said, already holding out your hand.

You took the bottle, tilted it back, and let the warmth slide down your throat. It burned, but in that satisfying way that made you cough once and then grin like an idiot.

When you looked back at Toby, he was smirking. “S-so, does that count as our first kiss? Or…”

You choked on your laugh and turned away, waving the bottle at him. “Shut up.”

He just laughed harder, the sound bouncing off the stone walls.

You both kept grinning like fools as you plucked a second bottle from the crate and wandered deeper into the cellar, passing shelves full of dusty wine bottles, old books, and water-damaged boxes. It was oddly quiet down here, peaceful even—until your foot nudged a crate shoved beneath an old table.

You knelt, bottle tucked under your arm, and pulled it out. The lid was loose, and inside were piles of brittle folders, Polaroids faded to shades of yellow, and a black leather sketchbook with a name embossed faintly on the corner.

Your great-uncle’s name.

“Hey…” you said, flipping it open. “I think this was his.”

Toby had gone still. You glanced up—his eyes were fixed on the sketchbook, his body tense like a wire pulled too tight.

You frowned. “What’s with the face?”

“N-nothing,” he said too fast. “Just—uh. Could be p-personal.”

You ignored him gently and flipped through the pages. At first, it was harmless—drawings of birds, floorplans, some messy handwriting—but then you paused.

Page after page of… something.

Thin, contorted creatures. Eyes too big, mouths too wide. Lanky limbs and claws and hunched poses crouched in unnatural positions. One stood on two legs like a person, but its face was bare—no eyes, no lips, just skin stretched over nothing. Your stomach turned a little.

“What the hell,” you murmured, eyebrows lifting. “Okay, yeah, my uncle was always kinda a freak. My mom used to say he lived in ‘his own little world.’ This is some kind of nightmare fuel.”

Toby gave a dry chuckle but didn’t look amused. He stepped forward, took the sketchbook gently from your hands, and without another word, tossed it onto the pile of blankets and boxes nearby.

“Trust me, ma’am,” he said, voice lower now. “It’s just sketches. D-don’t let your head make it worse than it is.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could ask anything else, he tapped your shoulder with the back of his hand.

“C’mon. We’ve got w-whiskey, and a fire upstairs, and I d-don’t feel like staying sober tonight.”

You hesitated just a second longer, glancing back at the sketchbook where it had landed, the corner of a monster’s limbs still peeking from the page.

Then you followed Toby up the stairs—two bottles in hand, heart just a little heavier than before.

The fire crackled to life by the time you both returned to the main room, each with a bottle tucked under your arm like some ancient treasure trove. Tim and Brian were already there—Tim sprawled on one of the deep velvet armchairs with his boots kicked up, and Brian perched more neatly on the edge of the couch, examining a set of crystal shot glasses he must’ve pulled from one of the manor’s many gilded display cabinets.

“You weren’t kidding,” Tim muttered, holding up a glass to the firelight as you entered. “I think this one’s older than I am.”

“Technically,” Brian said without looking up, “all of this is.”

Toby dropped into one of the armchairs with a grunt, already working the cork loose from the first bottle. “T-then we’re doin’ it justice.”

With a satisfying pop, the whiskey bottle opened. You passed the second to Brian, who poured for everyone with careful hands—four glasses, thick cut-crystal shining orange with firelight and anticipation.

The first round hit your throat like a match struck inside your chest. You coughed. Brian only flinched slightly. Tim winced and grimaced and immediately lit a cigarette to chase the burn away.

Toby? Toby barely blinked.

“You didn’t even make a face,” you accused, half-laughing.

“W-well, I don’t feel it,” he replied with a shrug. “T-tastes like spicy tree bark. That’s about it.”

Tim chuckled, raising his glass again. “Bastard’s cheating. He doesn’t feel pain, so the burn’s nothing. Bet he could drink a whole bottle and barely stumble.”

“You say that l-like it’s not a skill,” Toby said with a grin, clinking his glass against yours before throwing another shot back.

The fire burned brighter, casting long shadows against the dark, high walls. Layers of coats were shrugged off and draped over the couches. Boots untied. Someone opened a window just a crack to let the cold air mingle with the warmth and smoke. Brian leaned back with his second glass, quiet but relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Tim was still nursing his cigarette between his fingers, occasionally tapping the ash into a cracked ceramic dish.

Conversation shifted—small stories, shared work gripes, little observations about the manor. You learned that Tim once tried to plant a pear tree and was “personally offended” when a deer ate them. Brian admitted he doesn’t hang around much in the manor because the wiring hums too loud at night. Toby, half-slouched in his seat, mentioned offhandedly that he once got locked in the cellar for three hours and just decided to nap.

“Of course you napped,” you snorted. “That place is like… haunted and musty. You didn’t even freak out?”

He stretched his legs out in front of him and shrugged. “If something wanted to c-c-come get me, it missed its chance.”

Tim let out a bark of laughter. “The only thing that’s gonna get you, boy, is tetanus.”

“L-l-lotta overlap there, actually.”

The whiskey flowed in slow waves. Nobody rushed it, but it warmed everything. The room, your limbs, the tension you hadn’t realized had been knotted in your shoulders since the window incident. You leaned into the couch cushions, eyes fluttering closed for a second as the fire snapped and the others kept talking.

And in that moment—just a flicker—you felt like you belonged here. With them. In this big, haunted house in the woods, surrounded by fog and secrets and soft-spoken strangers who were slowly becoming something else.

It finally felt like your home. Maybe.

── .✦

The fire had dwindled to low, glowing embers—the kind that whispered instead of roared, casting flickering shadows that danced along the high stone mantle. The warmth still held, lingering like the comfort of thick blankets and shared laughter.

Brian stretched with a soft grunt, rising from the couch and setting his now-empty glass back on the side table. “I’m heading out,” he murmured, grabbing his things, rubbing at his neck. “If I stay any longer, I’ll fall asleep on that damn chair.”

Tim was already up, swiping his jacket off the back of the couch. “Yeah, ‘m done too. You two try not to fall into the fire or whatever.”

Toby offered a lazy wave from his spot beside you, his legs splayed, head tipping slightly to the side. You giggled and returned it, feeling delightfully heavy and light at once—like your limbs weren’t quite connected to your body.

The door clicked shut behind the other two, leaving you and Toby in the amber haze of the manor’s massive sitting room.

You shifted to stand and promptly tripped over the edge of the couch.

“Woah—wh-whoa, easy,” Toby said, catching your elbow with one hand and half-laughing, half-hiccupping. “Y-you’re not allowed to get a c-concussion your first week here.”

“I’m fine,” you giggled, swaying into his side. “It’s the rug’s fault.”

He smirked, slipping an arm around your waist and nudging you toward the hallway. “C’mon, l-let’s get you to bed, light-weight.”

You leaned into him without resistance, your body warm and soft with buzzed comfort, the steady rhythm of your footsteps echoing against the old walls. The flicker of the candles guiding the way shimmered a little more than usual.

At your door, Toby reached out to push it open and half-led, half-carried you inside. The room welcomed you with its familiar scent—aged wood, cool linen, candle wax.

“I got it, I got it,” you mumbled, trying to wriggle free to climb onto the bed yourself.

But he followed, hands still on your arms, trying to help you—and then his foot caught on the edge of the rug.

You both toppled—onto the mattress.

His weight pressed into you—not crushing, but grounding, and for a moment, the two of you just lay there, breathless with stunned laughter. “Oh my God,” you wheezed, “You tackled me!”

Toby laughed, nose scrunching, his forehead resting against yours. “I tr-tr-tried to help—th-the damn rug’s out for blood.”

You giggled again, chest rising and falling beneath his. His laughter slowed. So did yours. And when your eyes met—wide and glassy in the low candlelight—everything shifted.

The air thinned. The laughter settled into something slower. Quieter.

Toby’s gaze dropped to your lips. He blinked, breath hitching. “S-s-sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled, but didn’t move.

Your heart thumped hard in your chest. His hands were on either side of your head, arms braced, holding himself up—but barely.

“…Don’t be,” you said softly.

The distance closed—tentative, but magnetic.

His lips met yours, uncertain at first, as if checking you were still okay with it. Then deeper, a little hungrier. One of his hands slid up into your hair, the other curling into the sheet beneath you. He tasted strongly like smoke and whiskey, and when you sighed against him, he pulled you just a little closer.

The kiss lingered, warm and real, like something neither of you meant to do but somehow needed to happen.

He was about to lift himself off you—muttering a soft, stuttered apology—when your hand found the front of his shirt. You sat up slowly, the room swaying just a bit with the motion, and before he could step back, you tugged him down again.

“Toby,” you whispered, voice low. “Stay.”

“M-Ma’am?” His eyes flicked to yours, wide and caught between hesitation and want—but when you leaned in again, kissing him deeper this time, that hesitation crumbled.

The second kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was hot, desperate, heady. His hands found your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt, callused palms dragging across your skin. You gasped softly into his mouth, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned you back onto the mattress, bodies tangled.

You felt him everywhere—his breath, the weight of him, the tremble in his touch that wasn’t quite from nerves. He pushed your shirt higher, mouth trailing clumsy, hungry kisses along your jaw and throat, and you arched into him like you’d been waiting for this since the moment you met.

But then—

The room tilted. Not in the way it had before. The wave of alcohol that had been simmering in your bloodstream surged forward all at once—your limbs going heavy, your chest tightening with a sudden, unsteady breath.

Your fingers faltered.

Toby froze instantly. He pulled back just enough to see your face, stilling as his breath came hard and fast between you.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked slowly, heart pounding. “Just… dizzy. It hit me all at once.”

A beat passed. And then Toby moved off you. Not in a rush—but carefully, like something inside him had just shifted. He sat at the edge of the bed and ran a hand down his face before adjusting his jeans, trying to catch his breath. The patch on his cheek was slightly ruffled, pulling at the edges.

“I—” he started, then cleared his throat. “I sh-shouldn’t’ve done that. I shouldn’t b-be—taking a-advantage of you like that. You’re my boss.”

“You weren’t,” you said quickly, sitting up beside him, shirt still rumpled, your skin still buzzing with heat. “It was me too. I wanted to.”

He gave you a long, unreadable look—torn between guilt and longing.

“…Still,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the floor. “You’ve had a l-lot to drink. I—don’t wanna do anything you’d regret in the m-morning.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied his profile, the slight flush in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands had curled into fists in his lap.

“I won’t regret it,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond, just exhaled, slow and quiet.

Then, finally, he stood. You followed him to the door, still half-stumbling and dizzy. Toby looked back at you with something that wasn’t quite a smile. Something softer. A little sad.

“Night,” he said, voice low and rough.

You nodded. “Night.”

Neither of you moved for a second too long. And then he stepped out, closing the door behind him with the same care he did everything else—but now it felt heavier.

A week. You’ve been here a week and you’re already trying to fuck the help.

You turned and buried your face into the velvet pillows, grumbling until you fell asleep.

── .✦

Things got normal again.

Not normal—nothing about the manor quite fit that word—but familiar. You woke with the sun filtering through gauzy curtains, made coffee in a robe that dragged across boot-scraped floors, and opened windows to let in the wet scent of pine and fog. The eerie quiet was less eerie now—more like a hush, a secret being kept just for you.

