YIPPERDIPPER!♡

The wound still looked angry when you peeled back the bandages, but the edges were cleaner now, tighter, healing in messy curves of tissue and skin. He’d taken to staying on the long couch in the grand sitting room, the one angled toward the fireplace—his lanky frame stretched out beneath the tall windows and winding spindrals, a blanket usually kicked halfway off as though he couldn’t be bothered to stay still. He didn’t wear that patch on his face anymore, and you were growing more accustomed to the sight of it.

It became a kind of ritual: you kneeling by the couch, rolling the fabric of his shirt back to check the line of his abdomen, fingertips brushing skin as you cleaned and wrapped him anew. Toby, of course, never sat still like he was supposed to. He cracked jokes, tapped his foot, winced only at the thought of stitches pulling rather than the sting itself. Sometimes, he’d make faces at you just to see if he could make you huff in exasperation, and sometimes… sometimes he went still, watching you with a kind of quiet curiosity you pretended not to notice.

“Don’t tear them again,” you scolded one evening, taping the last piece of gauze down with medical tape from the clunky first aid kit.

He smirked, leaning his head back against the arm of the couch. “What, you’d m-miss patchin’ me up too much?”

“You’d bleed out on my rug,” you shot back, trying to sound irritated, though the warmth that rose to your cheeks betrayed you.

The fire crackled at your side, and that was usually the moment Tim or Brian would drift through the room.

Tim leaned against the doorframe more often than not, cigarette tucked behind his ear, watching you and Toby with that sharp, unreadable gaze. “Christ, Laundress,” he muttered once, flicking ash into the tray on the side table, “you’re gonna spoil him. Next thing you know, he won’t even put his boots on himself.”

Brian was subtler, though no less present. He’d perch on the edge of the window seat, book in hand but eyes flicking up too often to pretend he wasn’t paying attention. When you pressed a cloth against Toby’s side and he hissed out a laugh through clenched teeth, Brian’s knuckles tightened just slightly on the spine of the book. “You’d think a man with no sense of pain could at least sit still,” he commented one afternoon, voice mild but tinged with something sharp beneath it.

And Toby, of course, noticed. He grinned wider, his shoulders relaxing whenever the other two made a remark, like he was playing a game only he understood. “What, jealous?” he tossed out, flashing them both with that crooked grin before turning his attention back to you. “Don’t li-listen to ‘em. You’re doin’ great, d-doc.”

The air was shifting between all of you. You felt it each time you laid your hands against Toby’s skin, each time Tim’s comments drew your attention, each time Brian’s silence grew too thick in the corners of the room. What had once been fear and suspicion was tilting into something else entirely—a tension not easily defined, not easily dismissed.

The manor, too, felt different. Less haunted, less hollow. The rain washed the grounds clean day after day, and when the clouds broke, the sun spilled through the tall windows and painted everything in gold. It felt like a new beginning, the opening of a chapter where you weren’t locked in your room or fleeing across the lawn, but living here—among them—just like you had before.

But it wasn’t the haven it had been when you first stepped through its doors, either. Now it was both. A home and a reminder. A shelter and a cage.

You still caught yourself flinching at every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the wind through the trees. You still double-checked the locks at night, your palms sweating as you touched the old brass handles, eyes darting to the dark stretch of lawn just beyond the curtains you always shut tight. When you lay in bed, you kept a candle flickering on the dresser—not because you needed the light, but because the dark pressed too close otherwise.

The rakes were always in your mind, crouched somewhere just beyond your line of sight. You had seen too much to ever unsee it.

And then there were the boys.

It didn’t take you long to notice the pattern. When Toby lit the fireplace at dusk, you knew you could settle into bed with some semblance of peace. But the nights when the hearth stayed cold… those were the nights your stomach dropped. Those were the nights they were gone, slipping into the fog-soaked woods to do the things you couldn’t bear to think about.

You hated those nights most.

Sometimes you crept down from your room, too restless to stay still, hoping maybe you’d see Toby stretched across the couch or Tim scowling over a cigarette in the kitchen—but the rooms were always empty, the silence pressing too heavy against your chest. All you had was the chill stone, the yawning dark of the windows, and the gnawing knowledge that they were out there somewhere, putting themselves in danger because of you.

So you built your own rituals. You left a pot simmering on the stove, food waiting for when they dragged themselves back in. You pulled the first aid kit out onto the counter, everything laid out in neat rows, ready for whatever wounds they might bring through your door. And you paced. Sometimes you curled in front of the dead fireplace with a blanket pulled around you, ears straining for any sound outside.

But you didn’t rest. You couldn’t—not until you heard the door open, the heavy thud of boots on wood, the low voices of men returning. Not until you knew they were back within these walls, where at least you could see them, touch them, patch them back together if you had to.

The manor was yours. But it was theirs too now, in ways you hadn’t asked for, in ways you couldn’t escape.

And you realized… you didn’t want to.

── .✦

The weekend rolled around, and for once the manor was quiet. No gunshots in the distance. No heavy boots leaving through the fog. Just the steady drizzle of rain easing into mist by morning.

The crunch of gravel outside stirred you from the stillness. Through the kitchen window, you spotted Tim’s old pickup rumbling into view, its bed loaded down with crates and bags—groceries. A weekend run into town.

You hesitated only a moment before grabbing your sweater and pushing through the back door, the damp air clinging to your skin. Tim was already hoisting a sack of potatoes over one shoulder when he noticed you.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

You rolled your eyes and moved to take one of the bags from the truck bed. “You could just say you’re glad I’m helping.”

“Not my style,” he said, but let you wrestle the bag free anyway.

As the two of you carried the first load inside, your gaze snagged on the driver-side window on the truck—the one Toby had shattered that night. It was covered now with a tarp stretched tight and sealed with strips of duct tape, the plastic crinkling in the breeze. The sight made your stomach lurch.

“Classy,” you said, forcing your voice light as you nodded toward it. “I’m sure the car junkies in town were jealous.”

Tim snorted, setting his sack down with a heavy thud on the counter. “If we had car junkies, maybe. We’re lucky it’s holding. Brian’s fix was more ‘keep the rain out’ than ‘look nice.’”

“Think the mechanics would drive out here?” you asked, brushing your hands off on your jeans.

“Not a chance. We’ll get it sorted eventually.” His voice softened just a touch, enough that you glanced at him. “For now, don’t worry about it. You’ve got enough rattling around in your head.”

You swallowed, lips pressing tight. He wasn’t wrong.

The two of you went back for another round, your steps crunching across the damp gravel, the silence between you filled with the soft hum of cicadas and the drip of rain from the eaves. You caught yourself glancing back at the tarp again as you walked, the memory of that night flashing sharp across your mind.

Tim noticed. He didn’t comment, but when he passed you the next crate—this one full of fresh bread wrapped in paper—his fingers lingered against yours a second longer than necessary, grounding you without words.

The kitchen was starting to grow full again. You both worked, setting jars on shelves, stacking bread in the pantry, sliding cold cartons into the icebox. It felt… normal. Almost too normal, considering how much blood had stained these same floorboards less than a week ago.

Tim busied himself with the heavier crates, his sleeves pushed up, forearms streaked with damp grit of the garden. You kept to the lighter things, sorting them into neat rows, but all the while your mind spun in that strange in-between place.

You chattered idly while you worked, more to fill the air than anything. “I think you bought every bag of flour in town.”

“Close,” Tim said, straight-faced. “Bread’s worth its weight in gold.”

“You and Brian already eat like kings,” you teased, sliding a paper-wrapped loaf onto the counter. “Toby’s the one who goes through all the snacks.”

“That’s because the kid’s part raccoon,” he shot back.

The banter pulled a small laugh from you, quick and surprised. For a fleeting moment, the house felt warm, like the storm hadn’t ever touched it. Like you hadn’t watched them drag Toby’s limp body up those stairs.

You leaned against the counter as he shoved the last of the vegetables into the pantry, studying him. Out of all of them, Tim had always been the hardest to pin down. Toby distracted you—his restless chatter, the way he filled silence with ridiculous jokes and endless stories until your brain was too tangled to remember what you’d been worrying about. Brian, for all his rough edges, had a way of smoothing the corners off your fear—gentle where you least expected it, grounding you in small comforts. But Tim?

Tim always pulled you out of yourself. He never let you sit too long in the safety of your own head. He dragged you into the sunlight even when you wanted to hide. Like that morning in the garden—the dirt still damp, the first fragile sprouts trembling in the breeze. He hadn’t asked if you wanted to see them; he’d just brought you out, made you look, made you breathe again.

You swallowed, your throat tightening with something half gratitude, half ache. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Tim glanced over his shoulder. “For what?”

You shrugged, eyes dropping to the loaf of bread you were unwrapping. “For… things.”

“That’s vague,” he said, a faint smirk tugging his mouth.

You could’ve left it there. Toby would’ve let you. Brian too, maybe. They’d let you keep your secrets, your half-answers. But Tim wasn’t like that. He set down the jar he’d been holding and crossed the kitchen in three measured steps, deliberate, steady, like he always was.

Suddenly, he was standing in front of you, close enough that you had to lean back against the counter to breathe, anchoring you in place. His height shadowed you, the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes, and his gaze—sharp, unwavering—found yours.

“Go on. Speak up,” he said, low and even. “I don’t like it when you go all quiet.”

Your breath caught.

This was how he always was with you—pushing, pressing, making you face the things you’d rather bury. He was the weight you couldn’t wiggle away from, the hand that pulled you up when you dug your heels in. And maybe that was why, even though your stomach knotted tight, your chest ached warm. You blinked up at him, words caught on your tongue. The difference between him and the others throbbed in your mind: Toby distracted your fear. Brian softened it. Tim made you walk through it, even when you hated him for it in the moment. They all had their ways.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Just a shaky breath.

He leaned in, bracing a hand against the counter near your hip, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth. His voice was steadier than your heartbeat. “Say what you mean.”

The silence stretched. You could feel it, the sharp edge of his demand and the coax beneath it. The way he wanted you to grow, not crumble. You bit your lip, looking anywhere but at him, until finally you whispered, “I mean… thank you for not letting me fall apart.”

The words hung there, fragile and raw. Tim’s eyes softened just enough to show he’d heard you. Really heard you. But still, his stance didn’t ease. He stayed there, in your space, not letting you retreat into half-truths or walls. You expected him to press again, to push you further, but instead, Tim’s expression shifted—sternness folding into something quieter.

“Good,” he said, voice low but sure. “That’s strength. Saying it out loud. Owning it.” His eyes stayed steady on yours, almost searching. “You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than most people I’ve met.”

Heat bloomed in your chest, so sudden it stole your breath. You tried to laugh it off, shaking your head. “You make it sound like I’m out there wrestling monsters too.”

The corner of his mouth tugged into that rare, wry grin. “You are. Just different ones.” His hand shifted, braced on the counter. “Though for the record, if you ever do wanna wrestle a monster… I’m a killer. You’d have to watch your back.”

It was half a joke, half a brutal truth, and it startled a giggle out of you anyway—light, unguarded, breaking the tension like sunlight through a stormcloud. The sound made him pause, made him really look at you like he hadn’t in days. He moved in closer, not sudden, not forceful. Just steady, sure, giving you time to lean back if you wanted. You didn’t.

“You act so tough,” you whispered, your voice catching in the space between your chests. “But you’re really just a big softie, aren’t you?”

For a second, you thought he’d bristle, deny it. But instead, Tim’s smile deepened, quiet and real, a face that you’d only seen once before when you all drank together on the big sofa in the sitting room.  He dipped his head, slow enough that your breath mingled before your lips did, and then you kissed. Not the sharp, hungry kind that had burned through you before—but slow, easy. The kind that didn’t rattle your bones but soothed them.

His hand shifted from the counter to your waist, resting there gently, anchoring but not trapping. Your palms slid up his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt as though holding onto the warmth itself.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just held each other, the wind whipping softly against the tall window, the faint smell of earth and produce grounding you in the present.

Tim exhaled when he pulled back, a quiet rumble of a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh. “Told you,” he murmured. “Stronger than you think.”

You leaned into him again, ready for the safety of his hold, the ease of that soft kiss. But the sound of boots in the hallway snapped the moment in half. Your body tensed before you could help it, breath catching in your throat.

Tim noticed—of course he noticed. His hand gave your hip the faintest squeeze before he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek and stepped back, casual as though nothing had happened. He grabbed the nearest bag of groceries, sliding a carton of eggs into the icebox with the same measured calm he always wore like armor.

You were still trying to settle your pulse when Toby’s voice carried in ahead of him. “Knew I sm-smelled bread,” he announced, appearing in the doorway with his hair messy and sticking out at odd angles, obvious that he had been napping on the couch. “C’mon, don’t hog i-it all.”

Tim didn’t look up, just grunted, “No.”

Toby rolled his eyes, grinning. “You’re stingy as hell, y’know th-that?” Then his gaze slid to you, and in a blink he was across the kitchen. His fingers wrapped lightly around your arm, tugging before you even realized he’d decided something.

“What are you doing?” you asked, startled.

“C’mon.” His tone was chipper, but there was a thread of stubbornness beneath it. “Living room’s c-cold. Can’t sleep. N-Need company while I chop wood.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re not supposed to be chopping anything. You still have stitches, Toby.”

He put a finger to his lips and made an exaggerated “shhh” sound, then tugged again. “Don’t ruin i-it. Just come.”

You glanced toward Tim, almost on instinct, and your eyes met across the kitchen. He had paused mid-motion, a loaf of bread in one hand, and though his face was unreadable, his gaze lingered long enough that warmth crawled up your neck. Then Toby gave a more insistent tug, grinning crookedly like he always did, and you let him pull you toward the back door. The afternoon air spilled in, cool and damp, as the two of you stepped out into the dark.

Behind you, you swore you still felt Tim’s eyes following.

── .✦

The air outside was a bit sharper than you expected, cool and damp from the earlier rain. You tugged your sweater tighter around yourself, rubbing your arms as you followed Toby toward the treeline.

He didn’t miss it. With a shrug, he peeled off his jacket and tossed it over your shoulders before you could protest. “You’re shivering,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Then, grinning, “Can’t have y-you catching cold when I-I dragged y-you out here.”

The jacket was warm, smelling of woodsmoke and cedar and so him, and you found yourself hugging it closer even as he moved on to heft the hatchet. He still has his wrinkled t-shirt underneath, quietly laughing at it.

The familiar thunk of blade meeting wood echoed through the damp air. Toby’s grin widened, rolling his shoulders of the tension there. You kept catching yourself watching the spot under his shirt where Brian’s neat stitches pulled skin together, waiting for a drop of red, a sign that he was undoing all your careful tending.

“Alright,” you said finally, crossing your arms. “Show me.”

He blinked, then laughed, dropping the hatchet against the chopping block. “Show y-you what?”

“You know what.” You gestured at his shirt. “Lift it. Let me see if you’re bleeding.”

Rolling his eyes, he pinched the hem of his shirt and tugged it up, revealing the bandages and pale freckled skin underneath. They were still intact—no fresh stains, no tearing.

“See? Perfectly fine,” he said, smirking as he let the fabric fall and picked up the hatchet again. “Y-Your bedside manner’s bossy a-as hell, y’know.”

You glared at him, though the edge was softened by the way his grin made your lips twitch. “Every couple chops, you check. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a mock salute, then swung the hatchet again, the sound cracking through the night air.

You sat on the edge of a flattened stump nearby, wrapping his jacket tighter around yourself as you watched. You wanted to relax, but your eyes kept dragging back to that spot under his shirt, listening for the sound of his breathing, waiting for any stumble. He wouldn’t feel it if they did tear, so you’d have to be sure.

After a few more chops, Toby broke the silence, voice casual. “Didn’t k-know you and Tim were s-so friendly.”

Your head snapped up, heat crawling into your cheeks. “Toby—”

He chuckled, tossing another log onto the block. “Relax, I’m just joking.” His grin was sharp in the moonlight. “I mean, go-good for him. Good for y-you.”

You shook your head quickly, pressing your lips together. “Hush.”

He only grinned wider, swinging the hatchet down with another clean crack. “Alright, alright. You’re n-no fun.” But the way his eyes lingered on you before he bent to grab the split wood told you the joke wasn’t as light as he made it sound. Your chest tightened at his words, at the way his smirk carried something unspoken under it. You thought back to that night—you kissing him, your panic afterward—and the silence that followed. He must’ve thought you’d moved on. That it meant nothing.

“It’s not what you think,” you blurted out, nerves twisting in your gut.

Toby stilled for half a second, the hatchet loose in his grip. Then he shook his head, grinning crookedly. “Don’t need an explanation, ma-ma’am.”

You frowned. “Toby—”

“Really,” he cut in, glancing back at the chopping block. “You don’t owe m-me anything.”

But you weren’t about to let it slide. “I want to explain.”

That smirk crawled back onto his lips, a teasing gleam in his eyes as he swung the hatchet down again, clean through the log, the crack causing you to flinch. “You do-don’t have to, princess.”

The nickname made your cheeks burn hotter, but you weren’t sure if it was a compliment or a jab. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” he said, grin widening as he set another log in place. “But m-me? I’m not worried. I know w-who you kissed first.”

Your throat tightened, heat rising under your skin. “Shut up.”

Instead of answering, he split the log in one sharp crack, then set the hatchet aside. He lifted his shirt, exposing his pale torso, the patch still covering his abdomen neatly.

“Speaking of,” he drawled, strolling toward you, “I think I need m-my nurse to check t-these over.”

Your eyes betrayed you—dragging down his chest, over the faint muscle lines, the curve of his abs. Your breath caught as he stepped close, his grin sharp and knowing. Slowly, reluctantly, you reached up, fingertips brushing the edge of the bandages. You checked for blood, for swelling—feeling the heat of his skin under your touch. For a moment, you forgot to breathe. Your fingertip brushed his skin—

And Toby tilted his head back and let out the most exaggerated, fake moan you’d ever heard.

Your hand jerked back like you’d been burned, face blazing. “Toby!”

He doubled over laughing, nearly clutching his side. “Oh, God—your face!” His laughter rang loud through the damp air, warm and unrestrained. You crossed your arms, glaring, though your lips threatened to betray you.

“See?” he wheezed, still grinning like a devil. “Told y-you. I’m not worried.”

You stepped back, tugging lightly at his jacket tugged over your shoulders as if the chill might excuse your retreat. “Alright, that’s enough wood for the fireplace,” you said, voice half-serious.

Before you could turn fully, Toby’s hand shot out and caught your arm, tugging you gently but firmly back toward him. “Oh, I don’t think s-so,” he said, grinning, eyes gleaming. “Y-You can’t just leave wh-when things are getting… fun.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “Fun? Chopping wood isn’t—”

“You’re flustered,” he interrupted, voice teasing as he leaned closer, the faint smell of wood chips clinging to him. “I can s-see it. Always so easily flustered.”

You swatted at his chest, hitting him lightly, but he caught your hand in a quick motion. Before you could pull away, he pressed a gentle kiss to your palm, lingering just long enough to make your heart skip. Your eyes flicked down to the gaping scar on his cheek, the hole where he’d gnawed and torn at himself. It still took getting used to, but you didn’t flinch at the sight of it anymore. Somehow, that small vulnerability, unhidden and raw, fit perfectly with his brash, teasing energy. It was so him.

“Quit it,” you murmured, but your tone wavered, unsure if you were angry or caught in the tension of his proximity.

He only chuckled, dark and low, brushing his lips up your arm, feather-light kisses teasing along the skin that peeked from the jacket. His jacket around your shoulders, him in your space—the feel of him was surrounding you. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist, drawing you flush against him, the press of his chest firm and grounding. “See? This is better,” he whispered. “I’ll keep y-you warm.”

You swore you could feel his heart skittering through his chest against yours. “Toby—”

“Mm,” he murmured, tilting his head as he pressed close. “Shouldn’t m-my nurse kiss me better? Quit actin’ like you do-don’t want to.”

The request was playful, but there was an edge of certainty, a teasing insistence that left you breathless and unsteady. Your heart thudded in your chest, caught somewhere between panic and desire, and you found yourself leaning in, caught in the pull of him—the rough, reckless, impossible Toby who always jumbled your thoughts faster than you could process them.

Your mind stuttered mid-thought, caught between guilt and desire. You literally just kissed Tim… but Toby didn’t give you the chance to dwell.

“You’ve o-only ever kissed me when I-I’m drunk,” he murmured, voice low, teasing but edged with something more serious. “I wanna feel i-it again.”

Your cheeks flamed immediately, and you opened your mouth to protest, but he was already closing the space between you. “And,” he added, pressing a finger between you, touching against the patch on his abdomen, “I promise n-not to tear these,” gesturing to his stitches.

You flinched slightly at the thought, then melted under the earnestness in his eyes. Before you could reply, he leaned in, and his lips found yours. This time, it was different—hungrier than the soft kiss with Tim, nippy and excited, sharp edges of longing running along it. His hands threaded into your hair and along your back, pressing you closer, leaning just enough to test your balance.

You clutched his shoulders, heart hammering, fingers digging into the fabric to keep from bending too far back. The jacket he’d tossed over your sweater fell slightly with the press of your bodies, brushing your sides as he tilted your head with one hand. The kiss deepened, playful and urgent all at once, his teeth grazing lightly over your bottom lip, making you gasp and cling tighter. Toby’s energy was reckless and alive, pulling you into the moment entirely, leaving no room for hesitation or second-guessing.

When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours, his grin was wicked and victorious. “See? Sober f-feels better, huh?”

You could barely find words, chest heaving, cheeks burning. “Yeah… yeah,” you whispered, still clutching his shoulders as if letting go would unravel the world.

Toby’s grin hadn’t left his face as he pressed his lips again to your neck, light pecks that sent shivers down your spine and made your knees wobble. His hands roamed the sides of your torso lightly, lingering at the small of your back, drawing you closer without any pressure to let go.

“Hey…” he murmured, just at the edge of a whisper, lips brushing your ear. “You thinkin’… ma-maybe… I could come see y-you tonight—”

A stark, sharp crack tore through the air, slicing through the quiet like a knife. Toby froze mid-sentence, lips hovering near your skin, eyes snapping toward the treeline beyond the clearing. The sound was heavy, hardened—like wood being cleaved, but too thick, too powerful to be a mere log falling. Your stomach twisted, adrenaline spiking instantly, and without thinking, you clutched at him, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, holding him as if he were your anchor to reality.

The Rake, the Rake, the Rake—your mind spiraled.

Toby’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as they scanned the dense shadows between the trees. The faint sunlight through dense clouds illuminated nothing but swaying branches and wet leaves glinting with rain. Each crackle from the forest set him further on edge, alert in a way that made your chest constrict.

“Stay close,” he murmured, voice low and taut, not breaking eye contact with the woods. You nodded wordlessly, still clinging to him, heart hammering as if it wanted to escape your ribcage.

It was terrifying how fast he could go from playful and flirty to a honed machine ready to protect you.

“What—what was that?” you whispered, eyes flicking between him and the trees.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let his gaze sweep slowly across the shadows, scanning every shifting shape and subtle movement. Finally, he gave you a short, clipped order, “Grab the wood.”

Your fingers hesitated for only a moment before obeying, hands shaking slightly as you lifted the chopped logs from the ground. Toby released you, stepping back enough to grab his own portion, muscles coiling beneath his shirt as he hefted the wood, making sure his grip on his hatchet was firm in his free hand.

The two of you moved together, silently, every rustle of leaves or snap of a branch making you flinch, chest tight, but Toby’s presence grounded you—an unspoken promise that whatever was out there, he’d face it first.

Step by careful step, you made your way back across the wet grass, balancing the heavy logs while keeping your eyes darting to the treeline. Toby’s boots made firm, sure sounds behind you, confident and steady. His occasional glance back caught your fear, a silent acknowledgment that he saw you, and it was enough to make you cling a little tighter to the warmth of the jacket he’d thrown over your shoulders.

Finally, you reached the edge of the porch, splashes of dirt and sawdust dampening the hem of your sweater. Toby ran a hand through his messy hair, eyes flicking once more toward the dark treeline. “Stay p-put inside after this,” he said quietly, voice carrying just enough authority to leave no room for argument. “Don’t e-even think about sneaking around.”

The manor swallowed you instantly once you stepped inside, warm air washing over you as Toby and you carried the logs across the slick, rain-specked floors. In the kitchen, Brian had been adjusting a flickering light, fingers deftly working the wiry connections. He looked up the instant he noticed you, eyes narrowing.

“Here,” he said immediately, stepping around the counter and taking the logs from your hands without a word. His movements were careful, but there was an edge to his tone. “Why do you two look spooked?”

Toby let out a long, humorless sigh, already moving toward the sitting room, logs hoisted onto his shoulder. “Cutting wood n-near the trees and heard so-somethin’ big. Bigger than normal,” he grumbled, Brian following behind. “Got her o-out of there b-before I could see what.”

You followed, slipping in close to both of them, almost instinctively holding onto Toby’s arm while Brian kept a steady pace at your side, shadowing you as you moved. The familiarity of their presence was grounding, but the thought of something near your home made you shiver.

Toby dropped the logs in the hearth in the grand sitting room and set to work lighting the fire as he normally did, snapping kindling like a habit. The flames caught quickly, spreading warmth across the room, dancing off the high ceilings and polished wood, painting the space in amber light.

Brian set his load of wood near the mouth, glancing at you. “You okay?” he asked softly, eyes searching yours for the lingering tremor.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

Toby scoffed from the hearth, glancing back at you with mock irritation. “Wouldn’t have l-let anything happen to her,” he muttered, half-proud, half-offended.

Brian rolled his eyes, shooting a look at Toby. “Quit joking.”

“Hm,” Toby groaned, snapping another log into the flames. “Nothing happened. I k-kept her safe.”

The two began bickering lightly, voices bouncing off the walls—Toby’s brash, teasing tone against Brian’s steady, measured corrections. You quietly slipped away, heading to the kitchen to start dinner, grateful for the excuse to put distance between yourself and their playful tension while your nerves slowly calmed.

From the sitting room, their conversation carried faintly. Toby’s voice dropped lower, more serious this time. “…Rakes are getting t-too close a-again. We’ll have to go out tonight, make sure they k-know this place isn’t easy pickings.”

Brian’s response was calm but firm. “We’ll handle it. We just need to make sure everything inside is ready… she shouldn’t have to see any of it if we can avoid it.”

You froze mid-step, knife in hand, realizing the duality of your life here—the warmth, the comfort, the teasing and familiarity, and the raw, dangerous reality that pressed in from the woods every night.

You busied yourself to keep from spiraling.

You chopped vegetables quickly, trying to focus on the rhythm of the knife, the smell of garlic and onions filling the kitchen. Tonight’s dinner had to be good—you knew it might be their last meal at the manor for hours if they went out to hunt again.

Tim stepped in from the back door, shaking the dew from his jacket and immediately inhaling the aroma wafting from the stove. “Smells good,” he said, nodding as he looked at you, brows knitting at the sight of your weary expression. “What’s wrong?”

You flinched at the reminder, but shook your head stiffly. “Toby heard one of those things near the trees. He said you’re going to have to go back out tonight.”

Tim grunted, shedding his jacket and setting it on the back of his chair.

Toby and Brian appeared a moment later, finishing their work in the sitting room, the fire casting flickering light across their backs. Toby plopped down on a stool near the counter, smirking as he flexed his hands. Brian leaned against the counter quietly, eyes scanning the kitchen, hands brushing sawdust from his palms.

“You all need to eat before tonight,” you said, voice firmer than you felt, slicing bell peppers and sliding them into a sizzling pan. “And we’re eating together. No arguments.”

They settled in, the three of them close but not too overwhelming, watching you while you cooked. Tim hummed under his breath as he leaned against the counter, tugging at his gloves. Toby whistled softly, eyes flicking to the fire. Brian’s gaze lingered on you, patient, careful, always unreadable.

“So…” Toby began, casual, voice low, “what’s the plan f-for tonight? We’re talking big patrol, or j-just a sweep around t-the courtyard?”

Brian spoke next. “We’ll need to check the east treeline first where you heard it, then the northern woods. Don’t think they’ve noticed us yet, but… better safe than sorry.”

You froze mid-stir, spoon hovering over the pan as your mind flashed with images you didn’t want to see: them hunting, swinging hatchets, rifles roaring, blood, claws, dark shapes moving through the blood-soaked forest. You swallowed hard, trying to ground yourself in the mundane act of stirring the vegetables.

“I… can you guys—please?” you said, voice trembling slightly. “Talk about something different. Anything else. I can’t—”

Toby’s eyes flicked to yours, instantly softening, and he leaned back on the counter, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, alright,” he said, voice teasing but quiet. “How about we a-argue about whose turn i-it is to cut firewood later? Very no-normal, very civilized.”

Tim chuckled low, shaking his head. “Or who gets to chase the buzzards off when they try to eat my crops. Very normal farm problems.”

Brian’s lips twitched at the corner, almost imperceptible. “I can weigh in on whose turn it is to go all the way down to the basement to flip the breaker. Highly conventional.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the tension easing just enough for you to refocus on the pan in front of you. The knives clattered against the cutting board, the aroma of cooking vegetables filling the room, and the haze from the setting sun through the windows played across their faces.

Eventually, the last bite of dinner disappeared from the pan, the clatter of plates and silverware echoing softly against the walls. Laughter lingered in the kitchen as Toby and Tim debated—loud, playful, inconsequential—but you caught yourself glancing at the clock, counting the minutes until the sun finally dipped below the horizon. By the time the last streaks of amber vanished from the sky, the manor had sunk into that familiar gloom. Shadows pooled in corners, the flicker of candlelight barely pushing back the darkness. You moved through the rooms with methodical precision, cleaning up after dinner while the boys prepared to leave.

The office room had become their staging ground—you had pushed all their gear inside, arranging rifles, shotguns, knives, and ammunition in neat rows. The sight of their weapons and equipment didn’t comfort you yet—it was a stark reminder of what lurked in the woods. You weren’t sure whether it was a blessing or a curse that you finally understood just how close to the edge of danger the boys operated.

When the cleaning was finished, you pulled a blanket around your shoulders and collapsed into the couch in the sitting room. A steaming cup of coffee in your hands offered some semblance of warmth and normalcy, but you knew sleep would not come. The familiar dread hung low in your chest, a steady pulse reminding you of the night ahead, and how’d you’d be awake for any moment of danger.

Outside, you could hear them now: boots scuffing against wet earth, voices carrying in heated argument. Toby and Tim, clearly bickering over who would take which section of the woods tonight, their words sharp but familiar. You hugged your knees to your chest, listening, clinging to the sounds that tethered you to reality. To them.

Then, the soft, chopped echo of boots down the hall drew your attention back. Brian slipped into the sitting room, mask pushed up above his eyebrows, framing his soft eyes. The rifle slung over his shoulder felt heavier than usual in your chest. He nodded once at you, voice low and calm, “We’ll be back in the morning.”

You sipped your coffee quietly, eyes flitting to the fire, to the shadows, to the doorway. Every instinct screamed for you to follow them, to run, to check the treeline yourself—but you knew better now. You stayed on the couch, wrapped in your blanket, watching, feeling the tension coil tight in your stomach as the three of them moved out of your reach.

Brian looked sideways at you. “You’ll be alright here? On the couch all night?”

You wrapped your arms around your knees, forcing a small smile. “I’ll be fine. Honestly, I think I’m doing better here than you three are out there.”

He chuckled low, the sound almost caught in his throat, and nodded once. “Alright… just… don’t stress yourself.”

He turned to leave, but the instant his back was to you, a sudden wave of fear hit your chest. You scrambled off the couch, quick and unsteady, voice shaking. “Brian—wait!”

He froze and pivoted, brow furrowed in concern.

“I—just—be safe. Look out for each other. Don’t… don’t get yourselves killed.” Your words tumbled out in a rush, frantic, desperate.

He nodded, more seriously now, the weight of what you were saying clearly registering. “We will. Don’t worry about us, okay?” He swallowed, then nodded slowly, as though committing your words to memory. “We’ll come back. You’ll see.”

