uh, yeah, i sure hope it does

You kept spiraling. How were you ever going to explain what you'd done? Apologize for it? Make it up to him?

Well, you could explain it, at least. That part was easy. It was the need.

Masky's touch drove you crazy in more ways than one. Made it impossible to think straight — whether he was inches or miles away. He'd gotten under your skin, infected your brain, seated himself deep in your psyche permanently. He treated you like a meditation; traced and mapped your insides, learned your nerve endings like a secret language only the two of you spoke.

One round and one night was never gonna cut it with him. One night and new dick was never gonna cut him out of you.

You were so stupid to think coming here would fix anything. All you did was make everything worse.

No — he made it worse. Why should you have to explain anything when he treated murder like a sport?

And now you were in deep shit. You were an asset, a witness, involved. The law would come for you.

You didn't stop it. You should've. There had to be something you could've said to snap him out of it, but you couldn't keep your shit together, could you?

But the worst part of it all — the part that made you sick — was how you still wanted him. Even after seeing him like that, and knowing what he was doing right now, you wanted him here. With you.

A part of you had known he was unsavory. The mystery of him of course had you wondering. You used to think he was just kinda mean. Always glaring, scowling. You'd thought drug dealer or cartel member or hitman or even human trafficker. None of those fleeting theories were enough to stop you before, and really you never asked for fear that he would disappear. Like if you questioned the dreamscape around you, you'd wake up.

Now you knew what lurked below, and you…

Still felt safe with him.

What if he came down here and decided you'd seen too much? What would stop him from killing you, too?

You could make peace with that outcome.

The elation, the relief of having him back vetoed everything else.

The overhead lights blinking on made you squint; the driver's side door opening made you jump.

He was covered in blood. Brown leather jacket splattered, still wet in places. White porcelain mask resting atop his head streaked in it. His hands were stained like he'd made a half-ass attempt to wash them. Dark dots speckled his jeans, his neck was creased with it like he'd wiped the sweat off there. A lit cigarette clung to his lips, the only thing illuminating his face aside from the weak glow of the streetlights once he shut the door.

The car rocked with his weight as he adjusted his seat, settling in. Iron and smoke permeated the air.

He only glanced at you. You stared back, jaw hung open.

He was just… calm. Shoulders down. Breath even. Like he'd just come in from getting gas.

You were tired of the silence, of being forced to listen to your own thoughts, so you spoke first. "You… You were gone so long. I thought you were gone for good. Where did you—"

"Don't ask."

He turned the key and the engine roared to life, just so he could ash his cigarette out the window.

You crossed your arms, defiant but still trembling. He was going to explain himself. He was going to explain something. "How about why, then?"

"Had a job out of town." He didn't elaborate and he wasn't going to.

"If I took one wild guess would you tell me if I was right?"

One breathy chuckle. "No. But you would be."

You watched his cigarette burn down as that sunk in. It was literally the worst thing it could possibly be.

The tears started up again. "You could've at least told me you were leaving. You just disappeared."

"You want it to be my fault you ended up here so bad. Can't handle a few weeks without me? Get a grip."

You looked at him, blinking through wet lashes. There he was. That was the Masky you knew. Just mean. Emotionally unavailable. The opposite of empathetic.

He took a breath, flicked the finished smoke out the window, fishing in his pocket for the box to grab another. He offered the pack to you. The circumstances were special enough that you took one. He lit it for you.

"It wasn't supposed to matter," he muttered, more to the windshield than to you. "It took us longer than we thought."

Us. We. It was a murder ring. "And you think that makes it better?"

"I'll be sure to send a postcard next time."

You were tired of his sarcasm, his nonchalance.

"You do this all the time!" You doubled down. "If you had just told me, I wouldn't have—"

"Wouldn't have what?" He interrupted. "Whored yourself out to the first dickhead to text you back?"

"We're nothing according to you. I don't owe you loyalty."

"Then I don't owe you explanations."

He put the car in drive and headed toward your place. Neither of you spoke. The tension hung around you, simmering, festering.

You took long, dragging pulls from your cigarette, eyes locked on but not seeing the trees blurring past. Finally, you weren't shaking anymore.

'Nothing' doesn't leave bodies behind. Doesn't come back covered in blood. He did that for you. Twisted, maybe, but it counted for something.