And nothing exceptionally creepy had happened since Brian swept the place, which was a plus.

Toby still chopped wood past the edge of the garden. Tim still muttered to himself while trimming basil and pinching off squash blossoms. And Brian… well, Brian always seemed to be nearby, half in shadow, doing some quiet task no one had asked him to do.

Toby had been distant since that night—polite, gentle, even funny—but different. He didn’t linger like he used to. Still smiled when he passed you, still brought in logs every night, still let his shoulder brush yours sometimes when no one was looking. But the energy between you had shifted. Neither of you said anything about it.

And yet… he was still kind.

They all were.

The guys had started dropping in more—never lingering long, but always stopping in for something. Brian would bring a box of old bulbs and tinker with the kitchen sconces while you made tea. Tim would wipe dirt on your shirt just to make you swear at him, then duck in to ask if you needed anything from the garden. And Toby would pop by with mushrooms or cool rocks he’d found in the woods, only to “accidentally” stay for half an hour while you made lunch.

You liked it. The quiet company. The slow growing of something that felt almost like home.

And then you found the keys. A ring of them, heavy and old, hidden in the very back of a kitchen cupboard behind dusty linens and a chipped porcelain soup tureen. They jingled like they were singing—thick iron ones, tiny ornate ones, long bronze ones with curling teeth.

The exploring began that afternoon.

You unlocked a narrow room with stained glass windows and a dozen abandoned easels—your great-uncle’s forgotten artist studio, the paint still cracked dry on the palettes like ghosts of color.

Two more bathrooms were revealed, one with a velvet fainting couch and a mirror too tall to clean.

And then—your uncle’s office.

The door creaked open like it hadn’t in years. Dust danced in the sunlight pooling through tall windows. You saw more of those drawings tucked in desk drawers—strange, lean figures with hollow eyes and gaping mouths, crouched and twisted in impossible shapes. You stared at them for a moment, uneasy, but eventually tucked them back and turned the key in the lock once more.

You didn’t tell the guys. You don’t really know why.

And things… stayed normal.

Until lunch.

Tim was in the garden. Toby was somewhere in the woods, you assumed. That left just you and Brian.

He’d wandered in through the back door, quiet as usual, stripping off his gloves and balaclava and setting them beside the old bread box without a word. You stood at the stove, stirring something simple—rosemary chicken, a side of boiled potatoes, some roasted carrots Tim had left on the counter with a note that just said “eat these.”

He stepped forward, pulling a chair out at the kitchen table and sitting down backward in it, arms resting across the top like he was settling in.

“Smells good,” he said. “Have you always cooked for people?”

“Only the people who don’t scare me,” you teased, tossing him a wink over your shoulder.

He huffed a small laugh, head tilting. “…So not Toby, then.”

You snorted. “Toby’s just awkward.”

Brian’s eyes flicked toward the floor. “He’s been quieter.”

You didn’t answer. The moment stretched long and warm with the scent of herbs and firewood. Outside, the fog pressed softly against the windows, as if waiting to be let in.

“I found a bunch of old keys earlier,” you said after a beat, just to fill the quiet. “Unlocked some weird rooms.”

That got his attention. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. A whole art room. My uncle was definitely a painter.”

“Painter, hunter, craftsman—bit of everything.”

The rosemary clung to your fingers as you moved to slice the last of the carrots, humming quietly to yourself. The kitchen was warm—steam curling from the pot on the stove, the sound of a ticking clock mingling with the crackle of the oven. Brian said nothing, but you could feel him watching. His silence filled the corners of the room.

Your knife slipped.

“Shit,” you hissed, jerking your hand back from the cutting board.

Brian was on his feet in seconds. You barely had time to turn before his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm—as he brought your hand closer to his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” you started, embarrassed by the sting and the sudden attention, but he shook his head.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, already pulling something from his back pocket—a worn handkerchief, navy with fraying edges. He licked it without hesitation, then gently dabbed at the smear of blood on the side of your finger.

You blinked.

His touch was… soft. Careful. You stared at him while he worked, at the way his eyelids lowered, at the faint crinkle of his brow beneath a singular smudge of dirt.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, glancing up at you. “Wasn’t watching you close enough.”

You gave a breathless laugh. “It’s not your fault I’m clumsy.”

He looked down at your hand again, cradled in his palm like something breakable. And then—without thinking—he leaned forward and kissed the tip of your finger. It was feather-light, almost nothing. “All better.”

But your breath caught. His eyes flicked up, and the change in the room was immediate.

Brian froze. “…Shit,” he muttered, straightening slightly, hand still on yours. “I don’t know why the fuck I did that—Sorry, miss.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He watched you a second longer—then his voice lowered, uncertain. “…Was that okay?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

You only realized how close he’d gotten when his other hand rose slowly—fingertips brushing your jaw, then coaxing you forward. The touch was barely there, as if asking permission.

And then he kissed you. Just a soft, tentative press of his mouth to yours. A test. A moment.

You leaned in before he could pull away.

His hand slipped to your waist, guiding you back gently, until your hips met the edge of the counter and the breath left your lungs. His mouth moved against yours again—slow, easy, but deepening, pulling a sound from you that surprised both of you.

His fingers curled tighter against your side, your arms finding his chest, fisting in the worn fabric of his hoodie. He tasted like cigars and woodsmoke, felt like fire and hit coals, and kissed like he’d been holding his breath for days.

Brian didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned in harder.

His hand slid beneath your thighs, strong and steady, and before you could react, he’d lifted you clean off your feet and set you on the counter with a soft thud—cool wood meeting the backs of your legs, your breath catching.

He stepped between your knees like he’d done it before, like he belonged there, and kissed you deeper. Hungrier.

Your arms locked around his shoulders, fingers digging into the back of his hoodie as he pressed flush against you. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs dragging slow, thoughtless circles into your skin through the fabric of your shorts. You felt him—all of him—through his jeans as he rutted forward once, twice, a soft, strangled sound escaping from the back of his throat into your mouth.

He kissed like he wanted to climb inside you and burn the memory into his tongue.

Your head tilted back, a quiet gasp slipping out. And then—

Pop. A sharp sizzle. A curl of smoke. Then the unmistakable, nostril-burning scent of burning oil and meat.

You both froze. You turned in unison toward the stove. The skillet hissed violently, thick black smoke rising from where the chicken had completely charred on one side.

“Shit,” you barked, hopping down from the counter.

Brian stumbled back as you grabbed the pan, yanking it off the burner with a dishrag and blowing at the smoke. The kitchen window fogged as the scent of scorched garlic, meat, and herbs thickened the air.

You groaned, laughing behind your hands as you set the pan down in the sink. “Well,” you muttered, still breathless, “guess that’s lunch ruined.”

Brian stood off to the side, rubbing the back of his neck, his face red and tense, “That’s my bad,” he said, voice low and rough. “Shouldn’t’ve distracted you, miss.”

You looked at each other. Long. Quiet. Still tasting one another.

His eyes flicked down to your hand. “…You’re not bleeding anymore,” he murmured. “That’s good.”

You nodded mutely.

He shifted, like he wanted to say something else—do something else—but then glanced toward the door and cleared his throat.

“I should… go check the attic wiring. Make sure we’re not about to have an electrical fire on top of a kitchen one.”

You nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, go… do that.”

He hesitated. Then gave a tight, unreadable smile before slipping out into the hallway. You stared after him, wide-eyed, heart thudding in your ears. Then you turned to the table, dropped into the nearest chair, and planted your face in your hands.

“Mmhmm,” you groaned, muffled against your arms. “Cool. Awesome. Love this for me.” You sat there for a moment, the smell of burnt food still hanging in the air like a guilty fog, and let your thoughts spin out of control.

You had just kissed Brian. Properly. After kissing Toby. On the mouth. In your bed.

You groaned again. You were living in a crumbling manor, isolated in the woods, with three ridiculously attractive men who couldn’t seem to stay out of your kitchen or your personal space.

This was getting out of hand.

── .✦

The laundry was warm in your hands, soft from the sun, your fingers folding shirt after shirt in the hush of your room. The manor was quiet—eerily so—as it always was in the late mornings, the old floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet as you moved. A candle on the dresser flickered even though there was no breeze, and a distant grandfather clock ticked steady from somewhere down the hall.

You were just halfway through organizing socks when the sharp honk of a truck horn cut through the silence.

Your head snapped up. That wasn’t usual.

You padded over to the window and pulled back the sheer curtain. Across the courtyard and around the bend of the fog-lined gravel drive, a beat-up, pale red pickup was crawling around the side of the manor—old, boxy, and definitely vintage. You squinted.

Curious, you tugged on your shoes and hurried down the stairs, the back door swinging open with a long groan. The air was warm, a little muggy with the heat, and sure enough, Tim had parked in the shaded gravel behind the manor, hopping down from the driver’s seat with his usual scowl and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.

You approached as he pulled open the tailgate, revealing the small mountain of brown paper sacks in the truck bed.

“Groceries?” you asked, blinking.

“Town run,” he grunted, reaching in for a crate of canned goods. “No one grows pork or tobacco out here, shockingly.”

You laughed. “Need help?”

He jerked his chin. “Sure. You know where the pantry is.”

You both got to work, hauling bags in pairs, stepping in and out of the fog-cooled shade of the house. The scent of fresh dirt clung to the bags—root vegetables, herbs, hand-wrapped cheeses, wax paper packages of smoked meat. The manor’s ancient kitchen felt alive as you moved through it, pantry doors swinging open, cupboards filled with new life after you stripped them bare for meals.

You reached into one of the last bags near the cab and pulled something small and unexpected: a thick brown paper envelope with a bold, hand-labeled sticker on the front. You turned it over.

“Sunflower seeds?” you asked, confused.

Tim looked over his shoulder as he slid a new carton of eggs into the icebox. “Yeah. They’re in season. Thought maybe you’d wanna see something outside that’s not brown or gray for once.”

You blinked. He didn’t say it with any sentiment—his voice was rough and offhand, like he hadn’t even thought twice about it—but something warm tugged in your chest all the same.

“I’d love to plant them,” you said quietly, fingers curling around the seed packet.

He gave a little shrug, grabbing the last crate. “Then let’s do it. Dirt’s soft from the rain yesterday.”

You tucked the envelope into your pocket and followed him outside, down past the thinning garden rows and tangled vines, your shoes brushing against grass and clover. Tim led you to a space just past the last vegetable bed—a patch of rough soil along the back fence line that caught a good bit of sun in the afternoon hours. The willow tree swayed far in the distance.

You both knelt in the dirt, side by side, working quietly, fingers digging into the earth.

The sunflower seeds were smooth and pale, and you tucked them carefully into the ground one by one, pressing them into little cradles of soil. Tim didn’t say much—just made quiet little comments about spacing and depth—but it was nice, the silence. Companionable.

The warm scent of damp earth lingered thick around you both as you tucked the last of the sunflower seeds into their little patches of turned soil. A soft breeze passed over the back garden, stirring your hair and making the willow leaves rustle in the distance. Tim worked quietly, sleeves rolled to the elbows and thick gloves caked in dirt, occasionally glancing over at your technique—though he didn’t correct it much after the first time.