Without thinking, you stepped forward, wrapping your arms tightly around him, holding him as if you could somehow keep him safe through sheer force. Your chest pressed against his, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you, the smell of rain-damp clothing and faint woodsmoke clinging to him.

Then it hit—the stress, the fear, the helplessness—and you started sniffling. A little at first, then your chest shook as the tears spilled, hot and unrelenting.

Brian stiffened immediately, panic flickering in his eyes. “Hey—hey, look at me!” he said sharply, his hands moving to your shoulders. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

You clung to him tighter, trying to calm yourself, but your sobs only caught more violently. Brian’s usual calm demeanor cracked, his heart hammering. He bent slightly, letting you lean against him, murmuring reassurances in that low, steady voice. “You’re safe. You’re here. We’re… we’re coming back, I promise. Just… breathe. Please.”

You nodded shakily against him, trying to take the advice, letting the tears soak into the fabric of his hoodie. For a moment, the monsters outside, the looming darkness, the memories of every bad night—all of it—faded to the background. The only thing that existed was this moment, him holding you, steady and present, keeping you from being swallowed by your fear. He let you cry, hands resting firm and reassuring on your back, whispering over and over that they’d all come back, that you weren’t alone. And slowly, inch by inch, your sobs quieted, leaving behind shaky breaths and the faint taste of tears.

You cling to him like if you let go the world will unravel.

Brian’s cheek settles against your temple, warm and solid. The contact steadies something inside you; the breath that had been jagged finds a rhythm again against his shoulder. You press your face into the curve of his neck and, before either of you can think better of it, you tilt up and kiss his cheek—soft, urgent, wet with the salt of tears.

His eyes go closed for half a second, and in that sliver of silence something shifts. He doesn’t pull away. He lets you have that small, trembling thing you need to hold onto right now.

“Kill them all,” you whisper into his hoodie, words ragged with anger and fear. “Kill every last one so you don’t have to go out again. Don’t leave me here alone.”

Brian’s breath hitches. You feel him swallow, the muscle at his throat working. For a heartbeat he’s only the man holding you, all careful lines and steady hands—the person who had slipped from the hallway minutes ago with a rifle on his shoulder. He doesn’t speak it. Instead his fingers curl into the back of your sweater and he turns his face to kiss you. It isn’t boastful or hungry. It’s a soft press at first, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when your lips tremble into his, it deepens with the ache of wanting to make things right, of wanting to be the shore you can come back to. There’s longing there—quiet, fierce—and a sadness that lubricates the tenderness. You both taste of smoke and salt and leftover fear.

For a long, suspended moment you are only that kiss: two people folding into each other between panic and desperate steadiness. Your arms twist around his neck; his hands cradle your face and then slide to your waist as if to keep you from being carried away. The world outside the manor—the treeline, the rain, the rakes and the blood—hangs at the edge of the glass, remote and unbearable. In the small circle of warmth, it feels possible, for an instant, that everything could be held together.

When you finally break apart, the air between you is thin and wet with the tremor of your breaths. Your cheeks streak with tears and you press the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to blink them away. Brian’s face is solemn; there’s an unspooling of something like resolve in his mouth.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You nod, but the nod is small and the next inhale brings a new hitch of fear. “Promise me,” you whisper. “Please—come back.”

He meets your gaze, and for the first time since you met him in the attic, there’s an unguarded thing in his eyes—an answer that is equal parts oath and plea. “I promise,” he says. It isn’t boastful. It’s not a rope to cling to blindly. It’s the quiet vow of someone who has already chosen his line in the dark. “We’ve come back every time. This one is no different.”

You wrap your arms around him one last time, clinging as if the hug could slow the night. He holds you like you’re both fragile and unbreakable at once, like this is how they’ll leave and how they’ll return—bruised, beaten, hanging by their bones.

When he finally steps back, there’s a small, shaky smile that does not reach his eyes. He straightens, the rifle goes back onto his shoulder, the practiced motion of a man who lives with danger calling his name.

“Stay here,” he says one last time, softer than an order. “Lock up. Don’t come out—no matter what.”

You nod, lips pressed tight. He leans forward and presses one more light, lingering kiss to your forehead—a goodbye threaded with longing—then turns and walks toward the door. Each step he takes feels an awful, necessary distance.

You stand rooted on the rug as the back door opens, the manor inhaling the cold night air when it swings. The muted echo of his boots recedes down the drive and into the fog. Tim and Toby file in at his side, the three aiming for the treeline. Outside, the world is a damp, vast quiet. Inside, the candlelight shivers, and you are left with the echo of his promise on your lips and the new, complicated ache that ties you to all three of them.

── .✦

The manor shudders with the storm of the woods outside.

Howls echo in the treeline, sharper and nearer than you’ve ever heard them. Gunshots pop like fireworks across the yard, rattling the glass in their frames. The distant shouts of men—your men—cut through in bursts, muffled by fog and rain. Every sound coils inside you like a spring about to snap.

You force yourself not to look out the window. You’ve learned that seeing is worse—that the shapes your mind supplies when you only hear the noise are safer than what’s really out there. So instead you keep your hands busy.

The broom swishes across the kitchen floor for the third time tonight, even though the wood gleams clean already. You rearrange the cushions on the sitting room couch, then again, then again, until the fabric feels worn beneath your palms. You scrub the counter, polish silver, fold blankets. None of it drowns out the war happening beyond the walls.

Your chest tight, you grab a candleholder and light the wick. The flame flickers in the draft of the hall as you climb the stairs quietly. You push open the door to your uncle’s study—the one room you’ve avoided since learning the truth. Dust and leather greet you, the scent like old paper and something faintly molded that’s seeped into the wood. You set the candleholder on his desk, its light haloing across the spread of his old things. Sketches. Journals. Binders of loose pages tied with string.

Your fingers hover before you dare touch them. 

Maybe there’s something in here that can help them.

You reach.

The first book creaks open. Drawings sketched in frantic pencil spill across the page—long-limbed figures, jaws stretched open in impossible ways. The Rake. The same thing you saw drag itself across your yard, the same thing that nearly tore Toby in half. The longer you stare, the more your chest knots, but you flip to the next page anyway.

Notes scrawled in your uncle’s hand run across the margins: sightings increase after rainfall… behavior more erratic near the manor… Operator’s presence holds them at bay but not for long.

You swallow hard, tracing the shaky ink as if the words themselves might answer you.

You find another sketch—this one half-finished, the rake drawn crouched beside the silhouette of a person. No face. No details. Just black scratches where the head should be. Your stomach turns, but you press on, flipping further. More notes, more strange symbols that sting your eyes if you look too long. Mentions of “wards,” of “boundaries.” Pages about how the manor itself was meant to be a line in the sand—a safe harbor.

The howling outside rises again. Your candle flickers, its shadow stretching the sketches into moving things on the walls. You slam the book shut, pulse hammering, and clutch the edge of the desk just to steady yourself.

Your uncle had known. He had written it all down. And he hadn’t survived it.

And now you’re here, sitting in his chair, teetering on the edge of facing the same fate. Of your friends facing the same fate.

You grab another book.

This one feels heavier, its leather cover worn smooth with use. When you open it, the script inside is tighter, more methodical than the frantic scrawls of the last. Almost like your uncle had been gathering his thoughts, preparing something final. The first page nearly slips the page from your fingers.

Fire.

The word is underlined three times, written so deep it’s nearly carved into the paper. Below it:

Fire melts their skin and chars their bones. I’ve never seen them react so frantically as when I’m holding a flame. They’re afraid. They fear it.

Your pulse spikes, but you keep reading. The pages are littered with half-finished sketches of rakes caught in torchlight, their forms writhing as flames lick up their limbs. Notes scrawled around the drawings:

Too fast for torches. Too aware for open flames. They flee when they sense it. They will not approach fire willingly. Must trap them. Must bind them to the place first.

You sit back, clutching the book to your chest. That’s why every encounter ends in blood. That’s why no matter how many bullets Tim and Brian unload, no matter how hard Toby swings that hatchet, they never feel close to ending this. It always feels like there’s a hundred more to follow.

Your uncle knew it. He’d been trying to make something—pages stitched with designs, half-formed schematics, scrawls about “fuel lines” and “fixtures in every hall.” You flip through quickly, breath catching as you recognize what he meant. The manor itself.

Your eyes lift, darting around the study. The candle on the desk. The sconces on the walls. The hearth downstairs. The candles. The fires. Always burning. Always lit.

Your uncle hadn’t just been eccentric, hadn’t just left candles scattered in every corner of this place for the gothic look. It had been a design, a defense he’d never finished.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as memory clicks into place: Toby lighting the fireplace for you each night, even in the warmth of summer storms. His job, his ritual. Not just comfort. Not just habit. Protection.

You stand so fast the chair tips behind you. The candleholder rattles in your grip as you pace the study, every nerve bristling with urgency.

He was building something in this house. He was making the manor itself into a ward.

Your uncle had failed, but you—your fists clench—you could finish it. You have to. Because it’s not just a home anymore, it’s the line between life and death, between keeping those three alive and letting them be torn apart every night.

You spin toward the shelves, yanking down more ledgers, more crumbling binders. Schematics. Lists of supplies. Half-finished rituals woven between architectural notes. Your hands shake as you spread them across the desk, candlelight dancing over your frantic movements.

“I can finish this,” you whisper to the empty room, to the flame that quivers as though it hears you. “I have to.”

The howls outside grow sharper, closer, almost angry—as if the things in the woods can feel the fire’s promise stirring inside the manor again.

Good.

── .✦

The slam of the back door jolts you so hard the candle flame nearly gutters out. You’d been bent over your uncle’s spread of papers all night, hands smudged with old ink, eyes burning from reading the same words again and again. But the sound—boots on the floor, the groan of wet coats peeled from shoulders—snaps you upright. You hadn’t even noticed the early rising sun filtering through the curtained window behind you.

They’re back.

You nearly trip over yourself on the way down, sketchbooks clutched in one hand, the other dragging along the banister as you fly down the stairs. The second you step into the kitchen, the smell hits you—wet earth, iron tang, gunpowder. They look like hell.

Brian first—mask pushed up around his brow, hair plastered to his forehead, rifle still slung over one shoulder. Tim behind him, pale under the dirt, favoring one arm but steady as ever. And then Toby, staggering in between them, eyes nearly blinking out of sync, dried blood marking one sleeve.

“God—” You’re already moving toward them, sketchbooks set aside, hands fumbling over coats and clothes. “Are you hurt? Let me see—”

Toby slouches into you like dead weight, his head knocking against your shoulder as if gravity itself had given up on him. “Hiya, princess,” he mumbles, giggling faintly. You press your palm against his abdomen anyway, checking the bandages, finding them mostly intact. Relief floods you, but your throat feels tight.

Tim’s eyes catch yours, rimmed red and ringed with exhaustion, and he gives you that small tilt of his chin—they’re fine, don’t panic. Brian, wordless, trudges toward the counter and starts a pot of coffee, motions slow and mechanical.

But your heart is still hammering. The papers upstairs are seared into your brain, the word fire etched across the back of your eyes. “You have to come see—” Your words tumble out too fast, too bright against the heaviness in the room. “What I found, it’s in my uncle’s study, it’s—”

All three pairs of eyes turn to you. Tired. Hollow. Not angry, but unbearably weary. Tim drags a hand over his face. Brian pours water into the machine like he’s running on autopilot. Toby just leans heavier into you, lips quirking as he slurs, “She’s go-got homework for us.”

And suddenly you feel foolish. They’ve been out there all night, bleeding and fighting, surviving things you can barely let yourself imagine. And you—you’ve been up in the study, yes, working, but in the safety of candlelight.

You swallow hard, tucking Toby’s arm tighter around your shoulder, guiding him toward the table. “Nevermind. It can wait.”

Tim shoots you a small, grateful look. Brian hums low under his breath, sliding mugs across the counter. And Toby rests his head against your hair, giggling faintly before drifting toward something like sleep, the warmth of his weight pinning you in place.

Breakfast. Coffee. Sleep. That’s what they need. Not another word about rakes. Not yet.

The kitchen smelled like eggs and bread before long, and you found yourself moving on instinct—pan hot, coffee steaming, the quiet clatter of plates muffled under the exhaustion pressing down on the house. They had all shed their gear in the hall, rifles leaned against the wall, coats dripping into a haphazard pile. The silence between them was heavy, but not sharp; more the kind of silence that came when words cost too much to muster.

One by one, they file into the sitting room—Tim first, shoulders slouched, muttering about his back as he sinks onto the couch. Brian follows, cup of black coffee in hand, half-lidded eyes scanning the fire that Toby immediately reset the moment he stumbled in. And Toby himself, sprawled across the rug, legs stretched out, head tipped back against the sofa like he might slip into unconsciousness at any second.

They mumble half-hearted conversation—bits of teasing, complaints about the rain, a tired laugh or two. But their voices sound softer in this space, muffled by the crackle of the fire and the scrape of cutlery as you carry in plates. You set the food down on the low table in front of them, and they dig in without ceremony, chewing like it’s the first proper meal they’ve had in days.

You hesitate, then slip away for the sketchbook. By the time you return, they’re still eating, heads bowed over their plates, too tired to hide how worn they are. You sit cross-legged in the chair opposite them, the book open across your lap.

“I found something,” you begin, fingers brushing the yellowed page. Their eyes flicker toward you, not sharp or suspicious—just weary, but listening. “My uncle… he wrote about them. About the rakes, y’know. He figured out what hurts them. Fire. It burns them down to nothing.”

Tim leans back, a fork still in his hand. He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “Yeah. We know.”

Brian’s voice is low, steady, but heavy. “Your uncle tried. More than once. He even rigged up some homemade flamethrower—looked like something out of a bad war movie. Nearly took the east wing of the house down with it. There’s still char marks on the ceiling.”

You blink at him, throat tightening. “But if he knew—”

“They’re fast,” Tim cuts in, words clipped. He sets his plate down, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s remembering. “Faster than fire. They don’t charge in like they used to—they’ve learned. They scatter, circle, wait for you to get close enough to burn yourself instead. They’re not just animals.”

Toby chuckles, though it’s hollow, head tipping against the sofa cushion. “Yeah, saw h-him try once when I wa-was working. Thought it was hi-hil-hilarious until I realized the whole damn forest c-could’ve gone up. Rakes are smart. Fire hurts them, but they’re n-not stupid enough t-to stand in it.”

Brian pushes his empty plate aside, folding his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Bullets—that’s what keeps them back. It doesn’t kill them clean, but it slows them down enough to finish the job.” His gaze cuts to you, steady but not unkind. “It’s ugly, but it’s the only thing that works.”

The fire pops in the hearth, showering sparks up the flue. You glance between them, the weight of their words pressing on your chest. You’d spent the whole night convincing yourself you’d found an answer, that you’d pieced together the one thing your uncle couldn’t. But sitting here now, you realize they already knew. They’ve known all along.

Your hands tighten around the edges of the sketchbook, the faded leather worn soft beneath your palms. The three of them just watch you—slouched, heavy-eyed, so damn tired—but you don’t let yourself fold under that exhaustion pressing in on all sides.

“Then… then maybe we don’t need fire the way he tried to use it,” you say, leaning forward, voice picking up momentum the longer you talk. “Not a giant flamethrower, not a bonfire that risks the whole house. He had the right idea, just… the wrong execution. Look.” You thumb through the pages, finding the half-finished diagrams, the notations about candles and hearths, the way your uncle kept circling back to controlled flame. “What if it’s smaller, contained? Something we can set fast, lure them into, choke them with smoke before they even realize what’s happening?”

Tim’s head tips against the back of the couch. He regards you with that sharp, assessing stare, though his lids are heavy. “Traps.”

“Yes,” you say, heart leaping. “Traps. Systems. Maybe we can use the manor itself—if it’s always been a beacon, then maybe it can be a weapon too.”

Brian rubs a hand over his face, smearing soot and blood. “We’d need time. Materials. And brains. Not half-dead ones like we’ve got right now.”

“Still,” Toby mumbles around a yawn, one arm slung over his eyes, “not the worst i-idea I’ve heard. Better than Tim’s ‘let’s hunt th-them with kitchen knives’ bullshit.”

Tim grunts. “Hush.”

You close the book, clutching it to your chest, the spark of determination lighting you up from the inside. For the first time in weeks, the fear doesn’t feel bigger than you. For the first time, there’s a direction.

Tim watches you a second longer before speaking again, quieter this time. “Alright. Maybe you’re onto something. But…” His voice drops further, softer, almost careful. “Can we talk about it after we’ve had a few hours? None of us are good for thinking straight right now.”

Brian nods, already pushing himself up from the table with a groan. “We’ll need our heads if we’re gonna make anything out of this.”

Toby lets out a dramatic sigh from the couch, rolling to his side and tugging a throw pillow under his head. “Wake me up when i-it’s my turn to blow something u-up.”

They’re teasing, Tim and Brian dragging themselves out the back door to their own cabins, but you can see it in their faces: the tiniest flicker of hope, even through their exhaustion.

── .✦

The study was heavy with quiet—the kind that felt alive, humming with your heartbeat and the scratch of paper against paper. Afternoon light slanted in through the tall curtainless window, catching in the dust motes that drifted lazily across the air. You sat hunched over the desk, shoulders tight, chin propped up by one hand, the other still curled around a pen that hadn’t moved in minutes. The page in front of you blurred, your eyes dragging over the same paragraph again and again, words turning to nothing.

Your uncle’s notes were spread everywhere: diagrams, frantic scribbles, half-burned pages tucked into ledgers. You’d been piecing them together for hours, refusing to stop, refusing to let yourself give in to that gnawing dread in your stomach. If you just knew enough—if you just understood—then maybe it would stop being so terrifying.

You didn’t hear the door creak, didn’t hear the boots across the floor. You only stirred when the edge of the desk dipped slightly under another hand bracing against it.

“…You’re not even reading anymore.”

Your head snapped up, eyes bleary. Brian was leaning over the desk, his eyes scanning the spread of papers before dragging back to you. “You’re just staring through the page.”

“I’m—” you started, voice scratchy from disuse, “—I’m fine. I was just… thinking.”

Brian raised his brows, his usual quiet skepticism loud enough to fill the room. He reached out, gently pressing two fingers against the top of the book you’d been pretending to read, lowering it flat to the desk. “Thinking with your eyes closed, huh?”

You blinked hard, trying to force some alertness into your body, but the truth betrayed you—the ache in your spine, the twitch in your hand still curled around the pen, the weight dragging your head toward your chest. Thirty hours awake and even the four cups of coffee hadn’t been enough.

“I can’t sleep yet,” you whispered, fighting yourself as much as him. “If I just—if I can learn enough about them, I won’t be afraid anymore. I won’t freeze if they show up again. I’ll know what to do.”

Brian studied you for a long, quiet moment, the dust-filled light cutting across his face, making the dark smudges under his eyes more obvious. Finally, he pulled out the chair beside you and sat, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You don’t have to erase the fear,” he said carefully. “You just have to survive it.” His eyes flicked to the pages, then back to you. “And you won’t survive much of anything if you fall over from exhaustion.”

The words should’ve sounded stern, but instead they softened, threaded with humor. He tilted his head, catching your tired gaze. “You’ve done more than enough for one day. Let the rest of it wait.”

The study felt different then, quieter still. Brian didn’t argue anymore after that. He just watched you for a long moment, quiet as the dust drifting in the golden light, then leaned forward and slipped the pen from your hand. You didn’t even resist—your fingers let go as if they’d been waiting for someone else to carry the weight.

“Come on,” he said, voice low, almost rough from fatigue. “Enough.”

You started to shake your head, mumbling some half-formed protest, but then his hand was at the small of your back, steady and warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. The contact made your throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He gave the lightest push, coaxing you out of the chair, and you found yourself standing before you’d even decided to.

“Brian, I—”

“You’re done for the day,” he cut in, but it wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was careful. Like he was afraid you’d shatter if he spoke too loudly. He guided you toward the door, his palm never leaving that steady place at your lower back.

The manor was dim and hushed as he led you down the hall, the only sound being your soft footsteps and his thumping boots beside you. You glanced at him once, catching the weariness in his face—the bloodshot eyes, the damp hair clinging to his forehead where it looked like he’d taken a shower—but his focus stayed on you. Like his exhaustion didn’t matter if it meant you got to rest.

When you reached your bedroom, he nudged the door open with his shoulder and steered you inside. The bed looked impossibly inviting, covers still rumpled from your restless night. You hesitated, turning to him, but he was already tugging back the comforter with one hand, still steadying you with the other.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered, though your knees ached to buckle. “You don’t have to—”

He gave the faintest smile, tired but real, and rubbed lightly at your back. “Yeah, I do.”

You sat because you had no strength left to keep standing, sinking into the edge of the mattress. He stepped back, his hand finally leaving you, the room feeling colder for it.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “The books will still be there when you wake up.”

You sank deeper into the mattress, blankets pulled up under your chin, the weight of exhaustion dragging at your eyes. Brian lingered by the bedside, one hand braced against the headboard like he wasn’t sure if he should leave or stay.

Through a fog of half-consciousness, you whispered, “Brian… do you think… we can really kill them all?”

He didn’t hesitate. He pulled the chair from your desk closer and sat beside you, leaning his elbows on his knees. His eyes softened when they found yours, though fatigue lined his face. He gave a firm nod.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and certain. “We can. Because we’ve got you now. You keep us going. We’ve got something to fight for.”

Your lips twitched into the faintest smile, too tired to hold it, but it still warmed your face. Slowly, you reached out from beneath the blanket, fingers trembling more from exhaustion than nerves, and found his hand.

Brian froze for a second, looking at your smaller hand clutching his, before he closed his fingers around yours and gave a slow, grounding squeeze. Your breathing evened out almost instantly, the comfort of his words and his presence pulling you under. The last thing you registered was his thumb brushing once across the back of your hand, steady, like he was promising to keep it there until you woke again.

── .✦

The study’s dust and coffee tang still lingered in your nose, but it wasn’t the moonlight through the curtains that pulled you from sleep—it was the low scrape of metal against earth, the muffled clang of something heavy being dropped, and voices that didn’t belong to dreams.

You blinked, blearily taking in the warm glow of your room. The candles by your bedside had been lit, their flames soft and steady. Brian must’ve done it, you thought—the realization making your chest ache in some quiet way. You rolled over, expecting maybe he’d still be in the chair, maybe nodding off the way Toby sometimes did on the couch. But the chair was empty. The room was empty. It was the middle of the night.

And the sound outside was louder now.

You pushed the blankets off, sluggish from sleep but unsettled, swinging your legs down to the rug. You didn’t bother with shoes, seeing your sweater tossed at the end of the bed and pulling it tight around yourself before padding across the floor. When you pressed to the window, careful to keep your body in the shadow of the curtain, your breath caught.

Out in the courtyard, under the pale glow of a swollen moon, were the boys.

Tim was hauling coils of barbed wire out of the bed of the truck, the metal unspooling in harsh glints, his shoulders rigid with the effort. Brian crouched low near one of the hedges, hammering something into the ground with rattling blows. Toby was half in shadow, shirt already discarded as he dug furiously into the damp earth with a spade, dirt spraying behind him like he’d been at it for hours.

And then it hit you—they were building traps. Your suggestions. The very sketches you’d shoved into their hands earlier that morning, babbling about strategy, about fire, about something to fight back with. They hadn’t dismissed you. They hadn’t rolled their eyes and gone off to bed, the way exhaustion had begged them to. They’d listened.

Your chest squeezed so tightly it hurt.

Before you could think better of it, you were already bolting for the door. Your bare feet hit against the cold wood of the stairs, your sweater barely shielding you from the damp chill that seeped through the manor’s giant walls. The back door creaked when you pushed it open, and a rush of night air slammed into you, thick with the smell of earth and iron and rain not long past.

The grass was wet and icy under your feet, but you didn’t care. You rushed into the yard, heart pounding, the sound of the hammer and spade and wire growing louder until it filled your ears. “What are you doing?”

The words ripped out of you, higher and sharper than you meant, and all three froze. Toby’s spade hit the ground with a heavy thud. Brian’s hammer paused mid-swing. Tim straightened, barbed wire hanging from his gloves like a tangle of thorns, and all three of their eyes cut toward you in the half-light.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

And then Brian sighed, smiling at you through the sweat on his brow. “You aren’t supposed to be up.”

“I heard you,” you snapped, breath catching in the cold. “You’re—” your eyes flicked from the raw wire cutting into Tim’s gloves, to the half-dug pit Toby was already climbing out of, to the hammer still clutched in Brian’s fist. “You’re setting traps. My—my idea. You actually…”

Tim’s mouth quirked into something tired, something that might’ve been a smirk on another night. “You thought we weren’t listening?”

“I thought you thought I was insane.”

Toby wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, streaking dirt and sweat across his temple, before tossing you a lopsided grin. “We already k-know you’re insane, princess. Doesn’t me-mean you’re wrong.”

Your heart stuttered.

Brian shoved the hammer into the ground and stood, stretching his back, his hair plastered damp to his forehead. “You wanted to help. This is how we let you.” His tone was simple, matter-of-fact, but his gaze lingered on you in a way that was careful. As if he could see how badly you were shaking, how your hands had knotted in the hem of your sweater.

“I—” you faltered, hugging yourself tighter. “You should’ve… told me. You should’ve woken me.”

Tim shook his head, stepping toward you with steady, slow steps. “You needed rest. Up all night trying to memorize this shit.” He let the barbed wire fall from his gloves, metal hitting the dirt with a dull thump, and stopped a few feet in front of you. “We’ve got this. You don’t have to kill yourself trying to figure it all out.”

But you couldn’t stop looking at them—at the mud streaked up Tim’s jacket, at the worn calluses on Brian’s hands, at Toby’s bandages now speckled with fresh dirt where he’d leaned too hard against the shovel. Your throat tightened.

You’d been so scared of them once. Now all you could think was how tired they looked. How stubborn. How utterly willing to throw themselves into the dark just so you wouldn’t have to. And something inside you cracked, like ice giving way.

Your voice shook as you whispered, “I don’t want you to do this alone.”

Tim’s jaw flexed. Brian’s eyes softened. Toby’s grin fell into something quieter, something more sincere.

The night air pressed heavy around you, cold and damp and smelling of iron. The manor loomed at your back, the woods looming even darker ahead. And between those two worlds, it was just you and them—your bare feet in the grass, their shoulders bowed under weight you still barely understood.

But for the first time since the night you learned the truth, you didn’t feel entirely powerless. You’d asked them to fight. And now they were proving they’d fight with everything they had.

── .✦

The next week passed in a blur.

Your days became a cycle of work, dirt, and ink-stained fingers—wake to the sound of boots thudding across the manor, eat something quick (or cook it yourself, because the boys would happily go on black coffee and adrenaline if you didn’t intervene), then dive headlong into the endless grind of preparation.

When you weren’t in your uncle’s study with his crumbling journals and sketches spread across every flat surface, you were out in the yard with muddy boots laced tight, helping them haul crates of supplies, laying down barbed wire, or threading jars of accelerant into carefully dug trenches. The traps were crude but effective—tripwires hidden under brush that triggered firewalls, shallow pits that could snap legs, and lines of oil-soaked cloth ready to be lit in an instant.

Brian was the one with the steady hands, crouched low as he measured angles, hammered stakes, and muttered calculations under his breath. He never let you carry the heaviest things, though—you’d reach for a box and he’d simply appear, smile tilted, quietly taking it out of your hands with a shake of his head.

Tim worked with a grim sort of determination, unrolling wire, digging trenches, his jaw always tight. But he cracked when you teased him about being too serious, his dry humor slipping through in little one-liners—like when you tripped over a coil of wire and he deadpanned, “Guess that trap works.” He’d smirk at your laugh, then go right back to work.

And Toby… Toby made it impossible to stay focused. He was loud and messy, shirt always half off, mud streaked through dirt on his chest as he swung an axe or dug with a spade. He’d throw flirty comments over his shoulder, or drop something heavy just so you’d fuss over his stitches, smirking when your hands brushed his skin. He made the work feel like chaos, but he kept you smiling.

And in the cracks between all that—between the fire and schematics and long nights by candlelight—you felt yourself spiraling.

Because every morning, when you set breakfast on the table, you’d have Tim sitting across from you with that watchful, steady look that made your chest twist. Brian would quietly take the mug out of your hand to pour the coffee himself, brushing your fingers, his silence louder than words. And Toby would flop into the chair beside you, grin crooked, knees bumping yours on purpose while he stole toast off your plate.

Lunch was the same. Dinner too. Every glance, every laugh, every touch—it was building into something impossible to ignore. And lying awake at night, listening to them move through the halls or hearing their voices low outside your window as they worked, you felt that impossible weight pressing harder.

Because you knew—sooner or later—you were going to have to choose.

And God, you didn’t know if you could.

── .✦

By the time the last rays of sun began sliding behind the treeline at the end of the week, the manor was no longer just a house—it was a fortress, a gauntlet, a trap meticulously laid.

From the edge of the forest to the first stretch of lawn, tripwires were strung with almost invisible barbed wire, glinting faintly in the dying light. Little pits had been camouflaged with dirt and brush, ready to ensnare anything foolish enough to step too close. Fire lures—jars of accelerant with wicks precariously balanced on stakes—were planted strategically near choke points along the treeline. Even the open patches of the yard were carefully calculated, the perfect corridors to funnel the rakes closer, to make them predictable.

You stood at the highest point of the veranda, the wind tugging at your sweater, eyes bright as you tried to take in the enormity of what you’d helped build. The sheer amount of wire alone made you dizzy—you couldn’t tell which way to step without tripping over something. Every shadow of the garden looked deliberate now, every pile of leaves, every stone placed, seemed charged with intent.

Tim surveyed along the edges, testing the traps with small sticks, muttering low to himself, double-checking angles and tension. Toby was tossing logs near the deep pits he had dug along the yard, ready for them to catch fire and sear a wall of flame, but every few moments he’d glance toward the forest with that alert, predatory attention that made your heart race. Brian leaned over a map spread out on a bench, pointing and marking, making sure nothing had been missed.

You stepped back and took a deep breath, realizing the gravity of it all. This wasn’t just preparation—it was war—silly as it seemed. And if there had ever been a perfect moment to test all of this, it was now, with the sun dipping low, the shadows long, and the forest just waiting beyond the edges of the property.

You looked at them—Toby’s grin was tight, almost feral in the fading light; Tim’s eyes were cold, sharp; Brian’s posture steady, unyielding. You felt the weight of your own fear and adrenaline, the ache of worry for them, and the strange, dangerous pull of having been part of this, of helping shape the battlefield.

The first stars were beginning to prick the sky, and you knew instinctively: once night truly fell, there would be no turning back. This was the moment. This is what every step here had been leading to.

Right…?

You watch them methodically, each motion precise and practiced, almost ritualistic in its familiarity. Toby tightens the straps of his gear with one hand while checking the sharp edge of his hatchet with the other, glancing at you only once, letting a small smirk slip. Tim moves silently, adjusting his mask and gloves, the tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring, his eyes flicking toward the treeline as if reading the forest itself. Brian, steady and unshakable as ever, checks his rifle and flashlight, muttering quiet notes to himself as he goes through the motions he’s repeated countless times.

You watch them. Tim’s pale mask, cracked slightly above his temple, dark eyes and lips hiding his usually stern complexion. Brian pulled his balaclava over his face, the deep red frown covering his toothy grin and soft eyes. And Toby, his goggles and muzzle strapped tight around his head, obscuring that goofy face he always gave you.

Monsters, killers—but you weren’t afraid of them.

They come together at the door, voices low but firm. Toby leans back slightly, eyes meeting yours through the orange-tinted glass, “Listen… whatever y-you hear, whatever moves you s-see—stay inside. Do not step o-out. Don’t even think about it.” Tim nods in agreement, tone clipped and serious, “It doesn’t matter how close they get. Don’t come outside. You’ll just put yourself in more danger.” Brian steps forward, calm but insistent, “We’ve got this. You’ve done your part—now let us do ours. Keep the mansion safe. Stay behind the doors, stay quiet, and trust us.”

