www.moon.com

The place is small like two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a shared desk cluttered with textbooks and protein shakes, and a single window overlooking the campus quad.

You drag the last suitcase over the threshold of the dormitory room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist.

Your parents’ warnings echo in your head: Lock the door. Text us when you’re settled. Be careful. Always, always be careful.

You’re an only child. They’ve spent twenty-three years treating you like glass. When the landlord mentioned the only available room came with a roommate, they’d balked.

But the second he added, “He’s one of the task force boys. Big Austrian fellow and keeps to himself,” their tune changed instantly.

A soldier. Disciplined. Safe.

They’d practically shoved the deposit at him, convinced no man in uniform would ever lay a finger on their precious daughter.

You drop your bags with a thud and roll your shoulders, scanning the space. One side is bare which is yours, apparently.

The other is military-neat: bed made with hospital corners, boots lined up like soldiers on parade.

No sign of life.

You were hoping he’d be here so you could get the awkward introduction over with instead of accidentally terrifying him later when he came home to a stranger.

A door on the far side of the room, his bedroom and you guess then creaks open.

You freeze.

He has to duck to clear the frame. Six-foot-something, maybe more, built like someone carved him out of granite and then added extra for fun.

Broad shoulders stretch a black compression shirt until the seams look personally offended. Tactical pants, heavy boots. And a mask that a faded sniper hood that covers everything but his eyes.

Those eyes are pale blue, sharp as winter glass, and they rake over you from head to toe in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering. Just…cataloguing. Like he’s deciding if you’re a threat or furniture.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. “ Hi. I’m, uh…the new roommate.”

His head tilts. When he speaks, the voice that comes out is low enough to vibrate in your ribs. Deep, clipped, unmistakably German-accented.

“ Glad to meet you.”

You offer a tentative smile. “ Same. I’m guessing you’re König?"

He nods once. “ Ja. Been alone for a few months. My last roommate moved out.”

A pause.

“ Said I frightened him.”

You arch a brow, folding your arms. “ Depends how creepy you plan to be, I guess.”

The corner of his eye crinkles like he’s smiling under the mask. “ Not creepy at all. As long as you don’t piss me off.”

The dry delivery catches you off guard. You snort before you can stop yourself. “ Noted. I’ll try to keep my pissing-off levels to a minimum.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh. Then he lifts one massive arm and points with a gloved finger toward the empty side of the room.

“ That’s yours. Bathroom’s through there.”

He nods toward a connecting door. “ Kitchenette down the hall. Quiet hours after twenty-two hundred if I’m on early shift.”

You drag your suitcase toward the empty bed. “ I’m usually buried in textbooks until midnight anyway. Med school doesn’t sleep.”

“ Med school.” He repeats, like he’s filing it away.

“ Good. You’ll be busy. I like quiet.”

You unzip the bag and start unpacking, hyper-aware of him still standing there, watching. Not in a creepy way the more like he’s waiting to see which way you’ll jump.

You pull out a stack of anatomy flashcards and set them on the desk. He shifts his weight, arms crossing over that ridiculous chest.

“ I keep things clean.” He says eventually.

“ Expect the same.”

“ Yes, sir.” You mutter under your breath, sarcastic.

His eyes narrow. “ Sir works.”

Heat flashes up your neck. You busy yourself arranging your laptop, refusing to look at him. The silence stretches, thick enough to chew. You can feel him still watching, and it’s doing annoying things to your pulse.

You risk a glance. He hasn’t moved. “ Something else?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “ Just deciding if you’ll last longer than the last one.”

“ I’m not scared of you.” You say, maybe too quickly.

One brow lifts above the mask. “ You should be a little scared. Healthy respect.”

You roll your eyes. “ I’ve dissected cadavers. You’re tall, not dead.”

That gets you another soft huff, definitely amusement this time. “ We’ll see.”

He turns to go back into his room, pausing at the door. “ If you need anything…quiet, space, someone to reach the top shelf just ask.”

The door closes softly behind him.

You exhale, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your heart is beating too fast for no good reason.

He’s intimidating, sure.