You reached for the last handful of seeds and caught him watching.

“What?” you asked, brushing hair behind your ear.

He gave a low grunt and pulled his gloves tighter at the wrist. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ I’ll have to get you a pair of gloves if you’re so hellbent on helpin’ all the damn time.”

You smiled, digging your hands into the dirt anyway. “What, these?” you wiggled your muddy fingers. “This is half the fun.”

“‘Til you’re cryin’ about a splinter,” he muttered, but there was a faint smirk pulling at his mouth.

When the last seed was pressed into the soil and the garden patch looked neat and content, you sat back with a sigh, brushing your hands on your thighs. Tim stood and stretched his back, cracking his neck and watching the plot like he could already see the golden blooms rising.

“You’ve got dirt on your face,” he said suddenly.

Your brows pinched. “Where?”

He stepped closer. “Right here.”

Before you could react, he swiped one gloved finger across your cheek—not brushing the dirt off, but smearing it more, dragging a streak of soil across your skin.

Your jaw dropped. “Tim!”

“What?” he said innocently, tugging his glove tighter.

With a mock gasp, you scooped up a little handful of loose soil and chucked it at his chest. The dirt splattered across his shirt, leaving brown specks on his already stained flannel.

His eyes narrowed—but the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?”

You gave him a smug look just before he bent down and lobbed a clump of soil right back at you, hitting your shoulder with a soft thud. A laugh broke from your chest, and then the two of you were at war—ducking behind planting beds, flinging dirt with your bare hands, shrieking and dodging with abandon. The whole back garden filled with laughter and the shuffle of boots and sneakers on grass and soil.

You scooped up a particularly wet clump and turned to throw it—

But your foot caught on the edge of a planting bed. You yelped, pitching forward, hands instinctively flailing for balance—

Tim’s arms shot out fast, catching you by the waist as you stumbled into him. He pulled you up quick, steadying you like it was nothing.

But now you were right there. Panting. Dirt smeared across your face. Your palms flat against his chest, his hands gripping your waist. The sun hung warm behind you both, haze pooling at the edges of the woods, and suddenly the garden felt very small.

You glanced up at him—he was already looking down at you. Close enough to see the specks of dirt on his cheekbones, the sweat at his brow, the heat behind his tired eyes. His breath brushed your skin. Neither of you moved.

You swallowed hard.

Your fingers twitched against his chest as the moment hung heavy—muddy clothes, pounding hearts, breath caught in your throat. You felt it when he tensed slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do either, but then you began to pull back, heat crawling up your neck, preparing to laugh it off—

But Tim reached up, tugging his glove off with his teeth in one smooth motion, then tucking it in his pocket.

“Hold still,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

You froze as he reached out, calloused, bare fingers brushing gently across your cheek—wiping the dirt smear away with a care that startled you. You blinked up at him, mouth parting slightly, and his lips quirked in something almost fond.

“You’re so damn clumsy,” he said, shaking his head.

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure how else to respond, eyes darting away—but he caught your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding your face back to his.

“Nuh uh,” he said softly. “Don’t look away.”

You stared at him, nerves buzzing beneath your skin, lips parting to say something—to make a joke, or tease, or shut it down before your heart leapt out of your ribs—but his fingers slid down to your neck, warm and anchoring.

“You always do that,” he muttered. “Deflect when you get nervous.”

Your eyes widened. “I do not—”

But the words died on your lips.

Because Tim silenced you with his. It was hot—sudden—his hand tightening at your waist and the other still beneath your jaw, pulling you in like he’d been holding back for days. You gasped softly against him, his mouth rough and certain, lips parting yours as he tugged you flush to his body, every inch of him pressed warm and solid against you.

You curled your hands into the front of his shirt instinctively, half-steadying yourself, half-dragging him closer as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You tasted sweat, earth, and cigarettes—and under it all, him. Tim kissed like he worked—with full intent and no hesitation once he’d started.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his breath was ragged and warm against your cheek. His hand still cradled your jaw. You just stared at each other, caught, trembling slightly in the fading heat of the afternoon.

“…Still nervous?” he asked, voice husky.

You swallowed hard, lips swollen, cheeks burning. “…A little,” you breathed.

And he just smirked.

Your breath caught in your throat the second his lips curled, and it was like the weight of everything suddenly crashed down.

Holy. Shit.

You stepped back like you’d touched fire.

“I—I have to go,” you blurted, already untangling yourself from his arms. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—I mean I did—but I didn’t—oh my god.”

“Hey, wait—” Tim started, reaching for you. But you were already scrambling toward the manor, shoes slapping the dirt path, heart pounding so hard in your chest it sounded like thunder in your ears.

You didn’t stop until you were back inside, up the stairs, down the hall, and flinging yourself into your bedroom like something was chasing you. You hit the bed face-first with a muffled scream.

Then rolled. 

Then screamed again—this time into a pillow. You flailed, limbs a mess across the duvet, before groaning and yanking at your hair in both hands, whispering frantic, breathless nonsense like “Oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck is happening—”

You slammed your head gently—but repeatedly—into your mattress.

“What am I even doing?” you groaned, rolling again, now hanging halfway off the bed. “Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with me?”

Your hands dragged down your face as everything came flooding back with horrifying clarity.

Toby—on your bed, after the firelight and whiskey.

Brian—against the counter, your finger still stinging, the smoke curling behind you.

And now Tim, just outside, with sun and soil and heat still clinging to your clothes.

You’d kissed each of them. You weren’t sure if you were the luckiest person alive or absolutely doomed.

And dusk was in two hours. You stared blankly at the ceiling.

Dinner was going to be hell.

── .✦

Dinner time rolled around, and the silence was louder than anything you could’ve cooked.

You’d made too much food—roasted potatoes, seared green beans from Tim’s garden, that lemon-pepper chicken recipe you were weirdly proud of—but no one came. No knock. No thump of boots in the hall. No door creaking open with a muttered “smells good in here.”

Not even Toby dragging in firewood.

Your stomach sat tight in your belly as the minutes ticked by. You kept glancing at the door, willing it to open, practically begging for one of them to appear—even if it was just to yell.

But the manor remained still.

“Maybe they’re mad,” you whispered, poking at your food with the side of your fork. “Maybe they’re talking. Figuring out what to do with the idiot who kissed all three of them.”

The thought made you wince. Rip each other apart, or rip you instead. You barely ate. The chicken dried out, the beans went cold, and your whiskey glass stayed untouched. It all felt like some sort of punishment. You washed the dishes in silence, the clang of ceramic against sink echoing too loud, too empty, as if the walls were holding their breath.

And when the fire never started in the main room, you knew—they weren’t coming.

Upstairs, your pacing felt frantic. You chewed your thumbnail, dragged your hands down your face, cursed at the floorboards and the ceiling and yourself.

“This is stupid,” you hissed. “They’re grown men. It’s not like I planned for any of this to happen! I just—” You bit off your sentence. “I should go down there. Just check in. Make sure they’re not—fighting or something.”

But when you pulled the curtain aside, peeking through your bedroom window, you froze. The cabins were glowing softly—three little stars in the fog, warm and yellow through the mist. Lights on in each one. They were there. Alive. Not dead. Not bleeding.

Just… absent from your space.

You let out a breath—relief and guilt tangled in your chest like briars.

Then something moved—fast.

Your eyes snapped to the right, and you swore—you swore—you saw something skitter across the edge of the fog, just beyond the garden. Thin. Pale. Animal-like—but not an animal. The legs bent wrong. The way it moved was wrong.

And then—

A shadow sprinted after it—a human silhouette.

Your breath hitched.

“What the fuck—” you whispered, heart slamming into your ribs. You staggered back from the window, breath ragged, ears ringing.

Something was out there. And someone was chasing it.

You tried to rationalize.

Maybe it was a stray dog. Some hunter going after an animal. Maybe—God, maybe someone lost their pet, and it slipped through the woods and they just—

But no one lived out here. There were no neighbors. No houses for miles. Just trees, fog, and the wind biting through the gaps in the manor’s old windows.

Your breath started to come faster. You moved back toward the window, hands trembling as you reached for the curtain again, trying to calm yourself, to see—to prove to your own damn brain that there was nothing out there.  Then—

BANG.

A single, deafening gunshot cracked through the courtyard. You screamed.

The windows rattled in their frames, the sound echoing off the trees like it had split the ground in two. You dropped back, stumbling, your hand flying to your chest as your heart tried to burst free.

No no no no no—

You whipped back to the window, scanning frantically—but there was nothing. Just thick mist. Shifting branches. But the cabin lights were still on, glowing like weak lighthouses in a sea of gray.

Your hands moved before your thoughts could catch up. You grabbed the first jacket you saw, yanking it over your shoulders. You didn’t even bother with shoes. Your hand smacked against the bannister as you bolted down the stairs, breath ragged, throat dry.

Whoever—whatever—was out there had a gun. That meant this wasn’t some animal. This wasn’t some illusion brought on by isolation and guilt and the ache in your chest.

This was real. And it meant one of two things.

Someone was here to rob you—or someone was here to hurt you.

The manor’s back doors groaned as you flung them open, and the air outside hit you like a bucket of ice water. Your breath turned to fog as you sprinted into the night, the gravel biting at your bare feet, eyes scanning, searching—

You had to get to someone. Anyone. You didn’t care who. Tim, Toby, Brian—hell, all three. Just someone real, someone armed, someone who knew what to do. There’s no way they didn’t hear the shot.

The fog felt thicker tonight. The kind that clung to your skin like a damp sheet, swallowing sound and vision whole. Your pulse pounded behind your eyes as you ran across the grass, your head whipping around at every creak, every twig snap.

The cabins were up ahead. Yellow lights. Them.

And something moved in the trees to your left.

You faltered. Your steps stuttered on the dewy grass, and your body jerked to a stop, chest heaving with the rush of adrenaline as your eyes locked on the shape.

A figure. Human-sized. Standing motionless at the edge of the tree line just beyond the veil of fog. Still. Too still.

Your heart surged, panic curling up your throat like bile, but still—you called out, voice cracking, “T-Toby? Brian? Tim?”

No response. The figure didn’t move—just shifted. The kind of shift that makes your instincts scream. A slow tilt of the head like a dog confused, or a curious predator.

Your heart skipped. Then stuttered. You called again, louder, more desperate now. “Hey! This isn’t fucking funny guys! Is this some prank or something?!”

The thing stood up. No… it unfolded.

Long. Too long. Limbs stretching like they weren’t made for a human frame. Slender arms reaching toward the dirt. A body hunched and sickly in silhouette, pale and sinewy and wrong.

Your brain was already screaming, but your legs stayed locked. Your eyes immediately welled with tears, lips parting to scream, to shout, to call for anybody—

Until it moved on all fours. Fast. Not a lurch. Not a shuffle.

A sprint—straight at you.

You shrieked, a sharp, raw sound that tore up your throat as you spun and bolted, feet slamming the grass, sprinting so hard your lungs burned. The fog seemed to clutch at your legs, dragging you back with every step. You screamed their names again, over and over, begging,

“TOBY! BRIAN! TIM—HELP!!”