You leaned your head against the cool glass. "I care about you, Masky." It was a broken whisper. "But I'm scared shitless right now."

Not of him, no. You were scared of yourself. That no matter what he said or what he did, what reasoning he gave, whether he enjoyed it or not, you'd still want him. All of him. What kind of monster did that make you?

He said nothing, but his grip on the wheel tightened.

"I didn't go over to hurt you." You turned to him. "I just… I was—"

"I know."

Two words. Barely audible. Forgiving.

He pulled up to your place, parked right in front of the stairs and cut the engine. You didn't even take your seatbelt off, let alone make a move to open the door. He understood the hesitancy, shared in it.

"I've got some things to take care of." A gentle nudge. Measured. "It won't take long." To clean up the mess. To drag him out, dig a hole, ditch the clothes.

You held yourself, arms laid across your chest, fingers absent-mindedly pinching your sleeves. Self-soothing. You gave the slightest nod, but stayed put, convinced he'd vanish again.

You needed reassurance. He gave it. "I'll be back."

"Don't leave," you blurted, begging. You didn't trust where your mind might go without him. Didn't want to find out. "Just… come upstairs."

You knew what he would say. He'd say you needed space or rest or time to think. Maybe so. But there were other things you needed more.

Masky had half expected it, was sort of hoping you wouldn't ask.

He didn’t answer right away, didn't even look at you. Because if he looked at you, he'd give in. He'd see the expression on your face, see the world collapsing behind your eyes, and he'd want to fix it. He'd want to make the pain go away, make it all go quiet for a while. Like novacaine.

It would be so easy for him to break and give you what you were asking for. What you were really asking for. It would be completely selfish.

He knew you thought it might help, might make you feel better, solve all your problems. Maybe for the moment. Maybe for the version of you sitting next to him right now, wounds fresh and stinging. The you that woke up in the morning might regret it.

And if he took advantage, how would that make him any different than the wannabe-rapist he'd just disposed of?

Not you, and not like this. Not with blood still drying under his nails and you desperate for any possible way to tether yourself to him.

You held your breath when his hand inched closer, mind racing with the possibilities, skin crawling with anticipation you weren't sure could build any higher. His knuckles barely grazed your elbow when he triggered the familiar click, and your seatbelt came undone.

And he lingered there, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Like he was savoring your closeness, or trying to force himself not to do anything rash.

His arm moved again — hasty, like he couldn't hold on much longer. It crossed over your space, shifting the air, pushing the rich leather and copper smell into your nose, only to pull the latch on the door and shove it open.

"It's not up for debate." He pulled back, his heat abandoning you, leaving dread in its place. "I'll see you later."

Resigned to your fate, you climbed out of the car. You turned to look at him, one last glimpse before you were left to your own devices.

He met your gaze. In just looking at his face, it was easy to forget what he'd done. He looked exhausted, deep set bags under his eyes like he hadn't slept for days. His stare was tight with restraint, but soft with concern.

Then he closed the door, revved the engine, and peeled out of there. Just like that, you were all alone.

You trudged up the stairs. Autopilot. Shower. Pajamas. Something bland and easy to eat. You didn't cut any lights on, didn't want to risk catching your own eyes in the mirror. It felt like the hangover had set in before your head hit the pillow, and it all went black.

It didn't feel like sleep, more like sedation. You woke up late the next day, the sunlight a ruthless enemy to your headache. The bed was still cold.

He said later, he didn't say when. Waiting around for him felt like all you did, so you waited for your shift to start instead.

Maybe going in to work would do you some good. Maybe it wouldn't. But you knew you needed the noise. The music, the chatter, the fast pace and busy hands. You went through the motions to get ready, showed up early.

You wondered if they could smell it on you, if they could unconsciously sense it, like pheromones. How you'd changed. You wondered if anyone noticed how the friendly smiles didn't reach your eyes, or how your polite laugh was muted tonight, or how distractable and inattentive you were. Still waiting, even here, for him. You scanned the crowd too often, hope shrinking every time he wasn't there.

You moved slow, incompatible with the lights and music and atmosphere. The tray you carried was half full, mostly empty glasses and crumpled napkins. It took you way too long to punch in an order you'd just taken, eyes misty and unfocused. You blinked hard in an attempt to steady yourself.