You nod, trying to steady your voice, to convey more courage than you feel. Your fingers twitch at your side, heart hammering as you take in the sight of them—so prepared, so dangerous, so utterly unflinching. They look like hunters, not men, and the forest beyond looks alive with a darkness you can feel pressing in.

Tim moves closer, catching your hands in his own gloved ones. He reaches behind his back, unclipping something from his belt, and placing it into your hands. He positions your fingers around a pistol, guiding you gently, the heavy weight of it startling you. “Steady. Grip it like this… you’ve got this. You’ve been planning this as much as we have. Tonight, you’re as ready as any of us.” His thumb brushes yours, brief and grounding, but you can feel the weight of the weapon, the seriousness of what’s about to happen.

You breathe through it, nodding again. “Okay. I… I’m ready.”

Toby smirks again, ruffling your hair, but there’s a sharp edge in his gaze as he steps back. “Don’t worry. We’ll han-handle the rest. Just… stay put, y-yeah?”

Brian gives a small, reassuring nod, and with a few words of final instruction, the three of them pivot toward the night, their movements silent but purposeful as they disappear toward the forest edge, leaving you standing at the threshold, pistol in hand, heart hammering. The mansion suddenly feels heavier, charged with anticipation. The traps you helped set, the fire, the tripwires—they’re all waiting. And so are you.

You settle onto the couch in the sitting room first, the weight of the pistol heavy in your hands, knuckles white around the grip. The familiar cushions feel grounding, yet the silence of the manor presses against you, thick and almost suffocating. Every tick of the old clock, every groan of the wooden floors seems louder than normal, like the house itself is holding its breath. Your heart hammers in your chest as your eyes flick to the window. Against your better judgment, you rise, the pistol clutched tightly in both hands. You draw back the thick curtains, the fabric slipping through your fingers like water, and your gaze is immediately drawn to the garden, then further out, to the edge of the treeline.

Through the dim light of the moon, you can see them. Toby, Tim, and Brian, spread out across the yard in careful positions, each one poised and ready. Their stances are measured, familiar yet strange in their intensity. The way Toby shifts slightly, gripping his hatchet; Tim scanning the forest with his mask and shotgun; Brian adjusting his rifle and crouching by a fire lure—they all look like predators, more dangerous than anything you’ve ever seen.

You swallow, trying to steady yourself. Even knowing they’re there to protect you, your chest tightens, fear mingling with admiration and an aching, inexplicable longing. Your fingers flex on the trigger, not from intent but instinct, as your eyes follow every careful movement, noting how the traps you helped set gleam faintly in the low light, and realizing how meticulously everything has been laid.

The manor behind you feels almost alive, its candles flickering faintly in the interior shadows, casting the sitting room in a warm glow that does nothing to ease the chill crawling up your spine. You take a shuddering breath, reminding yourself that this is the plan, that you are ready, that you are a part of this. Yet your mind keeps flashing to the Rakes lurking just beyond the edge of sight, and your pulse refuses to slow. You clutch the pistol tighter, leaning forward slightly against the window frame, watching, waiting.

You see Brian raise his rifle into the air, aiming right above the treetops. Three sharp cracks split the night air, each shot echoing off the distant trees. The sound makes your chest jerk violently with each report, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself. The manor seems to shiver with the recoil of the shots, as if even the walls themselves are aware of the danger you can’t yet see. Tiny vibrations run through the window frame beneath your fingertips, forcing you to take a step back, heart hammering.

Then, almost immediately, the night stills. The rustling leaves have gone silent. The wind seems to hold its breath. For a suspended moment, you feel like the world itself is waiting, listening. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a frantic drum against the quiet, and you realize that you’re not even breathing—you can’t. Your eyes dart to the edge of the treeline, to the darkness just beyond the manicured garden, trying to pierce the shadow that now feels like a wall of malice.

Time stretches and warps; minutes feel like hours. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of grass makes you flinch, gripping the pistol so tightly it aches. And then—

A scream.

It doesn’t just pierce the night. It rips through it, tearing your chest open with fear. Your stomach drops, your spine stiffens, and every hair on your body stands on end. It’s guttural, inhuman, a sound that seems to crawl into the manor with you, echoing off walls, bouncing in every corner, and you can’t help but jerk back from the window.

Then movement—two figures flash across the treeline. Rakes. Too fast, impossibly thin, limbs bending at unnatural angles, heads tilting unnervingly as they move. Shadows leap through the trees with an almost predatory grace, muscles coiling, bodies taut. The world seems to slow around them, every detail sharp: their pale, glistening skin catching the faint moonlight, their claws scraping branches, their faces twisted in a mockery of human features.

You press your forehead to the glass, hands trembling, feeling your pulse thrum like a drumbeat of panic. The garden stretches out between you and the edge of the forest, the traps you helped set gleaming faintly, lines of barbed wire taut and ready. You want to move, to yell, to warn them—but you can’t. You’re frozen, watching them, every instinct screaming to run and every rational thought screaming that running would get you killed.

And then, faintly, you hear it: the quiet coordination of your boys. Toby’s hatchet swinging, the snap of wood under his boots, the steady handiness of Tim’s shotgun being readied, Brian’s voice barking orders. Their presence is almost invisible, but it anchors you, a fragile lifeline in the chaos of sound and shadow. Your fingers tighten on the pistol, your teeth grit against your fear, and you realize you’re completely, utterly at the mercy of what’s coming—but you’re not powerless. You are watching. You are armed. You are part of this. And the rakes are already moving into your carefully prepared traps.

The first rake’s attention locks onto Toby almost instantly—its lean, pale frame elongating unnaturally as it hurls itself toward him, claws scraping at the ground, head cocked in a predatory tilt. You hold your breath, gripping the pistol so tightly it aches, willing him to see it before it’s too late.

Then, chaos. It lunges forward, breaking the treeline, only for its outstretched limb to snag on a tripwire you helped set, and the reaction is immediate. A container tipped over, doused in accelerant, catches a small spark from the pre-set lighter Toby had rigged along the wire. A sudden burst of flame leaps into the air, licking the rake’s side. Its scream pierces the night—ear-shattering, inhuman—a noise that sends shivers crawling up your spine and makes you press your face into the glass. You can see the fire licking its thin body, the way its claws flail against the flames as it twists in midair, smoke curling around its form.

The second rake’s attention is drawn immediately to the commotion. You barely have time to process its direction when it charges blindly, aiming for the opposite side of the yard. It doesn’t notice the pit trap until it’s too late. The creature tumbles headlong into the hole, limbs flailing, and becomes entangled in the barbed wire and jagged logs set to capture them. It screams, thrashing violently, struggling to free itself, but it’s caught—and that’s when Tim moves. You see him raise the shotgun, his eyes narrowed, body rigid against the tension. The flash of the gun, the loud report, and the second rake goes still, its head shattered by the well-aimed shot. You feel your stomach lurch, your chest tight with relief, fear, and adrenaline all at once.

Toby lands a few feet away, his hatchet still in hand, smoke curling around him, a jumpy, satisfied energy escaping him despite the chaos. He’s unharmed, though singed slightly, and you can see him scanning the treeline for any other movement. The fire dances along the first rake’s body, slowing its movements but not entirely consuming it yet, and you realize the battle has truly begun—but for the first time, your plan is working.

At first, the rakes appear in trickles—shadows darting at the edges of the treeline, cautious and scattered—but soon they swarm, their elongated limbs and jagged, unnatural angles making them almost impossible to track. You can feel the panic building inside them; they’re disoriented by the fire, the barbed wire, the pits. Yet despite the traps, they’re still trying to reach the manor, scrambling over obstacles, clawing at anything in their way. There’s more than a handful of them, but the boys manage.

Toby moves like a storm, swinging his hatchet, driving them away from the house. Tim’s shotgun roars intermittently, each crack of the gun echoing across the yard as rakes topple into traps or get pinned between barbed wire and sharpened logs. Brian’s rifle pierces the night, precise shots hitting the creatures in the head or chest, sending them crashing into the flames or tangled in wires. You watch, heart hammering, the pistol in your hands feeling both heavy and insignificant—each movement of your friends fills you with awe, and terror, and desperation.

The rakes shriek and scramble, their pale limbs snagging, bodies igniting in the small fires you’d set, skin melting slightly in the heat, smoke curling in grotesque clouds as the flames lick along their torsos. One struggles against a pit trap, screaming in that high, unnatural pitch, thrashing wildly as Tim pumps another shell into it, sending it still. Another slams into the barbed wire, its claws slicing through the material, leaving behind shredded cloth and jagged marks before Toby swings down, splitting its spine with a single strike. Your stomach churns, but you can’t look away—you know it’s them or the rakes.

You’ve been staring at the sketches for hours, memorizing every crooked limb, every twisted angle, every detail that made them horrifying. It’s helped you recognize them, anticipate their movements, but your stomach still drops at every scream, every sharp jerk aimed at your friends. You’re no longer scared for yourself—you’re terrified for them.

Then it happens. One of the rakes, faster than the rest, more desperate, somehow clears a pit that had trapped another. You see it leap over, limbs coiling unnaturally as it arcs through the air—and your breath catches in your throat. Its eyes, pale and glinting in the firelight, lock onto Tim. It’s inhuman, precise, and terrifyingly strong.

Before Tim can react, it latches onto his shoulder with a clawed hand, slamming him into the wet, muddy ground with a brutal force that makes you gasp. He coils, the impact sending mud and rainwater spraying around him, and the rake hisses, twisting to keep him pinned. You feel a scream clawing up your throat as Toby and Brian explode into motion, weapons raised, the firelight casting long, frantic shadows across the chaos.

Your hands grip the pistol so tightly it aches, knuckles tight, and you take in the scene—the desperate scramble, the flames, the screams, the rain-slicked ground—and realize that the battle is no longer controlled. It’s survival now, raw and terrifying, and your entire chest tightens with fear for your friends. The world narrows to the sound of your own heartbeat, the thick smoke curling into the air and the distant screeches of death echoing through the yard. Toby gets to Tim, shouting curses and swinging his hatchet as the creature twists to follow him. Brian is farther back, picking off stragglers, his rifle flashes bright against the darkness.

Tim scrambles, getting the shotgun up just in time, pumping a round high into the rake’s skull. The shot lands perfectly. The rake’s limbs twitch violently before collapsing into the mud, slick with ichor and firelight. You feel a surge of relief—but it’s fleeting. Relief never lasts in this house.

Toby drops to his knees beside Tim, gripping his shoulder, murmuring harsh, clipped words as he checks him over, and for a heartbeat, you dare to hope. Then, from the shadowed treeline, another rake bursts through. It’s bigger, faster, impossibly long-limbed, and its movements are precise—aimed straight for the three of them.

Your chest tightens, panic spiking like a live wire through your veins. The pistol in your hands feels like nothing against what’s charging, and you realize they can’t see it yet. You lunge for the window, throwing it open with all your strength, the smoke-dense air immediately clogging your senses.

“Toby! Tim! Brian!” Your voice cuts through the storm, raw and frantic, echoing across the yard. “Fuck—LOOK OUT—”

The moment your voice tears through the night, the rake’s head jerks unnaturally, eyes like twin voids locking directly on you. Its shriek splits the storm, and before the boys can even redirect their fire, it pivots away from them—away from Toby’s hatchet, from Brian’s rifle sight, from Tim’s shotgun barrel—and comes straight for the manor. Straight for you.

Your stomach drops.

“Shit—” The curse rips out of you as your hands yank the window closed so hard the glass rattles in the frame. The lock barely clicks before you’re stumbling back, heart hammering so violently it aches in your ribs. The creature’s scream follows, closer, closer, and you don’t think, you just run. Your shoes slam against the hardwood as you sprint through the hall, hair whipping around your face. You take the stairs two, three at a time, lungs seizing as you drag yourself upward. Behind you—far too close—you hear the glass shatter, an explosion of shards and wood splinters as the rake tears through the sitting room window. The manor groans under its weight.

The boys’ voices cut through the chaos—Toby’s especially. You’ve never heard him scream like that, pure fury and desperation echoing your name.

Your legs are jelly, but adrenaline keeps you moving, claws of panic scraping your spine. You stumble into your room, slam the heavy door, fingers scrambling for the bolt. It slides into place with a solid, metallic thunk just as the floorboards below shudder with impact. You press your back against the door, breath ragged, every nerve in your body electrified. The house feels alive around you—walls shaking, echoes of the rake’s shrieks bouncing up the stairwell. Something smashes below, the sound of furniture being overturned, Toby’s voice roaring in reply.

And then you hear it. The Rake. Snarling, dragging its claws over the floorboards as it searches, as it climbs.

It’s in the house.

And Toby—god, Toby’s voice rips through again, closer this time, full of fire and teeth, “Ugly fucker—!”

You backpedal until your shoulders meet cold glass, the candlelight trembling in its holders as your room shakes with every crash from the hall. The pistol is slick in your grip, your hands trembling so hard you can hear the tiny scrape of your finger stuttering against the trigger guard. Your breaths come short, sharp, chest rising and falling like you’re drowning on dry air.

From beyond the door, it’s chaos. Toby’s voice rises in a snarl, matched by the inhuman screech of the rake. You hear them slam into the wall hard enough to rattle plaster dust from the ceiling. The manor screams around you—columns cracking, beams groaning, paintings torn from the walls and hitting the floor with a splintering crash.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, heart hammering as you try to steady the barrel with both hands. Your uncle’s journals, the sketches, the warnings about how fast these things move—it all swirls in your head until you’re sick. But the sound of gunfire outside snaps you back. Sharp, relentless cracks from Brian’s rifle, followed by Tim’s shotgun blasts. They’re still out there, holding back the swarm.

You can’t think about them. You have to think about this one.

The world narrows, breath hissing between your teeth as you aim at the door. And then it comes—

A slam that nearly tears the hinges loose. The wood groans, warping under the sheer force. The bolt lock screeches against the impact, metal grinding against metal. You bite back a sob, adjusting your stance, trying to find enough steadiness in your knees to keep the gun pointed straight.

“TOBY—” you cry.

Another slam—this one harder, shaking the entire frame. Dust and splinters rain from the top of the door. The snarl on the other side is guttural, primal, rattling every nerve in your body until you feel like you’ll shatter with it.

You can hear Toby too—scrambling closer, angry and desperate, his voice breaking with every curse. He’s still fighting, but the rake isn’t stopping. Not for him. Not when it knows you’re here.

The door doesn’t just break—it explodes. Wood and splinters spray across your floor as the rake barrels through, a blur of pale limbs and teeth. You barely have time to register before instinct takes over—one, two shots fired point-blank, the recoil jolting up your arms. Both rounds hit, you know they do—you saw the impact—but the thing doesn’t falter. Doesn’t even twitch.

Your stomach drops.

It comes at you with a shriek that feels like it’s ripping out your spine. You stumble sideways, shoes sliding on the wood, scrambling out of its path as it smashes into the tall window where you stood. The glass shudders under its weight, a spiderweb of cracks spreading in a single heartbeat. Cold night air knifes through the room.

You barely get your breath when the doorframe shakes again—and this time it’s Toby.

He slams into the rake without hesitation, shoulder meeting its chest with a sickening crack, driving it away from you. He doesn’t even glance in your direction—doesn’t have to—his entire focus is pinning the creature, keeping it away from where you cower with the pistol clutched uselessly in your hands.

For a moment, it works. They crash together across the room, tearing at each other, knocking furniture aside like toys. But the rake twists, viciously fast, claws slicing down Toby’s shoulder as it wrestles him to the ground. His hatchet goes skittering across the floorboards, spinning out of reach.

You scream his name, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even breathe. His entire body strains against the rake’s weight, arms trembling as claws pin down his shoulders. For a split second you think it’s over—

And then Toby snarls, driving his knee up hard, boot slamming into the rake’s leg. The sound is like a branch snapping under too much weight. The creature screeches, staggering just enough. Toby rolls, crawling desperately across the floor, fingers outstretched until they close around the hatchet’s worn handle.

He twists his whole body, throwing his arm. He swings. The blade buries itself into the back of the rake’s skull with a wet, cracking sound. It convulses, jerks, but Toby doesn’t stop. He climbs to his feet. He swings again. And again. Five, six brutal arcs, each one crunching louder than the last, until the floor is slick and the walls echo with his ragged growls.

You shout his name—once, twice, louder each time, until your throat burns. “Toby!”

Finally—finally—his arm stops. The hatchet clatters from his grip, bouncing once against the blood-streaked floorboards. His chest heaves, sweat and blood slicking his hair to his face as he takes shaky steps back away from the creature. Only then does he look at you.

His muzzle and goggles hit the floor hard, rattling against the ruined wood as Toby tears them off. In three strides he’s on you. His hands slam to either side of your face, rough palms trembling as he forces you to look at him.

“W-W-What the fu-fuck were you t-thinking?” His voice cracks, sharp and angry, words punching through the sound of your own sobs beginning to break through. “Yelling o-out the window li-like that? Y-You could’ve—” His jaw tightens, throat bobbing as he swallows whatever image flashes through his head. “Jesus—fuck.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out—just broken little hiccups of breath, the tears streaming too fast down your cheeks, adrenaline thrumming through your body.

And then his anger folds. Crumples. His arms slide around your head, pulling you in hard, crushing you against his chest. You’re sobbing into his torn jacket before you can even think, fists knotting into the fabric. His chin drops to the crown of your head, the stubble of his jaw brushing your hair as he holds you like he’ll never let go. He smells so strongly of bonfire smoke.

When he finally leans back, he keeps your face caged in his hands, thumbs swiping at your wet cheeks even though they just keep filling again. His gaze burns into yours, frantic, desperate. “You’re o-okay?” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Tell m-me you’re okay. J-Just—say it.”

Your eyes catch on his shoulder—the ugly tear in his jacket, blood seeping dark down the sleeve. “Toby—your shoulder—”

“Forget it.” He cuts you off, shaking his head hard, wild curls bouncing. “It’s nothing. Doesn’t m-ma-matter. Not if you’re—”

A sound from outside interrupts him—a shrill scream, followed by gunfire, followed by Brian’s voice shouting something you can’t make out.

Toby freezes, head whipping toward the broken window. His jaw sets like stone. In a single motion, he grabs his hatchet off the floor with one hand and your wrist with the other, yanking you up to your feet.

“Come on.” His grip is firm, unrelenting, pulling you with him as he drags you out of the wreckage of your room. “Y-You can’t stay in here.”

Toby’s grip on your wrist is iron, dragging you fast, your heels skipping to keep up. The stairwell rattles under your weight, boards groaning, shards of shattered door crunching beneath your shoes.

The manor doesn’t look like your manor anymore. Not the home you’d been trying so hard to breathe life back into. The sitting room—your sanctuary—is torn apart, claw marks gouged deep into the walls and across the floorboards like some furious script. The couch, your couch—the one where you all sat together, laughing, fighting, eating—has been shredded straight through, fabric spilling its guts of cotton batting. Every painting lining the hallway hangs crooked or torn, frames cracked. The elegant wooden bannister you’ve brushed your fingers along every morning has a brutal, jagged split, as though the house itself had taken a wound.

You can’t help the sound that leaves your throat. A strangled little noise, grief tangled with terror. Your manor—your uncle’s manor—is bleeding with you.

Toby doesn’t let you linger. His broad back blocks your view as he hustles you through the kitchen, one hand clamped hard to his hatchet, his other dragging you tight against him. Every inch of him screams urgency, but you can feel the way he angles his body to shield yours.

The moment he shouldered through the back door, night swallowed you both whole. And it’s worse than before.

Gunshots crack in quick, merciless rhythm, Brian’s rifle spitting fire at the treeline. Sparks flare each time a round hits metal or stone. Tim is beside him, shotgun braced tight against his shoulder, reloading with grim efficiency, smoke curling off the barrel.

And then you see them.

The treeline churns with pale, sinewy shapes. A dozen—more than a dozen—skittering and darting between the shadows, their screams splitting the night. Their eyes glint white when the muzzle flares catch them, their long limbs tangled in wire, some singed from fires sputtering in the pits. Still, they keep coming, their bodies writhing and snapping against the traps like animals too furious to retreat.

The traps hold some at bay, but others push closer, throwing themselves toward the boys, toward the manor, toward you.

Brian doesn’t turn, doesn’t look back—just shouts through his mask, his voice raw and loud enough to slice through the gunfire. “They’re breaching! Hold the damn line!” Tim racks his shotgun, body clenched, and fires again. The recoil throws his shoulders back, but the rake in his sights drops like a felled tree. Toby tenses in front of you, muscles stiff, and you can feel his ribs expand with each ragged breath. He keeps you glued against him, his stance wide, his hatchet gleaming faintly in the gunfire’s light.

And there it is—standing at the threshold of the back steps, your house at your back, the woods screaming ahead of you—you realize you’re no longer an onlooker behind glass. 

Toby’s arm is a vice around your waist as he pulls you across the slick grass, boots pounding through mud. The air smells like copper and gunpowder, thick with smoke from fires burning low at the treeline. Every scream makes your blood freeze, every flash of pale limbs twisting in the dark sends a surge of panic through your chest, but Toby doesn’t falter. He keeps you tight against him, dragging you forward with his frame cutting a path, hatchet ready if another rake tries to break through.

By the time you reach the center of the yard, Tim and Brian whip toward you. Both of them clock you instantly, and their fury is almost louder than the gunfire.

Tim shoves his mask up, his anger-cracked voice breaking through the night. “The fuck, kid?!” He’s already storming toward you, shotgun slung to his side, boots splashing mud. “Why the hell would you bring her out here?”

Brian doesn’t even spare him a glance—he’s too busy pivoting, rifle raised, firing two consecutive shots that drop another pair of rakes clawing their way past the traps. Sparks flare across his mask, his voice muffled but sharp with rage. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?!”

Toby snarls back, pulling you tighter to his side even as he turns in a half-circle to keep the yard scanned. “She’d b-be dead if I left h-her inside! Window’s g-gone—thing was in t-the house!”

Before you can even breathe, Tim’s hands are on you, gripping your shoulders hard. He yanks you out of Toby’s hold like you’re being pulled between two tides, his body shielding yours immediately, his shotgun slung awkwardly against your side as he braces you. His voice drops lower when he sees your face, sees the trembling pistol clutched in your hands. “Hey. Hey, look at me. You’re alright, yeah? You’re good.”

Your throat works, but no words come out. The pistol feels like it weighs more than your body, your hands shaking so badly the barrel wavers.

Toby’s chest heaves, blood still seeping from his shoulder where the rake had gotten him earlier. He’s pacing, muttering, his hatchet twitching in his grip as he keeps his eyes glued to the treeline. “Didn’t h-have a choice. Didn’t have a fu-fucking choice.”

The fight is chaos all around you—the shrieks of rakes tearing through the treeline, the thunder of gunfire, the sharp metallic smell of blood and smoke—but Tim’s voice cuts through it like a blade.

“We’re done,” he snaps, chest heaving. His eyes slash over Brian and Toby, then down to you still shaking beside him. “She doesn’t stay out here another second. She’s leaving.”

It’s like time stops. Brian stiffens, his rifle lowering slightly as if he can’t believe he heard him right. Toby jerks his head toward him, eyes wide and shaky, rage flashing hot across his face. But neither of them argue. Neither of them deny it. Instead, silence rolls in heavy, broken only by the growls in the woods.

Your heart seizes. “No—no, I’m not going anywhere—” you shout, voice ragged, raw with tears. “You can’t—you can’t make me—”

But Tim doesn’t let you finish. He hooks his arm around your waist, dragging you hard against him as he barrels across the yard. Your boots skid in the wet grass, your body thrashing, but his grip is unrelenting. Every step forward is a war as you claw at him, cry against him, your pistol nearly slipping from your hands.

“Tim, stop!” Your voice cracks, your chest heaving. “I’m not leaving you—I’m not—”

“You are,” he bites out, hauling you through mud and into the gravel drive. The truck waits there like some looming salvation, headlights dark, windshield streaked with rain tracks, that tarp still covering the window. Every step he takes feels like betrayal twisting deeper into your chest.

“I’m not—” You fight harder, shoving at him, tugging his jacket, but he spins on you, his hands gripping your arms so hard you flinch. His voice is thunder now, ripped from the depths of his lungs, desperate and sharp.

“If you don’t leave—if you don’t drive far, far from here—you’re going to die tonight.” His face is inches from yours, sweat dripping off his jaw, eyes wild and hardened. “You’ll get ripped apart out here, you hear me? They’ll tear you to shreds.”

You shake your head violently, tears blurring your sight. “I don’t care—I don’t care, I’m not leaving you—”

“Yes, you do.” His grip loosens, but only so he can rip open the door and shove you into the driver’s seat. The old leather squeals under your weight as you land, disoriented, your hands scrambling for anything to hold. You drop the pistol onto the floor, it clattering near the petal. Tim rips the door wider, leaning inside just long enough to snatch the keys from the cupholder. His jaw locks as he shoves them into the ignition, the metallic click echoing finality.

You’re sobbing now, gripping the steering wheel like it might hold you down, keep you from floating away from everything you’ve come to know. “Please, Tim—please don’t make me—” And then he does something that steals the last of your breath. 

He grabs your face. Both hands, rough gloved palms warm against your tear-soaked cheeks, forcing you to look at him. His eyes bore into yours, wild and raw and so unbearably human. His voice drops low, almost breaking.

“It’s better this way,” he tells you. “We’re dangerous. We’re nasty. We’ve never deserved you—not for a single goddamn second. You’re going to leave, and you’re going to stay away from here, or I’m going to kill you myself.”

It feels like the world caves in.

Before you can speak, before you can cling to him, before you can make him see you’re not afraid—he pulls away. His hands fall from your face, his body turning, the door slamming so hard it rattles the frame around you. And then he’s gone, boots pounding back through mud, shotgun raised, swallowed by the night and the chaos as you sit there, shaking, staring through tears at his retreating form.

The steering wheel is cold beneath your palms, the leather cracked from years of use. You can still feel the imprint of Tim’s hands on your cheeks, the warmth of his touch fading too quickly as the night swallows him whole. Your chest heaves, and it feels like your ribs are going to split apart.

Everything crashes over you at once.

The sitting room with its worn couches and candles, the warmth of Toby’s laugh when you’d change his bandages, Brian’s steady hands guiding you to bed when you wouldn’t stop studying, Tim’s quiet reassurances in the kitchen at dawn when sleep never came. You remember the alcohol, the meals, the flirting that turned into something deeper—something unspoken but heavy, binding. You think about the traps, the days of work under the sun, the sweat, the calloused hands reaching for yours, the jokes they made even when exhaustion clung to their shoulders. You think about your fear of them, your lust for them, your overwhelming need to be in their presence no matter how terrified you were of everything else. No matter how many things you’ve been through, it’s all come back to you and your friends.

And now—Tim is gone, swallowed into the night. Toby’s blood is still fresh in your memory, streaked across his shoulder when he held your face. Brian’s rifle cracks still echo like thunder. They are out there fighting, bleeding, killing, dying.

And you’re here—alone in a truck with the keys in the ignition.

The sobs rip through you violently, shaking you until your chest aches. You bury your face in the steering wheel first, muffling the sound against leather. Then your head slips sideways, forehead pressing into the console. The smell of dust and old oil fills your nose, sharp and bitter. You cry until your throat burns, until your vision swims, until the only thing you can hear besides your own breaking breaths are the shrieks of the rakes and the crack of rifles outside. You’re useless, that voice inside you whispers. You’ll just be dead weight. Tim’s right. You don’t belong here. You’ll die.

But—

Something catches your eye. In the corner of your blurred vision, tucked against the back seat, there’s a mess. A mess that isn’t random. Gasoline cans. A jug of accelerant. A bundle of barbed wire tangled in rope. Even a couple small logs tossed carelessly, remnants of the trap-building. All of it shoved into the cab in a hurry, forgotten when the fighting started.

Your sobs stutter, catching in your chest. Slowly, you lift your head, vision sharpening on the pile. It’s ugly and sharp and dangerous—and it’s everything your uncle ever wrote about. Everything he used. Everything that works.

An idea blossoms. A horrible, terrifying, perfect idea.

Your hand trembles as you reach back, fingertips brushing the cold plastic of the gas can. You drag it closer, the slosh of liquid inside sending shivers down your spine. Your brain starts moving faster than your fear, connecting dots you hadn’t dared to before. Gasoline. Accelerant. Wire. The truck itself.

It’s a weapon.

You choke on a laugh through your tears, the sound wet, broken, almost hysterical. Because suddenly, for the first time tonight, you’re not powerless. You can do something. Your uncle wanted fire. He wanted to burn them. And now—you can. Not one, not two, but dozens. All of them.

You press your palm hard over your mouth, trying to steady yourself, because the thought is so violent, so insane, it terrifies you. But it’s there. And it’s growing.

You don’t have to leave them. You don’t have to abandon the manor. You don’t have to run. You can end this.

Your eyes flick to the windshield, catching the shapes darting in the yard, the blur of claws and teeth and screaming, the flash of muzzle fire. You see Toby swinging his hatchet again, blood on his face. Brian crouched low, reloading. Tim’s silhouette just at the edge of the light, turning back toward the fight after shoving you in here.

And it hits you like a revelation: If you’re going to die, you’ll die with them. But not useless. Not helpless.

With fire. With teeth of your own.

Your knuckles are white on the steering wheel as you slam the truck into drive. Gravel spits like shrapnel behind you, tires shrieking in protest as you rocket across the yard. Your heart hammers so violently you can barely hear yourself breathe, every nerve screaming that this is suicide—but you press harder on the gas.

The boys blur in your peripheral. Tim’s head whips toward you, his mask pushed halfway up, his mouth moving as he yells—but his voice doesn’t reach you. Toby shouts, swinging his hatchet down into something that crumples at his feet, then jerks toward the truck, his goggles reflecting the headlights. Brian fires another shot, then spins as the roar of the engine rattles the ground.

They’re all shouting, all moving toward you—but you’re gone before they can stop you.

The truck bucks and jolts as you tear past them, the yard disappearing in streaks of shadow and firelight. You weave between broken patches of barbed wire, rattling teeth-clenched over the uneven ground. A gap opens—just two trees lashed with twisted strands of wire—and you gun it, slamming through, metal squealing as wire scrapes down the sides.

The treeline swallows you whole. Branches whip at the hood, clawing the windshield, but you don’t stop. You keep your eyes on the rearview. 

They’re following.

The first few rakes dart from the shadows, spindly limbs glinting pale in the moonlight. Then more. You count six. Eight. A dozen. Their bodies move in jerks, in blurs, sprinting low to the ground as they give chase, pulled from the manor by the thunder of your engine, by the prey you’ve made yourself. Your chest is ice and fire all at once. You keep driving, pushing them deeper, deeper, until the glow of the manor is gone and the forest swallows every sound. Only your heartbeat and the guttural screams echo through the trees.

You slam the brake. The truck screeches, fishtailing slightly before jerking to a violent stop. Your body flings forward into the belt, breath knocked out of you, but you don’t hesitate. You slam it into park.

Move. Move. Move.

You scramble into the back seat, fumbling with shaking hands until you yank a gas can into your lap. The slosh of fuel inside is deafening. You yank the lid and it glugs out, splattering over the upholstery, the windows, the seatbelt buckle slick with it. The smell burns your nose and stings your eyes. You clamber out the door, boots slipping in damp grass, and start dousing the outside. You splash gasoline down the sides, the hood, the bed. You pour it over the tires, dark rivulets running into the dirt. Another can—accelerant, sticky and chemical—goes over the hood, into the engine seams, dripping in fat trails down the chrome. You’re shaking so violently you almost drop the container, your fingers numb, but you don’t stop. You stumble around the truck, splashing more onto the grass, soaking a wide circle. The earth drinks it hungrily, the fumes heavy and cloying in the still night air.

Behind you, in the distance, the screams are louder. Branches snap. The rakes are coming.

You slam the last can down, chest heaving, eyes darting back to the truck. It gleams slick and wet under the moonlight, reeking like a bomb waiting for a match.

This is it. This is all you’ve got left.