Behind you, that thing tore through the grass like knives through silk. Heavy, wet thuds of too-long limbs slamming the earth. You could feel it closing in.

The cabins were just ahead. Closer—closer—

You screamed—but no sound made it out.

One second, sprinting full speed toward the cabins, lungs burning, throat raw from shouting—and the next, a pair of arms slammed into you from the side, snatching you mid-stride and throwing you to the ground.

You hit the grass hard, dirt scraping your elbows and back as you rolled with the momentum. The breath whooshed out of you, replaced instantly with pure, primal terror. You kicked, tried to scramble back, chest rising and falling like you were drowning.

It got me. It got me. It got—

Then you saw him. Not him—not right away. A shape—crouched, lean. Orange goggles glinting in the fog, and a metal muzzle strapped over his mouth. Broad shoulders, stained hoodie. A hatchet in one gloved hand, twitching fingers on the other. Your brain scrambled to identify it, to rationalize, but nothing came.

And he was already gone, sprinting into the fog like a goddamn feral animal. The creature was mid-lunge. You saw it rear up, gangly limbs arching, the sharp silhouette of it rising like a nightmare.

Then—CRACK.

The blade of his hatchet buried deep in the side of its head with a wet, awful thud. The thing spasmed, a shriek escaping it—inhuman, high-pitched, wrong.

And he didn’t stop. He yanked the hatchet free—then slammed it down again. Again. And again. Over and over until blood and black matter sprayed into the fog like a horror show. You saw its limbs twitch once. Then stop. And he just kept chopping.

You could only watch. Your body refused to move. Then it did—all at once, violently—your limbs shaking as you scrambled backwards through the grass, breath ripping through your chest like glass shards, full-blown panic setting in.

You didn’t know where to look, what to do, your vision going fuzzy at the edges.

Click.

The cold, metallic cock of a shotgun behind you froze your blood. You twisted, gasping, eyes wide.

And there they were. Two silhouettes walking slowly through the fog like something out of a fever dream. The one in front wore a dirty white mask with ink-black eyes and a painted mouth. A taller figure flanked him, face hidden under his yellow hood and black balaclava. One carried a shotgun. The other a pistol. They joined the third figure panting over the creature, digging his boot into the side of it before jerking his hatchet out.

And they were all staring at you.

Your heart thudded in your chest like a war drum, and the realization hit you like a slap.

Tim. Brian. Toby. But not like you’d ever seen them before.

And for the first time, you realized—

You didn’t know a damn thing about the men living on this land.

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

๑ to part two

It started with a shift.

With the man she’d known since they were both just genin.

Back then, he was the boy who rarely spoke, avoided eye contact, and kept himself hidden behind a high collar and dark-tinted glasses. He was mysterious and unreadable, like he belonged more to the shadows than the sun.

On the other hand, she had always been his opposite—loud, expressive, and relentlessly curious. She didn’t find his quiet nature intimidating, just… fascinating. A walking challenge wrapped in mystery.

So naturally, she made it her mission to get a reaction out of him.

Poking and prodding at his calm demeanor became her favorite pastime. Teasing him mercilessly, tossing out nicknames just to see if she could get a twitch of the lips or an eye roll.

“Mister Mute and Moody.”

“Bug Sage.”

“Cloakzilla.”

“You okay under there, Count Aburame?”

He never reacted much. Maybe a blink. A small adjustment to his glasses. Occasionally, a grunt that could almost pass for a laugh if you were paying close attention. She always was.

She’d laugh like a hyena at her own jokes while he continued doing whatever deeply focused Shino thing he was doing. But he never pulled away. Never shut her out. And maybe that’s why it felt so easy—natural, even—to keep him close.

Over the years, she became a constant in his quiet world. A presence he allowed in.

But adulthood changed things. Life got busy. Jobs took up time. Missions, work, distance—it all crept in. They saw each other less. Spoke even less than that.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t notice the shift right away.

Until that day.

The day she noticed everything.

She had always seen Shino as her weird best friend. The tall, quiet one. Stoic and cryptic, wrapped in layers of dark fabric, sunglasses perpetually in place like he might burst into flames if touched by direct sunlight.

But now…

Now he was standing taller. More confident. He’d grown into his height, broad-shouldered, composed. That high collar no longer swallowed him whole, and when she caught a rare glimpse of his face, she noticed sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, smooth skin, and lips that looked far too kissable for someone who barely used them.

Gone was the shy, elusive boy. In his place stood a man—quiet, yes, but assured. Intentional.

The coat that once drowned him now framed his physique perfectly, hugging his chest and arms. Even those ridiculous sunglasses somehow managed to look good on him now, catching the light just right. Like they belonged.

And his voice—deeper now, with a gravelly undertone that made her knees weak whenever he said her name. Calm, composed, steady—and infuriatingly hot.

Even his bugs had changed with him. They moved slower, more lazily across his skin when he was at ease, retreating when flustered, reflecting the subtle shift in his mood. She found herself watching them more than she should. Watching him more than she should.

She used to tease him endlessly.

Now? The jokes died on her lips whenever he looked at her too long. She stammered. Looked away. Her face burned way too easily.

She hated it.

Hated the way her thoughts turned inappropriate at the worst times—wondering what his voice sounded like first thing in the morning or how those long fingers would feel tracing parts of her no friend should be thinking about.

She was spiraling. And it was so obvious—to everyone but him.

...Or so she thought.

Kiba noticed first.

Of course he did.

He didn’t say anything to her, though. No, he went straight to Shino one afternoon during a break between missions, biting into a rice ball like it was just another day.

“So…” he said casually, mouth half full. “What’s going on with her?”

Shino blinked. “Who?”

“You know who,” Kiba muttered.

“She used to clown around you nonstop. Now? Barely teases you at all. Still gives everyone else hell, me included. But you? She gets quiet. Flustered, even.” He polished off the rest of his rice ball and pointed at Shino. “It’s funny, actually. She’s stuttering like Hinata did whenever Naruto walked by shirtless.”

Shino was quiet for a beat, adjusting his glasses like he always did when he was thinking.

Kiba raised a brow. “She’s totally into you,” he said flatly, just to see if he could get a rise out of his friend.

Shino’s face didn’t change, but his mind was clearly ticking.

“She’s… quieter,” he murmured.

“Exactly,” Kiba grinned. “That’s the point.”

-----

She stayed late one evening. The academy was quiet—students long gone. The usual excuse? Helping Shino with grading, like she often claimed.

Realistically?

She was just there for the company. For him.

Lately, she found more and more reasons to drop by—bringing snacks, making tea, or sitting cross-legged beside his desk, chatting about anything and everything. She talked his ear off, but Shino never complained. Not once did he seem annoyed.

And as always, at some point, she began to trail off.

Her voice softened. Her words thinned. Until silence took over—her eyes fixed on him. More specifically, on his hands. Long, veined, confident fingers sorting through lesson plans with ease. The calm in his expression, unbothered even by towering stacks of paperwork.

Maybe it was the way he pushed up his glasses, slow and casual, as if unaware that such a small action completely short-circuited her thoughts.

Lost in her little daydream, she didn’t realize how quiet she’d gone—until he spoke.

“You’ve changed,” he said, eyes still on the paper in front of him. “You don’t tease me anymore. No weird nicknames. No jokes about my coat. Not even a single bug pun in two weeks.”

She shifted awkwardly.

“I’ve just… matured.”

“Mm.” He hummed, then added, “Is that why you’ve been staring for the fourth time this week?”

She froze.

Her lips parted, voice caught.

“I have not—!”

“You were doing it just now.” Calmly, he set his pen down with careful precision, folding his hands atop the desk. “You think I wouldn’t notice?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he stood—slow and deliberate—and began walking toward her.

She instinctively stepped back, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Say it.”

He stopped just inches away from her. Her back pressed against the wall behind her as his hand rested beside her head. He didn’t touch her, but his close presence washed over her like a current.

Her breath hitched.

“S-Say… what?”

“Tell me.” His head tilted slightly, his voice quiet, unreadable. “What exactly were you thinking?”

“S-Shino…” She squirmed under the weight of his gaze, biting her lip.

“What was it?”

Her face burned. Her mind spun. Her hands pressed against his chest, solid and warm. Too firm. Way too firm.

She stammered, looking down. Shaking her head.

“It’s nothing important.”

“I’m patient,” he said, stepping just a bit closer. “And I’ve learned to listen between silences.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower.

“So say it. What’s been going through that pretty little head of yours? Your wildest thought.”

She bit her lip, trying to escape with a joke—but his gaze cut through her playfulness with unbearable calm.

“Use your words.”

Her throat tightened. Her eyes darted away from his. And finally, in a breathless whisper, she gave in.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You’re not supposed to be handsome, okay? You were supposed to stay my weird bug-boy best friend forever, not turn into this calm, grounded, actually pretty hot teacher who makes me imagine what you'd sound like losing your composure.”

Silence.

Not from tension, but from how still he became.

His eyes locked onto her—sharp, unreadable, and consuming.

“So,” he said softly, “you find me attractive now? And you’ve been thinking about what it would take… to unravel me?”

She nodded weakly, still trying to hide in his shadow.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

He leaned in—lips brushing her cheek, her ear, her jaw—and for a heartbeat, she swore he was going to kiss her.

She closed her eyes, tilted her chin up, and parted her lips.

But…

Nothing.

No warmth. No kiss.

Just stillness.

She opened her eyes to find him gone, already walking back to his desk, as if her confession had been a casual weather update.

“I should finish these before the evening’s over,” he said, voice steady, already uncapping his pen.

She stared at him, slack-jawed.

“You’re so mean!”

He didn’t even glance up.

“You jerk! I just confessed my deepest thoughts about you, and you’re sitting there like I asked if you’ve had lunch?!”

Still nothing.

“You made me say it! You cornered me and made me spill every unholy thing I’ve imagined about you—and now you’re just going back to grading?!”

She marched over to his desk and slammed her palms down on it.

“You don’t get to let someone confess and then go back to paperwork!”

Finally, he looked up. Calm. Unbothered.

“Are you finished?”

That hit a nerve.

“No!” she snapped. “Because I—”

But before she could finish, he stood. One hand reached out, curled behind her neck.

A firm pull—and the kiss she thought she’d get earlier came crashing into her. Only this time it was deeper. Rougher. Unapologetic. Like all the tension he’d been holding back, it erupted in one perfectly timed moment.

“You were loud again,” he murmured against her lips, voice low and sure. “I missed it.”

Her thoughts scattered like leaves. There was only one thing she was sure of now—it wasn’t an accident.

He planned this.

The bastard planned to leave her flustered and wanting, then kiss her while she was too angry to think straight.

“Y-You’re mean.”

He simply shrugged and turned back to his work.

“You’re the one who said I was distracting.”

-----

“Let’s grab something to eat,” Shino said casually a few days later, inviting his curvy friend like he hadn’t kissed her against his desk.

Just food. The two of them. Like always.

And yet… it felt different.

Of course, she said yes. It was her favorite spot—a cozy little eatery tucked behind the marketplace. Warm lighting. Quiet ambiance. Great food. They’d been there countless times.

But tonight, everything felt new.

On the way, she found herself walking closer than usual. Her arm brushed his—once, then again.

She didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

His scent—cedarwood and earth, something unmistakably his—lingered in the air, and she had the sudden urge to wrap herself around him. She didn’t, but her hand hovered near his. Her fingers twitched once, craving contact. Her eyes dropped to his hands—the same ones she’d admired for years.

Now that she’d felt them—grading papers, guiding insects, pulling her into a kiss—she wanted more.

She wanted all of him.

Not just as a friend. Not as a teammate.

She wanted his attention, the full weight of it.

Inside the restaurant, the warmth was comforting. They sat across from each other like always. She wore a soft smile she couldn’t wipe off, no matter how hard she tried to play it cool.

Shino hadn’t said much, but she caught the rare upward curl of his lips when she leaned in to steal a bite from his plate.

Familiar—but now charged with something electric.

Just as she was about to say something—

“Sensei!”

They turned toward the voice.

Three of Shino’s students stood nearby, grinning and carrying scrolls and skewers of street food.

“Shino-Sensei, is that your girlfriend?” one of them asked—loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

She choked on her drink. Eyes wide.

Shino blinked.

The kids didn’t let up.

“She’s so pretty! You never smile like that when we’re around!”

“Are you guys on a date?!”

Shino, ever composed, adjusted his glasses. “We’re simply having a meal.”

One of the kids snickered.

“Right. A meal where you’re sitting real close and she’s got hearts in her eyes.”

She was ready to protest—or die of embarrassment-but Shino calmly said, “It’s past curfew. You should head home.”

Groaning, the kids waved goodbye, tossing a final, “Have fun on your not-date, Sensei!” over their shoulders.

Once they were gone, she finally breathed again. She looked at Shino. He stared right back at her.

Then, unexpectedly, they both started laughing—quietly at first, then fuller, freer.

Why were they laughing?

Because truthfully… the kids weren’t wrong.

This was something new, and also wasn’t.

They’d always gravitated toward each other. Always teasing. Always lingering.

This closeness wasn’t sudden. It had been growing for years.

The only difference?

Now, they were finally letting themselves feel it.

And it was just the beginning.

The air outside is cooler now. Night has settled over the village, soft and still, with only a handful of people out on the main street.

The buzz of the restaurant faded behind them as she and Shino walked side by side once more—silent, yet undeniably connected.

Mentally telling herself, it was just like every other time. Just another meal and just another walk home. Shino was just being a gentleman, as he had done in the past.

But this time, she couldn't withstand just being close to him. Her fingers itch.

Every step makes her chest ache a little more because she wants to touch him. Not accidentally. Not subtly. She wanted to hold this man's hand. Leaned into his warmth and made up thousands of excuses to stay close by.

And this time, temptation got the upper hand. Not being able to stop herself.

Her hand reached out—almost without thinking—and gently tugged at the fabric of his sleeve.

She didn't say anything. But the look she gave him—soft, vulnerable, full of unspoken longing—was louder than any words she could've said.

Shino stops mid-step, glancing down at his sweet, curvy friend. His face was unreadable, but the sigh he let out was soft, almost amused—more like an exhale of surrender than annoyance.

He reached out and took her hand anyway, threading his long fingers through hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The moment his hand wrapped around hers, she melted.

"You're persistent."

She gave him the tiniest pout. "You sighed like I was a handful."

"No." He said. "I sighed because you're bold when you want something."

Her face burned.

Without thinking, she leaned into his side, pressing her cheek against the curve of his bicep like she was trying to sink into him.

"W-well, you make it hard not to want more," she mumbled.

"Mn," he hummed. "I'm starting to notice that."

Her fingers tightened slightly around his.

"You're quieter than usual," he added after a pause. "That only happens when you're thinking too much."

"Maybe I am..."

"Softheart," Shino murmured, almost to himself.

"W-What?"

“You try to act like you’re teasing me, like you’re in control,” he said plainly. “But the moment I let you in a little… You melt. Getting soft on me.”

She let out a mortified whimper. “That’s not fair…”

“No. It’s accurate.”

She huffed against his sleeve, hiding her face further. "You're too calm about all of this."

"Someone has to be."

A few moments of silence passed, her cheek still pressed against him, her hands perfectly nestled in his. She didn't want to go home—at least not to her own. 

He glanced down, noticing how quiet she had become again. "Do you want to go home?" he asked, pausing before adding, "To mine." 

She nodded against his arm, her heart racing in her chest. "Yeah," she replied softly. "To yours." 

He didn't tease her this time. Shino simply gave her hand a gentle squeeze and continued walking, leading her there without saying another word.

-----

She had visited Shino's place many times before, but this time felt different. The quiet warmth of his home sent a buzz throughout her body, clouding her thoughts. She observed him moving with his usual precision and coolness, but something seemed off. 

He took a little longer to hang up his coat; his shoulders were stiffer, and he avoided her gaze. He was deep in thought, which could only mean one thing: she was on his mind.

“You’re quiet,” Shino finally said, breaking the silence without turning around.

“So are you,” she replied, her eyes fixed on his back. “Almost like you're nervous.”

“I’m not,” he said, a little too quickly.

That made her smile. Wide and warm. He finally turned to face her, and there it was: a crack in his composure. A slight pink rising up his neck, a furrow between his brows, and a stiffness in his stance that betrayed his heightened awareness.

“You’re not used to this, are you?” she asked, stepping closer.

“Used to what?”

“Feeling like this.”

“Like what?”

She paused right in front of him, her hands moving up his arms in slow, smooth strokes. He didn't grab her, but she could feel him tensing, breathing harder, and trying to maintain control.

She leaned in, brushing her lips over the shell of his ear and blowing gently. “Like I’m all you’ve been thinking about.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t flinch. But his lips parted, and nothing came out.

She had never seen Shino like this—so contained, so unreadable. And now, here he was, flustered and struggling to keep his calm. All because of her. It was adorable and undeniably hot. She couldn’t stop the small grin tugging at her lips.

“You’re usually better at hiding it,” she said softly, stepping closer.

“I’m not used to being looked at like that.”  

“Like what?”  

“Like I’m not allowed to breathe wrong, or you’ll pounce on me.”  

She chuckled softly, a hint of guilt in her tone. “Then I suppose I’m being a bit too obvious.”  

“Blatantly.”  

He shifted to the couch, leaning back with his legs slightly spread. His hand extended in invitation, not demanding, simply open. “Come here,” he said, his voice dropping to a lower, huskier timbre.  

She walked over and placed her hand in his. With a gentle yet firm pull, he guided her into his lap. Her palms rested against his chest for balance, their faces mere inches apart. One hand slipped to her hip while the other cradled her lower legs. Her hands moved tentatively to his shoulders, wrapping around the back of his neck as if anchoring herself to him.

Even in this intimate moment, he fought to maintain his composure, yet she caught the faint blush blooming under his cheekbones, the subtle hitch in his breath, and felt his thumbs drawing slow, soothing circles on her hip and leg as if to keep his own calm amidst the rising tension.

She leaned in and softly kissed his cheek, lingering longer than necessary. She repeated the gesture, each time gently sucking at the skin beneath his cheekbone. This finally earned her a reaction: a sudden inhale, his jaw tightening, and his thigh twitching beneath her. “You should know…” she breathed out, “I’m absolutely planning to ruin your concentration for the rest of the night.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, but she could feel his heart racing beneath her palm. She pulled back slightly and caught a glimpse of his restraint snapping, just a little. Now he held her close, as if he had been denying himself that right for far too long.

She gasped softly, thrilled by those hands on her, finally touching her the way she had been craving. He looked up at her, his jaw tight, ears slightly pink, and eyes heavy with desire. Without a word, one of his hands slid up to cradle her face. His thumb brushed her cheek, his palm warm. Then, he kissed her—slow, deep, and sensual. It wasn’t rushed or messy; it was the kind of kiss that made one feel chosen, as if all his silence was finally being transformed into something tangible that she could feel.

She whimpered against his mouth, losing her composure and melting completely. Unable to withstand even a simple kiss, she deepened it, asking for permission as she flicked her tongue against the seam of his lips. He granted it. His lips parted, and the moment their tongues touched, he groaned—deep and low, like the sound had come from a place he didn’t mean to share.

Their mouths moved in sync, tongues tangling, hot, wet, and slow. It was the kind of kiss that made her spine arch, fingers dig into his shoulders, and her whole body ache. He wasn’t gentle anymore. He was assertive, pulling her tighter, while her fingers found his hair, tangling and tugging, needing more of him.

Finally, she pulled back, panting softly, her lips swollen and her chest heaving. Saliva glistened on her lips, a thin thread still connecting them as the kiss broke. She didn’t speak; she couldn’t. The way he tenderly touched her burning cheek after their heated make-out session, his thumb brushing gently along her face, left her breathless.

She shifted off his lap, her breathing hitching when she felt it: his arousal, pressing and undeniable evidence of how much he wanted her. If Shino thought she was already needy before, he better guess again.

"You're already this worked up?" she teased softly, her voice dropping to a whisper. She stared at him in a daze, one of her hands cupping him through the fabric, feeling the heat of him—hard and heavy—beneath her palm.

He groaned, stripped of pretense, tilting his head back as he exhaled deeply, shaking it slightly. “You’re... overwhelming.”

“Good,” she replied, her lips still pressing against his cheek with a mischievous smile.

As he spoke, Shino surrendered to her lead, allowing her to explore him freely. Her palm glided slowly, pressing against him through his pants in a rhythm that ignited a trembling response in both of them. Instinctively, her thighs pressed together, seeking friction in a desperate dance fueled by an insatiable need. The warmth pooling low in her stomach intensified, becoming almost unbearable, while her overwhelming desire yearned for recognition, even as her attention remained focused on him.

His reaction—slack-jawed and with eyes darkened by barely contained control—told her everything she needed to know. She had breached his defenses, undoing him just enough to glimpse the depths beneath his cool, quiet exterior. But she wasn’t finished yet. 

“Does it feel good?” she asked, pressing a loving kiss to the corner of his mouth while her hand continued to move slowly and firmly.

He exhaled a soft, guttural sound caught between pleasure and awe. "You're dangerous when you're like this."

She giggled at the vulgar expression he was providing under her sweet touch. His mouth searched for hers, deepening the kiss with a hunger that matched her own. She moaned into his mouth, his tongue brushing hers as she felt his hand gliding between her thighs, his touch ghosting up the inside of her legs.

She didn’t expect him to be so bold; this wasn’t like Shino. But the heat of his touch, the quiet authority in the way he curled his fingers just under the edge of her clothes, past the soaked fabric of her panties, made her gasp. She quietly tried to conceal her burning face, using her free hand to muffle her shaky breath as his finger teased the edge of where she was dripping for him, just enough to have her knees shake and stay apart.

He didn't say anything at first, simply grabbing the hand that was muffling her and pinning it to her side before continuing to kiss her. His long, thick fingers explored her heat deliberately, circling slowly at her throbbing bud, teasing her reactions. Learning every twitch, breathless moan, and the way her hips rocked in response.

And still, her hand didn’t stop. She pulled his cock free, stroking him slowly as she left kisses all over his neck, leaving hickeys on his pale skin. She loved the way his face was already red, his breath ragged from gasps.