And then, creeping into your awareness from the corner of your eye, was the khaki brown of his jacket.

You didn't even want to look for fear it was your head playing tricks on you — you'd already disapointed yourself countless times tonight. Every brunette, every man with the same build, same gait had stolen seconds of your attention.

But the feeling of his stare boring into the back of your neck was unmistakable.

You looked up, and your heart skipped a beat.

He'd certainly cleaned up, not a trace of the mess he'd made. His red plaid shirt jumped out at you against the blue and purple haze of the club.

He tilted his chin up ever so slightly, beckoning you over.

You moved quickly. Two bourbons and a water, no money in the register this time. That was one thing the true crime docs never told you — once you'd broken one of society's biggest rules, none of the little ones mattered anymore.

You glanced at him through your lashes. An acknowledgment, an I'm ready, and headed toward an empty VIP room. He followed.

Cold marble floors, black suede couches bathed in red light, sultry and suggestive art hung on the walls. The thud of bass and clinking of glasses was muffled here, like a private oasis in a bustling city. He locked the door behind him, caging you in.

You took a seat, put the drinks on the table aside from a burbon. You crossed your legs and leaned back, an attempt to appear more composed than you felt. One wrong move, one tell that you were still shaken and he would back away. Do the 'right' thing. Whatever that was.

You touched the glass to your lips, cool burn sliding down, but it didn't quite reach the ache in your chest. It wasn't your drink of choice, just something to feel. Masky stepped in before you could try again, plucking the drink from your fingers.

"Not good for you," he murmured. He took his place next to you, setting the alcohol out of your reach, nudging the water toward you instead.

You held your posture, held your breath. He was practically on top of you. Shoulder to shoulder, knees knocking against each other's. He looked you up and down, examining.

"Don't ever say we're nothing." Gentle, but that was an order.

You eyed him now. His features were set, resolute, his gaze attentive.

"We never talked—"

"I don't share."

His hand found your thigh, testing the waters. You released the breath you'd been holding, heat rippling through you.

You pled with your eyes, unable to form the words. But he caught it, he knew.

And he pounced.

His mouth crashed into yours, starved tongues dancing. Hot breath, frantic hands. You didn't know how he got his jacket off or where it landed. Wet kisses made your brain go blank, the scent of pine and cigarettes all-consuming.

Maybe it was the mounting adrenaline or sheer frustration, but you couldn't get his clothes off fast enough. Your hands were trembling, you couldn't undo a single button on his shirt, and the more fabric you felt the more aggravated you got.

He pulled back to see your face, his bottom lip slipping from between your teeth.

He looked… amused. It almost offended you. "You're struggling."

You pulled him back down to shut him up, still clawing at his shirt, but he caught your wrists and shoved them overhead with one hand. He finished the job himself, clean and effortless. You writhed out of his hold to paw at his chest, dragging your nails down the coarse hair beneath his ribs. Then lower. You went for his belt next.

"Slow down," he muttered, but he didn't mean it. He didn't stop you. He leaned back instead, just enough to let you breathe. Just enough to watch.

A whimper caught in your throat as you fumbled with the button on his jeans. He let you work at it. Studied you. The rise and fall of your chest, the visible pulse in your neck, the way your muscles already refused to cooperate. He wondered if you'd make it to the end of this, or if he'd have to carry your limp, wrecked body all the way home — just to ravage you all over again.

One step at a time.

You didn't even notice the way he was looking at you. Your hands were too busy, your body too flushed, your pulse too loud in your ears. You shoved at his jeans and boxers, hissed when they didn't come down instantaneously, until finally — finally — you got what you wanted. Skin.

You grabbed him by the hair, yanking a bit harder than you intended, to devour his mouth again. You were getting restless beneath him, couldn't decide what you wanted most. Your hips wouldn't stop rolling. The fabric of your shirt had ridden up around your ribs, your skirt had bunched at your waist. Your thong was still on, and it was in the goddamn way. Grinding against his bare thigh through it bordered on torture.

"I want… off," you mumbled against his lips, sentence disjointed as your thoughts, but he understood. He always understood.