Your breath is ragged, lungs screaming for air, but your hands move without thought. You dive back into the cab of the truck, knees slamming the seat as you stretch across the console. Your trembling fingers fumble until they close around cold steel—your pistol, half-buried on the floor where you dropped it earlier. You grip it so tight your knuckles ache, dragging it up into your lap.

Then you slam your other hand down onto the horn. The truck wails, a long, broken scream that shudders through the trees. The sound rips the stillness apart, echoing like a challenge through the black forest.

Every hair on your body rises. You can hear them answer. Distant at first—skittering claws against bark, shrieks splitting the silence. Then closer. Branches snapping. Leaves tearing. The forest moving toward you.

You don’t let go. You keep your hand pressed down, the horn’s mechanical scream mixing with your own voice as you shout into the dark. “Come on! Right here!” You slam the horn one more time, and the wheel jams, the sound blasting infinitely.

They’re coming. Fast.

Your pulse spikes until you think you’ll faint. The first shadow cuts between two trees, pale and feral, its limbs jerking with that unnatural gait. You don’t wait. You shove the door open, boots hitting damp earth, and sprint in the opposite direction. The horn still wails behind you, the truck’s scream dragging them closer. You dart into the dark, lungs burning, and throw yourself against the thick trunk of a tree. You press your back to the bark, trying to still your heaving chest, breathing through your nose in shallow pulls.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t—

Another shriek. You chance a glance, just enough to see through the undergrowth.

They’re on it.

One rake leaps at the truck, spindly limbs slamming against the driver’s side, claws tearing through the tarped window like paper. Glass explodes, and the thing shoves its head inside, screaming at the smell of fuel and the constant horn. Another bounds after it, claws catching the hood, ripping it back with a metallic screech. A third scrambles across the roof, hammering at it, desperate. They’re swarming, nearly all of them either bounding their way towards it, or already jumping it. Six, seven—ten—fourteen.

Your hand shakes so violently you almost drop the gun, but you lift it anyway. You raise the pistol, line up the sights, every muscle taut with the fear that you’ll miss. The engine grill gleams faintly in the dark, slick with accelerant.

You suck in one shallow, trembling breath—

And squeeze the trigger—once, twice, three times. The pistol bucks, the sound sharp and unnatural against the chaos. Sparks flash from the grill, metal pinging as the rounds punch through. The engine coughs. Pops. Smoke belches out in thick, oily coils, hissing up into the night.

For a beat, nothing.

The rakes pause mid-snarling frenzy, their elongated heads twisting toward you in perfect, awful unison. Their bodies still, claws flexing against the mangled truck. The forest itself seems to stop breathing.

“Shit—” you hiss, breath catching. One of them crouches, muscles bunching.

And then the world ends.

BOOM.

The truck erupts like a warhead. A fireball rips through the night, so bright it blinds you, swallowing the trees in a split-second flare. The explosion climbs skyward, a burning column that makes the treetops glow. The blast hits you like a wall, knocking your hair back, searing the skin on your face, your arms.

The rakes don’t scream right away. Not until the fire eats them. You see them flail—bodies twisted and jerking as the flames seize their pale skin, clinging like the fire itself was made for them. Their shrieks rip the forest apart, the sound so loud it rattles your bones. They thrash, tearing at themselves, clawing at the earth, at each other, anything to get it off—but the fire doesn’t burn like normal. It races, eating faster, hotter, like their bodies are accelerants feeding it.

One collapses on the hood, its torso splitting open as fire pours out from within, hollowing it. Another stumbles into the grass, convulsing, before it just—crumbles. Ash in seconds.

You can’t move. You can’t breathe. Your pistol hangs limp at your side as you stare into the inferno. The smell of scorched earth, of meat, of something wrong hits you in waves. The sound—those screams—they burrow straight into your chest. You don’t even realize you’re crying until the tears scald down your hot cheeks.

The air is thick with burning—so hot your lungs can barely drag in breath. The horn is still shrieking from the twisted ruin of the truck, its note warped and fizzling, a maddening siren wailing over the sound of screaming things dying. They’re everywhere, writhing in the flames. Fifteen of them—every rake that had closed in on the manor—rolling, thrashing, their pale bodies blackening and cracking as the fire devours them from the inside out. You did it. You killed them all. It’s over—

Movement.

Your eyes snap right—just in time to see one hurl itself from the fire. It’s nothing but bone and flame, skin sloughing off in wet strips as it skitters toward you. Its mouth stretches wide, fangs glowing red in the heat, flesh dripping from its skull like candle wax.

“Fuck—!” you scream, raising the pistol.

You fire once, twice, three times. Bullets crack its skull, but it doesn’t fall—it just stumbles, lunging again. Your heel catches on roots, and you spin, but it’s already there, claws catching your thigh. White-hot pain erupts as it drags you down, talons sinking deep. You scream, kicking, shoving, but the rake claws higher, ripping into your waist.

“NO—GET OFF!”

You jam the pistol against its jaw and fire. The recoil almost knocks it free. Blackened flesh bursts, bone splintering—but the thing doesn’t stop. Its face is melting, dripping, its mouth opening wide to clamp down on you. The heat is so excruciating, marring your skin the closer it gets, charring your clothes and burning your senses. Terror overtakes you—feral, animal terror. You’re sobbing, kicking, clawing at the dirt, trying to wrench free, your legs slipping in ash and mud. Your finger spasms, pulling the trigger until the pistol clicks empty, muzzle flashing with each desperate shot.

The world is nothing but heat and screaming.

You can’t breathe, you can’t think—your ears ring from the horn and the sound of things dying, high-pitched and keening like a thousand nails on glass. It smells like scorched meat and copper, your own blood slick under you as the rake drags you closer to the flames. Its claws rake higher, tearing into your thigh, your hip, your chest—and the pain is so sharp you nearly black out. You’re choking on your own sobs, on smoke, on fear. This is hell. This is hell.

It pulls one claw free, rearing back to drive it straight into your ribs, and that’s when something inside you snaps.

If you’re going to die, it’s going to be by your own hand—not theirs.

With a broken scream you reach forward into its mouth. Heat sears your palms instantly, the stink of burning flesh curling up from your own skin, but you keep going, jamming your fingers between its fangs. It’s slick and wet and sticky with half-melted tissue. You grip hard and pull.

The sound it makes is not human. Wet cartilage and sinew tear, a crunching, stringy rip that vibrates up your arms. The jaw splits down the middle, skin peeling like paper. You’re screaming with it now, your palms blistering, but you don’t stop until the entire bottom jaw hangs loose in your hands and the thing lets out a gurgling hiss, collapsing half on top of you.

With one last heave—like Toby did in the manor—you kick it. Hard. Its head snaps back, the ruined jaw lolling, and it stumbles just enough for you to roll. You roll and roll, over blood, over ash, until you’re free from its claws. You scramble to your knees, teeth bared, hair plastered to your face, and before it can reach again, you grab a jagged branch from the ground and drive it into the hole where its throat used to be. You push until it cracks.

It convulses once. Twice. Then it’s still.

The horn keeps blaring. The forest keeps burning. Your hands are shaking, blistered and bloody, smoke curling off your skin. But the thing is dead. You killed it. And for a second—just a second—there’s no sound but your heartbeat. Smoke rolls over the clearing like a serpent, thick and oily, turning the now rising sun into a dull smear of orange. Everything smells of ash, iron, and gasoline. The grass where you’re kneeling is black and fraying, melted into tar by the heat. The truck is nothing but a burning husk, its horn still blaring and then sputtering out in a long, warped whine.

You blink, trying to focus. The edges of your vision shudder, the color gone. You see shapes—shapes of charred bodies, rakes twisted and writhing in their last spasms, claws still curled—but your eyes keep sliding off them. It’s too much. All of it.

You push your palms against the ground to stand, and it’s like pressing your hands into coals. Blisters have already burst; the skin is tacky and raw, peeling where you touched the rake’s jaw. A tremor rips up your arms and into your chest. You stagger upright, but the pain follows everywhere. Your thigh burns where its claws dug in, warmth running down your leg in thick, sticky rivulets. Your ribs… god, your ribs. Every breath feels like a knife slipping between them, hot and wet, like there’s liquid where your lungs should be. You can taste it in your mouth—copper, smoke, and something chalky you can’t name.

The world tilts. You blink again, hard. For a heartbeat you’re sure you’re already dead. You’re standing in the middle of a graveyard of monsters, and you’re just one more corpse swaying before it hits the ground.

But then, like a blessing, you hear your name being shouted by three distinct voices. Three familiar, lovely voices. They’re frantic, and they’re panicked, but you couldn’t be more happy to hear them. You turn, wobbly, to where the forest breaks. Three figures are tearing toward you through the haze, guns slung, faces pale under smeared masks. The moment they clear the smoke, they slow. They stop.

You take one step toward them, then another, clutching your ribs where the warmth gushes, your fingers coming away slick. The smell of your own blood is louder than the fire now.

They’re staring. They’re not even moving anymore. You try to smile, your lips cracking under the soot. “I…” your voice breaks, a rasp. “I did it.”

For a moment the world is quiet, even the horn dying out at last. You take one more step. Your knees give. Your vision blurs into streaks of red and grey. The taste of iron floods your mouth. You think you hear them shouting again, sprinting, but it’s far away, like an echo in water. You hit the ground hard, cheek pressed into scorched earth. The last thing you feel is the warmth spilling from your ribs, the sting of blisters on your hands, the ache of every claw mark and burn along your skin.

Then—black—like falling into a lake.

── .✦

It’s hard to make it all out.

The world tilts and shivers around you, fragments of sight and sound snapping in and out like static. You feel weightless, yet every nerve is screaming. Brian’s arms are under you, solid, unyielding, carrying you like you’re both lighter and heavier than air at once. His mask is off, and glimpses of his face flicker through your hazy awareness—grim, focused, terrified.

The heat of the burning truck fades behind you, but the ache in your chest and legs is relentless, pulsing with every heartbeat. You try to speak, a hoarse laugh, a joke, anything to ease the tension of everything burning and screaming, but Toby’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and steady, “Shut u-up. I-It’s gonna b-be fine.”

You catch his eyes, goggles up, muzzle down, hands on your head, cradling you as if you’re made entirely of fragile glass. You try to reach for him, to tell him you’re okay—or at least that you’re still alive—but his hands guide you gently, and you sink back into Brian’s arms because they’re so comforting.

Tim is on your other side, pulling at your shoes, his movements brisk but careful, peeling away the soaked, torn fabric over your thigh. You feel the cool night air touch the raw skin, and a stab of pain makes you gasp. You try to speak again, to tell him it’s okay, that you can handle it, but he doesn’t look at you. He won’t let you meet his eyes. You can feel his concentration, his fear, the way his hands linger just long enough to be steadying without hurting.

You slip in and out of consciousness, flashes of the forest, the flames, the exploding truck, all bleeding into the warm, familiar glow of your manor. Brian’s arms, Toby’s hands, Tim’s careful motions—they are everywhere and nowhere all at once. The chaos, the heat, the horror of it all, it mixes into a dizzying haze. And then—finally—the main thing you remember is the smell of the manor, soot and candle wax, woodsmoke and dust, mingling with the faint, reassuring scent of the boys themselves. You feel the crash of the back door, the shift of weight, then the terrible stiffness of the kitchen table under your back.

The fluorescent light overhead hums softly, harsh and stark against the shadows of the room. You’re laid out on the hard surface, the same way you once watched Toby, clutching his hands while the world seemed to tilt, though now the terror is painfully real. Now it’s your turn, only you get to feel every minute of the pain, unlike him.

Toby is at your head, leaning over you, voice low and steady. “Hey… look a-at me, princess. It’s okay. You’re s-still here.” His fingers brush against your cheek, gentle, grounding, and you instinctively reach for him, clutching the fabric of his jacket. But then your eyes drift down to your hands—the blood, the scorched skin, the scalded blisters and abrasions—and you can’t stop the sudden flood. Tears stream down your cheeks, hot and sticky against the ache of your wounds.

Toby presses his lips to your palms, one after the other, softly. “It’s gon-gonna be f-fine,” he murmurs, his voice a tether holding you to the present, pulling you from the edges of panic.

Brian and Tim move around you efficiently, silently commanding the space. Brian pulls out every piece of medical gear in the kitchen: scissors, gauze, antiseptic, bandages, sutures. Tim starts ripping open your torn clothing, cleaning off the soaked fabric, disinfecting the worst of the blood before Brian can work. You try to joke, teasing them about getting you undressed, but they don’t laugh—they’re focused, intense, unwavering in their attention to you.

You feel everything—the sting of disinfectant, the pressure of hands cleaning your wounds, the way your skin burns from scrubbing, the soreness in muscles that barely had a chance to recover. Your consciousness starts swimming, flickering between moments: you can see the rakes, the burning truck, the manor in chaos, and then it’s Brian’s hands on you, Tim’s careful motions, Toby’s warm presence anchoring your head.

Toby leans closer, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, eyes locked on yours. “Breathe f-for me. Focus here. You’re ok-okay, sweet girl, we’ve g-got you.” His voice is soft, coaxing, a shield against the fire and pain still echoing through your body. You cling to him, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palms, the steadiness of him, the assurance that despite everything, you’re not alone. Your vision swims, tears still blurring it, but in the midst of all the pain, the chaos, the horror you’ve survived, there’s a tether—a line of warmth and protection that only they provide. Toby keeps talking, quietly, softly, a gentle rhythm to your panic, a constant reminder that you’re alive, that you made it through, that somehow, in this hellish moment, you are safe.

The kitchen smells sharp and acrid, antiseptic mixing with the lingering smoke from the manor and the burnt earth outside. Your body is cold against the table, legs splayed, chest heaving, burns sizzling along your shoulders and collarbone, skin blistered, blackened in some places, raw and tender in others. The claw gashes along your thighs dig deep, uneven, jagged, ragged from the rake’s grip. Your ribs throb with every breath, the skin split and bloodied where its claws tore across your side.

Brian kneels beside you first, gloved hands moving swiftly. He sprays antiseptic, the sting shocking you into a hiss, and your hands clamp onto the edge of the table, knuckles white. He murmurs apologies, trying to soothe the sting as he gently spreads your skin to stitch jagged cuts closed. Each needle tears at your flesh, leaving streaks of crimson, and your stomach twists. You cry out, a raw sound, half panic, half pain.

Tim crouches near your other side, soaking gauze and cleaning away the soot and blood, his fingers pressing firmly but carefully into raw burns and gouges. Every brush of the fabric over your blistered skin makes you hiss, jerking away, tears running freely. “Breathe,” he says, voice firm but calm, and you try, even as the stinging keeps you hyperventilating. He swears under his breath, hissing when a particularly deep gouge bleeds more than expected.

Toby is at your head, steadying you as you thrash. He murmurs encouragement, keeping your attention. “Look at m-me, look a-at me. You were so br-brave tonight—you figured out a-a plan, y-you saved us all. That’s what matters. Y-You’re amazing, princess.” You squeeze his hands, voice broken and cracking, trying to ask him if it’s bad, if the damage is too much, but he shakes his head. “No. None of th-that matters now. Just hold o-on. Focus on m-me.”

You feel Brian and Tim’s movements on your body, one stitching a jagged gash along your ribcage while the other cleans and dresses a raw claw mark across your thigh. The sting of antiseptic, the tug of the needle, the pressure of bandages pressed against burnt and split skin—it’s all overwhelming. You scream, cry, hiss, and wriggle under their hands, unable to process how much of yourself is ruined. Tim growls when a particularly deep cut gags you with pain; Brian’s face is tight, apologetic but methodical as he clamps and sutures. Toby keeps you tethered, whispering, joking lightly, pressing kisses to your hands, your cheeks, murmuring how brilliant you were, how much courage it took to do what you did. “Y-You’re going to be fine, sweet g-girl.” You cling to him, nails digging into his arms, rocking slightly, as the others continue their work, their own faces straining with concentration and worry.

Every stitch, every swipe of cloth, every careful bandaging of burnt and clawed flesh is agonizing. Your chest feels tight, ribs pulsing with pain, thighs burning, shoulders screaming, and yet Toby’s presence grounds you. “Look at me,” he repeats again and again, voice low, coaxing, pulling you back from the spiraling haze of pain. You cry against him, wet and broken, body wracked, but through it, you can’t help but be glad that you’re in their hands.

Brian bends beside you, gloves damp with blood, eyes scanning the jagged tear along your ribs. “I’m going to have to lift you,” he says softly, but you hear the steel underneath—the necessity.

Toby steps sideways to your head and torso, pressing his arm under your neck and lifting, angling your ruined ribs towards Brian. Tim grips your legs and hips, holding you tight, keeping you from thrashing as every muscle in your body screams in pain. You scream anyway, nails digging into their arms, tearing at their clothes, jerking and shaking against them. Every breath sends stabs of agony through your ribs, every move sets fire through the fresh burns on your chest and shoulders.

Brian moves carefully, the needle threaded and ready, but even he hesitates for a heartbeat, staring at the raw flesh exposed through the tear in your side. You hiccup between sobs, reaching out for him, your fingers brushing against his forearm. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry we weren’t there sooner. I swear, you’ll be alright.”

Toby hums low against your temple, pressing gentle kisses into your hair, murmuring words to keep you tethered to the moment. “Hold on, ok-okay? Breathe with me. Focus h-here.” His hands tighten slightly, bracing your torso as Tim adjusts his grip on your hips to lift just enough to let Brian work.

Brian’s needle pierces the skin, dragging thread carefully, painfully across the tear. The sting is unbearable, and you let out a ragged scream, eyes watering, body arching instinctively. Tim and Toby hold you steady, muscles straining, watching with horror at every motion. Your chest heaves, burns flaring anew as the fabric of your life—your skin—comes together stitch by stitch. You hiccup again, shivering through the pain, reaching for Brian’s hands. “I… I can’t…” you gasp, words swallowed by sobs. He leans closer, whispering against your ear, “You can. You’re so brave. I promise. Just a little more. Almost done.”

Toby’s voice cuts through the haze, low and firm, “Just b-breathe, princess. Just breathe.” Tim murmurs something similar, though quieter, keeping your lower body steady as your ribs flex painfully.

Every second stretches into eternity—the pull of the needle, the sting of antiseptic on torn skin, the heat of burns, the ache of claw gashes. But slowly, agonizingly, Brian works through the tear, bringing the wound together. You cling to Toby, fingers digging into his arms, tears soaking your cheeks, shaking and whimpering. His hands never leave you, gentle but unyielding, a lifeline through the storm of pain. By the time Brian pulls the last stitch through, you’re exhausted, trembling, and completely soaked in sweat and tears. Your body feels like it belongs to someone else, every inch screaming, but Toby presses his forehead to yours, murmuring, “It’s over… you’re al-alive… you made i-it.” Tim loosens his grip slightly, still close, and you finally feel the faintest thread of relief through the agony.

They move slowly, carefully, each of them hyper-aware of every flinch, every groan. You feel the sting of the antiseptic as they clean the burns on your shoulders, chest, and arms, the raw, tender skin protesting with every wipe. The claw gouges on your thighs and ribs throb with a burning ache, and the heat from the scraped, exposed patches of skin makes your head spin. Adrenaline crashes through you, leaving your body trembling and weak, and every heartbeat is a sharp reminder of how close you came.

Tim’s hands are gentle as he lifts your chin, pressing a hard, planting kiss to your forehead. The warmth of him contrasts with the icy sting of your injuries, and for a moment your chest aches in a different way. Brian bends, holding your hands between his, brushing his lips over your knuckles, murmuring quiet reassurances that blur into your dizzy, pain-riddled mind. Toby’s arms wrap around you from behind, steadying, firm, holding you as though he’s keeping your very body from falling apart. His hands press into your ribs and shoulders, hugging you so tightly that it both hurts and comforts in equal measure.

You can barely think. The sensation of their care, the intimacy of their touch, hits you all at once—so warm, so safe, so overwhelmingly tender, but contrasted against the searing pain of your wounds and the cold emptiness left by adrenaline fading. You try to speak, to tell them how much you love them, how much this moment, these hands, these voices, mean to you—but the words stick in your throat. The room tilts, your vision softening at the edges, and the weight of everything—pain, relief, exhaustion, and the love you’ve been holding in—is too much. Toby’s arms tighten instinctively, Tim’s kiss lingers against your burning skin, Brian’s lips warm your chilled hands—and the mixture of sensations is overpowering. Then, as if your body finally gives up, you let go. Darkness seeps in at the edges of your vision, your knees buckle slightly, and the last thing you feel before slipping away is their warmth surrounding you.

── .✦

You wake slowly, the sunlight stabbing through the jagged remnants of your curtains and the shattered glass along the window frame. The warmth of the day clashes with the chill in your body, but your head is pounding, every throb syncing with the raw ache radiating through your chest and ribs. Your mouth is parched, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, and your stomach churns in sickly rebellion. Every movement makes your skin scream.

You try to sit up and fail, wincing as pain spikes along your thighs, hips, and sides. The covers press against you, heavy with the memory of the night before, the heat from the fire still lingering faintly in the fabric. You manage to push the blanket down, shivering as the air hits your exposed skin, and notice you aren’t wearing your own shirt—but a large, soft one, far too big, falling loosely around your shoulders. One of the boys must have dressed you while you slept.

You lift the fabric carefully, the motion sending shocks of pain through your ribs and shoulders, and your stomach twists at the sight. Stitches litter your skin like a harsh constellation, jagged lines crisscrossing through burned and clawed areas. Between them, smaller cuts still scab over, bruises in purples and yellows bloom across your body, and your thighs are sore from where the rakes clawed and you fought. Even your arms and neck bear the marks of the chaos, tender to touch, throbbing with a dull ache that refuses to fade.

The room itself is in disarray. Broken glass glints in the sunlight across the floor. Torn curtains flap slightly in the breeze that sneaks through gaps in the panes. Your desk is overturned, papers scattered and smeared with dirt and blood that’s thankfully been cleaned in part. The dresser drawer is half-open, its contents spilling onto the floor. The scent of antiseptic and scorched wood lingers faintly, mixing with the normal mustiness of the manor, reminding you of every moment of horror and survival from the night before. The rake that was lying dead in the middle of this room the last time you saw is gone now, nothing but a bad memory.

Even lying here, you feel the weight of every movement: every rib that shifts, every stretch of skin over torn flesh, every tender burn that the air touches. Your chest rises and falls with labored breaths, your muscles tense, and you realize just how thoroughly your body has been punished. Yet, somehow, you’re alive—and the soft fabric of the shirt, the quiet morning light, and the faint warmth of the room are proof that someone was there, taking care of you while you were gone. Your body screams in pain, but your mind reels from gratitude, exhaustion, and the remnants of terror that still cling to your skin.

You shift slightly, wincing as every muscle protests, trying to sit up just enough to get a better look at your hands. The blisters across your palms and the burned, singed patches along your forearms make you flinch, and memories of the heat, the flames, the clawing pain, and the raw struggle surge unbidden. Your stomach knots, and your chest tightens, but you force your eyes to the water on your nightstand. Reaching for it feels impossible—the movement sends sharp jolts of pain through your ribs, thighs, and shoulders.

Before you can even attempt it again, the door opens. Brian steps in, quiet but alert, and freezes when he sees you, frail and trembling, attempting to stretch for the glass. His eyes soften immediately, and without a word, he crosses the room, picking up the water and handing it to you. Relief floods you, but when you open your mouth to thank him, nothing comes out. Your voice is gone, hoarse and cracked from screaming and exhaustion. Brian notices instantly, his hands gentle as he nudges the glass closer. “Drink,” he says softly, his tone firm yet caring. He also presses a small cup toward your lips. Medicine. You hesitate, swallowing hard, but he guides it for you. The liquid slides down roughly, making you cough a little, tingling your throat—but you manage it.

Once you’ve swallowed, he doesn’t let go. He gently helps you shift, guiding your body upright just enough that you can sit on the edge of the bed. His hands linger to support your back, steadying you while he visually inspects your arms, chest, and thighs. Every bruise, blister, and stitch catches his attention, and you can feel his concern radiating in the way he moves, the careful, methodical way he assesses you without forcing any additional pain. You shiver from the effort, but his presence is grounding, a tether as you try to process the ache coursing through every part of your body.

Your voice is raspy, croaky, but it comes out finally, a weak sound that still surprises you. “Th-thank you,” you manage, blinking at him. “Where… where are the others?”

“They’re cleaning up outside,” Brian says quietly, his eyes distant and tired. “Clearing the… the bodies.” You nod slowly, letting the image settle in your mind.

You swallow, wincing as your ribs protest even the small movement. “How… how bad was it? Did I… look worse than I felt?” You try to laugh, try to smile, but it comes across awkward.

He exhales sharply, a low, weary sound. “You looked… like a falling-apart zombie,” he admits, voice heavy with emotion. “I… I’ve never been so terrified. Toby, Tim, all of us—we… we could literally see your ribs poking through your skin. I was so scared… scared I was watching you die.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. There’s so much pain in his expression, exhaustion, fear, and something else—something like relief that you’re alive. And he stares back, unflinching, unashamed.

A small, trembling breath escapes you, and you whisper, “Sit… sit next to me.”

Without hesitation, he climbs onto the bed, careful of your injuries, and sits close, back against the headboard. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting yourself feel the warmth and steadiness of him there. For the first time since the explosion, the chaos and fear recede just enough that you can breathe, your body trembling against him as he holds space for you silently, letting you rest your aching head while he absorbs the weight of the night along with you.

The room feels almost surreal in its quiet, the sunlight slanting through torn curtains and casting long lines across the mess of your bedroom. You shift slightly against Brian’s shoulder, wincing as your ribs protest, but the steady warmth of him keeps you rooted. He hums softly, the sound grounding you, as if just by existing there beside you, he’s telling you it’s okay to breathe.

“You did… amazing,” Brian murmurs, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead. “I mean… surviving, thinking, acting so quick… all of it. You… you kept yourself alive.”

You manage a weak laugh, hoarse and shaky, but it’s something. “I… I just…” Your voice trails off, croaky from the fevered night and exhaustion. 

Then the bedroom door bursts open, and Toby and Tim are there, rushing across the floor, worry etched into every line of their bodies. Toby’s eyes are wide, frantic, but soft when he sees you. Tim’s jaw is tight, stern, but relief softens his gaze as he sees you leaning against Brian.

You try to speak, your throat raw, “I… I’m sorry. I… for—”

Tim cuts you off gently but firmly, gripping your shoulders. “Stop,” he says. “Stop apologizing. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Toby rushes to your side, hands trembling as he cups your face, checking your injuries like he still can’t believe you’re alive. “Still t-the prettiest girl I know,” he whispers, voice cracking with relief.

You try again, choking back tears, “I—I ruined your truck… the manor… everything…”

They both move closer, one on each side, Brian’s hand still holding yours. “You didn’t ruin anything,” Toby says urgently, his voice shaking. “You saved u-us, you saved the fuckin’ p-place—you saved everything. That truck? That’s nothing. T-That’s fine. We’re fine.”

Tim leans in, voice steady but fierce, “There’s not a rake left, not a thing out there. You’ve done more than anyone could’ve. It’s perfect. Just… now you rest, okay?”

The three of them—Toby, Tim, Brian—clamp around you, and despite the aching of your body, the raw heat of your wounds, the weight of everything that’s happened, a sense of relief and safety blooms in your chest. You’re alive. They’re alive. The rakes are gone. And for the first time in days, the terror eases, leaving only the slow, grounding warmth of being held, of being home.

You close your eyes, letting yourself melt into their arms, sobbing softly but knowing, finally, that the nightmare is over.

── .✦

Healing is probably worse than the injury itself, you think.

The week unfolds slowly, each day a small victory. On day one, you’re mostly resting, moving little beyond the minimal shifts in bed to adjust your position. Brian is almost constantly by your side, checking your stitches, applying ointments, helping you sip water, making sure you eat something. Tim and Toby rotate their visits, bringing blankets, quiet conversations, and teasing smiles to keep your spirits from breaking. Their presence is a balm—you’re still in pain, still bruised and blistered, but the terror of the rakes is behind you.

By day two, you’re able to sit up longer, leaning back against pillows as the boys keep conversation going—Brian pointing out books, Toby joking about mundane things, Tim gently pressing you to talk about your body, your feelings, anything that’s stuck in you. The pain is still raw, but the act of being upright feels like the first small reclaiming of yourself. Toby tries to make you dinner, and Brian has to throw it away and start over.

On day three, you manage to crawl out of bed with Brian’s steady hands guiding you. Your legs tremble, your ribs ache with every motion, but the joy of movement, however tentative, is intoxicating. Toby hovers with his usual jittering hands, while Tim gives careful, encouraging instructions. They’re almost like anchors, holding you steady as you regain your independence bit by bit. The stitches and bruises on your body are gnarly, but they’re no longer raw.

Day four is a milestone—you walk down the stairs, slow, careful, holding onto the railing. Each step reminds you of the horror of the rakes, of how you ran down these steps nights ago, but also the comfort of the manor, of the boys’ unwavering protection. They follow behind, beside you, keeping pace, and every laugh, every small joke from Toby, every quiet reminder from Tim or Brian feels like a thread stitching you back together. They’ve been working on the manor, on cleaning, on repairing what the rakes had destroyed.

Through days five to seven, you begin to spend more time out of bed. You sit in the sitting room, wrapped in blankets, and watch the boys clean the manor and yard. Windows are wiped down, splintered wood repaired, furniture shifted back into place. They work in coordinated chaos—Tim hauling debris, Brian rearranging broken furniture, Toby starting fires in fireplaces, chopping wood, ensuring the warmth of the house returns.

You’re able to assist in small ways—handing them tools, fetching water, bringing food or coffee. The boys alternate time with you: one sits quietly at your side reading to you, another keeps you distracted with jokes, and the third hovers between action and conversation, ensuring you don’t overexert yourself. Pain is still present, a dull throb beneath the surface, but manageable now, as every day brings more strength.

By the end of the week, you’re walking steadily, moving through the house, helping in the kitchen, observing the yard, your hands brushing over railings, counters, and wood as if memorizing them again. You can feel your body responding, your lungs filling without pain, your muscles returning. The manor itself, though still scarred from the battle, seems to breathe again with you—its warmth, its chaos, and the careful, constant attention of the boys slowly restoring not just the building, but your sense of home.

You sink into the quiet of your restored bedroom, the sunlight filtering through the torn-but-cleaned curtains, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself truly think. The fear that gripped you—the terror of those monsters, the terror of losing them—still lingers like a ghost in your chest. But it’s different now. It’s smaller. It doesn’t own you.

You realize how much you’ve grown. Every moment in the yard, every trap you helped build, every shot fired, every fire ignited—it wasn’t just survival. It was courage, fierce and raw. You faced something beyond comprehension, stared down death, and came out of it alive. Not just alive, but unbroken. You are stronger than the forest and all its nightmares. Braver than any creature that dared cross the manor’s threshold. And this is your home. You’ve claimed it, defended it, and now it pulses with your energy just as much as it does with theirs.

And then there’s them. Your friends. Your boys. The thought of them makes your heart stutter—not with fear, not with hesitation, but with longing, warmth, and something deeper. You’ve seen their bravery, their strength, their devotion. You’ve seen how they care for you when the world is fire and claws and chaos, and you’ve seen how they love you, in their own chaotic, dangerous ways. And you want all of them. Every single one.

You don’t feel afraid of that anymore. You don’t feel guilty. You don’t feel torn. You’ve looked death in the face, you’ve held it in your hands, and nothing could shake you—so why should feelings for these boys? You don’t have to choose, you don’t have to hide, you don’t have to suppress anything. You know what you want, and you know who you want it with. The forest is still there, dark and whispering, but it doesn’t scare you the way it did. The rakes won’t return, not after this. And you won’t hide. Not anymore. Not from the world, not from them, not from yourself.

You close your eyes and breathe in the warmth of the manor, the weight of the sun, the quiet safety that now fills the space you fought for. You are alive. You are whole. You are theirs, and they are yours—and this time, fear won’t get in the way.