"Goodness, you're so hard for me, Shino," she murmured, her voice a mix of awe and seduction. "I love how you respond to my touch."

She was relentless, stroking him slowly, her thumb circling the sensitive tip, spreading the bead of precum that had formed there. She could feel his body respond, his hips rocking harshly as she rubbed the tip of his cock, teased the slit with no mercy, and slipped a hand under his shirt. Brushing a palm over the warm skin of his stomach, her fingers trailed higher to what made her breath catch: firm, defined muscles. All of it, toned.

Her eyes widened slightly as she pushed his shirt up and revealed smooth skin, the hard cut of his torso, and the distinct outline of his abs.

“What the hell…” She whispered, stunned. “You’ve been hiding all this under those big coats?”

Shino looked away, clearly flustered. But she couldn’t help herself. Her hand roamed higher, reverent and hungry, smoothing over his chest. She leaned forward, lips brushing the center of his chest, and tilted her head, her mouth finding his nipple, her tongue teasing before drawing it gently between her lips.

He gasped, sharp and barely restrained. One of his hands flew to her waist again, gripping tight. She sucked softly, slow and deliberate, then grazed it with her teeth just enough to make his breath stutter.

“You’re really full of surprises,” she murmured, her lips brushing his skin.

She kissed lower, then returned to his chest, pressing open-mouthed kisses along every inch she uncovered, tasting him, adoring him. His fingers were thick, so much thicker than she expected. Long and strong, calloused just enough to make the drag of skin against her most sensitive places send sparks throughout her body. Every stroke made her clench around nothing. Her hips ground down against his hand, instinctively chasing friction, but all it did was make her more aware of how big his hands were and how warm and how utterly perfect they were pressed between her thighs.

"S-Shino~ I think about your hands too much," she breathed, not even realizing the confession was spilling out. She continued to stroke his meaty length. "What they'll feel like... touching me like this. How strong they are and how thick your fingers are..."

Her own words made her shiver and made him still for half a breath before his fingers moved again. Going deeper this time, past her puffy folds and sinking into her warm, slick heat.

"So this is what you've been thinking about," he murmured, low and unbearably pleased. "All that babbling. All those excuses to stay late... just waiting for my hands?"

She nodded wordlessly, her nails digging into his bunched-up shirt as her own hand slowed, unable to focus while he thrust two fingers deep within her. "And now that you have them?" he asked, dragging his fingers against her G-spot. "Is it everything you imagined?"

"Yezch..." she slurred out pathetically.

Shino chuckled at her sex-dazed face, unable to help himself from gripping her chin and bringing her forward to leave open-mouthed, passionate kisses. His tongue swirled around hers as moans left her lush lips. Shino's hands weren't idle either. He was beginning to know her body like the back of his hand, and he used that knowledge to drive her wild, his touch sending waves of pleasure crashing through her, milking him for everything he was worth.

As her eyes rolled to the back of her head, she pressed her upper body so close that her breasts pressed against his chest while his fingers were still between her thighs, continuously getting aggressive pounding. There was no denying the slick, steady heat that covered his fingers, not just damp but dripping. Soaking through her underwear and trailing down the inside of her thighs and into his palm as he cups her firmly.

"Dripping," he muttered to himself, staring in awe at the aftermath in his hand. "All this... just for me?"

"Hm..." She couldn't even find the words to respond, her thigh trembling from the way he stroked her with a touch that felt more possessive than teasing. But she wanted more. Now she desired to see him unravel.

Biting her lip when feeling his hip thrust up into her hand, seeking more friction. The way she could feel his cock throbbing, his body trembling with need. She squeezed the base of his length, feeling him pulse and twitch in her grip.

She leaned in, her lips firmly grazing his earlobe as she commanded, "Not yet, Shino. You’ll wait until I say so." He released a low growl, his body trembling with the struggle to contain himself. She sensed his desperation, his need, and it only motivated her further. She was determined to push him over the edge, eager to watch him shatter in her hands.

She loosened her grip from the base of his shaft, her hand moving with a purposeful, unyielding rhythm. Her thumb traced circles around his sensitive tip, alternating between long, slow strokes and short, teasing ones, feeling him leak and slick his hard length. "You're so close, aren't you?" she murmured, sensing his body tensing, his breaths coming in ragged, desperate gasps. She knew exactly how close he was.

Leaning in, her hand wandered to his chest, her fingers dancing over his nipple, teasing it until she felt it harden and twitch under her touch. She began to play with it, tugging, rolling, and toying with his sensitive pecs while her mouth trailed kisses along the side of his neck and jawline. She reveled in the way his muscles jumped under her hands, the way his thighs tensed every time she pinched. She licked his nipple, slow and wet, drawing it out, and he groaned deeply, his chest arching into her mouth involuntarily.

And with that, he was undone. His body tensed, and with a final, firm stroke, the girl of his dreams pushed him over the edge. He came undone, shooting ropes of cum onto her hand, a hot, messy release.

They both subsided then, their bodies entwined, breaths syncing as they came down from their high. When she pulled back to look at him, she saw it: eyes heavy-lidded, head leaned back, and a thin strand of drool slipping from the corner of his parted lips. He was so lost in the sensation of her that his body had stopped pretending. Every breath was ragged. Every twitch of his hips beneath her was pure instinct, not thought.

She bit her lip, watching him drool from the intensity of his pleasure. The sight was intoxicating. She leaned in, slowly swiping her thumb over the drool on his jaw, tilting his face to meet hers. He blinked, dazed, finally noticing the intimate smirk that played on her lips.

“You’re drooling, baby,” she whispered, her lips brushing his cheek, her voice thick with desire.

His eyes widened for a split second, then flicked away, embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to let go that far. “You—” he exhaled, his voice broken. “You’re… relentless.”

“Only because you’re so damn sexy when you fall apart,” she whispered, kissing just beneath his ear. “You’re letting me feel all of you. It’s turning me on like crazy.”

She felt his cock twitch, knowing she had him right where she wanted him. Looking down at the semi-hard member still in her hand, she was shocked to see a mixture of his bugs in his cum.

She gasped, her eyes wide with fear. "Oh my God! I killed them!" Panic surged in her voice, and Shino could sense her distress. 

With a gentle smile, he took her hand and pressed it to his chest, allowing the bugs to reembed themselves with him. "They're fine," he reassured her softly, hoping to calm her racing heart. "Are you sure?" she asked, uncertainty still flickering in her gaze.

"I promise," he said tenderly, kissing away her worries with a gentle touch of his lips against hers. "Now, where were we?" he asked, his voice deepening with warmth and affection, ready to ease her fears.

-------

The room was enveloped in darkness, the only light coming from the gentle glow of the moon outside. In that moment, it felt like enough. 

The air was heavy with anticipation, filled with the sweet scent of their shared desire. Her heart raced as she followed Shino, a blend of longing and nervousness coursing through her. She could sense the tension in his muscles, a reflection of their unspoken connection, as he guided her toward his bedroom.

Standing at the foot of his bed, she felt a whirlwind of emotions. As his long-time friend and secret admirer, this was a moment she had dreamed of but was now filled with a mix of hope and vulnerability. With a soft, sincere whisper, she poured out her heart: "Shino, I can't hold back any longer. I want you. I've always wanted you. And now, it feels like we finally have the chance to be together."

Shino's response was a mere whisper, but it held a world of meaning: "Then take off my clothes."

Her hands shook with anticipation and nervous energy as she complied, her fingers tracing his skin as she slowly peeled away each layer of clothing. She took a moment to admire his body, her eyes roaming over his toned chest rising and falling rapidly with each eager breath, his nipples hardening under her gaze, and the defined abs that led her eyes down to his hips.

Shino stood before her, completely exposed and vulnerable, his cock hard and ready, the tip glistening with pre-cum, a testament to his arousal.

With a soft, encouraging smile, Shino reached out, his fingers gently brushing against her cheek. "Now, it's your turn," he whispered, his voice a mix of shyness and raw desire.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she quickly began to undress, her clothes falling to the ground in a soft heap. She stood before him in just her panties, her body flushed with arousal, her nipples tight and aching for his touch.

With a playful yet determined smile, she gently pushed him onto the bed. Shino's eyes were glued to her as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and slowly slid them off, her arousal glistening on her thighs. She straddled him, her soft, thick thighs pressing against his hips as she leaned down to kiss him, her body shaking with anticipation. She ground against his erection, feeling his length press along her entrance, both of them moaning at the contact.

Shino's eyes fluttered shut, his head jerking back as a low, guttural moan escaped his lips. "This...this is my first time," he confessed, his voice filled with shock and vulnerability, his face a picture of nervous excitement.

She paused, surprise and tenderness washing over her. She had known Shino for a long time, aware of his introverted nature and his tendency to keep to himself, but the idea that he was a virgin had never crossed her mind.

A profound sense of tenderness and protectiveness enveloped her. She offered him a soft, reassuring smile, her thumbs gently circling his wrists as she held his hands and rested them against the bed frame. "It's okay, Shino. We'll take this nice and slow," she whispered, her voice filled with sincerity and love.

Seeing the genuine care and desire reflected in her eyes, he nodded slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. With newfound confidence, she reached down, positioning him at her entrance. She ran his length along her slick folds, coating him in her wetness, before finally, slowly sinking down onto him. They both moaned deeply as he filled her, inch by inch, the sensation intense and overwhelming. His virgin cock stretched her, the pace slow and deep, allowing them both to savor every second of their connection.

Shino let out a low cry, his body trembling with need and anticipation. 

"Please," he begged, his voice hoarse with desire. "I want to touch you. I need to feel you."

She shook her head, a wicked smile playing on her lips as she leaned down and captured his lips in a heated kiss, her tongue exploring his mouth as she continued riding him.

"Hmm," He moaned into her mouth, his hips bucking up to meet her movement, his cock throbbing inside her with a primal intensity. She could feel her own arousal coating him, the wet sounds of their union filling the room like a symphony of desire. Shino's breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, every muscle taut and ready to explode.

Breaking the kiss, she pulled away, her breath coming in short, panting gasps. Her hands still held his in a firm grip, confining him to her will. "You still want to touch me?" She teased, her voice breathless and laced with a playful challenge. "Still want to feel my curves, don't you, Shino?"

Loving the way his eyes darkened with desire and his eager nod, she leaned in to nip at his earlobe, her voice a sultry whisper. "Then beg for it."

"Please," Shino pleaded, his voice shaking with urgency. "I just need to touch you, to understand that I'm not dreaming. Just for a moment, I beg."

Her heart swelled with a mix of triumph and affection, seeing him so utterly consumed by her. She released his hands, allowing him to wrap his arms around her, pulling her down to him completely. Shino's hands roamed her body with a newfound hunger, exploring every curve, his touch gentle yet firm, as though committing every inch of her to memory.

"Shino~" She moaned, her body arching into his touch as she continued to move her hips, their bodies slick with sweat and desire. She felt one of his hands cup her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core.

Taking advantage of her momentary loss of control, Shino, with a newfound confidence and strength, flipped them over. He positioned her legs on either side of his arms, opening her fully to him. With a growl, he began to pound into her, his hips moving with a primal rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of her with ease, her juices overflowing around him. He thrust into her with purpose, his hips moving in a rhythm that left both of them breathless, the sound of their bodies slapping together filling the room.