Abrasive in that blunt, foreign way. But there’s something under it is the dry humor, maybe even consideration. And those eyes…

You shake your head. Focus. You’re here for school, not to develop a stupid crush on your giant masked roommate who could probably bench-press you without breaking a sweat.

Still, when you lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, you hear him moving around in his room in quiet, deliberate footsteps, the occasional low mutter in German.

The wall between you feels paper-thin. You pull the blanket higher. This year is going to be interesting.

And long.

Very, very long.

…

You finally click the last drawer shut and survey your side of the room with exhausted satisfaction. Everything’s in its place. Textbooks stacked by size, notes color-coded, laptop charger coiled like a sleeping snake.

Your phone screen lights up: 00:47. Shit. No wonder your stomach is staging a full rebellion. You haven’t eaten since that sad airport sandwich at lunch.

The common area is dark and silent when you tiptoe out. Most of the task force guys are probably already rack-out, dreaming of push-ups and gunfire.

You’re halfway to the fridge when a low, rumbling voice slices through the quiet.

“ Still awake, Maus?"

You yelp and spin around, clutching your chest. König is sprawled across the couch like a panther on a branch that’s far too small for him.

One long leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He’s reading a comic book that looks comically tiny in his huge hands, the pages almost delicate between gloved fingers.

The only light comes from a small lamp behind him, throwing his masked face into shadow and making those pale eyes glow.

“ Dammit, warn a girl.” You hiss, trying to slow your racing heart.

He tilts his head, amused. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your…midnight raiding.”

You narrow your eyes and march to the fridge, yanking it open. Leftover containers, protein shakes, something labeled in German that you’re not brave enough to touch.

Your stomach growls again and loud enough to echo.

From the couch comes a soft, deep chuckle that does unfair things to your spine.

“ I left food on the table.” He says.

“ Knew you’d be hungry. Students always forget to eat.”

You glance over. There’s a foil-wrapped bundle with a sticky note: For the new one.

Your cheeks heat. “ You didn’t have to—”

“ Eat.” He orders mildly, turning a page.

You shuffle to the table and unwrap it. A burger is thick, juicy-looking with sesame bun. Smells incredible. You take a cautious bite.

König’s watching now, the comic forgotten in his lap. He’s still sitting, but even seated he’s enormous. The couch groans every time he shifts.

“ It’s plant-based.” He says before you can ask.

You pause mid-chew. “ I’m not vegetarian.”

“ Part of my diet.” He shrugs. Those massive shoulders roll like tectonic plates.

“ The taste is the same. Better, even. Try it before you complain.”

You roll your eyes but take another bite. And…damn it. He’s right. It’s rich, smoky, and perfectly seasoned. You can’t tell the difference. You make an involuntary little hum of approval and nod.

He gives a satisfied nod. “ Good. You’ll get addicted.”

“ Don’t get cocky.” You mutter around a mouthful.

He stands.

The room seems to shrink. He unfolds himself slowly, first the legs, then the torso until he’s towering again.

You’re eye-level with his stomach, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight over abs you’re trying very hard not to notice. He steps forward, and you instinctively back up until your hips hit the counter.

“ Thirsty.” He says simply, voice low.

“ I need water.”

You’re blocking the sink. You scramble sideways, muttering, “ Sorry, sorry—”

He brushes past you, barely. His arm grazes yours, solid and warm even through fabric. You catch a faint scent of clean soap and something sharper, like gun oil. He fills a glass, drinks half in one go, throat working under the edge of the mask.

You focus very hard on your burger.

Sauce dribbles onto your chin. You reach for a napkin, too late.

A big thumb swipes across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, wiping the smear away.

Your breath stops.

“ You eat like a child.” He murmurs, voice rougher than before.

His thumb lingers half a second longer than necessary before he pulls away, sucking the sauce off casually like it’s nothing.

Your face is on fire. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. You can’t even form words just a strangled squeak.

“ I…uh…early lecture tomorrow…gotta—” You gesture vaguely toward your room, burger clutched like a shield.

He watches you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ Gute Nacht, messy eater.”

You bolt.

The door to your room slams harder than intended. You lean against it, panting, burger still in hand, sauce probably smeared somewhere else now.

Your lip tingles where he touched it. You press your fingers there like you can trap the feeling.

Less than twenty-four hours.