── .✦

The morning is soft and cool, the sky pale blue and streaked with drifting clouds. You step out onto the grass barefoot, sweater hanging loose over your frame, sleeves draping over your hands. It’s the first time you’ve been outside since that night, and it feels like a completely different life. The dew wets your toes instantly, and you close your eyes just for a second, breathing it in—the smell of cut grass, smoke no longer lingering faintly from the scorched treeline, the sound of the forest so eerily quiet now.

When you open your eyes, they’re all there. Brian and Tim are rolling up the last lengths of barbed wire, gloves dirty, boots caked with mud. Toby is dragging a stripped log to the side, goggles pushed up, muzzle hanging loose at his neck. They look up at you almost at the same time, and their expressions change—Brian’s goes soft, worried; Tim’s stern gaze falters; Toby stops mid-step.

Brian is the first to speak. “Careful,” he calls, wiping his hands on his pants. “You’re still healing—don’t push it.”

But you shake your head gently, a small smile curling your lips. “I’m okay,” you say, your voice still hoarse but clear. “Really.”

They exchange a look before they start walking toward you, boots crushing the grass, slowing as they get close—like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they move too fast. They circle around you instinctively, close but not crowding, three different kinds of presence: Brian steady and solid, Tim tall and sharp-eyed, Toby restless but watchful.

You take them in. One by one. The differences between them, the marks of everything that’s happened—their faces more worn now, eyes more tired but also more alive. The faint scars you recognize on their knuckles, the way they stand near each other without needing to speak. They’re not the same boys you first met, and neither are you.

You smile at them, something breaking loose in your chest. “I love you,” you say simply.

It’s like a pause in the world. Brian blinks, his brow furrowing slightly. Tim’s mouth parts just a little, as though he’s about to say something but doesn’t. Toby actually stops fidgeting, staring at you wide-eyed. They’re all stunned—but you keep going, making sure they understand.

“I want you. All of you. Each one. I’ve been fighting with it, trying to figure it out, trying not to ruin what we have. But I’m done sitting back. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m taking it. I want this. I want you. Together or not at all.”

You start to explain further, voice trembling but sure, but Tim raises a hand and cuts you off. “It’s about time,” he says, a faint smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth.

You blink at him, confused. “What?”

He chuckles dryly, glancing at the other two. “Ever since you kissed Toby that first night we drank together, we’ve known.”

Your face warms. “You—knew?”

Tim tilts his head toward Toby. “Yeah. Kid can’t keep his damn mouth shut. He spilled to us the next day.”

Toby scratches the back of his neck, sheepish but not denying it. Brian looks down at you, eyes softer now than you’ve ever seen them.

Tim’s voice is low but steady as he goes on. “We’re no strangers to sharing. And after what we’ve been through—there’s no way we’re going on without each other. Not now.”

You laugh, a little breathless, the sound carrying across the wet grass. “I had a whole speech ready,” you admit, shaking your head, smiling at how ridiculous it all feels. “And…well, nothing ever goes smoothly anyway, right? Why should this be any different?”

Without another thought, you step forward, letting the cool morning grass tickle your skin, and grab Toby and Brian by their shoulders. You nudge them closer together, with Tim naturally in the middle, and pull them into a tight, encompassing hug. You feel the warmth of each of them—the solidity of Brian, the quiet steadiness of Tim, the restless energy of Toby—and it fits, like puzzle pieces you never thought could align.

They all hug back instinctively, a tangle of arms and warmth, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the comfort of being together. You press a quick kiss to each of their cheeks, and almost immediately, each of them mirrors you, pressing one to your cheeks in return. It’s soft, gentle, and infinitely sweet. You tilt your head back slightly, letting out a giggle that shakes the last tension from your shoulders. The ache in your body, all the soreness, the burns, the stitches—they’re still there, but for the first time in what feels like forever, your chest feels full of something stronger than pain. The warmth of them, their steady presence, and the laughter bubbling up from you all—it overtakes everything else.

The three of them pull back slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes softened, a quiet kind of reverence in the way they hold themselves. You grin, cheeks flushed, and feel it: this is your home, your people, your life now—and nothing, not fear, not monsters, not even pain, could ever take this from you.

Tim squeezes your hand gently, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve got something to show you,” he says, and you nod, leaning on them as they guide you through the garden. The path winds between tall hedges, dappled sunlight filtering through, glinting off dew on the leaves. Each step is careful—you stumble a little on a stone, and Brian immediately steadies you, while Toby hums something light and teasing, just enough to make you giggle through your nerves.

They move slowly, giving you space but never letting you fall behind, letting you walk on your own. The air smells sweet, warm earth mixed with greenery and something floral. 

Finally, they arrive at the sunflowers you and Tim planted together. Their thick stems sway slightly in the afternoon breeze, the golden heads nodding toward the sun, towering nearly to your knees. You pause, breath catching in your throat. The sight is breathtaking—not just because of the flowers, but because of everything they represent.

You feel tears prickling your eyes as you take it in, the months of chaos, fear, and pain all leading to this moment. The manor behind you, battered but alive. The boys around you, battered but alive. The garden, the blooms, the sun, the calm after all the storms—they’ve all come together.

You finally let yourself smile fully, a little shaky, almost crying, and whisper, “Everything…everything turned out right in the end.”

Toby nudges your shoulder with his own, his grin soft, teasing. Brian stands quietly, eyes gentle, content, while Tim folds his arms, chest swelling just slightly with pride. And you know—truly—that in this moment, everything is perfect. The sunflowers sway gently, like nods of approval, and for the first time in months, you feel completely at peace, surrounded by those you love, in a world you’ve fought tooth and nail to protect.

For a long moment, no one speaks. The chaos, the fear, the nights of blood and fire, the exhaustion—all of it seems distant here, softened by the warmth of the sun and the closeness of the three boys beside you. You smile at them, a small, bright thing that grows with every heartbeat. The ache and the fear are still there, a shadow in the corners, but it no longer rules you. This—right here—is yours. Your home. You and your friends.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of all you’ve survived, and the warmth of all you’ve loved. “I love you,” you whisper again, softly, almost reverently. They hear you, feel you, and you feel them in return. No hesitation. No fear. Just the quiet, unshakable certainty of being together.

Tim clears his throat, breaking the silence with a grin that makes your heart lurch in a good way. “So…about my truck you blew up?” he says, half serious, half teasing. “I’m thinking you owe me a new one.”

You can’t help it—you laugh, a full, unburdened laugh, the sound ringing out through the garden, mingling with the wind and the rustle of sunflowers. Toby chuckles beside you, Brian smiles softly, and Tim just smirks, satisfied that he’s lightened the moment just enough.

You walk with them back toward the manor, the three of them flanking you like guardians, steady and reassuring. Their steps crunch softly over the gravel, the evening air cool against your bare arms, the golden light of the setting sun stretching long shadows across the lawn. They each slip inside first, each settling into their home too, the warmth of the house spilling into the twilight.

You linger at the threshold, your hand resting briefly on the doorframe, taking in the sight of the distant treeline. The forest looks calm, almost untouched—no movement, no whisper of danger. For the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn’t look threatening. Your chest lifts slightly with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the tension of months slowly releasing.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touches your lips. The manor behind you is safe, the yard silent, and the boys—your boys—inside. You let your eyes roam over the treeline one last time, committing it to memory: peaceful, quiet, conquered.

And then, with a final glance and a deep exhale, you turn, crossing the threshold yourself. The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, enclosing you in warmth, safety, and the quiet certainty that, for now, this is home—and it finally feels like it.

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

๑ to part one

Music. Loud. Sweaty. Flashing lights. Packed bodies. 

That’s life at a frat party—especially at a University.    

And here you are. Again. It’s the fourth time this week, which is ridiculous, but whatever. Thinking about it too much makes your head hurt, and right now, thinking is the last thing you want to do. So, you don’t. Instead, you just exist—float through the mess of bodies, lights, and bass like it’s just another night, because at this point, it is.  

One second, you were swearing off cheap beer and regret-fueled decisions, and the next? Someone was dragging you through the door of another overcrowded house, the bass shaking the walls like it’s got something to prove.  

The air is thick and humid with the scent of too many people packed into one place, layered with alcohol, sweat, cheap cologne, and the unmistakable burn of weed. Someone stumbles past, nearly knocking into you, and you move without thinking, sidestepping effortlessly. 

You don’t even flinch. 

You’ve already lost count of how many times someone’s spilled their drink on you, but at this point, what’s another stain on your already questionable life choices?  You’ve gotten used to this—used to the chaos, the noise, the heat of it all pressing in.  

Your dress clings to your body, lace and satin hugging your frame like it was made for you, black and sleek, the hem just short enough to tease but not desperate enough to beg for attention. Your ripped tights stretch over your legs, the small tears catching the flashing neon lights as you move. Your boots—tall, chunky, black platforms—thud against the sticky floor with every step, giving you that extra height, that extra weight to your presence. 

You’re not delicate. 

Not fragile. Not here.  

The star-shaped bead necklace resting against your collarbone shifts as you walk, the cool beads a strange contrast to the heat of the room. It’s the only thing on you that doesn’t feel like armor, the only thing soft, almost childish, against the dark edge of the rest of your outfit. 

But you like it. It reminds you of something—something you can’t quite name, but something that feels distant, like a memory you almost remember before it slips through your fingers.  

You could leave. You should leave. 

But something keeps you here. 

Maybe it’s the way the music thrums under your skin, the way the chaos feels like static in your head—loud enough to drown out whatever thoughts you don’t want to deal with, or maybe it’s just that part of you that doesn’t want to be alone tonight.  

But whatever. It’s just another night. Another party. Another drink.  

You push through the crowd, toward the kitchen, because if you’re going to keep pretending everything is fine, you’re going to need something to sip on. It’s easier that way. It keeps everything quiet, keeps the thoughts at bay. 

And right now? That’s all you need.

The kitchen is just as much of a mess as the rest of the house. Sticky counters, half-empty bottles of vodka and tequila, a questionable jungle juice mix sloshing around in a plastic tub that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned properly in months. 

Solo cups litter every surface, discarded and forgotten, and the faint smell of beer, sweat, and something burnt lingers in the air. Someone left a bag of half-eaten chips on the counter, but they’re already stale, exposed to the humidity and the heat of too many bodies in a house that should not be holding this many people.  

You weave through the kitchen, careful with your movements—controlled, deliberate. You don’t rush. Rushing means you’re in a hurry, means you’re nervous, and that’s the last thing you want to look like in a place like this. 

The frat guys? Yeah, they’re watching. 

They always are. 

Not that you care, not really, but you make sure to let them see just enough to know you’re not approachable. The lace and satin of your dress catch the dim, flickering light, your ripped tights adding an edge, the platform boots giving you weight, grounding you. 

You look good. You know it. They know it. 

But that doesn’t mean you’re interested.  

It’s all the same. These parties, these guys. They circle like vultures, drunk off beer and ego, scanning the room for girls too fresh to know better. It’s not even surprising. Frat parties aren’t really about the party; they’re about the hunt. And the freshmen? They eat it up, giggling into their drinks, draping themselves over guys who are already planning how the night’s gonna end. 

It’s not a bad thing, necessarily—everyone’s having fun, after all—but it cheapens the whole vibe. Makes it feel less like a party and more like a transaction.  

So, why are you here?  

Good question. Maybe it’s the music, the way the bass thrums through your bones, loud enough to drown out thoughts you don’t want to deal with. Maybe it’s the anonymity of it all—here, no one cares who you are or what you’re running from. 

You could be anyone. Do anything. It’s the kind of place where judgment doesn’t exist, where people let themselves fall apart without consequence, because come morning, no one’s gonna remember.  

You grab a bottle from the counter, something dark, something strong, and pour yourself another drink. It burns when it goes down, but that’s good. 

That’s what you want. 

That’s the point.  

The night stretches ahead, endless and hazy, the music still pulsing, the party still alive. And you? You’re just here, existing in it, letting it swallow you whole.

The wooden planks creak under your boots as you step onto the balcony, the air instantly cooler, crisper against your flushed skin. Out here, the chaos of the party fades—not completely, but enough. The bass still thrums through the walls, muffled, but compared to the suffocating heat inside, this feels almost peaceful. Almost.  

You lean against the railing, eyes scanning the view—a few trees swaying gently in the night breeze, buildings standing silent in the distance, the occasional car rolling down the dimly lit street below. It’s nothing special, but right now, it’s a hell of a lot better than being trapped inside with too many bodies, too much noise, and too many guys looking for their next easy lay. 

You take a slow breath, letting the night air cool your skin, before pushing your hair back and taking a sip of your drink. The burn is familiar now, settling warm in your stomach, grounding you in a way that nothing else really does.  

You place the cup on the railing, fingers lingering for a moment before you catch movement out of the corner of your eye. You’re not alone.  

In the farthest corner of the balcony, half-hidden in the shadows, a guy is leaning up against the wall, phone pressed to his ear. He’s talking—low, quiet, voice barely carrying over the distant thump of music inside. You can’t make out the words, not exactly, but there’s something in the way he speaks, clipped and tense, that makes it clear the conversation isn’t lighthearted.  

You don’t mean to listen. Really. But it’s hard not to when it’s just the two of you out here, and there’s nothing else to focus on besides the sound of his voice. You shift your weight, turning slightly away, giving the illusion of privacy while your ears pick up every muffled word you can catch.

 Nosy? Maybe. But can you be blamed?  

The wind picks up slightly, pushing strands of hair into your face. You exhale, shaking them loose, and glance at the guy again. He hasn’t noticed you—or if he has, he doesn’t care. Fine by you. 

You’re not looking for conversation. Just a moment to breathe, to exist outside of everything, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

You exhale slowly, eyes trailing over the street below as the cool night air settles over your skin. The party is still in full swing behind you—muffled bass rattling the walls, drunken laughter spilling out through the open doors, the occasional shout of someone either too hyped or too wasted to care about volume control. It’s all background noise now, just another part of the night.  

Maybe it’s time to leave.  

You’ve been here long enough, longer than you meant to. You told yourself you’d just come for one drink, just to feel the energy, just to distract yourself for a little while. And yet, here you are—four nights deep into the same routine, standing on a frat house balcony at god-knows-what time, staring out at the same damn street, feeling the same creeping exhaustion settle into your bones.  

You know how the rest of the night is gonna play out. You’ll go back inside, push through the sweat-slick bodies, dodge another drunk guy who thinks standing way too close is an acceptable flirting technique, grab whatever’s left of your drink, and maybe—just maybe—someone will convince you to stay for “one more.” You’ll say yes, because it’s easier than going home to an empty room where your own thoughts are louder than the party you just left.  

Or, you could just… go now. Call it. Walk down those sticky-ass, deathtrap stairs, push past the front door, and let the night air carry you home. Sounds easy enough.  

Except, knowing this place, the second your boot hits one of those steps, there’s a good chance the entire staircase might just give out beneath you. It’s a miracle this frat house is still standing at all—like some kind of drunk, indestructible cockroach of a building, surviving on nothing but spilled beer, bad decisions, and whatever last-minute duct tape fixes the guys have slapped together over the years.  

The walls? Covered in mystery stains no one dares to question. The furniture? A graveyard of mismatched couches that probably came from a curb somewhere, each one holding the history of every regrettable hookup that’s ever happened at this house. The floors? Stickier than a damn movie theater, holding onto spilled drinks and broken dreams like a badge of honor.  

And those stairs? Those damn stairs are an actual lawsuit waiting to happen. Uneven, creaking under the weight of anyone stupid enough to trust them, patched up with nails that barely hold together the wood. You’ve seen people wipe out on them at least three times tonight alone—some because they were drunk, others just because the stairs themselves seemed to decide, “Yeah, not tonight.”  

Still, as much of a disaster as this place is, it’s got that weird, grimy charm that keeps people coming back. Maybe it’s the parties, maybe it’s the fact that no matter how many times the university threatens to shut this place down, it just refuses to die. Or maybe it’s because, in some strange way, it feels like the kind of place where nothing matters. You can exist here without expectation, without judgment.  

But that doesn’t mean you have to stay.  

With a final glance toward the flashing lights inside, you sigh. Time to get out of here—before the floor caves in or the ceiling fan that’s barely hanging on finally falls and takes someone out.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, already preparing yourself to leave when—  

“Hey.”  

You jolt so hard you nearly throw yourself over the damn railing.  

“Jesus—” You whip around, hand clutching your chest like that’s gonna stop your soul from trying to escape your body. The guy in the corner—formerly minding his own business, deeply invested in whatever serious phone call he was having—now stands a few feet away, looking far too amused for someone who just scared the life out of you.  

“Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he says, even though the smirk on his face suggests otherwise.  

“You did,” you deadpan, still willing your heartbeat to slow down. “Congratulations. Hope that was the highlight of your night.”  

He chuckles, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Eh, top five, at least.”  

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply. “Right. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of having an existential crisis, so…”  

He raises a brow. “That serious, huh?”  

You glance back at the party inside—the flashing lights, the chaos, the bodies pressed too close together. Then back at the street below, quiet and empty, calling your name.  

“Something like that.”  

He doesn’t respond right away, just studies you for a second like he’s trying to piece you together. And honestly? You’re too tired to care what conclusions he’s coming to.  

“Then what’re you still doing here?” he finally asks, tilting his head slightly.  

Good question. One, you don’t quite have an answer to.  

Maybe you should leave. Maybe you really will this time. But for now, you just huff out a laugh, grab your drink from the railing, and take another slow sip.  

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

You didn’t know what to make of the dude other than that he’s been out here with you for a while now. Long enough to feel like part of the scenery—like the railing, like the wind, like the streetlights casting long shadows below.

But now that he’s talking and close enough for you to get a good look at him, you realize something.  

He looks… off. 

Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that makes your brain take longer to process him.  

Pale. Gaunt. Like he hasn’t slept in a week, maybe two. His dark brown hair is messy, almost like he forgot he had it, and his eyes—deep-set, sunken—hold an intensity that makes it impossible to tell if he’s actually looking at you or through you. He’s thin and wiry, all sharp angles beneath layers of tattered clothing that somehow manage to look effortlessly cool. 

Black-washed jeans, ripped just enough to make it look intentional, a T-shirt barely visible beneath a flannel, and a dark brown jacket that’s seen better days. Perched on his head, a pair of orange goggles sits like a misplaced artifact, out of place but somehow fitting him perfectly.  

Then there’s the grin. Wide. Unsettling. A little too knowing, like he’s in on some joke you haven’t heard yet. His teeth—crooked, sharp-looking—flash in the dim balcony light. Paired with his unblinking stare and the way he barely seems to stand still, it’s enough to make most people uneasy.  

But you? You just study him right back.  

“You checkin’ me out or trying to decide if I’m a serial killer?” His voice is rough, edged with something lazy and amused, the smirk on his lips deepening as he tilts his head slightly.  

You don’t even flinch. “Can’t it be both?”  

His laugh is sharp, quick. “Damn. That’s cold.”  

You shrug, taking another sip of your drink. “Just saying. You’ve got a look.”  

“A look?” He raises an eyebrow—well, what’s left of one. The slit cutting through it adds to the whole deranged but weirdly stylish vibe he’s got going on. “Elaborate.”  

You gesture vaguely at him. “You know. The I may or may not haunt abandoned gas stations look.”  

He barks out another laugh, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “That’s a new one. Not bad. Kinda poetic.”  

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, glancing back at the party inside. “Fits.”  

He watches you for a beat, then leans against the railing beside you, hands slipping into his pockets. The erratic energy he had earlier settles just a bit.  

“So, what’s your deal?” he asks, tilting his head again. “You’re out here looking all brooding and mysterious. Gotta say, if we’re going for aesthetic, you’ve got it locked down.”  

You scoff. “Says the guy with the mad scientist, but make it grunge fit.”  

He grins again, flashing those crooked teeth. “Touché.”  

Silence settles for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just the two of you leaning against the railing, breathing in the cool night air, letting the distant noise of the party fill the spaces between words.  

Finally, he speaks again. “You gonna leave?”  

You exhale slowly, swirling the liquid in your cup. “Dunno. Maybe.”  

He hums, rocking on his heels. “If you do, try not to get murdered on the way home. Bad way to end the night.”  

You smirk, side-eyeing him. “That a threat?”  

He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. Just a friendly PSA.”  

For some reason, that makes you laugh, too. And maybe, just maybe, the night doesn’t feel as heavy anymore.

You swirl the last bit of your drink in your cup, watching the way the liquid catches the dim light before glancing back at the guy beside you. He’s still leaning against the railing, a smirk lingering at the corner of his mouth, but his fingers tap restlessly against his jacket, like he’s got too much energy to keep still. His gaze flickers toward you again, catching you staring.  

“What?” he drawls, eyebrow raising slightly.  

You tilt your head, eyes trailing over his face. “Your piercings.”  

His smirk widens. “Damn, if you wanted to check me out, you could’ve just said so.”  

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Relax... Just curious.”  

He chuckles but obliges, turning his head slightly so you can get a better look. Up close, they’re even more noticeable—two silver rings through his lip, a matching set in his eyebrow, slicing through the already-slit brow in a way that somehow makes him look even more chaotic. There’s something deliberate about it, though. Messy but intentional. Like everything about him is designed to make people do a double-take.  

“How many you got?” you ask, squinting slightly.  

He hums, tilting his head as if counting. “Double lip rings, double eyebrow… septum, too.” He gestures vaguely at the silver hoop in his nose. “Had a few more, but, y’know. Shit happens.”  

You nod, studying the way they catch the light. “They suit you.”  

He grins, crooked and toothy. “Damn right they do.”  

There’s something oddly comfortable about standing here, talking like this. The party behind you still rages on, but out here, it’s just the two of you, the night air, and the occasional rumble of a car passing below.  

“You from around here?” you ask, half out of curiosity, half just to keep the conversation going.  

He shrugs, gaze shifting toward the street. “Yeah. Kinda. Grew up a little ways out. Middle of nowhere.”  

“You got family here?”  

His fingers twitch against his jacket again, but he nods. “Used to have a mom and sister growing up. Just us three.”  

You don’t press, but he keeps going anyway, voice a little lighter, like he’s just saying whatever comes to mind.  

“Didn’t really have a lotta friends as a kid. Not the ‘fits in real well’ type, y’know?” He laughs, but there’s something dry about it. “Ended up homeschooled pretty early on.”  

You raise a brow. “Why?”  

Before he can answer, his body suddenly jolts, shoulders snapping upward in a sharp, involuntary motion. His head jerks to the side slightly, fingers twitching, and a small noise escapes him—quick, abrupt.  

You flinch. Just a little. Not on purpose, just out of instinct.  

His head turns toward you again, eyes unreadable for a moment. Then, as if he’s used to it, he gives a breathy chuckle. “Scare you?”  

You shake your head quickly. “No—well. Kinda. Wasn’t expecting it.”  

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking it off. “Yeah, that happens.” He pauses, then sighs, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’ve got a disorder. Makes shit like that happen. Tics, muscle movements, sounds, all that fun stuff. Can’t really control it.”  

You blink, processing that. “Does it hurt?”  

He snorts. “Nah. Just annoying. Worse when I’m stressed or whatever.”  

You nod slowly, watching as he twitches again, fingers curling against his palm before relaxing. “That’s why you were homeschooled?”  

His jaw ticks for a second, and then he exhales. “Yeah. Public school wasn’t exactly fun when you twitch like a fuckin’ glitchy video game. Teachers thought I was doing it on purpose, kids thought it was hilarious, and, well. It got old real fast.”  

You frown. “Sounds like bullshit.”  

He lets out a sharp, quick laugh. “Yeah, welcome to my life.”  

For a moment, you don’t say anything, just leaning against the railing as the wind pushes strands of hair into your face. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable talking about it—just matter-of-fact, like it is what it is. But still, you can’t help but feel something about it.  

“You ever, like… wish you were different?” you ask, not sure why you’re even asking.  

He considers that for a second, then shakes his head. “Nah. People suck either way. Might as well be the way I am and make it work.”  

You smirk. “Fair enough.”  

There’s a brief pause before he tilts his head at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with that same sharp grin, he says, “You’re not bad, y’know that?”  

You raise a brow. “What, were you expecting me to be?”  

He laughs. “Dunno. Jury’s still out.” And for some reason, you find yourself laughing, too. That’s when he leans back slightly, stretching his arms behind his head. “Toby, by the way. Short for Tobias.”  

Your lips twitch, barely holding back a smirk. “Tobias?”  

His eyes narrow playfully. “Don’t start.”  

“Oh, I am starting. Tobias? That’s so—”  

He groans, tipping his head back. “Alright, damn, I knew this was a mistake.”  

You chuckle, crossing your arms. “Nah, I like it. Tobias,” you repeat, dragging it out just to mess with him. “Sounds very... proper. Distinguished.”  

“Distinguished my ass,” he scoffs, but there’s an amused glint in his eyes. “Alright, alright, what about you? What’s your name?”  

You share it, though you notice the way he repeats it back, like he’s trying it out on his tongue, testing the way it feels.    

He considers it for a second, then nods. “Yeah. Suits you.”

You show a small smile and swirl the last remnants of your drink, watching the way the liquid catches the dim light. “So,” you start, glancing at him, “do you go to uni around here? Or are you just crashing this party for the hell of it?”  

Toby snickers, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, technically? But not, like… in the ‘good student’ kinda way.”  

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that mean?”  

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to spill some deep, dark secret. “It means,” he drawls, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t snitch, yeah?”  

You blink, thrown off. “Snitch? On what?”  

He grins—sharp, a little too amused. Then, with the most casual ease, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a joint, rolling it between his fingers. “Let’s just say I’m not exactly here for the education.”  

You snort. “You’re selling? At a frat party? Jesus, that’s like the most obvious place to get caught.”  

“Exactly,” he says, flicking a lighter open with a clink—then pausing. He pats his pockets, frowning. “Shit. Left mine back at the house.”  

Without thinking, you reach into your own jacket and pull out your lighter, holding it out.  

He raises a brow, lips quirking. “Damn. Didn’t peg you for a smoker.”  

“I’m not,” you say, flicking it open for him. “More of a drinker.”  

Toby hums, lighting the joint and taking a slow, deep inhale before blowing the smoke out into the night air. “Fair. Drinking’s easier. Weed’s got a whole vibe, though.”  

You shake your head, leaning back against the railing. “Nah. If I’m gonna get wasted, I’d rather do it fast.”  

Toby smirks around the joint, then glances at you with something almost mischievous in his eyes. “You ever shotgun before?”  

You blink. “Shotgun? Like, a beer?”  

“Nah,” he says, stepping just a little closer, tilting his head. “Shotgunning. With weed.” He takes another hit, then gestures loosely. “One person takes a drag, blows the smoke into the other person’s mouth. Real smooth way to convert someone.”  

You stare at him for a second. “That’s a thing?”  

Toby grins, exhaling through his nose. “Oh yeah.”  

You sigh, swirling the last few drops of your drink before setting the bottle on the railing. The buzz in your head is nice, warm, just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to drown out the way the night still feels heavy on your shoulders. The way everything has felt heavy lately. 

Maybe that’s why you’re still standing out here, entertaining this conversation instead of making up some excuse to leave. Maybe that’s why, when Toby takes another slow drag from his joint, you catch yourself watching the way his lips part, the ember at the tip glowing faintly in the dark.  

Fuck it.  

You tilt your head, eyes half-lidded, tired but sharp. “Alright,” you murmur, voice low, almost lazy. “Let’s do it.”  

Toby pauses mid-inhale, blinking at you like he wasn’t actually expecting you to say yes. Then, his grin spreads slowly and crooked across his face, like you just made his night. “Oh? Thought you weren’t into smoking.”  

You shrug, licking your lips. “I’m not.” You shift slightly, stepping just a little closer, gaze flicking from his mouth to the joint and back again. “But I’m also kinda drunk and bored, so…”  

He huffs a laugh, tapping his fingers against the joint. “Fair enough.” Then, with no hesitation, he takes a long, deep pull, holding the smoke in his mouth before leaning in, bringing himself just inches from you.  

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice smooth, inviting.  

You exhale slowly through your nose, then close the distance, tilting your chin up. His hand lifts, fingers grazing your jaw, tilting your face just right before he leans in closer, until his lips are barely a breath from yours. Then—he exhales.  

The smoke pours from his mouth to yours, curling between your parted lips, thick and heady. You inhale, slow and steady, the burn unfamiliar but not unpleasant, and for a split second, you don’t know if it’s the weed, the alcohol, or the way he’s looking at you, but the moment feels thick—charged. His eyes flicker down to your lips, lingering, and you feel your pulse spike just a little.  

You exhale, blowing the smoke out past him, your breath mingling in the cold air between you. “Not bad,” you mutter, licking the taste of it off your lips.  

Toby smirks, leaning back just slightly, but his eyes are still on you, dark and amused. “You look real good doing that, y’know.”  

You scoff, shaking your head. “You say that to all your customers?”  

“Nah,” he says, tapping the ash off the joint, gaze still steady on you. “Just the ones that make it look hot.”  

You don’t break eye contact, and neither does he. The world around you fades, just a hum of music and muffled voices, but it feels like you’re in your little bubble. You’re still leaning in close enough to feel his breath, the faintest warmth of it on your skin. 

For a second, it almost feels like you’re both suspended, not really here, not really there, just caught somewhere in between. 

Toby tilts his head slightly, a glint of something almost mischievous in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want another hit?”  

You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into something just shy of a smile. “I’m good,” you say, voice steady, though your pulse is a little too fast, a little too loud in your ears.  

He shrugs, pulling the joint away from his lips and holding it out to you. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”  

You lean in a little closer, just enough for your shoulders to brush, and for a split second, there’s that spark again. Something in his eyes shifts, something deeper—an almost flickering challenge. “You’re cocky, aren’t you?”  

He looks down at you, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe.” He taps his fingers lightly against the side of his jacket, his other hand still holding the joint between his fingers. “But cocky’s fun, don’t you think?”  

The words hang between you, the moment stretching. 

He’s close. 

Too close, but somehow, it doesn’t feel too much. And for a split second, you forget why you came out here. Forget about all the noise, the chaos of the party inside, the fact that you should probably be making your exit.  

Maybe you just want to stay here for a second longer, where the world is quieter. Where it’s just you, him, and the cool night air.  

The joint is still in his hand, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. He lifts it again, but this time, instead of offering it to you, he holds it up between you, right in your line of sight. “You don’t gotta take another hit, but...” He leans in, his voice dipping low, more playful now. “How about a little more fun?”  

Your brows furrow, and you tilt your head, lips just curling with curiosity. “What do you mean by that?”  

“Shotgunning,” he repeats, voice light but with a dangerous edge to it, almost teasing. He flicks his eyes down to your lips again before looking back up at you. “But this time... I’ll let you call the shots.”  

There’s something undeniably bold about the way he says it, about the way his fingers graze your wrist lightly as he holds the joint between you. You could back off. Step away. Act like it’s no big deal. But the way he’s looking at you makes your heart skip a beat, makes that little voice in your head scream fuck it.  

So, without thinking, you nod. “Fine. Let’s do it.”  

He grins, his eyes lighting up with something between amusement and approval. “I like that. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”  

You can’t help but laugh softly, the sound mixing with the music still booming behind you. “You sure about that?”  

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves in closer, just enough for his breath to fan across your face before he places the joint between your lips, his fingers brushing against your skin. You lean into the contact, your pulse picking up. His lips hover just barely above yours, and for a moment, you think he might kiss you—but he pulls back instead, exhaling slowly into the space between you.  

The smoke fills the air, surrounding you in a cloud thick enough to make you dizzy, your body sinking deeper into the moment, feeling all kinds of electric, like you’re both too aware of the tension buzzing between you. You inhale the smoke, pulling it into your lungs. It’s harsh, but your body adapts.  

When you finally exhale, Toby is watching you closely, his smirk now gone, replaced with something far more intense. “You’re good at this,” he says quietly, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. “You ever do this with anyone before?”  

You shake your head, voice low and steady. “No. First time for everything, right?”  