Masky was not as nice with your clothes. The zipper on your skirt was delicate already. He snapped it without a second thought. Your shirt came off with some resistance; he had to push your face from his to strip it, and you clung to his neck the moment he let you back in. Your bra was disposed of with one hand, an efficient and practiced motion Masky had perfected long ago. Cheap lace was the only thing left. He tore through the elastic to expose the very last piece of your hidden flesh.

His hands roamed you. Thighs, hips, waist, nipples, collarbone, nape. He let you eat his tongue, chew his lips, fist his hair. He could practically snap his fingers and make you cum, but not yet. Just a little more torment, a little more waiting. A little more time for you to decide you weren't okay with this.

These last weeks had pained him, more than he cared to admit. To be away from you, wondering if you were safe. The space and time made everything so new. He'd forgotten how you smelled, what you tasted like. He hated how quickly your obscene noises and carnal expressions faded from memory. He despised how all your marks had washed out. Bruises once in various states of healing, from red and angry to dark and tender, all gone. He'd be fixing that.

But you were more needy and sensitive than he'd ever seen you. You were trying to tear his hair out, but the pain was background noise to him. Your kisses were hungry and desperate and wordlessly begging. Goosebumps trailing his touch. His nails grazing your throat made your hips buck with just the mere implication that he might tighten his grip there. His thigh was wet with slick already. He did that to you. Because only he could. Because you were his.

Masky owned nothing else in this world. Not his body, not his thoughts, definitely not his time. But you? He'd spent lifetimes blueprinting you, masterminding you. Building you up just to break you down and catch you when you crashed. You were incapable of lying to him — he'd smell it seeping from your pores. He owned every whine, every tremble, every tear, every glob of spit that ran down your chin. Every thump of your heart, every bead of sweat, every strand of hair on your fucking head he claimed. You were the only thing he had control of, dominion over, and he was gonna make sure you fucking thanked him and asked for more.

He pushed at your knees until they bent, one hand pressing firmly into your core, and the other dragging over the heat between your legs. Your limbs relented and stilled, conditioned to submit to him, even after all this time.

He leaned over you, made sure your eyes met. His weight pinned you like a straitjacket.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, a daring edge in his tone. The jacket constricted, his fingertips knocked at your entrance. "You're afraid and you hate me. Tell me."

None of it would be true. You'd never felt safer. You said nothing, and your gaze did not falter.

Your silence was all the permission he needed.

His teeth ground against your collarbone, his fingers pressing into you at the same moment. He gnawed at your skin while the digits plunged deep, curling inside you almost tenderly. You took in a sharp breath. What his mouth did made you wince, what his hands did made you moan.

His fingers felt both familiar and foreign. He worked you open, every brush of his pads made your muscles jerk. His teeth dragged across your throat, pinching tiny bits of skin in time with each pump of his hand. You weren't sure if it was drool running into your hairline or blood. Did it matter?

Your hips fell open for him, walls squeezing around his fingers. Your hands scrambled for purchase — his biceps, his shoulders, his back — anything to keep you from slipping under. He knew just how to stroke you into utter surrender. He dragged it out like a punishment — every pump calculated, with just enough pressure to keep you teetering. You wondered how you'd survived so long without this. You decided you never would again. You'd follow him to the end of the earth if it meant a chance to feel like this.

Your hands haphazardly found his length. You didn't grip it, just grazed it. Felt the weight, the heat, thumb brushing the tip. Masky hissed from that alone, shuddering above you, forehead dropping to your shoulder. Now it was your turn to be amused. You couldn't be the only one wound up beyond belief, on the brink of falling apart. A triumphant giggle slipped past your lips.

It only spurred him on.

His fingers shoved deeper, thumb pressing on your clit in a way that instantly stole your breath. You were so close now — one right move, and you'd be tumbling. With the way you looked up at him, Masky knew he had you right where he wanted you.

He knew he had you — knew by the way your thighs shook, by the way your cunt clenched on his fingers like it wanted to swallow them and never let go.

“Look at me." Such a simple request. You barely managed it. Your vision blurred, tears beading at the corners of your eyes.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled. “This pussy’s mine. Say it.”

You nodded, fast, frantic. “It’s yours. Masky—”

He kissed you again, swallowed your moan, and pressed his thumb down just right.

Your whole body locked up. You were crying out into his mouth, fingernails sinking into his shoulders, writhing as the orgasm overtook you.