Leaning down, his hot breath against her ear, he whispered sinful, dirty words, his voice a low, growling purr. "You're so tight, so wet for me. Your body was made for mine. Made to take my cock, to milk me for every last drop."

She was amazed at how this once-virgin boy could take control so effortlessly, his body moving with a grace and power that left her spellbound. “Shino," she moaned, her nails digging into his back, leaving red marks on his skin as she held on for dear life. 

"This isn't teasing anymore," She pants softly, barely holding herself together. "This-This is... dangerous."

His weight pressed her into the mattress as he gripped her ass, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, leaving bruises on her skin.

"Then let's stop pretending we're afraid of it," he declared, his words hitting her like a lightning bolt. They pierced through her clouded mind. This is what she wants: the bold honesty she had longed for and desired.

With a sudden, powerful thrust, he pull her body deeper onto his cock with each movement. Her body stretched to accommodate his full eight and a half inch length as her orgasm built, her body tensing and toes curling as waves of pleasure crashed through her, her cunt milking him for all he was worth.

And Shino followed soon after, his body shaking as he buried himself completely, holding her body against him, his cock throbbing deep inside her, shooting load after load of his hot, thick seed into her willing, eager hole.

With a final, powerful thrust, he collapsed on top of her, their bodies slick with sweat, as their breath came in ragged, satisfied pants.

In the aftermath, the room was filled with a thick, heady scent of sex and sweat, the air heavy with the evidence of their passionate encounter. Her fingers lazily combed through Shino’s damp hair, gentle and slow. He lay sprawled across her, head resting over her chest, arms around her waist, fully relaxed in a way she’d never seen before.

She sighed softly, her other hand trailing along the curve of his back, fingertips brushing the dip of his spine.

“That was… amazing,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. A little stunned. A little dreamy.

Shino didn’t say anything right away. He just hummed low in his throat, nuzzling deeper against her skin, his breath warm against her chest. His grip around her waist tightened, like he wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"You're so sexy," she confessed, her voice filled with desire and admiration.

Shino blinked. Sexy? Him?

Not precise. Not disciplined. Not reserved. Sexy.

That was not a word he was used to hearing attached to himself.

A surprised breath escaped him, followed by a soft laugh, a warm, low sound from the base of his throat.

She pouted instantly.

“Why are you laughing at me?”

He shook his head slowly, eyes meeting hers, unreadable and soft at once. His lips curved with quiet amusement.

He lifted his head just enough to look at her, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, so rare, playful, and dangerous in how devastatingly soft it made him look.

“Because,” he said quietly, “you’re still watching me. And completely melting from the slightest attention I’m giving you.”

She opened her mouth to argue—to deny it, deflect, or defuse.

But nothing came out.

Because he was right.

The way she trembled just from the weight of his gaze. The way she kept brushing her fingers through his hair just to feel him closer. The way her thighs instinctively pressed around his hip when he shifted against her.

He chuckled again, softer this time, and leaned in close until his lips hovered just above hers.

He whispered, "My sweet… Softheart," against her lips before kissing her. This kiss was slow and deep, unlike the teasing ones before; it conveyed his love and respect. A kiss is meant to express admiration.

She melted instantly, sighing as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her fingers curled into his skin, as if he were something truly special. Her chest moved closer to him, and her mouth opened beneath his, as if her entire being was meant to hold him close.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. He lingered, his lips still brushing against hers, his breath warm as he looked into her eyes. She felt dazed, flushed, and was breathing shallowly.

“Shino…” she breathed, her voice trembling with desire—soft, heavy, and raw. The way she said his name and looked at him—her eyes filled with lust and affection—made it seem like he was the only thing in her world.

Desire surged through him in a hot pulse, sharp and sudden.

He felt himself harden again, the ache stirring against her thigh. The tension was undeniable and intensified with every second she locked eyes with him, a clear indication that she wanted him again.

Shino felt his breath catch in his throat, his composure fraying with each moment that passed. His voice emerged low and gravelly, charged with an undeniable intensity. 

“Then say it.” His gaze was steady and unwavering, reflecting the powerful pressure of his body against hers. “Tell me you want me…”

The air between them thickened, pulsating with desires. Her breath trembled as her hands gripped his shoulders, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.

He stood firm, patient, and open, fully aware of the effect he had on her. He didn’t push—he didn’t need to. 

This was her moment to decide. 

“So I’ll just be going then.” You tried to steady your words like Kaji had taught you, so no one would know that you were scared. But how couldn’t you be frightened as Togame Jou gazed down at you through tinted sunglasses as though he wanted to devour you whole.

With confidence in your actions, you decided to move, sweaty palms pushed yourself away from the wall as you began to make your leave. Slipping around Togame as you tried to speed up, pretty sandals sounding against stone, but it was no match for him. 

“Hey, hey,” He reached out to stop you, a muscular arm weaving around your shoulders as he pulled you towards him. Your back pressed firm against his chest as his lips brushed the shell of your ear, “What’s the rush, sweetheart?” 

He inhaled deeply, breathing in the saccharine scent of you as he tightened his grip with silent possession, “You already broke the rule, and it's not like you can take it back. So we might as well make the most of it hm?”

He reached up with his free hand to grab your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head in his direction as his lips hovered over yours. His warm breath stroked your skin as you found yourself leaning into his touch. 

“And it’s not like I can just send you on your way back without punishment—” He cooed, “What kind of image would that set for your little Furin boys.”

Togame squeezed your cheeks together as your lips curled into a pout, leaning forward to press an uncharacteristically soft, lingering kiss against them. He spoke so slowly, and articulately it had your cunt betraying your mind as your hole clenched around nothing.

“I think I’ll have to make an example of you,” Togame continued, one of his large palms moved to cup your breast beneath the pretty sundress you were wearing. Moulding it beneath splayed fingers as he dipped into the plush of it, dragging a pretty whine from between your parted lips, “So they all know not to mess with Shisitoren.”

The thin strip of no man’s land between Shishitoren and Furin turf seemed to be the only safe place for miles, and yet somehow you’d decided to slip a toe over the line to find yourself being looked at as prey.

“You understand, don’t you sweetheart?” He continued, hands bunched into his jacket pockets as he sauntered closer. The clack of his sandals against the ground echoed through the air, “It ain’t personal.”

You found it hard to believe. The gang warfare between Shishitoren and Furin seemed to be deep-rooted in hatred, woven from years of deflecting members and infiltration. The latter had built huge distrust on both sides, and it wasn’t peculiar for Togame to think that Furin might stoop as low as sending in a pretty piece of skirt to try and bridge the divide. 

“So, I’ll just be leaving then.” You watched as he pulled his sunglasses up to settle on top of his messy black hair, revealing emerald eyes that helped you try to gauge his reaction as you watched his cheeks curl into a grin. 

“Ah, now you see I can’t let you do that,” Togame tutted, “You ain’t supposed to be on this side of town, so you can’t just say sorry and be on your way—”

“I’ll go back to the right side,” You smiled, “No one needs to know.”

“But what if you get lost leavin'?” He sneered, his chapped lips grazing the shell of your ear as you felt your breath hitch in your throat, “Ain’t no telling what kinda sick, nasty creeps could be out looking for a pretty little Furin princess.”

“It’s lucky I found you, huh? If it had been Choji it would've been way worse,” He cooed leaning down towards you, “Although, I guess that could make you think it’s okay—”

“Please,” You whimpered when you felt his hands slip lower, dragging down from your hips to smooth over your skirt, fingertips dancing beneath the hem as he brushed the naked skin on your thighs, “No one needs to know.”

“You gonna keep this our dirty little secret?” He snorted, dragging his knuckles along your inner thighs as your skirt began to bunch at his wrists, almost leaving you exposed you decided to follow pure instinct as you moved to leave, "You know I can't let you do that— because where would we be without rules?"

Your body jerked to the side to try and slip beneath his arms, but Togame was quicker. There was a reason that Choji had picked him as his number two in command, and it wasn’t just the fact that they were friends. He was a fierce fighter, with sharp reflexes, his hands were quick to subdue you. Curling around your middle as he pulled you back towards him, forcing your chest against the wall as you thrashed in his arms, teeth bared as he pressed his cheek against yours and your face smashed against the wall. 

“Now where do you think you’re going?” He sneered, “I thought we were getting along.”

You gasped as he pressed the full length of his body against yours, his bulge pressed against the small of your back as he nuzzled your cheek. 

“I was being so nice considering you’re the one breaking the rules.” Togame sighed wistfully, “And you had to go and ruin it.”

He was far rougher this time, his hands sliding down your body to hike your skirt up around your waist. The sudden movement had your breath hitching in your throat as you felt the cool evening air hit your exposed skin.

“You always wear these slutty panties, sweetheart?” He scoffed, “I bet this is the real reason you crossed into our territory huh?”

“W-what?” You gasped in shock at the insinuation, eyes wide. 

“You wanted this to happen, didn’t you?” 

“No, I would never,” You choked back a sob, feeling it lodge at the back of your throat as you tried to blink back the tears that threatened to spill from your waterline, "It was an accident, I promise."

Togame’s fingers slipped between your thighs to stroke against the satin, gliding across the fabric as he pressed against your crotch. His lips curled into a satisfied grin at how wet you felt beneath his fingers, pressing down on your slit as he felt you writhe into his touch as your body sought more friction. 

“You’re awful wet for someone begging to leave.” Togame grins as the calloused pads of his fingers brush through your folds, feeling your wetness stick to his fingers as he deliberately strokes against your clit. The sudden movement has your hips jerking roughly as you accidentally press yourself against the bulge beneath his sweats, "You sure it was an accident?"

He’s rough when he curls his fingers in your panties, tugging them down your hips as they begin to fall when they reach your knees, exposing your slit completely as he holds a cheek to spread you open for him, whistling lowly as he takes in just how wet and puffy you are for him. 

“Furin girls really have got such pretty pussies, huh?” He coos, his tone steeped in jealousy, “No wonder they’re all so protective of you."

You hear Togame shuffle behind you as he eases his sweats down just enough to free his aching cock, the length hot and heavy in his palm as he gives himself a solid pump. Twisting his palm over the head to smear his pre along it before taking hold at the base, easing his hips forward as he brushes the swollen tip through your messy folds. 

He groaned when he felt the blunt head collide with your fluttering entrance, catching against it before pulling back. Almost slipping inside over and over as you found yourself spreading your thighs further apart to give him more space, pressing yourself back on his cock as you coaxed him in.

“Fuck,” Togame groaned as he rut his hips forward, feeling your cunt pulse against him as his swollen tip nudged your clit instead, causing you to cry out as you flailed against him in a debauched mess for him. 

His grip on your ass became harsher as his calloused fingers made the supple flesh divot beneath them, prising you open for him as he leaned back to direct himself inside your velvety walls. Groaning at the way your cunt immediately began to throb and clench around him when he met the first ring of muscle as you tried to pull him deeper, feeling the ache of the stretch begin to flow through you. Your body betrayed you as your cunt drooled with slick, more than wet enough to take every inch of him with minimal prep as he felt you engulf him. 