He chuckles, but there’s a sharpness to it. “That’s what they say.” He leans back, finally pulling the joint from his mouth, the glow dimming as he exhales the smoke. “You’ve got guts. I respect that.”  

You give him a slight, teasing smile. “Respect doesn’t mean much at a frat party, though.”  

Toby tilts his head, his smirk returning, but it’s a little more dangerous now. “Maybe. But I think we’re having a pretty good time, don’t you?”  

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you just look at him, feeling the weight of the moment, the way the night’s still lingering between you two like something neither of you want to admit out loud. You can feel the air crackling with a kind of dangerous fun, and you know—you’re not about to walk away from this anytime soon.

The air between you and Toby is thick with unspoken tension, his eyes flickering to your lips for a moment, then back to your eyes, as if waiting for something, daring you to make the first move. You stare back at him, the weight of his gaze making your pulse race, but you’re not about to let him off that easily.  

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he teases, his voice a smooth, low drawl. “Did I break you already?”  

You roll your eyes, stepping back a little. “Please. I’m just trying to figure out if you’re a guy who talks big or if you can actually back it up.”  

Toby laughs softly, the sound vibrating through the air between you. “I back up everything I say.”  

“Oh really?” You arch an eyebrow, keeping your stance cool and unbothered. “Then prove it.”  

A shift passes through him, a flash of something dangerous and playful all at once. Before you can react, he steps forward, his movements fast, almost too quick. Before you know it, you’re backed up against the cold wooden railing of the balcony, your hands instinctively gripping the edge as he pins you there with just enough force to make your heart skip a beat.  

“Wha—” You cut yourself off, taken by surprise, eyes wide.  

Toby’s face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. His hands are on either side of you, not touching you, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his fingertips. His gaze drops to your lips again, then back to your eyes, a challenge in his smirk.  

“Maybe you should be careful what you wish for,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly softer, almost dangerous. “You sure you wanna play with me like this?”  

You laugh, though it comes out breathless, feeling the adrenaline rush in your veins. “I didn’t ask you to pin me, but hey, guess this is what you meant by ‘proving it,’ huh?”  

He grins wider, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Mhm.” But then, the teasing in his voice falters just a little, and something shifts. He leans in a little closer, close enough that you can feel the tension building between you. “You don’t really get it, do you?”  

“What, that you’re just another bad boy with an attitude?” You quip, trying to keep the mood light, but you can feel your chest tightening, your breath hitching in your throat.  

Toby chuckles darkly, but it’s not mocking—this time, there’s something different behind it. “Nah. You’re not wrong, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is…” He pauses, eyes flashing as he watches you carefully. He leans even closer, just barely touching your arm with his, and you feel the electricity run through you, like he’s teasing you, daring you to break first. “I’m not the type to let things go without finishing them. And that includes… whatever this is.”  

You take a breath—your heart racing. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol, the weed, or just the way he’s looking at you right now, but the tension is practically suffocating. You can feel him leaning in, tempting, his lips just barely brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispers, “You think I’m just gonna let you walk away after that?”  

You should pull away. 

You should walk back inside and call it a night. 

But you don’t. 

You stay there, leaning back against the railing, watching him carefully, breathing in the same air, the same heat, the same anticipation.  

And then, without thinking, you lean up just a little, your face hovering dangerously close to his. “I think you might surprise me,” you murmur, your voice low, teasing, but there’s a challenge in it now.  

Toby’s eyes flash, his gaze burning into yours, and you feel the pull between you intensify. But before either of you can make the first move, the world around you shifts again.  

His hand is on the railing beside you, his body leaning just a little closer, but suddenly, there’s this split second of hesitation in his eyes. His lips part, and for the first time tonight, he looks unsure.  

“You’re not scared, are you?” You whisper, leaning in just a little more, watching the way his lips twitch.  

Toby’s chest rises and falls with a deep breath, and for a moment, you see it—the tension in his body, the war within him between wanting to give in to that dangerous impulse and knowing there’s a line that’s too far to cross.  

Then, with a sharp exhale, he pulls back slightly, running a hand through his messy hair, the motion almost like he’s trying to shake off whatever just happened. “You think I’m scared?”  

You smile, watching him carefully. “I don’t know, are you?”  

He grins, though it’s not nearly as playful as before. It’s something else, something that says he’s not backing down, but maybe he’s not quite ready for whatever happens next, either.  

“Nah,” he says, leaning back just enough to give you space, but his gaze is still heavy, still burning with something almost dangerous. “I’m not scared.”  

You both stand there for a second, caught in the lingering heat of the moment, neither of you speaking, but the air feels thick with the possibility of something that might happen if either of you makes the wrong move.  

And neither of you know what’s next. 

The tension between you and Toby has stretched taut, like an elastic band about to snap. You can’t help the way your body leans instinctively toward him, and as if on cue, he leans in just a fraction closer. 

The space between you has shrunk to nothing, leaving only the thundering of your heartbeat in your ears. His breath ghosts across your lips, warm and steady, and for a moment, the whole world around you disappears—the thumping music, the chatter from inside, even the cool night air that brushes against your skin. 

It’s just him, so close you can feel the pulse of his energy, his presence like a current that pulls you in deeper.

You’re completely caught in the moment, every nerve in your body humming with anticipation, when his hand suddenly finds your waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of your dress. 

The heat of his palm sears through the thin material, his touch gentle at first, almost hesitant—as if waiting for a sign. But then, the pressure intensifies. His grip tightens, dragging you closer to him, the movement swift and sure, until your body is flush against his.

Now, you feel everything. 

The hard planes of his chest, the quick beat of his heart that matches your frantic pulse. But it’s the sensation of his lips that gets you the most—his pierced lips brushing against yours, the slight click of metal against metal. 

You can feel the cool weight of his lip rings as they press softly against your mouth, a contrast to the heat of his skin beneath them. Each breath you take mixes with his; his lips barely brush yours, sending sparks through your veins. The sensation of those piercings, a gentle reminder of the tension that’s been building between you, makes your pulse quicken even more.  

Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to burst through your ribs, but you don’t move away. You inch closer, your lips almost brushing as you finally let your eyes fall shut. 

And that’s when Toby makes the move.

He closes the space between you, tilting his head just enough so that his lips crash into yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. It’s messy at first, neither of you quite in sync, but the desperation of it is overwhelming. His hand on your waist pulls you tighter, your chest pressed flush against his, the way his fingers dig into your skin making a fire run through your veins. 

His other hand cups your face, pulling you even closer, his thumb tracing the edge of your jawline, before his lips find yours again, this time with more certainty.

You respond without hesitation, your own hands reaching up, tangling in his hair, fingers scraping lightly against his scalp. It’s frantic, wild—like neither of you wants to stop, even though you both know it’s almost too much, too fast. His lips are soft but hungry, and the feeling of his breath against your mouth, the pulse of his body under your hands, drives you crazy. He pulls you even closer until there’s no space between you left at all, and for a moment, you feel like you’re melting into him.

His hand moves down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, and you can feel his body shifting against yours, more attuned now, his movements smoother, as if he’s figuring out the rhythm between the two of you. He pulls you closer still, his grip on your waist firm, but careful—he’s holding you there but not letting you fall. You can feel the tension in his body, the way it shakes under the intensity of the kiss, and for a moment, it feels like time itself stops.

But then, he pulls back just slightly, his lips still lingering on yours, his forehead resting gently against yours as he catches his breath. His hand on your waist softens, his thumb tracing little circles against your skin. There’s a grin on his face when you open your eyes, the hint of mischief and satisfaction in it, but there’s something else, too. Something softer.  

“That was... unexpected,” he says, his voice rough, his lips swollen from the kiss.  

You smile, your heart still racing, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh softly. “You think?” You’re breathless, a little dazed, but that feeling of heat isn’t going anywhere.  

Toby just shakes his head, a cocky grin forming on his lips. “You should be careful, you know. I can be a dangerous distraction.”  

You tilt your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “I don’t mind a little danger.”  

His grin widens, and he pulls you closer again, his lips brushing yours once more, just barely, before he pulls back and whispers, “I think you like the danger, don't you?”  

The smirk he gives you is enough to make your stomach flip, and for the first time tonight, you feel like you’re actually in control of the situation. He’s looking at you like he’s waiting for something, lips barely brushing yours, making you ache for him to close the space. He’s teasing you, daring you with every second that passes, but now—now—it’s your turn.

Without thinking, you close the gap between you, pushing up on your toes just enough to press your lips firmly against his. It's a soft, slow kiss at first, just a gentle brush, but the second your lips touch his, you feel him stiffen, his breath hitching, and you can't help but grin against him. You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, watching his face for that split-second moment of confusion before he smirks, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“You make a good killer, you know that?” Toby murmurs, his voice low and teasing, as if he’s figured something out that you haven’t. 

You pull back slightly, furrowing your brow in confusion. “What?” You stare at him for a second, half lost in the buzz of the moment. “What the hell does that even mean?”  

He just grins wider, leaning closer again, his lips hovering near your ear. “You just know how to fuck with someone, don’t you? You keep them on edge, make them think you’re in control... I like it.” He pulls away just enough to give you a look that could melt steel. “Makes me wanna do something naughty with you out here.” 

Your stomach flutters at the word “naughty” as you tilt your head, leaning in with a sly smile. "Naughty, huh?" you tease, raising an eyebrow. "What, like throw me over the railing or something?"  

Toby’s eyes flicker with something dangerous and fun, and for a moment, he looks like he's actually considering it. Then, his grin curls back up, and he shakes his head. “Nah, not that reckless. But I’m sure we could find something equally interesting." His hand finds the back of your neck, pulling you in close again, the heat of his body overwhelming you. 

“I’m down for whatever,” you reply, your voice low, teasing, but laced with something more daring. You could feel him stiffen again, his breath catching as your words land, and you know you’ve pushed him right to the edge.

“Well," Toby breathed, lips brushing against your ear again, sending a shiver down your spine, "I think a little trouble in a frat house balcony could be exactly what we both need right now." 

You chuckle, the sound playful but daring. "What, just like that? You sure you can handle it?" 

Toby’s smile is all mischief now. “Oh, I can handle it. The question is—can you?” 

You feel the smirk spread across your face, the excitement of this new, strange, and slightly reckless vibe pulling you deeper into the moment. Toby’s hand is still resting lightly on the back of your neck, and his thumb traces small, lazy circles against your skin, a contrast to the tension in the air between you two. It’s like a silent dare now, like you both know exactly what’s coming, and yet, neither of you are willing to back down.

You look up at him, eyes sharp and playful, the lingering buzz of your earlier kiss still fresh on your lips. "I guess we’ll have to find out, won’t we?" you say, your voice barely above a whisper, like you’re sharing a secret no one else is supposed to hear. 

Toby raises an eyebrow, the corner of his lips curling upward. He leans in just enough that you feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body is still taut with energy, ready to make a move. “I’d say you make the first move, but I think you’re already way ahead of me.” His voice drops, getting even lower, almost conspiratorial. “You’re killing me right now, y’know that?”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound light and carefree, as if you’re both suddenly in on some twisted little game. "Yeah, well, you had it coming," you reply, your eyes flicking from his lips to the dark smirk on his face.

Before he can respond, you take a step back, making the deliberate choice to break the tension between you—just enough to give him a taste of his own medicine. You casually lean against the balcony railing, your fingers grazing the cool wood, as you look up at the stars for a moment, letting the cool night air settle over you.

But Toby isn’t backing off. You can feel his presence behind you, the way his gaze never leaves you. The next thing you know, you feel him step up behind you, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes your breath catch. His hand slides over the railing, right next to yours, almost like he’s claiming his space in your little world. 

“I thought you said you liked danger?” His voice is thick with challenge now, a note of amusement threading through the words. “You sure you’re not regretting that little move you made earlier?”

You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder, and the look in his eyes makes your pulse spike again. There's an intensity there, the same unrelenting intensity that’s been building all night, and it’s clear you’re both on the verge of something that might take you somewhere you didn’t expect.

"I don’t regret shit," you say, your voice steady but carrying that edge of flirtation. "And if you're smart, neither will you."

His grin grows, something darker flickering in his eyes as he leans even closer, his lips grazing your ear as he whispers, “Then let’s find out how far this can go… before we both regret it.”

You’re both too close now, and the space between you becomes a silent promise. His lips brush against your ear, the sensation sending a wave of heat rushing through your body. The night, the party, the chaos all fade into the background as your mind fixates on the moment, on the unspoken agreement between you two.

You could walk away, pretend like this was all just a stupid flirtation—but you’re not ready to. 

Not yet. 

Something about Toby, about the fire that’s been burning between you since the first kiss, pulls you in like gravity.

Before you can even think, you’re turning around, moving into him again, your lips finding his with a fierceness that surprises you both. His hands are at your waist, pulling you in, and for a moment, everything else disappears. It’s just him and you, bodies pressing against each other, the intensity of it all turning your head to mush.

Toby’s grip tightens on your waist, pulling you in even closer, and for a second, you almost think you might lose balance as his body presses against yours. But his attention shifts, and you feel him start to trail his lips down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his lips graze the sensitive curve of your neck. The sensation sends a wave of shivers down your spine, your breath catching as you try to process what’s happening.

Before you can react, his teeth nip at the soft skin of your neck, just enough to sting but not too much to hurt. You gasp, a surprised laugh escaping you, but before you can say anything, he pulls back just enough to look at you with a wild grin, eyes gleaming with something mischievous.

“You sure you can handle this?” His voice is a low, almost amused growl, the edges of it thick with the lingering haze of his intoxication.

You’re about to respond when, without warning, his mouth is back on you, this time sucking lightly on the sensitive skin of your neck, the bites turning into licks as his hand slips under the hem of your dress. Your heart races, and your body reacts before your mind does, your head tilting back to give him more access, the sensation turning from playful to something hotter, needier. 

It’s almost like everything’s moving in slow motion, but in the best way possible—each movement from him feels deliberate and intoxicating, and you can’t help but feel that rush of excitement that comes with giving in just a little more.

The air between you crackles with heat, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts as his lips leave your neck only for a second before returning with a little more pressure, his teeth grazing the skin as his tongue follows with a hot, hungry lick.

You gasp, feeling the unexpected heat of it flood your senses, and your hands grip the railing behind you, trying to steady yourself as the dizziness from the moment intensifies.

“F-Fuck,” you hear him mutter under his breath, and it’s clear he’s getting lost in the moment, high on the feeling of being this close to you. “You taste so damn g-good.” His voice is rough now, almost feral, and it makes your chest tighten with a mix of desire and thrill.

Before you can process it, his lips are back on yours, deeper this time, his tongue slipping past your lips with an urgency that has you scrambling to keep up. The kiss is messy and chaotic, but it’s exactly what both of you want right now. There’s no stopping it, no turning back. His hands roam lower, his fingers brushing against the soft curve of your thigh before sliding underneath the fabric of your dress. The sensation of his fingers against your skin is almost too much, and you can feel yourself leaning into him, just wanting more, needing more.

It’s only when you hear a distant laugh from the party, a burst of loud music drifting through the close balcony doors, that the reality of the situation hits you again. The world outside is still there, the frat party still rages on, but here—right here—it’s just the two of you, caught in something that’s starting to feel less like a game and more like an escape.

The next thing you know, Toby’s hands are under your thighs, and before you can even react, he lifts you effortlessly off the ground. You gasp, the sudden movement catching you off guard for a split second. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, holding onto him as your heart skips a beat, both from the surprise and the wild rush of adrenaline. 

Your eyes flick to the balcony’s edge, the dizzying height of the drop below making your stomach lurch. You freeze for a second, panic surging through you as your grip tightens around his shoulders. The thought of falling—of losing control—flashes through your mind, but Toby’s quick to steady you, his arms firm and secure around your body. 

The flicker of amusement in his eyes almost makes you want to punch him, but the smile playing on his lips tells you he’s enjoying every second of this. “You looked like you were gonna scream for a sec there,” he laughs softly, leaning in to kiss your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he holds you effortlessly against him. 

You let out a breath, more out of relief than anything else, before narrowing your eyes at him. “You think you’re funny?” you mutter, but there’s no real anger behind the words. If anything, you’re starting to get lost in the way his hands feel on you, the way his touch sends heat coursing through your body.

He grins wider, lowering you down onto the balcony railing, your legs still wrapped around him as he keeps you close, his grip never faltering. The cool night air brushes against your exposed skin as you sit on the edge, your body feeling vulnerable yet somehow more alive than ever.

Toby’s hand slides beneath the lace of your dress, his fingers skimming over your thigh in slow, deliberate movements. His touch is gentle at first, but it soon intensifies, the feeling of his fingertips against the soft fabric of your tights making you shiver. His eyes are fixed on you, studying your reactions as if he’s trying to read you like a book. 

"God, you're killing me," he murmurs, voice rough as his hand moves higher, rubbing over your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress up just a little more. You feel the heat of his hand through the lace, and your body instinctively tenses, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation swirling inside you.

"You like that, don't you?" he says, his tone teasing, knowing exactly how to push your buttons. His fingers slip further under the lace, brushing against the smooth skin of your thigh, and you can feel the pressure building between you, a connection so strong it’s almost suffocating.

You don’t answer right away, not sure how to even put words to the feeling bubbling up inside of you. Instead, you just let out a shaky breath, your grip tightening around his neck, pulling him in closer as you press your lips against his, kissing him deeply, fiercely—making up for the tension you’ve both been holding onto all night. 

Toby responds immediately, his hands sliding further up your thigh, his fingers brushing against your skin with a new urgency. His lips are on yours again, hungry and demanding, as he holds you firmly against him, the world around you disappearing with every passing second.

You can feel his body heating up under your touch, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching your own. His hands are everywhere, exploring the curve of your body with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

Toby watches you closely, his gaze intent, studying your every reaction. He knows he’s got you, and he’s more than willing to make you squirm a little bit before you give him exactly what he wants. 

He shifts slightly, his fingers tracing lightly along lace underwear, moving in slow, deliberate circles. The touch is soft at first, barely a graze, but it doesn’t stay that way for long before he moves them out of his way.

His two fingers increase their pressure, adding another, gradually rubbing up and down your clit, the sensation making you feel every inch of your skin tingle with anticipation. His touch is deceptively gentle, but you can tell from the way he’s looking at you that he’s playing with you—testing your limits.

With every pass of his fingers, he brings more heat, his touch becoming firmer, just enough to make your breath catch—feeling him drawing the tip of his finger back and forth and pressing his thumb over the shy pearl. Power and control danced on his face, gratification beaming on the brown haze of his glare as he manipulated you to his will.

You kept in the most sinful moans—not allowing it to break through your mouth to prevent others below the frat party from hearing. Spread wide open only for him, you shoved against the stroke of his hand and then choked over his forearm, riding his finger, clenching, pulsating desperately for release. 

You feel your heart thundering in your chest, the space between you and him narrowing with every passing second, the tension thickening until it’s almost unbearable.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, “I’m waiting.”

Toby leans back slightly, his eyes scanning you in a way that feels more predatory than appreciative. He’s got that smirk on his lips, like he knows exactly how much he’s getting under your skin. And if he’s being honest, he kinda enjoys it.

You look up at him, trying to steady yourself, but there’s something in his gaze that makes it hard to focus. His fingers suddenly move inside you, a subtle shift in pressure making you shiver under his touch, forcing your face into his shoulder. “You’ve been teasing me all night,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper now, “and now you’re not gonna answer? That’s not fair.”

You bite your lip, your body trembling from the mix of frustration and desire.  The way his fingers slowly move in and out of your, each touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake, it’s almost too much to handle. You slammed your eyes shut and bucked your hips, legs quaking as he skilfully curled his long, hard-working digit inside you and stroked all the right places. 

“You’re such a little mess, so tight for me…” he growls, his eyes flicking down to your dress, the way it clings to your skin. “…I’m surprised you haven’t already fallen apart, acting like you don’t want this. You’ve been eyeing me all night—don’t pretend like you don’t need someone to fuck the attitude out of you.”

The words are sharp, venomous even, and they hit harder than you want to admit. But there’s something in the way he says it—something like a challenge. It’s almost like he wants you to fight back, to prove that you’re not just another girl who’s going to let him get away with everything.

But you don’t back down. You narrow your eyes at him, lips curling into a defiant smile, even though your pulse is racing.

"Is that all you’ve got?" you retort, voice steady, though you can feel a sharp edge of annoyance creeping in. His words have already struck a nerve, but you're not about to let him see that. "Is that how you think you’re gonna get me to bend for you? Just call me a tease and hope I’ll fall for it?"

Toby grins, that cocky, self-satisfied grin, “Maybe…” like he’s just been handed the upper hand. There’s something undeniably infuriating—and yet, strangely enticing—about how he carries himself. Without a word, he lifted his hand, his three fingers coated with a thick, creamy layer.

You watch, transfixed, as he slowly brings his fingers to his lips, deliberately teasing you. He licks them clean, savoring every bit of your wetness, the way his tongue flicks over his fingers in that maddeningly slow motion. The sight of him is almost too much, and you can’t help but feel a rush of heat spread through your body.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. 

The way he’s looking at you, the way he’s playing with your head, it makes everything feel ten times more intense. 

There’s something about the messiness of it all—the way he’s teasing and how everything feels so raw, so unpolished—that drives you wild. 

“Matter of fact…” Toby mumbles, his words a little slower as his body tenses for a moment, the muscles in his face twitching before he grins. His eyes gleam with a sudden spark of mischief, something darker slipping in. “Let’s change it up.”

Without warning, Toby forces you over the balcony railing—bending you over the edge of it and hands digging into your lower hips as he traps you between it and his body. 

You’re completely against him now, feeling the sudden pressure bulge agasint your ass catching you off guard. Your breath hitches, and your heart races. The space between you two feels dangerously small, and the night air seems colder now, but it only heightens the sensation of heat between your bodies.

The movement is rough; you feel the firm grip of his hands pushing your lace dress—just hands on your ass—quickly removing your underwear, making you shiver from the coolness of the outside air. He grins wider as his face is right next to your neck, letting a line of kisses you against your skin, biting at the sensitive skin, enough to make you shiver. He then begins to whisper in your ear. 

“Maybe bending you like this will make you listen.”

Your body trembles under the firm grip of his hands, a shudder rolling through you as the cool night air brushes against your flushed skin. The sharp contrast between the warmth of his touch and the chill of the balcony railing sends a wave of sensation through you, making you suck in a quiet breath. Your back presses against the wooden banister, the hard surface grounding you, but it does little to stop the way your pulse pounds in your throat.  

"What… are you—" The words catch in your throat, slipping away before you can fully voice them. Your mind is a whirlwind, caught between confusion, excitement, and the undeniable pull of something far more dangerous—the way his presence, his touch, his entire being coils around your senses like a vice.  

And then, the quiet sound of a zipper lowering reaches your ears. The realization of how far things are escalating makes your breath hitch, a sharp jolt of awareness cutting through the haze. But before you can react, the feeling of his lips grazing your neck—hot, teasing, sharp with the occasional scrape of his teeth—draws a quiet gasp from your lips.  

“W-wait,” you mumble, voice barely above a whisper, mindful of the fact that just beyond this balcony, the party is still raging. The pulse of the music thrums in the background, but it feels miles away compared to the intensity pressing against you.  

“The party is going on inside—what if someone comes—” You start, your voice faltering under the weight of the moment.  

Toby doesn’t give you the chance to finish. He chuckles, a low, knowing sound that rumbles against your skin as his lips graze your jawline. “What’s the matter?” he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re getting shy now.”  

His grip tightens slightly, grounding, teasing. “You wouldn’t have let me get this far if you didn’t want it.”  

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, your body reacting before your mind can form a response. Your lips part slightly, but no words come out. It’s hard to think with him so close, the press of his body leaving little space for doubt. His hand, rough and warm, traces down your thigh, the light scrape of his fingertips against the lace of your dress making your skin prickle with anticipation.  

His thumb presses agsint your clit—just enough to make you shiver, the simple movement sending a spark straight through you. He watches, eyes flicking over your expression, drinking in every reaction with a crooked grin. “That’s what I thought,” he mutters, voice thick with satisfaction before his mouth now slightly parted into a curious grin.

“You better be on the pill,” he mutters, his voice low and unbothered, like he’s already got you figured out.  

Your breath catches, not just from his words but from everything—his touch, the press of his body, the way his fingers tease against your skin like he already owns every reaction. That smug tone, laced with amusement, does something worse than his hands ever could. It lights something deep in your chest, a slow burn that spreads through your veins, making it impossible to think straight.  

“I’m… I am,” you manage, though your voice is shaky, uneven. “But we’re still…”  

Still what? Still on a balcony where anyone could walk out? Still caught up in something that feels reckless, dangerous—like a bad idea wrapped up in the kind of temptation that makes your head spin? You try to grasp onto logic, try to force your mind to play catch-up, but it’s already slipping, unraveling under the weight of his heat, his presence.  

You shouldn’t be here. 

You shouldn’t be doing this. 

Drunk or high, you can’t even tell anymore, but it doesn’t change the fact that this should be the kind of thing you stop before it goes too far.  

But let’s be for real. You’re not stopping.  

No. There’s no way in hell you’re leaving this frat party without Toby fucking your brains out.  

He must see it, must read every thought flickering behind your eyes, because that grin only grows, a flash of teeth in the dim lighting. “You’re getting all breathy and desperate just from a little touch…” His voice is like velvet, dark amusement lacing every word. His fingers trail higher, deliberate and slow, dragging shivers in their wake.  

Toby pulled your hips until the head of his cock was prodding at your entrance and he sighed, mumbling  mumbling so quietly you almost didn't catch it, “And you’re gonna be good and keep quiet, right?” He asked, 

You shivered as his words hit you, your face reddening even more. "I..." You gasped softly when Toby finally pressed inside you with ease, a disgustingly wet sound filling the air. He groaned in your ear when he bottomed out, pulling you in hard by your waist as if he was desperate to get even deeper. 

If you had any lingering doubts left in that pretty little head of yours, they sure as hell weren’t there now. And if, by some miracle, you still had a shred of shame about the absolute spectacle you were making of yourself—getting railed by some guy you just met, on a damn frat house balcony, with a whole ass party raging behind you—well, the pure, mind-numbing ecstasy currently wrecking through your body must’ve knocked that shame clean out of you.

Toby’s cock stretched you perfectly, deeply, and you could feel him in your stomach as prominently as the butterflies. You thought his fingers reached deep, but this was on a whole different level. His frame leant over yours, and his breath was hot on your neck. You felt close to him now, closer than ever before, and that thought sent you right to heaven. 

He felt so good, so perfect, so right. 

It was everything you had imagined and once he started moving, fuck, it was so much more. 

“T-That's so good.” He chuckled slightly and then started to kiss your neck while slowly thrusting inside you. Each time he fucked into you, he took note of the moans barely left your mouth—it’s good that you listen.

“G-God, shit, oh my God, feels so good," Toby stammered in between shaky breaths, his voice light and barely audible over your noises and the sound of skin slapping against skin. 

You stared down at the mess of drunken idiots stumbling around below, completely unaware of the absolute shitshow happening just a few feet above their heads. You came out here for fresh air, maybe to sip your drink in peace, not to—well, not this.  

Your fingers curled around the wooden railing, nails digging into the worn-out surface like it might somehow ground you. Spoiler: It didn’t. Not with him behind you, making it real damn hard to focus on anything but the way he was ruining you in the best way possible.  

You were starting to adjust, getting used to the feeling—if that was even possible—but fuck, he knew exactly what he was doing. And of course he did. The bastard was enjoying this way too much.

You were straight-up whimpering now—pathetic little sounds slipping out whether you liked it or not. And as long as you kept this up? Yeah, sure, the balcony wasn’t made of glass—thank god for small mercies, but let’s be real—anyone walking past that door would 100% hear you two. 

No doubt about it.  

They’d hear every little gasp, every moan, every damn noise spilling out of your mouth, and they’d know exactly what was happening just beyond that door.  

And you know what? That should probably freak you out. Should make you wanna shut up, be careful, maybe even reconsider your life choices.  

But nope. Instead, it just made you even more turned on.

Toby’s hand tangled in your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp in a way that sent a mix of tingles and heat straight down your spine. He gave a teasing little pull, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who was in control here. His movements were rough, almost fast-paced—there was no mistaking his focus. When he pressed inside, he rolled his hips into you, pushing his cock in as deep as he could manage. He was reluctant to pull away, but when he did, the feeling of your cunt sucking him back in made him delirious. 

He was dragging this out. Because of course, he was.

“Shhh, shhh,” he cooed when you let a sound slip, his voice laced with amusement but making absolutely no effort to actually help your situation. “You were being so good for me, don’t start getting all loud now.”

And then—because he just had to—he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin before his teeth tugged at your earlobe. 

Toby definitely hadn’t expected his night to turn out like this. Random parties weren’t exactly his thing—hell, he’d only come to make a few deals and get the hell out. When he saw you step onto the balcony, he hadn’t thought much about it at first, too busy with his phone call to care. 

But the second that call ended? 

Yeah. That was different.

And, naturally, you wanted to talk to him. Because, of course, you did.

Thing was, his original plan? It had been simple—get a little fun out of you, maybe a quick makeout session, and call it a win. But considering he had aimed for kissing and now had you pressed up against this railing, looking at him like he was the only thing keeping you breathing? Yeah. His plan went way better than expected.

“F-Fuck—fuck you feel so good," Toby moaned when he pressed into you again, feeling your walls squeeze around his cock.

Everything he was waiting for finally became realized, and yet, there was still a part of him who wasn't fully satisfied. There was still a part of him who was desperate for more. He asked quietly, mostly to himself, "Why can't I get enough of you?" 

You were wondering about the same question. Why couldn't you get enough of him? You wanted more, you needed more. You wanted to plead for him to go faster, harder, deeper, louder, but when you opened your mouth, your thoughts were so scrambled that the only word you could think to say was, "More." 

Thankfully, Toby got the hint, and he picked up the pace. The whole desk shook as his hips began to snap forward faster and rougher, giving you the relief you had been searching for. You felt an overwhelming euphoria in your core each time he thrusted in. “Ahh..  please don't stop,” You cried out a little louder than you should have, already forgetting that he told you to quiet down.  

“T-Tell me," Toby choked out between gasps, his voice getting hoarse, "Tell me how good it feels to be bend over by me?”

“It feels good… so good… god, it... feels amazing..," You gasp out, just dazed out of your mind.

He let out a soft, breathy moan before nodding his head* "Mhm~ yeah?" 

He chuckled slightly at how dazed you were, his hands gripping onto your hips a little tighter.

"Then... tell me you're mine.” He said, his breath warm against your ear. He started moving a little bit faster, and a moan escaped his mouth before it was cut off by his biting his lip.

You breathe hitches. You can barely form a coherent thought with pleasure coursing through you, but somehow, she manages to speak through gasps and moans. "I-I'm yours... all yours..."

It wasn’t long before Toby abruptly pulled out of you, grabbing your waist and twisting you around until your legs were wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck to prevent falling. His mouth was on yours in an instant, your eyes fluttering closed as he kissed you sloppily. His lips felt just as soft as before, but this kiss was much rougher and messier, driven by a fever of desire. 

One of his hands gripped your waist firmly, keeping you steady against the balcony, while the other moved with a slow, deliberate touch, skimming your chest, sending waves of heat through you. The pressure of his hands was both grounding and electric, making it hard to focus as your pulse quickened in response.

"Close, so close," Toby stammered into your ear, his head dropping to the nape of your neck. His breath was hot, and loose strands of his hair tickled your skin. His thrusts were erratic as he began to lose his rhythm. 

“Please keep going, just like that," You pleaded, feeling your release coming closer as well. You brought your hand to the back of Toby’s head, feeling his soft hair beneath your fingers. Your legs around his back tightened as you pressed him closer to you. 

"Tell me more," Toby groaned, his voice thick with desire as his hand found yours, fingers wrapping around yours with a firm, almost desperate grip. The weight of his touch, his palm slick with sweat, sent a jolt through your body. He held your hand like he needed it—like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality in this moment. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying the control he usually had, and you couldn’t help but wonder... Was it just the rush, or did he need to hear it?  