He didn't stop. Not with his digits still working, not with his tongue licking into your open mouth, not with his free hand tracing your shape.

“That's my girl,” he snarled against your chin. "You can take it.”

It was all too much but not enough. The relief was palpable, like finally scratching an impossible itch, but you still craved. There was no valley, no crash, no question of where you belonged anymore. Just higher peeks to climb. You wanted to live in his skin.

The ache hadn’t faded. It only sharpened, refocused. Every nerve still on fire, every inch of you humming with need.

He felt it. The twitch in your thigh, the tremor in your lungs, the way your nails crept lazily down his chest like you were lost in a dream. He knew one wouldn't be enough.

Your palm found his shoulder, your heel dug into his hip. He wasn't sure what you were doing at first, but he moved with you — an intimate dance. His back met the couch as you straddled his hips, knees sinking into the cushions.

You dragged your slick folds against his length. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t guide you. Just massaged your thighs and let you do it. Watched. Admired. Put real effort into not slamming you down onto his cock right then and there.

You rolled your hips, letting your slick coat him. His jaw tensed. The vein in his neck jumped. Still, he didn’t move.

You braced one hand on his chest, reached between you with the other. Lined him up. He jolted under your touch, held his breath.

You hesitated. Looked at him, looked for… permission. Even here, supposedly holding the reins.

Masky’s hand flew up to your neck. Not tight, but possessive. Anchoring. Branding. Honestly you were taking too fucking long and he was tired of waiting.

His eyes darkened and when he spoke, his voice was shredded velvet.

“Sit.”

And you sank down, core quaking, breath catching in your throat when it felt like he was in your ribs. He split you open, made space where there wasn’t any. Relieved sighs escaped both of you when you had taken it all.

You were frozen at first. You tried to relax, filled to the brim, adjusting to the impossible stretch that felt so new again. His hands wandered, crawling over your waist, gripping your tits like he was grounding himself. His eyes stayed on your face, watching every squeeze of your eyelids and furrow of your brow. Committing it to memory.

His breath was uneven. He’d gone quiet. He kept still. He was trying to focus, to keep his composure.

You braced yourself with both hands on his chest, fingertips digging in, breath shallow. Your hips rolled. Just once.

A slow, deliberate grind that had your eyes crossing, your jaw going slack. You felt everything. Every inch, every ridge, every twitch of restraint against your walls. His cock dragged against a spot that made your legs shake, made your breath ragged in a whole new way.

Masky’s hands dug into the meat of you thighs like he was in pain. His fingers burrowed into the soft flesh there. His head fell back against the couch, teeth grating, chest heaving. God, you were killing him.

You did it again. Slower this time, a single rotation. You watched his stomach flex beneath you. Then again.

A bounce, small but firm. He hissed, wrists jerking like they wanted to move, but he stayed put. Not yet. Not when you looked this good claiming your place on top of him.

A cocky smirk played on your features.

"Gonna beg?" You teased. Brave coming from someone who was trembling all over. Ironic. Cute. It earned you a dangerous chuckle.

He'd let you burn yourself out.

You rocked forward again. Another clench of his jaw. Another shudder through you as the sensation pulsed straight up your spine. You could feel the veins in his cock, every beat of his heart inside you. He was so thick.

Your rhythm was slow, deliberate. You made messy, molten circles that had sweat beading at his temple and your moans growing louder with each pass.

"Fuck," he grit his teeth, head thrown back, throat bare. His abs went rigid under your hands. "Just like that."

That was encouragement enough. You set a pace. The ache was building again, sharper now, not sudden like before. The first orgasm had slammed into you like a runaway train, this one was going to claw its way out of you. Visceral. Carnal. Arduous and cruel.

Masky’s gaze was locked on your face. Intense. Reverent.

You were unraveling, uninhibited, overtaken by an animal you didn't know. Maybe you did.

It was right there — cresting, coiling, ready to strike.

Your tempo wavered, hips stuttering. Your vision went spotty.

You bared down hard, rutting with everything you had, while your cunt all but milked him.

It tore through you.

Your back arched. A sob ripped free. You collapsed into his neck, body quaking as the orgasm shattered your brain. You couldn't think, couldn’t stop the aftershocks that left you jolting and whining.