“Actin’ real slutty for someone that doesn’t want it.” He cooed, giving an experimental rut of his hips as your cunt eagerly took more of him in, your warmth engulfing him whole as he bottomed out. His heady balls were snug against your clit as he stilled for a moment to cherish the way your walls squeezed him, accommodating to his size as you whimpered softly. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ perfect.” Togame drawled as he began to pull himself from your heat, unsheathing his cock as he shamelessly looked down to see the messy sheen you’d left against him, “Takin’ me so well.”

You don’t expect him to be so rough when he properly thrusts inside you for the first time, stealing the air from your lungs as he gives you everything with a husky grunt. Forcing your body harder against the rough brick as you cry out, louder than intended as his lips graze your ear. 

“Better be quiet unless you want someone to hear,” He sneers, chuckling when you do the opposite when he gives another harsh thrust, “Is that so? You want people to hear you being fucked on Shishitoren cock? What would Umemiya say?”

Your face scrapes against the brick from the ferocity of his movements, before you have a chance to brace your hands to prevent it. But the pain is surpassed by the way his cock bullies its way deeper, his blunt tip carving you into the shape of him while he presses himself deep against your cervix. 

Togame makes it difficult to think, as all you can do is stand there and take everything he forces upon you as he maintains a deliberately slow, rough pace. As though you’re not both standing out in the open— where anyone could happen upon you and catch you in such a precarious position and the thought has your cunt clenching deliberately around his cock as you try to decide whether that would make things better or worse. 

“Oh?” He feels the pressure as his lips press against the shell of your ear, “You like that, huh? You like being fucked by Shishitoren cock?” 

You found yourself submitting to him, resigning control as you let all the pent-up tension that had ebbed away at you go. The incessant pleasure coursing through your veins was beginning to consume you whole as Togame pulled the reigns, watching as you allowed yourself to give into your most sinful desires. 

“Bet those Furin boys don’t make you feel this good, do they?” He continues driving his hips forward, the crude sound of skin against skin echoing in the desolate alley, “Gonna have you wandering back into ‘toren territory more often.”

Togame felt your body begin to shake from the pleasure that sought to consume you whole, his tongue stroked against the shell of your ear as he smoothed his palms along your sides. Moving forward as he changed the angle slightly before pressing his lips to your parted ones, your jaw hanging open as silent gasps racked through your body. Your head moving in tandem with his thrusts as he fucked into you hard.

"You gonna tell me who's jacket this is, or do I have to keep guessing?" There was a fierce snarl behind his tone that sent shockwaves directly to your clit.

You couldn’t speak, even if you had wanted to. The only sounds that left your lips were debauched whimpers and whines as he used you for his pleasure. Hot, wet tears began to prickle at your waterline. Clumping into your thick lashes before trickling down your cheeks, leaving messy lines of mascara in their wake.

“Aww, you cryin’?” Togame cooed, but there was no sincerity in his tone as he nosed one of the tear stains that marked your cheeks.

“I wonder what they’d say if they found out their pretty little Furin girl was being split open on my cock?” Togame pressed, his hand slipping around your body to press against the top of your mound, slender fingers seeking out your puffy clit, “You gonna tell them how much you liked it?” 

“Answer me.”

“I— W-what?” You’re breathless, trying to remember the basic human need to function as he drives into you with precision, his hips knock persistently against the swell of your ass and certain to leave bruises as you bite back another whine. 

“You gonna let Sakura know what his pretty little princess was doing on Shishitoren turf?”

“No— I wouldn’t, I won’t—”

“What do you think they’ll say when I send you back to Furin fucked into the shape of my cock with my cum spilling down your thighs?” He snorted, “And you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

You mewled at his question, your cunt answering for you as it clenched around him hard. The sensation had Togame grinning against your cheek as his teeth grazed your sensitive skin, keeping his rough pace as all you could do was stand there and take it. Your thighs shook from the awkward position as they threatened to give way, not that it would matter when you were pinned between the wall and Togame, completely at his mercy. 

He made it difficult to think, consumed with pleasure as Togame fucked himself into your pliant hole. Battering your insides with each churn of his hips that drew more sultry noises from the back of your throat. Reaching one of his palms up to press it against your mouth as his lips moved back to press against your ear, feeling the same smug grin on his face as he tried to silence you. 

“As much as I love all the pretty sounds you’re makin’ sweetheart, I ain’t someone who shares.” His voice held a predatory husk as he began to curl his hips, deliberately dragging the underside of his cock against the same spot inside you that would have you coming undone hard and fast as he sought to feel you cum on his cock, “Keep it down.”

You couldn’t, even if you tried. The thought of being caught horrified you, but the feeling of his cock dragging against your velvety walls so deliciously has you lightheaded, making it impossible to think as all you could do was stand there and take everything he had to give.

It was embarrassing how much you were enjoying this. Practically humiliated as you let the second in command of Shishitoren use you how he pleased, your body responding to him as your cunt continued to drool around his cock. Leaving creamy rings of slick around the base of him that matted into his pubic hair and smeared against your ass with every thrust. 

Togame reached up to palm one of your tits above your sundress, kneading the supple skin as you cried out for him. Smirking at your reaction as he pushed the material down before watching your tits spill free, grabbing a handful as his fingers dipped into the plush of them. Leaning down to mouth at your neck, biting at the supple skin just beneath your pulse point before sucking hard, fully intent on leaving his mark. 

“Don’t leave any marks.” You whimpered, feeling his fingers twist your taut nipples as you cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. 

“I think it might be too late for that—” Exhaling in satisfaction when he pulled back to admire his work, a dark patch beginning to bloom against your skin as he nosed the back of your ear, “They’ll all get to see what a slut you are.”

You tried to splay your hands against the brick wall to stop your face from grazing the rough cobble as your forehead knocked against it with the change of position. Causing Togame to groan behind you when he felt you push back against his cock, moving his hands up to squeeze your hips as he bent his knees for more leverage. Pushing himself into you over and over again, making you cry out for him. 

“Come on, pretty girl,” He cooed, “I know you’re close. I can feel you.” 

He was right, you were. The coil inside you was so tight it was almost painful, the pent-up tension hot and heavy as the dam inside you threatened to burst. Catching you off guard as Togame slid a hand between the apex of your thighs to search for your needy clit, catching it between his index and middle fingers as he began to swirl it from side to side as you dangled on the precipice of your climax. 

“Wanna feel you cum all over my cock.” He urged you, deliberately focusing his thrusts on the same spot that had you clenching around him, fingers working your clit as you whimpered, “Come on, show me how pretty you look when you’re creaming.”

It was all too much, too intense as your eyes rolled back into your skull. Your lips smeared gloss against his palm as you cried out in pleasure as you found your end, coming undone as your cunt began to convulse around him. 

“Oh fuck, good girl—” He grunted, continuing to fuck you through your climax as he felt your walls desperately trying to milk him of his release. 

You couldn’t control your body as your legs began to shake, drool spilt from your lips and into Togame’s palm as he pressed your head back against his shoulder. Bouncing you on his cock as he used you for his own pleasure, his fingers still persistent on your abused clit as you tried to fight the feeling of another climax being stolen from you as Togame was unrelenting. 

“God, you’re a fuckin’ mess, sweetheart.” He sneered, throwing his head back in a laugh as he forced you down on his cock. 

Your tits bounced with each sloppy movement as he used you for his own need, your mind completely shrouded by debauched pleasure as Togame worked you towards another orgasm. 

“You got tighter when you came,” Togame mused, his lips brushing your neck as he bent his legs to change the angle of his thrusts. 

His voice was like the sweetest ambrosia as it sent shockwaves directly to your needy clit, reaching your hand down to press messy circles against it to try and alleviate the tension that knotted in your pelvis. 

“You greedy thing,” He scoffed, watching as you teased your clit, “I haven’t even cum once and here you are trying to get yourself off again— I guess you really did cross the boundary to get this tight little pussy bred huh?”

Togame spoke so slowly, the soft timber only aided in your pleasure as you felt your body respond to the sound. Clenching around him in a feeble attempt to steal his spunk as you began to quiver, your second orgasm surging through as your fingers rubbed your clit raw. Desperately trying to chase that same high that had you crying out his name as he pressed a palm to your sternum to stop you from knocking yourself out on the wall. His hand moved higher to stroke along the column of your throat before he splayed a palm over your mouth to quieten the desperate, lewd noises that poured out of you from his movements. 

“Jesus,” He tossed his head back in a laugh, “if I’d known this was what Furin pussy felt like I’d have crossed the boundary myself.” 

Togame barely managed a few more deep languid thrusts before he was spilling his release inside you with a guttural grunt, his heavy balls pumping rope after rope as he filled you with his warm spunk. Groaning as he pulled back suddenly, unsheathing his cock from your greedy hole as he began to fist himself roughly. Jerking out the final few pumps of cum all over the back of the Furin jacket that you were wearing as he painted it with his release. Leaning forward to tap the swollen tip of his cock against the fabric as he coaxed out the final few beads of his cum before dragging his length against it to coat it in your slick too.

It was ruined — like you. 

“That’s it,” He groaned lowly, “My good girl.” 

You let out a desperate whine when you felt Togame pull back, your hands splayed against the wall to keep yourself upright as he unabashedly spread your cheeks open to watch your fluttering walls push some of his spend from deep inside your tight heat. 

“You really are a mess.” He chuckled, letting his thumb swipe through the slick between your thighs before he gathered some of his cum on the pads of his fingers. Scooping it up he pushed it back inside your abused hole, causing you to cry out for him as you felt him press down on that sweet spot inside you. 

“Stop teasing me.” You whined, shimmying your ass back into him, “You made me a mess! The jacket is ruined—”

“Hey,” Togame gave your ass a playful smack, “Shouldn’t have worn it if you didn’t want me to cum all over it, sweetheart. You can take it off now by the way — where did you even get it?” 

You were already still surrounded in the lusty haze of euphoria that you couldn’t even process Togame’s questions, so unused to him talking so much and so quickly after sex as you tried to even out your breathing. 

“I had to find something,” You smiled, turning your head to the side as you leaned towards him to press his lips against your cheek, “I didn’t think I’d be able to convince you to do that.”

“Why because I have such a hard time being mean to you?” He smiled, nosing the apple of your cheek. 

“No,” You snorted, “Because you’re lazy.”

“Wow.” Togame deadpanned, “This lazy guy stayed in perfect character and had you creaming twice and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“This lazy guy,” You turned to poke him in the chest as Togame took the opportunity to poke one of your exposed breasts in retaliation, “Is gonna have to clean this jacket now.”

“Ain’t no way I can be seen cleaning a Furin jacket, pretty girl.” He scoffed, “Just give it back like that.” 

You gave him a pointed look as you pulled your sundress back up over your breasts, adjusting yourself so you were more presentable before Togame reached out to cup your jaw. Tilting your head slightly he noticed the graze against your cheek from where you’d pressed it against the brick wall.

“Shit, baby— I hurt you?” It was more of a question than a statement, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss against your sore cheek.

“Nah, I liked it.” You smiled at him as you leaned into his touch, reaching out to hold onto the opening of his Shishitoren jacket, “We should do something like this again.”