You blinked, unsure if he was asking for more praise or if this was something deeper—something he craved. Maybe a little of both.  

"I—It's so good, Toby," you whispered, your breath catching as your body responded without warning. You didn’t think, didn’t need to, as your fingers slid into his hair, gripping it tightly, pulling him closer in a way that made him gasp. It felt like you were tugging at his very soul, your nails almost catching in the strands, and the soft tug made him exhale sharply.  

“Only you, Toby. You're the only one, please—don't stop,” you found yourself saying, breathless and almost frantic, as the need for him took over. It wasn’t just physical anymore; it was something more primal. You were lost in him, the two of you like fire and gasoline, a combination of desperation and want that tangled together seamlessly.  

His eyes flared with intensity, a silent challenge in them as they locked with yours. He didn’t need to say anything; his grip on your hand tightened, his breath heavy against your skin, and you both knew what came next. 

There was no turning back now.

You thought you could hold on for a few moments longer, but when Toby started chanting curse words under his breath, you knew you were done. He rolled his hips up, hitting that perfect spot in your stomach once more, and that was it. Waves of adrenaline mixed with pure pleasure washed over your entire body as you came around his cock, back arching and legs shaking.

Your breath catches in your throat, a mixture of gasps and soft whimpers spilling out as Toby’s movements drive you wild. The sensation overwhelms you, pulling every ounce of focus from your mind, leaving you only with the feeling of his touch. It’s almost too much—too fast, too intense—and you can’t help the cry that escapes you, his name leaving your lips in a desperate rush.

But before you can fully let the sound escape, his free hand moves swiftly, covering your mouth, his palm pressing firmly against you. You try to push against it, but he holds you in place, the tension between you building with every breath. The muffled sounds of your whines vibrate against his hand, a helpless sound that only fuels the storm of sensations crashing through you.

It’s a mix of pleasure and frustration, the way he has control over you, the way your body reacts even when your mind is trying to keep up. The heat between you two seems to grow with every second, and with every soft struggle and pleading shift of your body, Toby pulls you closer, testing your limits, enjoying the chaos he stirs.

Toby fucked you through your high, not giving you a moment to breathe. He melted in between the sound of your muffled cries, the feeling of your cunt pulsing around him, and the sight of your face twisted in pleasure. 

He stuttered, tumbling over his words, "I'm- fuck, I'm-" 

He groaned, unable to even get the words out before he felt his pleasure burst like a bubble. He shoved deep inside you one last time, giving you all of him as he fell apart. He held himself there as he came, making sure you were pumped with every last drop of him. 

Toby was straight-up wrecked, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a damn marathon. His breath came out heavy, uneven, like he was actually struggling to catch it. You were slumped against him, just as spent, your body warm and lax against his.  

Fuck. He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt this drained—in the best possible way.  

You were everything. 

More than he ever expected, more than he ever thought he’d get.  

He pressed a lazy, lingering kiss against your neck, then another against your jaw, slow and hazy, like he was savoring the moment before finally pulling out of you. His grip on you softened, and he let his hand slide from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin with a surprising tenderness.  

“Good job,” he murmured, voice rough, breath still unsteady. His lips twitched into a smirk, but his eyes were softer now. “Knew you’d be good for me. You did so fucking good.”

Toby was still holding you close, your body warm and spent against his, when the shrill buzz of his phone cut through the heavy silence. He groaned, pressing his forehead against your shoulder for a second before fishing it out of his pocket. The screen lit up with a familiar name.  

He answered without even thinking, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder. “Yeah?” His voice was still rough, breath uneven.  

A deep, gruff voice rumbled through the speaker—Tim.  

"You did what I told you to do?"  

Toby stiffened, his fingers flexing slightly against your skin as his mind scrambled for an answer that didn’t involve—I just got ridiculously sidetracked making fucking out with a random girl at the party. He licked his lips, throwing a quick glance at you as you caught your breath, and tried to sound nonchalant. “Yeah—uh, almost. Just handling some... extra business.”  

There was a beat of silence before Tim let out a heavy sigh. “Bullshit. I know when you’re lying. Don’t tell me you got distracted—again.”  

Toby rolled his eyes, already knowing there was no point in denying it. “I was handling it,” he grumbled.  

The static over the line crackled before another voice chimed in—Brian. “We’re coming to get you before the cops show up. Get your ass outside, now.”  

Toby barely had time to process that before the unmistakable glare of blue and red lights flooded the street below. A few distant shouts rang out, followed by the telltale sound of a police siren winding up.  

“Shit.” He hangs up, and his grip on you tightened instinctively, his entire body tensing as his eyes flicked from the street back to you. “The party’s over, sweetheart.”

Your stomach twisted as the flashing lights painted the street below in streaks of red and blue. You swallowed hard, your breath still uneven as you whispered, “Wait… what do we do?” Your voice wavered between concern and fear. “What about the cops?”  

Toby was already shifting, straightening up, adjusting his jacket, and making sure his jeans weren’t too obvious in their disheveled state. He shot you a look—one that was unusually serious despite the usual glint of mischief in his eyes.  

“You stay,” he said firmly, fingers brushing over your cheek briefly before he fixed your dress, smoothing the fabric down as if he had all the time in the world. “Act normal. Pretend like you’re just another drunk University chick who had too much to drink. They won’t look twice at you.”  

You blinked at him, confused. “Wait—where the hell are you going?”  

He exhaled sharply, pulling his hoodie over his head before ruffling his messy brown hair, making it look even more chaotic. “I gotta go before they get me,” he muttered. “I sell here, remember?”  

Shit. You had forgotten.

In the haze of alcohol, his teasing, his hands, and everything that had just happened between you two, it completely slipped your mind. If they caught him, it wouldn’t just be a slap on the wrist—it would be bad news.  

For a second, you were going to let him go, watching as he turned toward the balcony door, preparing to slip out into the chaos inside. But something in you rebelled against it. A sharp, instinctual refusal.  

Before you could stop yourself, your hand shot out, grabbing the back of his jacket and yanking him back toward you.  

Toby barely had time to react before he stumbled a step, his body pressing against yours again, your grip tight and desperate. He looked down at you, brows raised, lips parting slightly in surprise. “The hell—?”  

“You can’t just run out there like that,” you hissed, your fingers curling into his hoodie, refusing to let go. “What if they do see you? What if they’re already inside?”  

His jaw tensed for a moment, like he was trying to calculate his next move, but you saw it—the flicker of hesitation. Maybe he didn’t expect you to stop him.

Maybe he didn’t expect you to care.  

Toby let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You really don’t know when to let things go, huh?” His voice was amused, but his hand settled on your waist again, steadying you both.  

You held his stare, breath hitching slightly as the distant sounds of officers yelling orders reached your ears. “Not when it comes to this,” you murmured.

Toby stared at you for a second, something unreadable flashing behind his dark brown eyes. Then, before you could think or react, he was on you again. His lips crashed into yours, rough yet intoxicating, his fingers tightening on your waist as he pushed you back against the railing.    

Your body tensed at first, but only for a moment. The warmth of his breath against your skin, the press of his lips traveling down your jawline—it melted away any resistance. Toby was teasing, deliberate, but his intent was clear. He wanted to leave something behind, a mark, a reminder.    

His lips skimmed the sensitive spot beneath your ear, sending a shiver down your spine before he sucked harshly on the skin. You gasped, fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie as he worked his way down, each kiss and bite searing into you like a brand. A selfish part of him wanted to take you with him, to leave proof of what had happened tonight—not for anyone else, just for himself. 

Only he would know he was the cause.    

You sighed as he moved lower, the feeling of his teeth grazing your collarbone making your knees weak. His hands—still warm, still possessive—kept you steady, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. But then, too soon, he pulled back, tilting his head to admire his work.    

Your arms stayed hooked around his neck, your body still pressed against his. Your skin tingled, a mess of scattered purples and deep bruises decorating your neck and collarbones. You knew they would be impossible to hide tomorrow.    

"There. Something for me and..." He smirked before dipping down again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, his lip piercings cold against your swollen lips. When he pulled away, his voice was lower, almost smug, “Something for me…”    

Before you could say anything, a sudden noise from below made both of you jolt. Flashing red and blue lights reflected against the building, and you could hear the distant, commanding shouts of officers pushing their way inside.    

Your heart pounded as you rushed to the railing, gripping the cold metal as you peered down. Cops were pouring into the house now, pushing past the drunken partygoers stumbling in confusion. 

You were about to turn back, to warn Toby—  

But he was gone.

Your stomach dropped. How the fuck did he move that fast?

Spinning around, you scanned the balcony, the shadows, but there was nothing. Just the ghost of his presence lingering on your skin, on your lips.    

A deep sense of unease crept over you as you rushed down the stairs. The whole house was in chaos, people pushing past each other, trying to slip out before the cops could start making arrests.

The party was officially dead.    

It wasn't just cause of the party now

Nah, someone had died inside.  

You barely caught wind of the hushed whispers as you made your way through the crowd. Someone had found a guy upstairs with a hatchet lodged in his back. Whoever called the cops had seen the body first. That sobered you up real fucking fast.  

Stepping out onto the front street, you pulled your phone from your pocket, fingers shaking slightly as you dialed one of your friends. No way in hell were you would walk back to the dorms alone after this.

As you stood there, the chill of the night settling in, something caught your eye.  

A figure stood just at the edge of the shadows, away from the flashing police lights. You almost didn’t recognize him at first, but then you saw the faint orange glow reflecting off the goggles perched on his head.  

Toby.  

He was watching you, partially obscured in the darkness, his lower face now hidden behind what looked like a mouth guard.  

The second you met his gaze, he lifted a hand, fingers wiggling in a lazy wave before he turned, disappearing into the night like a ghost. You stood frozen for a second, your heart pounding in your ears. “What the fuck just happened?” 

As you stood there, still processing everything, a sudden breeze swept under your dress, sending a shiver up your spine. 

That’s when you felt it. Or rather, I didn’t feel it.

Your eyes widened, a sudden wave of heat rushing to your face.    

That bastard.   

Your panties were gone.  

Your breath caught in your throat as realization sank in, your thighs pressing together instinctively. When the fuck had he taken them? You were just with him—there was no moment where—  

You wanted to die. Right there, right then.    

Meanwhile, down the street, Toby was already slipping into a black car parked in the shadows, the interior dimly lit by the dashboard glow.    

Tim was in the driver’s seat, arms crossed, while Brian sat in the passenger seat, his cold blue eyes flicking up as Toby climbed inside.

“Hey,” Toby greeted casually, as if he hadn’t just fled a crime scene and a party.    

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Tim snapped, his gruff voice dripping with irritation. “What the fuck took you so long? We were supposed to be out of there before the cops even got close.”    

Toby shrugged, slumping back against the seat. “Got a little sidetracked” he admitted, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.    

Tim gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Don’t tell me you were out there fucking some random chick at the party.”    

Toby, for once, didn’t deny it.    

Brian snorted. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head.    

Toby just rolled his shoulders. “I did what I needed to do. Everything’s fine.”    

Tim muttered something under his breath before finally putting the car in drive, pulling away from the frat house as sirens wailed in the distance.    

As they sped off down the road, Toby leaned back, slipping a hand into his jacket pocket.    

A small, lacy piece of fabric met his fingertips, and he grinned to himself as he pulled it out just enough to see.    

Black lace panties.    

He chuckled, low and amused, rolling the fabric between his fingers before tucking them back away.    

At least he got to shotgun with a girl tonight.    

A pretty cool one, in fact.

Br-Bring-br-bring! 

Your phone rings from the kitchen counter, you walk over and look at the caller ID– “unknown caller” If it’s a scam you’ll just scream into the mic again, it seemed to work last time. 

“Hello?” You answer, putting it up to your ear, standing in the kitchen of your apartment; the lights of your apartment bright despite how dark the windows are. 

“Hello.” A gravelly voice answers, okay… definitely not a college friend or something. 

“Yes?” You say into the phone, trying to prompt whoever is on the other end into telling you why they called you. 

“Who is this?” The gravelly voice asks, it’s not like they’re a scam call– should probably just see what they want. 

“Who are you tryin’ to reach?” You ask back, not fully wanting to give out your name to a stranger quite yet. 

“What number is this?” The voice asks. 

“What number are you trying to reach?” You roll your eyes and tilt your head a bit, even though the caller couldn’t see you. 

“I don’t know.” The voice says, even lower than before. 

“Well, I think you have the wrong number.” You respond, a small smile on your face despite the slight annoyance. “Do I?” The voice asks. “It happens, take it easy.” You press the button to hang up, setting it down on the counter again and going to walk back to your living room; getting a few steps before your phone rings again. 

You let out a small groan as you answer it again. “Uh- hello?” You respond, now slightly more annoyed than entertained. 

“I’m sorry, I guess I dialed the wrong number.” The voice sounds from the phone again. 

“So why’d you dial it again?” You ask, equally amused and annoyed at the phone call that was interrupting your night. 

“To apologize.” The voice says, it sounds like the person was smiling on the other end despite their spoken remorse. 

“You’re forgiven, bye now.” You smile as you say it, nodding your head as you go to take the phone away from your ear once more. 

“Wait wait, don’t hang up.” The voice begs, stopping your motion. 

“What?” You ask, turning around– the window behind you drinking up the light from your kitchen like a blackhole. 

“I want to talk to you for a second.” The voice purrs into the phone, you narrow your eyes. 

“Ugh, they’ve got 900- numbers for that. See ya.” You hang up the phone and step over to your stove, pouring out the packet of popcorn into a pan. 

Br-bring-br-bring! Your phone rings again, you roll your eyes and answer it again. 

“Hello.” You say, somewhat annoyed at this point. 

“Why don’t you wanna talk to me?” The gravelly voice asks. 

“Who is this?” You ask, covering the pan with a lid as the popcorn starts to pop. 

“You tell me your name, I’ll tell you mine.” The voice offers, no way in hell are you telling a random person your name. 

You laugh, rolling your eyes at the cheap attempt, “I don’t think so.” The popping gets louder as the pan heats up. 

“What’s that noise?” The voice asks. 

“Popcorn!” You answer with a smile. 

“You’re making popcorn?” The voice asks. “Mhm.” You hum your response as you shake the pan a little. “I only eat popcorn when I’m at the movies.” The voice states. 

“Well, I’m getting ready to watch a video.” You say, turning away from your stove and walking over to the other side of your kitchen.  

“Really, what?” The voice asks as you lean down on the counter, resting your arms on it. 

“Oh just some scary movie.” You shrug with a smile. 

“Do you like scary movies?” The voice asks, “u-huh.” You nod. “What’s your favorite scary movie?” The low voice asks. 

“Uhh… I don’t know.” You say, shrugging again, tilting your head as your arm props your phone up– your elbow against the counter. 

“C’mon you have to have a favorite. What comes to mind?” The voice goads, wanting an answer. 

“Uhh… Get out.” You take a knife out of your knife block. “You know the one with the family who trades brains with black people.” You say, holding the knife in between your fingers for a few seconds before dropping it back down in the knife block. Standing up fully. 

“Yeah.” The voice hums. “What’s yours?” You ask, walking out of your kitchen and over to the table near your front door and grab the DVD your parents had given you. 

“Guess.” The voice says mischievously. 

“Uhmm… The Hills Have Eyes?” You guess, shrugging as you walk to your living room. 

“Is that the one where the people eat each other?” The voice asks. 

“Yeah, the people who got turned into human eating monsters.” You add, slowing down your walk as you talk more with the mysterious person. 

“I liked that movie, it was scary.” The voice says. 

“The first one was, the remakes were just alright.” You add, finding yourself smiling at the cryptic voice the more you talk. 

“So… you got a boyfriend?” The voice asks, and you smile even more before biting your bottom lip. 

“Why? You wanna ask me out on a date?” You tease, slowly making your way over to your living room. 

“Maybe. Do you have a boyfriend?” The voice asks. 

“...No.” You lie. I mean… you were planning on breaking up with Bertholdt tonight anyways, so why not have a backup. 

“You never told me your name.” The voice states. 

“Why do you wanna know my name?” You tease as you walk over to your Tv, clicking it on and setting the DVD case on top of the stand. 

“Cause I wanna know who I’m looking at.” You still, you feel as if your blood froze inside your veins. 

A dog starts to bark, probably one of your neighbors’ dogs. “What did you say?” You ask, looking around to all of the visible windows. 

“I wanna know who I’m… talking to.” The voice corrects. 

“That’s not what you said.” You state. 

“What do you think I said?” You turn on the patio light, looking out– being on the ground floor you could see the woods behind your apartment complex. “What?” The voice asks as you squint, searching through what you could see of the woods. “Hello?” The voice again, snapping you out of your search. 

“Look, I gotta go.” You stutter out, locking the door. 

“Wait wait, I thought we were gonna go out.” The voice calls out as you turn off the patio light. 

“Uhh… nah.” You lock the patio door just in case. “I don’t think so.” 

“Don’t hang up on me-” You hear the voice say as you pull the phone away from your ear and hang up, still staring out the patio door. 

You go to walk back over to your kitchen and your phone rings in your hand again. You stop and wipe your face before answering it again. 

“Shit.” You whisper before answering. “Yes?” You try to seem intimidating as you answer. 

“I told you not to hang up on me.” The voice growls from the other end. 

“What do you want?” You ask, trying to sound more annoyed than scared. Maybe this was a prank. 

“To talk.” The voice purrs again, switching from such an angry growl to almost playful so easily. 

“Well, dial someone else okay?” You hang up before they can say anything back. Walking back to your kitchen as you hear the popcorn no longer popping. You reach for the knob to turn the stove off but your phone rings again in your hand. You’re getting really sick of this. 

You bring it up to your ear once more. “Listen, asshole-”

“No you listen, you little bitch, you hang up on me again I’ll gut you like a fish you understand?” The voice sounds from the other side, anger laced into every word of the threat. You look around your apartment, the fear continuing to grow in your stomach. “Hah, yeah…” The voice laughs. 

“Is this some kind of joke?” You ask, hoping the voice would say yes. Hoping it was one of your friends and you could have a laugh about this. Fuck, even your boyfriend. Anything other than this being real.

“More of a game, really. Can ya’ handle that… pinky?” Your eyes flick down to your sweater sleeve, baby pink. Utter terror, you run to make sure every door and window is locked in your apartment. Locking the front door’s deadbolt before flicking the window locks of your living room and kitchen closed.

Running to your bedroom and shutting the window you had left open in there. Quickly making your way back over to the kitchen, leaning over your sink to look out the window.

“Can ya’ see me?” The voice asks playfully. Fuck, whoever this is really can see you. 

“Listen, I am two seconds away from calling the police.” You tell the voice, trying your hardest not to cry. 

“They’d never make it in time, it’s a Saturday night.” Fuck, the voice was right, it would take at least an hour for an officer to even get here. You stumble back to press your back against your front door. The sound of the popcorn sizzling completely forgotten.  

“What do you want?” You ask through tears. 

“To see what your insides look like.” The voice growls through what sounds to be a cheshire cat-like smile. Doubling over as a sob wracks your body, hanging up the call with your thumb. Fumbling your way down the entrance hall to your living room. 

Ding-dong! Your old doorbell rings, and you can’t help but yell and turn back to the door. Your apartment was old, the doorbell was connected through exposed wire throughout your whole apartment– which made it all the louder. 

“Who’s there? Who’s there!” You call out in a moment of desperation before pulling out your phone again. “I’m calling the police.” But as soon as you can dial one number you get a phone call causing you to yell again. Picking it up and putting it to your ear, feeling helpless. 

“You should never say ‘who’s there’, don't you watch scary movies? It’s a deathwish. You might as well come out here to investigate a strange noise or something.” The voice says as you back your way into your living room. 

“Look, you’ve had your fun now so I think you better just leave or else.” You hit your leg on the coffee table as you walk backwards, not hard enough to hinder you– just bruise. 

“Or else what?” The voice goads. 

“Or else my boyfriend’ll be here any second, and he’ll be pissed when he finds out.” You hold your stomach, feeling nauseous from all of the fear. 

“I thought you didn’t have a boyfriend.” The voice says back. 

“I lied! I do have a boyfriend, and he’ll be here any second so your ass better be gone.” A cry makes the end of your sentence turn into a whimper as your tears continue. 

“Sure.” The voice goads, almost gently– making all of this worse. 

“I swear.” You cry out a little more, taking a breath to yell into the phone, “He’s big and he plays football, and he’ll kick the shit out of you!” You yell out, standing in the middle of the living room. Doesn’t matter if he only started playing football because his friend plays it, he still plays. 

“I’m getting scared, I'm shaking in my boots.” They voice toys.

“So you better just leave.” You whimper into the phone. 

“His name wouldn’t be… Bertholdt, would it?” The bone chilling voice asks. 

“How do you know his name?” Your voice sounds almost silent, your lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves. Your skin burns like you’re in an ice bath, your head feels light. 

“Turn on the patio light. Again.” The low gravelly voice says. You flick it on, your sleeve of your sweater over your hand as you do. Looking out to see Bertholdt tied up on one of your patio chairs. His tall frame sat in the chair, his mouth covered with duct tape, his brown hair messy. 

“Oh god!” You squeeze the phone in between your head and your shoulder and you unlock the door, pulling it open just an inch before the voice sounds again. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” It growls and you shove the door closed, locking the door again. 

“Where are you, where are you?” You press your hand against the glass door. 

“Guess.” The voice sounds. “Please don’t hurt him.” You beg. 

“That all depends on you.” The voice says, clearly smiling through its tone. 

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, tears streaming down your face. 

“I wanna play a game.” You shake your head, crying out a refusal. 

“Then he dies right now.” You wail out, blubbering out “No” after “No” Bertholdt starts to yell from under the duct tape covering his mouth. “Which is it?” The voice asks once. 

“Which is it?” The voice asks again, this time harder. 

“Well… what kind of game?” You ask, the voice almost sounds like it lets out an excited giggle. 

“Turn off the light. You’ll see what kind of game. Just do it!” You press your forehead against the glass as Bertholdt starts to beg you not to, his words muffled. Reaching over and flicking off the light, with an arm that felt like it was made of lead. Leaning against the wall and sliding down beside your Tv, crouching next to it. 

“Here’s how we play. I ask a question, if you get it right Bertholdt lives.” The voice says as you tug out the lamp cord from the outlet beside you. Your Tv displaying a blue screen into your living room. 

“Please don’t do this.” You beg, you feel like it’s the only thing you can say. 

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” The voice says. “Please.” You interrupt to beg. “It’s an easy category.” The voice continues. “Please.” Your voice is quiet, almost a whine. “Movie trivia. I’ll even give you a warm up question.” The voice offers, like it was a saint for doing so. 

“Don’t do this. I can’t.” You plead. 

“Name the killers in Get Out.” The voice demands. 

“No.” You press your head against the wall, wanting to just disappear into it. 

“C’mon, it’s your favorite scary movie, remember.” The voice purrs, it makes you sick how it’s using that against you. 

“I don’t know!” You cry quietly, secretly hoping that if you were quiet enough it would disappear. 

“C’mon yes you do.” The voice encourages. “I-I can’t..” “Bertholdt’s counting on you.” You swallow, thinking for a moment before answering. 

“Arm-armitage family.” You stutter out. 

“Yes! Very good.” The voice purrs, you dip your head down as you blink away tears. “Now for the real question.” You had forgotten that was a warm up round, it meant nothing. 

“No!” You cry out. 

“But you’re doing so well. We can’t stop now.” The voice states. 

“Just stop, leave us alone!” You beg, wiping at the tears on your face. 

“Then answer the question. Same category.” The voice lowers, now serious. 

“Please stop.” You beg. 

“Name the killer in Friday the 13th.” 

“Jason! Jason! Jason!” You jump up, declaring the answer as you step in front of the glass door again. 

“I’m sorry, that’s the wrong answer!” The voice apologises, but it sounds ecstatic as it says it. 

“No it’s not. No it’s not. It was Jason.” You turn your back to the door, debating with the mysterious voice.

“Afraid not! No way.” It growls, clearly happy about your mistake. 

“Listen, it was Jason. I watched that movie last week with a bunch of college friends!” 

“Then you should Jason’s mother, Mrs. Vorhees was the original killer, Jason didn’t show up until the sequel!” The voice spits into the phone as you realize your mistake. “I’m afraid that was a wrong answer…” It trails off. 

“You tricked me.” You whine, bumping into the coffee table again. 

“Lucky for you there’s a bonus round. But poor Bertholdt… I’m afraid he’s out.” The voice says, gurgling loud enough to hear through the door coming from him as he struggles against the restraints. You dip over to turn on the lights, looking back to see Bertholdt gutted– still mumbling as his head lolls forward. You can’t even get out a noise, just slide down the door and back yourself into the corner again as you hear the voice laugh over the phone. 

“Hey, we’re not finished yet.” The voice sounds, you pull the phone back up to your ear and take a breath. “Final question. Are you ready?” You can’t help the shaky breath that your lungs pull in the second you open your mouth. 

“Please… please leave me alone.” You whisper out. 

“Answer the question and I will. Where am I?” The question confuses and scares you. 

“What?” You whisper out. 

“Your apartment is big, has a couple rooms, if you answer correctly… you live.” You reach up to grab a screwdriver you had left out when fixing your shelves earlier that week. “Very simple.” The voice says as you shrink back into the corner.

“Please don’t do this. I can’t… I won’t.” You try to reason with it. 

“Your call.” You hear a thud from your bedroom, you forgot to lock the window after closing it. You get up and run to the now smoky kitchen, grabbing the knife you had picked up earlier. The popcorn on your stove now a small flame. Ditching the letter opener for the bigger knife, you look down the hall to your bedroom. 

Ca-thunk! Something smacks into your window– causing you to spin around to look at it in horror. A bird on your windowsill, shaking before flying away. You forcefully blink before turning back around to see a figure standing in your kitchen. A white mask on, you recognized it as ghostface. Fuck, how didn’t you put two and two together before? And a black robe cascading down the figure. 

“Please, no. I don’t wanna die.” You beg, holding the knife out towards it. The figure tilt’s its head at you, then brings a gloved hand up and waves at you. You run at it, shoving your elbow into its chest and pushing as hard as you could. It’s back hitting the front door as you run into your living room. Smacking your hand on the glass door to your patio, dropping your phone to try and unlock it as two hands grab hold of your shoulders. 

“No!” You scream as it pulls you away from the door, wrapping its arms around your waist to lift you. Carrying you away from the door, down the hallway to your bedroom. It throws you into your bedroom and closes the door, locking it as well. 

“I-please! I don’t want to die! I’ll do anything.” You beg as it pulls a knife from its pocket, holding you onto the ground by a strong hand on your chest, the figure sitting on your legs. It tilts its head and leans down, the mask pushes against your neck as you cry. The knife pressing right underneath your chin as you push your head against the carpet. Your hand on the gloved one holding the knife to your throat, pushing against it. 

The figure’s hand comes up to its mask and lifts it just enough for it to drag its tongue across your cheek to collect your tears. Pushing the mask back down before moving back to look down at you. You lift your hips to try and buck the figure off of you, but you just push the figure’s face down to yours and your hips up into a rather big bulge in the figure's pants. 

“Please, if you don’t kill me, I’ll never tell anyone. I haven’t even seen your face. I promise, I’ll do anything to live.” You beg, tugging at the black robes as it sits back up– putting more pressure on your legs again. 

“You lied to me.” The voice growls, a higher whiney one intertwining with the gravelly one. You give the figure a confused look, your hold on the gloved hand relaxing a little as confusion takes over. “You said you didn’t have a boyfriend. I don’t like liars.” The mask tilts. 

“I’m sorry! I only said it because I was going to break up with him, I promise.” You blink the confusion away and start to push against his hand holding the knife again. The hand staying in place, the tip of the curved blade touching your skin just enough to remind you it’s there. 

“You want a replacement?” The figure asks, you can hear the hint of the person underneath’s voice and you get an idea. 

“Yes! I do. Want-want a replacement. Someone stronger, scarier.” You respond, looking up at the mask with wide eyes. It leans down to you, the mask almost touching your face. 

“I don’t believe you, yet.” It whispers at you. 

“Promise, wouldn’t lie. Would die if I lied right now.” You tap his hand holding the knife to your neck, shifting your hips under him– feeling him against you again. 

“Good job, you’re learning.” The voice purrs, pushing the knife into your skin a little more. Not enough to break skin but enough to scare you. 

“Please, don’t kill me. P-promise I won’t turn you in. Won’t tell anyone about this.” You beg, the figure sits back up again. Grabbing the back of your neck and lifting you up enough to take away the hand shoving the knife against your skin to tug your pink sweater off. Throwing it across your room and pushing you back down to the ground. 

“Promise?” The voice almost sounds like its mocking your pleas. You nod vigorously, he brings the knife down to your sweatpants and slices the drawstring with one clean movement. You watch with wide eyes, feeling your blood in your body rush around– your heart beating fast and heavy. The figure sits up off of your legs to tug your sweatpants down to your knees, seating himself back down the second they’re far enough down. 

The knife presses against your throat again, causing you to cry a little bit. Feeling the sharp tip of the knife against your skin, your body trembling underneath the masked figure. He leans forward again, lifting the mask once you can’t see the bottom of his face. Liking your tears away again, his hips slowly rolling against you. A hum leaving him, his voice no longer low or gravelly. He quickly tugs the mask back down and leans up just enough to look into your eyes. 

“You're enjoying this more than you want to admit.” The low gravelly voice claims, rolling his hips against you again and you bite your lips into a small line. You hear the voice laugh a little, a small wicked giggle that sends chills through your bloodstream. 

“I’m sad you got the Friday the 13th question wrong, here I was thinking you were enjoying the movie.” The voice laments, the mask tilting to the side in almost a pout. 

“I was, I enjoyed it… wait, you were there?” You question, did he slip up and make a fatal mistake? Shit, what if he kills you over this?

“Of course I was, you looked so good all curled up on that couch. Laughing along at everyone’s jokes. Couldn’t get it out of my mind.” He grumbles out, rolling his hips against yours again. You can’t help the rush of blood you feel everywhere, your cheeks heating up and the thin fabric of your underwear slowly getting sticky at the gusset. 

“Do-do I know you?” You ask, trying not to give in to the sensation; stilling your hips from pushing off the carpet of your bedroom to lift against his. 

“Do you?” The voice mocks as he rolls his hips into you again. “Guess you’ll have to figure it out. Don’t worry, I’ll help.” He rocks his hips into you hard causing you to bite your lip to muffle a whine that escapes from your throat. He leans down, backing up to look at your now soaked underwear with an inscrutable expression due to the mask. Bringing the knife down and slicing your underwear off, and in one clean motion it was in tatters on the ground around you. 

You hear his breathing hitch before he brings a gloved hand up to your face and covers your eyes. You hear some fabric shuffling and then you feel it… a hot heaving breath ghost over your thighs and pussy. You can’t help but lift your hips off the ground and towards the sensation. He brings his free hand to your stomach to push you against the ground. 

He brings his tongue down and licks a stripe up, swallowing heavily as he pulls away and tugs the mask back down to grunt out. “So sweet, fuck, addicting.” The gravelly voice heaves out, his legs propped in between yours to keep you open, fighting to not squeeze shut to give him some pressure. He tugs the mask back up and leans back down, all but attacking your mess of a cunt as he shoves his tongue through your lips. 

“Fuck, feels so good.” You puff out, wondering how experienced he was to be this good. He greedily laps away, you feel his eyes boring into you as he surveys every little movement and noise you make. 

He flattens his tongue on you, you feel his nose bump your clit and your body jolts at the sensation. His tongue warm and inviting, you start to narrow down the people you know who could be capable of such strength. Not Eren, he has a metal tongue piercing you would’ve noticed right away.

He brings the tip of his tongue up to your clit, circling around it before pushing down and your back arches at the feeling. “Ah– please…” You bite your lip, your hands gripping the arm that was covering your eyes currently. You feel him pull back and you can’t help but let out a pathetic whine at the loss of heat. A string of glistening spit snapping as he pulls away. 