Masky groaned — low, guttural, right against your ear. His hands had found their way to your ass, clutching the fat there. Your pussy was clamping down on him too tight, attempting to wring him out like a towel. He was hanging on by threads.

You didn’t even register the sounds you were making. Moans, gasps, cries — you weren’t speaking any language now, just leaking bliss and ecstasy as you tried to recover.

But it wasn't over. Masky's resolve was completely shattered, and he wasn't finished with you.

All he whispered — breathless and slurred — was:

"…You done?"

Yes? No? You couldn't even process the question in your fucked-out daze. He didn’t wait for an answer.

One second, you were slumped in his lap, legs jelly, lips parted — the next, he had you on your stomach, ass in the air, your cheek shoved into the cushions. Your head was spinning. And he was behind you, lining himself up again.

He dragged the tip of his cock through your folds once, just to feel you pulse around nothing. Just to watch the goosebumps ripple up your spine.

He was steady with the first push in, but gave you no time to adjust. Didn’t build back up. He set a brutal, punishing pace.

Your jaw slackened, exhales breaking into helpless little squeaks. You struggled to stay planted against the force of him; there was really no use in trying.

Masky held you so tight you knew there’d be bruises — no, proof. Evidence that he’d been here. That you were his.

"Mine," he grunted, "Fucking mine. All mine." Over and over with each slam back into you.

Yes, yes, yes, was all you could think, but couldn't form the words. You were dizzy, couldn't see straight. Your limbs were useless. All that existed was him, suffocating you from the inside. Every thrust triggered fireworks behind your eyes.

He was going to lose it.

Every sound that spilled out of you made Masky throb harder — the pathetic little hiccups, the wet, gurgling cries. You were caged — by his body, his hold on you, by your own submission.

You were still fluttering around him — impossibly warm with a vice grip. Your cunt was spasming, trying to take all it could from him. And fuck, he’d let it. He’d give you everything.

He was trying to savor this. Really, he was. But you'd stolen his willpower the second you climbed on top of him.

He’d waited weeks. Weeks to get his hands back on you. Now here you were — spread open underneath him. Eyes glassy. Drooling. So gone you couldn't think or speak or run.

Ravished. Goddamn beautiful.

One of his hands slid up your back, palm dragging, then curled around your shoulder to yank you back into him harder.

He didn’t stop thrusting. Couldn’t. His rhythm got uglier, meaner. Sloppy and stuttering.

You were too tight. Too hot. Too perfect.

And you stayed. Despite it all.

Your body lurched with his motion, slick squelching, thighs threatening to give out. Your cheek was soaked in your own spit, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care — not when he was splitting you open like this, not when you could feel him rearanging your insides.

“God—fuck,” he rasped, using his hold on you to shove you back into every snap of his hips like he was trying to fuck through you.

And then he broke. The groan that tore out of him was ragged and feral.

He collapsed over you, still nestled deep, dick convulsing as he came. You felt the warmth filling you up. His teeth scraped your shoulder. His voice cracked when he uttered your name.

You didn’t even know you were crying until you gasped and tasted salt. Your whole body was quivering in the aftermath.

He stayed buried in you. Still grinding, slower now, like he was trying to mark you on the inside, too.

You felt the pulse of him fade, a drum with each beat of his heart. His chest molded to your back, anchoring you in the humid air, thick with sweat and sex and something unspoken.

You were still remembering how to breathe. Your knees shuddered against the cushions.

A hollow laugh spilled from you. You weren't sure why. Maybe because you didn't know what to say. There was nothing left to say. Nothing to explain, nowhere to hide. The silence buzzed.

Eventually, he peeled himself away, slow and careful. Leaving you empty and cold.

He kissed your shoulder. You felt the scrape of stubble. Then his hands were on your sore hips, guiding you down, helping you flip over when your knees locked.

You blinked up at him, lashes damp. Your face was flushed, throat dry. A mix of liquids was definitely leaking out of you. You couldn’t seem to catch your breath.

He scanned you up and down. He looked proud. Smug, even.

The world drifted back in pieces. The bass outside had dulled to a thump — the club was probably closing. You wondered if anyone had heard, silently cursed Masky for not keeping you quieter. Didn't matter, you'd bailed on your shift. Probably lost your job. You couldn't care less right now.

Masky was busy putting his clothes on, then gathering what was left of yours. Your skirt was unsalvageable, limp and split from where he'd torn the zipper straight through. He gave you his shirt — it would cover just enough.

He tossed the pile of fabric on your stomach, unceremonious. You sat up to get dressed.

“C’mon,” he tipped his head toward the door. “I’ll drive you home.”

You looked up, shirt barely buttoned, nerves shot, body sore and leaking. Nothing had changed, yet everything had.

You nodded, stood up on wobbly legs, grabbed his hand for balance without thinking.

He let you.

The two of you snuck out the back, you handed over your keys. He lit a smoke, you yawned in the passenger seat.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as you slumped against the window, lips parted, legs curled under you, his too-big shirt barely covering the mess he'd made.

He used the passing glow from the streetlights to steal glances at your thighs, the bruises he'd left, the occasional twitch of your fingers in your sleep.

He couldn't believe you trusted him to get you home. It was fucking ridiculous.

He wanted to turn the car around. Wanted to drive until the tires gave out and leave the rest of the world behind. Just you and him. No missions. No blood. No Operator.

But that would never happen — he could never dream of such a luxury. Masky's time was borrowed; hell, his body was borrowed. He couldn't understand why you would stick around. After what you'd seen, and knowing what he could give you would always be so… incomplete. Limited. Nothing but lust-driven visits in the shadows and long goodbyes.

He felt something twist in his ribs. Stinging. Guilt, maybe. Or some kind of duty to protect. You'd signed up for this, and Masky would keep telling himself that as long as it made him feel better. He'd hunt you down if you tried to run away. Moved and didn't tell him. Flew out of the country. You had no idea how good he was at that kind of thing. You wouldn't get very far.

God, she's not your property, Tim huffed in his head.

Masky’s jaw tightened. He exhaled smoke out the window. Either way, it was really too late now.

The car slowed in front of your place. He didn’t cut the engine.

You stirred when the brake jolted you, lashes fluttering. The ache hit first — your neck, your legs, your chest where the shirt clung to sweat and spit and fingerprints. You looked down, took in your disheveled state. His shirt. It all hit you at once when you remembered.

“You should walk me upstairs,” you mumbled, voice rough. Almost embarrassed. "With it being so late and all."

He smiled mid-pull, the cherry of his cigarette casting a glow across the dash. Gave you a slow side-eye. He was the most dangerous thing in a ten mile radius and you both knew it.

He wanted to test you first, see where your head was at.

"Don't get used to it," he said. "I won't be around long." He waited, watched your reaction, measuring you. Your expression fell only for a second; you swallowed hard.

"I'll be here. Until then," you took a deep breath in. "Just… make it count."

Something flickered behind the look he gave you. Something wicked. Something tender. It gave you butterflies.

How could he ever tell you no?

By some miracle, you kept your job. The dirty stares from the other girls felt more loaded now but they didn't ask and you didn't tell. Masky had told you to 'have a good shift' some weeks ago which was a new development. Maybe he'd finally let his petty beef with your profession go. Maybe that had been his way of saying goodbye.

Him being gone wasn't so debilitating anymore. You didn't really wait around, just kind of… languished. Nothing would relieve it, so you were learning to live with it. It was a special torture.

You played the part. Texted your friends, took yourself to the mall, fake laughed at customers' jokes, plucked Dale's oh so generous tip from his fingers before he tried to shove it directly in your bra this time. And you occasionally caught yourself scanning the room.

He saw you long before you saw him.

The music was loud and stupid and pulsing in his skull. It smelled like sweat and vodka and cheap perfume.

Still, he took his usual spot on the upper level. Same table, same scowl — just to breathe your air.

You'd gotten new lipgloss. And a new skirt, even shorter this time if that was possible. He'd destroy this one too and dare you to go shorter. He took in the way you did your hair, your nails, the way you carried yourself before you noticed him. You'd move differently once you did. A tell. And he knew all your tells.

He could practically see the moment your brain registered his stare, or maybe you caught his scent first. He watched your glance turn upwards, right to him. You only missed half a beat, intent on scribbling down the order you were taking. But he saw it — your fingers grazed your throat. A nervous scratch. You'd gone flush.