Tugging his mask down as hard and quick as possible to rasp out, “So wet… all f’r me?” As he replaces his tongue with his thumb, dragging it up and down your folds as the fabric of the glove soaks not even a small portion of it up– his thumb on the inside now drenched and smelling of you. He circles it around your bud gently, just enough to get you to squirm. 

And squirm you do. “Please, want it so badly. Want you.” You grip his arm tighter, and his resolve all but snaps. He tugs the mask back up, your whines of his thumb being pulled away quickly interrupted by moans as he shoves his tongue into you. Somehow reaching so deep with it that you swear it was impossible. His nose bumping against your aching clit, his free hand squeezing the fat of your thigh, kneading at the muscle. 

“Oh fuck, feels so good. So good at this.” You whimper out, feeling him rut his hips down. His hot huge cock pressed against your leg through his pants. You feel him dive even deeper into your sopping wet cunt, his hair tickling at your skin. You bring a hand down to yank at his hair. A high pitched whine leaving him, his grip on your thigh tightening. 

“Please, more.” You moan out, tugging his head up to your clit. Feeling him take a sinful sniff as you move him, his tongue retreating from your walls to lick at your red bud. His face pressed against you as he slurps and nips at your swollen clit. A huff leaving you as you feel your brain start to turn to mush, feeling your body start to tingle angrily. Your hips lifting to grind against his face. He hallows his cheeks as he sucks at you, tumbling you over the edge with a loud yell. 

He greedily laps his tongue on you as your back arches off the ground, his hand on your thigh snaking up to support you. The cold sticky feeling of your own wetness feeling like ice against your hot skin as you ride out your orgasm. You pant out as you finally start to come down from your orgasm, your eyes blinking open to the dark glove still covering your face. 

Your brain feeling like jello as you feel him lower your back onto the ground once more. Pulling back from your pussy with pained breaths. Gulping in air as if he was deep sea diving, did he breathe that entire time? 

“Fuck–” You hear a higher pitched voice almost whimper before he presses his lips into yours hard. A deep passionate kiss, filled with your own release on his tongue as he pushes it into your mouth. Sucking at your tongue, grinding his bulge into your sensitive cunt as you shiver. Your hands pull at his hair again to hear his high pitched whine. Your brows furrowed as your fucked out mind tries to figure out who the fuck that is. 

“Taste so good. Think ‘m addicted.” He whispers against your lips, nipping at your bottom lip– licking it gently after he lets go. “Just means I’ll have ta’ come back to it later.” He connects your lips again, shoving his tongue past your lips; you feel yourself suffocating in the sensation, but not wanting to pull away. 

Gliding your hand through your hair, it stops just a little past where his ears start, his undercut neatly shaven. “If… if you’re going to come back later, you-you can take that hand away from my face.” You pant out, your lungs utterly parched for air at this point. 

“That’ll be your treat for being good.” He whispers, you hear some fabric fumbling around and then feel him swap his hand on your face for his other one and flip you around. Propping yourself up with wobbly forearms and knees that he promptly pushes further apart.

He leans down to press his face in the crook of your neck, his wet chin chilling your skin as he presses a soft gentle kiss to your neck. A stark contrast to how roughly his now naked length grinds against you. 

“Promise I’ll be good. Can’t… can’t just let you walk away if you’re this good. Almost made me see stars.” You push back, grinding your hips against him in return. He sucks gently on your neck, holding your shirt collar out of the way before quickly taking his hand off of your face to tug your shirt off before covering your eyes again. 

“Oh, I’ll make sure you see stars.” He drags his tip up and down your sensitive swollen lips, a whimper leaving him as he buries his face into your neck. His leaking red tip pressing against your entrance. His free hand holding your hips in place as he slowly pushes in, huffing against your neck. 

“Fuck, too-too much.” You whine, shifting forward to try and escape the splitting feeling coming from your walls. 

“You can do it.” He grunts out, biting down gently on your neck. Holding you in place, pulling you back on him. He feels impossibly long, and so thick it’s driving you crazy. 

“Don’t-don’t think-don’t think I can.” You drop your head against the ground, your eyes watering under his glove as you squeeze your eyes shut. His hand over your eyes pulls your head back up as he slows down and licks your tears away. Your breath almost completely stolen as you swear you can feel his tip poking at your lungs. 

“Shh, you got this. Just a tiny bit more.” He pushes in the rest, his hand on your waist going down to hold your stomach. His chest pushed onto your back, small huffs coming from the both of you as you try to relax around him. 

“So big, Jesus fuck.” You pant out, heavy thick breaths. 

He leans his head down again into your neck and gently kisses away. “I know, take it so well. Feel so good around me, so good.” He mumbles in between kisses, running his hand over your stomach gently as he tries to soothe you. You take a few deep breaths, relaxing around him slowly as you adjust to his size.

He sucks away at your neck, too caught up in your scent to notice the way you relax around him. You rock your hips back onto him, grinding him inside of you to nudge at your bulbous g-spot. 

“Coulda’ just said you wanted some motion, lovely.” He grunts, lifting his upper body off you as his hand on your stomach retreats. You can feel him shallowly thrust, your wetness and his precum collecting at his base in a sinful dripping circle around him.

You feel the cold point of his blade drag down your back, circling and pressing ever so slightly more into your skin as he thrusts in again. A gasp leaving you as his mushroom tip presses against your g-spot, your walls clenching as he pulls away to thrust even deeper. 

“Fuck, feels–” You’re rudely interrupted by a hiccup before continuing, “So goood.” He tosses the knife to grip your hips again, bending back down to press his face into your neck. Inhaling so deeply you forgot what the noise was for a second until you felt his hot breath ghost over your skin. Your forehead starting to drip sweat, you can feel his hair start to stick to any skin it can touch as he sets a forgiving– almost caring– rhythm. 

You can feel his tip kiss your cervix with each thrust, his gloved hand covering your eyes pushing you back down on his cock with every thrust. Your mouth lolling open as you clench around him. His cock twitching inside you, bumping his head against your cervix with a dizzying thump, thump, thump! 

“Ah-fuck! Feels so good, keep-hck!-keep going please.” You beg, barely able to close your mouth to speak, your jaw hanging wide open as he sucks a deep purple hickey onto your neck. You can feel his veiny long length draaag against your walls with each thrust of his hips. 

“C-clenching ‘round me so nicely, fuck.” He mumbles into your neck, biting down to stop a whimper from escaping. You feel yourself grow even more wet at the small burst of pain, and he does too. Speeding up his thrusts as he starts to litter your neck in small bite marks. 

“Please, want-wanna cum. Please!” You moan out, your mouth falling open as you start to drool from the pleasure. He aims his hips and slams into your g-spot at a bruising pace. 

“Ah-ah-ah!” Leaving your throat at every connection of his mushroom tip to your insides. Your walls clenching around him as you feel your body start to turn to mush, your arms holding you up growing tired– almost sore. He trails his hand on your hips to your back for a moment to puuush you down into an arch that makes him crazy. 

Each thrust of his pushing more and more of his precum out of you– it gently hits your carpet with a soft plat! each time; a growing puddle of intoxicatingly sweet liquid that you’ll have to clean when you can stand again. 

“Almost there, can feel you getting close.” He mumbles around your skin, sucking and biting near your pulse point. You can’t even bring yourself to form a response, your mind filled with him too. You feel him take his hand off your hips, his thrusts continuing as he removes his hand from in front of your eyes. Instead grabbing a fist full of hair to keep your head from lolling forward. 

“Let me see that pretty little face, darling.” The gravelly voice says before you’re blinded by a flash of light– a camera pointed at you two. His arm retreats from its position as he continues to thrust into you. 

“Fuck, you look so good. Gonna hav’ta keep this one in my nightstand.” He says in his normal voice, his hips moving at such a punishing pace the only thing keeping you from scooting forward away from each thrust was his hand holding your hair tightly. He leans down again, kissing at your neck, each thrust making him whine against your skin. 

“P-plea…please.” You manage out, your knees getting weak from the position. You feel him widen your stance even more before somehow going even deeper. 

“God, fuck. Shoulda’ done this sooner. Sho-should’ve taken you after you leaned against me f’r the whole movie. Gigglin’ and playing with… with my hoodie strings.” He rambles as he starts to near his edge. Your brain finally clicks it into place through the haze of sex. 

“A-Armin?” You whimper out, turning your head just enough to get a glance of his blond locks, stuck to his forehead. 

“Heh– yeah. Hey,” His grip on your hair tightens and he tugs your head back even more. Bringing his head around to suck at your throat, sinking his teeth into your skin. “...pretty.” 

“Fuck! Armin!” You yell and he twitches inside of you, smearing more of his precum across your cervix as he slams his head into it over and over again at a bruising pace. 

“Just-fuck-you just got even wetter.” He continues his bruising pace and you feel your body start to stiffen as you near your release. Thump, thump, thump, thump it feels like your heart rate and his pace is one in the same. He tugs your head back and connects your lips, his sweaty blond hair sticking to you as he shoves his tongue in your mouth. 

You moan into his mouth as he moves to suck on your tongue, his hips slapping against the curve of your ass with each thrust in his punishing rhythm. He pulls away just enough to bite down on your bottom lip, the pain sending you tumbling over the edge. 

“Fuck, just like that.” He mumbles out around your lip as you milk him, continuing his pace as you ride out your orgasm. A small droplet of blood drips from your lip into his mouth. The iron taste sending him over the edge, his hips stuttering as he whimpers against your mouth. 

Wispy hot velvety ropes spilling into you as you come down from your high, his hips continuing to stutter as his release drips out of you with each shallow thrust. Your body collapsing under his, him following on top of you. He releases his hand in your hair to run his hands over your side gently. 

“Think… think I blacked out for a second.” You whisper out, too tired to actually speak. He laughs against your neck, gently kissing all the marks he had made. 

“Told you I’d make you see stars.” He smiles against your skin, his hands gently trailing over your body. You shiver, finally cooling off as you lay against the carpet of your bedroom. He pulls out of you, a whine leaving you as he does. His cock dripping with a mix of your releases, a sight he can't peel his eyes away from. 

You glance back. “Need to clean off?” You watch as he smiles and kneels in front of you. 

“Clean it for me?” He tilts his head, holding his softening cock in front of your face with a smirk. Lifting your head up by your chin, you dart your tongue out to lick him clean. Small whines coming from him as you trace each vein down his long shaft, his hand going to your hair to cradle your head. 

“Fuck, careful. Made me so sensitive.” He tightens his grip on your face as you slowly lick across his tip, eyes locked on his as you do so. “Fuckin’ whore.” He smiles down at you, wiping away a small dribble of drool you didn’t even notice was running down your face. 

You wrap your lips around his tip lazily before he pulls you off. “Another time, I’ll definitely be back.” He smiles down at you, his thumb rubbing over your cheek gently. 

“Maybe without the murder next time?” You try to lift yourself, your arm wobbly as you prop it on the carpet. He moves behind you again, lifting you with ease and laying you out on your bed.

“No promises, have to make sure no one gets in my way.” He leans down, licking the spit on your chin away. “Don’t worry, it’s all gone by now. Like he was never even there.” He stands up, the black robe covering him as he leaves the room. Coming back a few minutes later with a cup of water and a dopey smile.

He lifts you up and tilts the cup against your mouth as you drink from it, placing it on your nightstand when you are done. Tucking the blanket over your naked body gently before walking over to his pants, quickly slipping them on. 

“Sleep well, pretty.” He kisses your forehead before leaving. You turn over in bed and feel a cold metal thing hit your chest. Bringing your hand up to it and looking down, a shell necklace to match his own, now around your neck. Another way of him marking you to come back to.

It’s not the first time this has happened, far from it. Maybe you were a bit foolish in knowingly dating someone so chaste, thinking you’d be able to convince him otherwise. But every time he rejects your advances, you can’t help but wonder why he’s still with you. Still, you heed his request, getting off him to take a seat next to him on the couch.

“Yukki…” you trail off, huddling into yourself as you find the words to say next, “do you like me?”

Kenyu’s eyes widen, his expression full of concern, as if you kicked a puppy right in front of him. “Huh? Where’s that coming from?”

“I mean…” you mumble, resting your face on top of your knees, “we never do anything more than kissing.”

Once you start, it’s hard to stop. The ball in your throat grows, the words spilling from your mouth, like water from a dam that’s been compromised.

“I know you want to wait ‘til marriage but, sometimes it feels like you don’t like me when that’s all we do,” you pause, looking over at him when a twang of guilt strikes your chest before looking down again, “I-I mean we don’t have to go all the way or anything like that.”

“I-It’s nothing like that,” he sighs, pinching his temple before continuing, “I like you, a lot. You could even say that I love you.” The confession makes your skin run hot, even though you’ve heard it plenty of times before.

“It’s not that I don’t want to do it, I’m just scared.” Kenyu shifts again, attempting to face you before continuing, but the second his eyes meet yours, he looks away. “When you get on top of me like that…” Now it’s his turn to be flustered, his skin blooming a pretty shade of pink as he struggles to thread his words together. “I don’t think I can last long.”

You sit up properly, tilting your head quizzically. He has your full attention now. “Huh?”

“It feels crazy good,” Kenyu continues, struggling to meet your gaze, “good enough to make me… You know.” He stops himself short of the word, but you both know what he means. He won’t say it out loud because he won’t know what to do with himself. Though if you’re being honest, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself either.

The silence is deafening. It’s as if the room is waiting for a response. The realization strikes you like lightning, sudden and bright. It’s not that your boyfriend doesn’t like you, quite the opposite in fact. He might like you a little too much.

“Ah, but that’s kinda embarrassing, isn’t it?” he asks sheepishly, breaking the silence first and brandishing a forced smile to hide his insecurity.

“Yukki,” you say before putting your hands on either side of his face before pressing, “look at me.”

“I’m looking,” he mumbles through his squished lips.

“I don’t mind. Actually…” you look off to the side even though you’re the one who forced this intimate display of eye contact, “I think it’s really hot.”

His eyebrows manage to shoot up in shock, even in this position. “You sure?”

“You think I’d lie to you?”

He chuckles, and you can hear the relief in his voice. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Then will you let me do the honors?” you ask, looking up at him doe-eyed and fluttering your lashes.

“S-Sure. But can we take it slow?”

“Whatever you want, Yukki,” you say softly, voice honeyed with affection as you get on top of him again. Kenyu shifts, his hands wrapping around your thighs softer this time.

It’s as if something’s shifted. You’ve kissed each other plenty of times before, but now that the intention to go further lies in the air, it’s like your first time again. Awkward, flustered, apologetic as you try to kiss him and accidentally bump foreheads together.

Kenyu laughs, because no matter what you do, he always finds you adorable. He decides to take his hands off your thighs and place them on the back of your head, gently bringing you in for a kiss that puts romance movies to shame. He’s in no rush, savoring the taste of you on his lips as he always does.

Kenyu always knows how to bring you back to Earth. He cherishes you–holds and kisses you like you’re the most delicate piece of china in a glass cabinet. And while this is nice enough on its own, you have other things you’ve been wanting to try. You keep his preferences in mind, taking it slow with a lazy roll of your hips. Even with that, you can hear his voice catching in his throat.

You use the opportunity to take it a bit further and slip your tongue in, which he welcomes. Every time you take it a bit further–whether it’s biting his lip or playing with his tongue–his self control chips a little more, whispered moans filling your mouth.

With every kiss, every roll of your hips, you can feel his length growing, getting hotter even when it’s confined by the fabric of his pants. It makes you want to work just a little harder, get yourself a little closer to cumming with him. The fabric is frustrating, an annoying reminder of just how close yet far you are from him. Though, that frustration starts to melt when Kenyu follows the rhythm of your hips.

It’s getting harder to keep your promise when he’s this cute. When you wrap your arms around his neck, you can feel just how hot and bothered he is, as if his soft whimpers weren’t enough of a testament already. What was once a soft grasp behind your head grows into something more primal and unrefined, desperation running through his fingertips as he grabs whatever he can to bring you closer to him.

You’re not any better, the speed of your hips picking up, desperate to hear him so needy. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this.

As you lose your control and composure, your hips grind against him harder. Kenyu can’t keep his voice back any longer, desperate groans leaving his mouth with a quiver of his lips. Every sound he gives you goes straight to your pussy, making you warm and greedy for more.

You can feel the wet spot on your panties grow as you rub against him and wonder if he can feel it too. It might be pushing it, but the thought of freeing his cock shoots through your head. It feels and looks so tight against the fabric, it wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?

“Yukki,” you pause and give a glance at his zipper, “can I?”

“I thought we weren’t going all the way,” he replies, breathless as he looks up at you.

“We aren’t… I just wanna feel you more,” you say meekly, “that’s ok, right?”

His eyes widen like saucers before nodding. “Y-Yeah, go for it.”

So you do, unzipping his pants like you’re unwrapping a present—it might as well be one. You adjust and place yourself right on top and start again, though the sensation is much better this time around for both of you. You see it in the way Yuuki immediately throws his head back and moans, feel it in the way your cunt slides against his heat with only two layers of thin fabric keeping you apart.

All of it’s just too much for you–the pre that’s smeared on his boxers, the warmth of his cock against your clothed folds. It’s the closest you’ve been to him, to going all the way. Everything about it makes you more desperate to see him cum, so you focus all your attention on his leaky tip, just to see how sticky you can make it.

The sight of you proves to be too much for Kenyu, as he brings up his arm to shield his eyes. You’re quick to move it out of the way, a silent plea for him to look at you, look at where you’re nearly connected.

“Getting close?” you ask, sweet as sugar. Just the sound of your voice is enough to send him over the edge, but he wants to hold out, even if it’s just for a moment longer.

“You gotta look at me when you cum,” you plead.

Kenyu bites his lip and groans before shakily nodding.

You wrap your arms around his neck, bring your face closer to his until you’re touching forehead to forehead–close enough to feel every pant, every tremor of his voice.

“You love me?” you moan, digging your hips into him deeper.

“God, I love you so much,” he moans back, eyes lined with tears that are one blink from falling.

Kenyu’s desperately rutting his hips into you, and you swear you can feel him prodding at your entrance.

You feel it when Kenyu cums with a gravelly groan, his chest rattling as he cries. Even more so when you keep humping him, as his boxers get stickier and mix with your slick.

“W-Wait, too much,” he gasps, muscles visibly tightening in his neck as he throws his head back.

You can’t take your eyes off of the point where your undergarments meet, fabric soaked and darkened from the fluids.

“You really love me, huh?” you ask with a smile.

“Of course,” he sighs contentedly before giving you a soft peck on the cheek. It makes it all too easy to snuggle into him and lie your head on his chest. Before you can get too comfortable, Kenyu shifts his body and you’re suddenly far too aware of the sticky patch touching your underwear.

“Um… Should we clean up?” you ask, preparing yourself to dismount before Kenyu shifts his weight to push you back down on the couch, his hands around your wrists. Determination lights a fire in his eyes.

“You gotta let me return the favor.”

“H-Huh?”

“Let you…” he glances down at the wet spot of your panties before looking back at you, “you know?”

Oh.

“N-No, this is enough for me Yukki, I don’t wanna do anything you don’t wanna do.”

“But I do want this,” he assures you before kissing your cheek, his hands carefully tracing the curve of your hips, “I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”

“I mean,” you pause, shuffling a bit and adjusting your gaze away from him, “if you’re okay with it.”

That’s all the approval he needs to kiss you, drawing a trail down your body.

Kenyu’s careful and meticulous, savoring every press of his lips against your skin. Whether it’s your neck, chest, waist, he lingers as if he doesn’t want to leave it behind. Every opened mouth kiss, flick of his tongue filled with adoration.

Whatever ritual he has going on, it doesn’t fail to make you shiver in anticipation, have butterflies blooming in your stomach. It makes you shy, being so exposed in front of him. In a way, it’s a little nostalgic—reminds you of the first time he dropped you off at your apartment and said his goodbyes with a kiss.

But then you’re brought back to the moment when Kenyu adjusts and shifts you to lie down on your back. His hands are there every step of the way, a silent plea to let him take care of everything.

He takes his time with you, slowly kissing a path up your leg. With each kiss, he lingers a moment longer. A playful bite here, a hint of tongue there. It keeps you on edge, just a little. Every hushed gasp or squeal earns a huff and a smile out of him.

“My pretty girl,” he sighs, adoration laced in his breath.

Carefully, he tests the waters with a delicate kiss before going in with a drag of his tongue as soon as a moan slips from your lips. From there, he uses his tongue with a determination you usually only see on the field from afar, like he’s trying to tear a hole in your underwear. The cotton gets wetter with every stroke of his tongue, sticky fabric clinging to your lips.

With his enthusiasm, it’s as if the underwear isn’t even there. All you can feel is Kenyu’s tongue, hot and heavy, incessantly drawing circles around your clit. It’s too much, looking down and seeing his head disappear under the fabric of your skirt. When you instinctively shut your legs out of embarrassment, his hands hook around your thighs and bring you closer. It brings a newly lit passion out of him, has him pressing his face even harder into your pussy.

The noises he makes while sucking on the fabric is too much for your ears, too much for a first time. It’s messy, unrefined, and nothing you would expect from your prim and proper boyfriend. Something about seeing him like this, so desperate and eager to serve, only adds to your arousal.

Despite how laser focused he is on your clit, on making you reach the apex of pleasure, he brings his hand to yours, your fingers intertwining. His thumb rubs circles into your skin, something he always does to comfort you. Maybe he feels it coming before you, with the way your breathing intensifies, the way your moans get louder and all the more cuter.

“You love me too, don’t you?” he asks, hushed and panting.

“L-Love you so, mmh, much Kenyu,” you cry back, biting your lip.

“Wanna show me how much?” he asks before going back into you, passion woven in each stroke of his tongue.

“Yes, yes, yes-” you cry before your climax finally hits you like a wave. Even though you barely recognize the sounds pouring from your lips, you wonder if Yuuki does. All stuttered moans and hushed pants as he guides you through it. His pace starts to slow as you come down from your high, before sealing it with a kiss on your clit.

You’re unsure if your laugh is out of surprised delight that he took the teasing seriously–Sakamoto never seemed like the defensive type–or the strange realization that perhaps the former assassin, who rarely cracks a grin, could have a sense of humor. 

“Speaking of overtime”–you grab a pack of gum and toss it to Sakamoto, who gracefully catches it while his eyes remain trained on the other items he’s scanning–“I told Aoi I would be happy to watch over Hana so you two can finally have your date night.”

“Oh wow, really?”

Though his reaction hints at his shock, you’re convinced that you’re the one most surprised by his extra chatter today.

Trying to shake off the strange atmosphere of these past few minutes, you laugh (again) as you search for the wallet in your messenger bag. “I figured she would’ve already broken the news. Guess not.”

“But how does an assistant professor and scientist have time to babysit? Especially after your promotion at that prestigious university?”

Your fingers hovering over the cash go still, and the silent pause you take to carefully consider your next words becomes too lengthy to ignore. “Uh, what?”

You hadn’t told anyone about your recent career developments. They were so new that you had recently begun to fully process them. In fact, you were mentally preparing to share the exciting milestone with the Sakamotos later this week since they were the first–and only–supporters who encouraged you to leave the assassin world for a boring, civilian life in academia.

“And what if the night you happen to watch Hana stops you from meeting the perfect person who you can have a date night with? Now, that wouldn’t be nice of us. Unless you already have someone and are keeping the target a secret.”

However, it’s not the many concerning words in such an invasive sentence that sets you off. 

No, the exact moment that kicks your senses into overdrive is when your strained ears barely catch the low tune of pop music coming from the tiny radio hidden away in the corner.

The same radio that is always turned off.

The next few seconds fly quickly. In one blink, your hand effortlessly finds the knitting needle covertly kept in your bag. In the next, you find long, tattooed fingers tightly wrapped around your wrist, barely preventing the needle from digging into Nagumo’s carotid.

“Now,” the Order member says with an amicable closed-eye smile, “that’s not how you greet an old friend!”

There is no harshness to his actions when disarming you, gently lowering your trembling hands before he snaps the knitting needle with such force the ‘crack’  seems to echo throughout the store. After squinting at the dark liquid slowly leaking out of the broken needle, he sighs at how the color seemingly matches the one staining the tip of his eccentric collared shirt. Which also happens to be the same color of the narrow streak coming out from the tiny puncture in his neck.

“Ah, so you can take the poisons assassin away from the JAA, but you can’t take away the poisons from the poisons assassin. I knew you wouldn’t be rusty!”

“Nagumo,” you breathe out, heart stammering. It’s been so long that you almost forgot how dark his eyes are. A pair of black holes that would drag you into depths there were no coming out of. “What are you doing here?”

“How else am I supposed to congratulate my friend on accomplishing such a big goal? Especially when that friend is so adamant about cutting ties with anyone who dares say the word assass–”

Your hand instinctively clamps over his mouth, face growing as warm as the breath of the shortly-cut, but entertained, laugh currently tickling your skin.

You ignore how Nagumo lets the moment linger for far longer than necessary, moving your wrist, again, while his unnerving grin widens. When he makes his way over the counter–so fast you almost miss the fluid motion–you take a step back, desperate to recover any space he’s rapidly stealing from you. 

“Shying away from our roots, I see?”

“How did you know about my promotion?” you whisper, the undercurrent of rage threatening to spill over. The hairs that stand on your neck make you feel colder. 

Nagumo only continues to smile, an indecipherable look in his gaze that causes too many emotions to course through your veins. “Oh, c’mon, sensei, everyone in class knew it was gonna happen the moment you got nominated for that teaching prize.”

Suddenly, you’re not looking at Nagumo but are instead seeing the faces of your students Yoriko and Kenzo. Colleagues Kobayashi and Tanaka. Even the teaching assistant Keiji.  

The knot in your stomach tightens. “Why are you here? Why now?”

Nagumo’s laugh is light, though not mocking. “If you really must know, I was waiting to throw a prank on Lu and Shin before telling Sakamoto-kun about his billion-yen bounty. I forgot you stop by on Wednesdays, but that’s okay–this was actually a good practice round! I wonder if they’ll take as long as you did to see through my disguise.”

“Hey, I knew it the moment I stepped foot into this store!” you exclaim. He doesn’t need to know that the only thing you knew then was that something was amiss.

Besides, why would he be the first person to cross your mind after you spent many long, painful years convincing your brain to swear off anyone who would’ve made you stay in a world you hated?

“Wait.” You shake your head, finally circling back to another thing the ORDER-level assassin just told you. It’s enough to make your chest rise in panic. “Billion-yen bounty? Don’t tell me–”

“No, I’m not here to kill him! I’m not that heartless. What type of man do you think I am?”

“An unserious one,” you mutter, grabbing the remnants of the broken and poison-laced knitting needle. “I can’t believe I wasted my emergency weapon on you.”

“A knitting needle isn’t so original, but I am so relieved you didn’t abandon all your hobbies and interests when you became a civilian. I’ll remind you that Oki-san said if you ever wanted to return as a retainer, he’ll pay double what Yotsumura gave you.”

“Will I also get a one-billion-yen bounty on my head? Not interested,” you grumble, raising a brow at Nagumo wiping the poison off his neck. The fact that he hasn’t shown any worrying signs makes you concerned about whether you’re losing your touch. You also know during your JCC days, you had once helped him in growing his resistance to various poisons–perhaps you trained him too well. 

With the curl of your fingers digging into your palms, you tuck away that thought into the recess of your mind. Along with all the other memories spent with him and Rion that made you laugh then and now only bring an increasingly familiar pang in your chest. 

“Wow, I didn’t realize how much you liked being a civilian!” He inches forward, a cryptic void behind those large, black eyes as he asks in a low voice, “Don’t tell me it’s because of that boring professor from the physics department.”

The dreadful sigh that accompanies his drawn-out enunciation of ‘boring’ makes you simultaneously embarrassed and worried about what else he knows. What he’s seen. 

“What was his name…I swear it was something with a S…Sato…?” 

Had he been the waiter who gave you an extra glass of wine upon seeing your exasperated expression during Sato's incessant humble bragging about some new publication? Or maybe he was the bartender who checked on you when Sato had gone to the bathroom after failing to ask a question about yourself in the past hour. Perhaps even the elderly woman on the subway who whispered that you could do much better than the hack you were with.

You gulp, unable to stop the tight squeeze of your chest. “How many different ways do I have to ask you? What do you want, Nagumo?”

His thin smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Why waste our limited precious time dwelling on answers you already know?”

The shake of your head is immediate, despising how he seems to get closer the more you retreat. “You might not believe it, but I like my life right now. I like being in Ikorai Hills, occasionally babysitting, and grading papers instead of making poisons. I don’t want to go back.”

The desperation you feel makes your voice hitch on a higher note with that last sentence. 

You fear listing other reasons why you were lulled into this more peaceful side of society would make it seem like you're the one who needs convincing instead of Nagumo. So you shut your mouth, hoping that when he perceives the slight pleading in your eyes, he'll lay off.

Don’t make me go back.

Just as he’s about to speak–your body subconsciously leaning forward in his direction while waiting with bated breath–your messenger bag begins to vibrate.

Clearing a scratchy throat, your gaze remains on a smiling Nagumo as you answer the phone. “Hello. Yes, so sorry, but I’m running a few minutes late. Feel free to start the seminar without me, I’ll be there shortly. Yes, see you then.”

Nagumo grabs the phone and ends the call for you, a large hand enveloping yours as he clicks his tongue in false admonishment. The heat of his fingers brushing yours sends a chill down your spine. “My, already late during the first week of the semester. You sure you’re not having doubts about your current job?”

His touch soon feels scalding hot, and you blink away all the moments you embarrassingly craved his attention, even his mere presence. When you look up, your gasp is cut short once you notice the lack of distance between you two.  

Don’t make me go back.

“No, this”–you shrink away slowly, struggling to break out of this reverie–“this is a bad idea. So don’t even think about it.”

“But you don’t even know what I’m thinking!” he says with a breezy laugh, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“I’m not re-joining the JAA–”

“I mean, if you still pay your yearly dues, does that mean you ever truly left it? Because–”

“And I’m not re-joining the ORDER–”

“Well, you were only our poisons expert, not an actual–”

“And for the umpteenth time, I’m not going out with you.”

As if you took the words out of his breaths, he simply smiles, uncharacteristically speechless.

Until he opens his mouth a beat later.

“We’ll see about that.”

Hating how your stomach flips from that statement alone, your eyes happen to find more interest in the rice balls and peach tea idly standing on the counter, long neglected, but not forgotten.

You ignore his watchful eyes on your figure as you place the food in your bag and twist open the lid of the drink.

Only for the contents inside the bottle to be thrown at him. 

“Fat chance. Not when I need to grade papers and be a babysitter.”

You don’t stay long enough to hear any of his remarks about that.

When Aoi sends a text a few days later to update that Shin and Lu offered to watch over Hana, you don’t think much of it. And when your teaching assistant offers to review this week’s assignments, you happily relinquish your duties and even feel a spring in your step on your way home. The news secretly provides some relief, tension releasing from your shoulders as you excitedly welcome the idea of a relaxing night-in after the end of an unexpectedly stressful week. 

It becomes easier to forget the root cause of the past nerve-wracking days once you’re a few hours into some popular TV crime series your co-workers were suggesting you start. You become almost too engrossed in the show that when you hear the knock on your door you almost tell the deliveryman to leave your dinner outside.

Once the person does another series of frenetic knocks, you hurry to the front and unlock the door, an impatient mutter on the tip of your tongue.

Only to slam your mouth shut upon opening the Pandora’s box you’ve been futilely attempting to keep locked away for all these years.

And despite the large bouquet of crimson roses covering the face of its holder, it doesn’t take a genius to guess it belongs to the assassin you keep on failing to forget.

Always a fan of theatrics, he lowers the flowers and inclines them in your direction, the floral scent amplifying the large lump forming in your throat.  

“Since I bribed your teaching assistant to grade the class papers tonight,” Nagumo joyfully says with the biggest knowing smile, “and I also got Shin and Lu to watch over Hana, I gotta know. How are my chances of a date looking now?”