You kept moving like you weren't rattled, but your spine straightened, your chin lifted. Your hips rocked a little harder. You made him wait.

There were no words shared when you brought his bourbon, just a brush of fingers when you handed him the glass. A loaded look.

His tongue darted across his lips as he watched you walk away. And for the first time, he didn't hate this place so much. Didn't want to burn it down with everyone inside.

Not as long as he would find you here.

You were not one to be so easily consumed, spirited away; made to disappear by the will of others. When you realized that they were coming for you, you ran, and you've been running through the forest ever since with a wrapped bundle in your arms.

This was what they were after. They would not cease pursuing you until they had it, or you were dead. Or both. Perhaps the only advantageous thing from this entire situation was that you chose to run into the forest instead of on the road. The chance that a passing car would be willing to stop for you was slim, and the chance that you would survive climbing down the damp ravines into the forest if you'd been seen was even less.

So, the forest beckoned you inside its core with the precious thing in your arms that you'd promised to bring back a long time ago. It was round and nestled tightly to your chest as if you were a parent fleeing with an infant. Except it did not breathe life nor retain flesh, and it could not babble or speak to you—not as it was, anyway.

From nearby, a gunshot rang out overhead. A warning. A threat. They were coming to take back what they had stolen themselves, a humorous irony of fate. They had said that the town would cease to exist if you fled with it, that no good could possibly come from the outcome that you desired.

Perhaps, in the end, they would be right. But you loved him. Loved the way he caressed you softly despite his presence and strength. Loved all of his impatience and rage, his understanding that you would eventually be ravaged by time, and he would never, so he treated you tenderly.

Another gunshot sounded, but this one struck you in the calf. You screamed and fell down onto the wet detritus of leaves, moss, and mud with the precious thing still in your arms. You intended to hold it until the last, until you were cold and rigid, and they'd have to prise it from your arms.

The agony stole your voice, your breaths harsh pants as you tried to climb to your knees and crawl towards a tree without the use of an arm or leg. You couldn't bring yourself to look back at your leg, to investigate the warmth flowing freely from the gaping wound, and the smell of petrichor wrapped in earthy decay with a metallic tang.

"Told you didn't we?" said the Sheriff, unholstered gun at his side. "We keep our secrets here, honey. We'll be taking back the Horseman's head."

"No!" you spat through teeth and saliva. "It doesn't belong to you! It never has!"

He spun the barrel of his pistol, readied the next bullet, and pointed it at you—at your head. "Maybe not. But everyone will be a lot worse off if you get your way about things. You'd be willing to wipe out an entire town for that…thing? How sick are you?"

Sicker than most, but not sick enough to hide secrets like these for over two hundred years.

So, you said nothing when the Horseman approached from between the darkness of the trees, cloaked in weathered red and black armor, tarnished sword drawn and raised. You closed your eyes and listened to the Sheriff's shriek of terror end with steel cutting the air, flesh ripping, and blood geysering from his severed neck. His head landed some ways off with an underwhelming thud, like a tree branch hitting the forest floor.

You did not search for the head when you opened your eyes, nor did you seek out the body, though it lay there much closer to you than the head. It was the Horseman whom you were looking at as he sheathed his sword and came to you. His footsteps were heavy and precise, terrifying to anyone who did not know them.

It was getting colder, and your leg still ached, but you sat on your knees as you unraveled the fabric from around the bundle to reveal a pristine skull. While grayed and dirty from age and the time it had spent underground, the skull was without lost teeth or cracks in the orbital sockets. For all of the town's fuckery, they'd taken care of it remarkably well.

The Horseman took it from you once offered, but did not attach it to his empty neck. Rather, he attached it to the belt around his waist and turned his torso towards you. His thick, gloved fingertips sought your face and gently stroked it, smearing blood across your cheek while trying to rid you of your tears.

He reached around your body then, hoisting you up into his arms as he gestured somewhere off into the trees. A white horse with a torn face emerged, emitting an otherworldly whinny as you were placed in the saddle and he climbed on behind you.

---

a/n; if anyone has ever come across the headless horseman story called "in a sleepy town" on here or AO3 in the past, that was by me and one of my first original x reader projects I ever started. it was never finished, but it holds a special place in my heart.