You’ve been here less than a full day, and your scary-hot giant roommate has already fed you, laughed at you, and wiped your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, and the burger is forgotten.

This slow torture is going to kill you. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of you is already looking forward to tomorrow’s breakfast.

…

You sit in the lecture hall trying to look like a functioning human being, pen poised over your notebook, nodding along as the professor drones about cranial nerves.

Your friends flank you, whispering snide remarks about how Dr. Kessler gave a 62 to the kid who literally wrote the textbook’s twin.

You laugh in all the right places, toss in a sarcastic “He probably grades on font choice,” and hope it sounds normal.

But your brain is a traitor.

Every time you blink, you see that massive thumb brushing sauce off your lip. Feel the faint pressure, the warmth. Hear that low, amused “You eat like a child.”

You’ve tried everything: reciting the brachial plexus, counting ceiling tiles, mentally conjugating Latin roots.

Nothing works.

Those stupid piercing blue eyes keep sliding into frame like an uninvited guest star.

“ Hey, you okay?” Maya nudges you.

“ You zoned out hard.”

You force a smile. “ Totally fine. Just remembered that the histology paper’s due Friday.”

They buy it, thank God, and launch back into roasting professors. You nod mechanically, pretending to listen while your pulse does an annoying little flutter at the memory of König’s chuckle.

By the time class ends, you’re exhausted from the mental gymnastics. You shove your earbuds in, crank your playlist, something loud and distracting and join the river of students pouring down the main sidewalk toward the dorms.

The late-afternoon sun is low, campus buzzing with the usual post-class chaos.

Then you spot the patrol.

Black SUVs, uniformed officers, a loose perimeter of soldiers in full kit. Rifles slung, vests bulky, moving with practiced efficiency.

A bright orange poster on a lamppost reads SURPRISE SECURITY INSPECTION in bold letters. Students slow to gawk while their phones come out.

You slow too, craning your neck as you walk, trying to figure out what’s happening.

It’s rare to see this kind of presence on campus.

You don’t see the obstacle until you slam into it.

Your face meets something solid and unyielding. Not a wall, walls don’t radiate heat or smell faintly of pine soap and gun oil.

You stumble back, earbuds tugging, and look up…way up.

König.

In full tactical gear, helmet tucked under one arm, mask in place, he looms like a damn eclipse. The uniform makes him look even bigger, if that’s possible, plates and pouches adding bulk to an already ridiculous frame.

Those pale eyes pin you in place.

“ Watch the road, not my colleagues.” He says, voice low but firm.

“ You put yourself in danger.”

You blink, music still blasting in one ear. “ What?”

He sighs and reaches down. Gloved fingers gently pluck both earbuds free. The sudden quiet is jarring. You hear your own heartbeat instead.

His face is closer now, head ducked to bring him level with you. You can see faint stubble shadowing the edge of the mask, the way his lashes catch the light. Dangerously close.

“ I said…” He repeats, slower.

“ Stop staring at distractions. Be attentive on the road.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “ I—I was just curious. It’s not every day the campus looks like a war zone.”

His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the perimeter. You follow it and notice several soldiers watching, smirking, whispering to each other.

One makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. Another elbows his buddy, grinning.

König groans, a deep, suffering sound. “ Idioten.”

He turns back to you, expression unreadable behind the mask but eyes softer. “ Surprise inspection. Report came in…possibly the suspect with explosives on campus.”

A cold shiver races down your spine. “ Seriously?”

“ Ja.” His voice drops even lower.

“ Do not spread it. No panic.”

You nod quickly, throat tight.

His massive hand settles on your shoulder in careful, but the weight of it still makes you feel tiny. Warmth seeps through your jacket.

“ Go back to the dorm. Rest. I’ll follow when the shift ends.”

The touch lingers a second longer than strictly necessary before he lifts it away. You swallow hard.

“ Okay.” You manage.

“ Be careful.”

One corner of his eye crinkles, almost a smile. “ Always am.”

You turn to go, shoving your earbuds in your pocket this time.

Every step feels hyper-aware.

You can feel his stare on your back like a physical thing, intense and unwavering. You don’t dare look behind you, but you know he’s still watching until you round the corner.

By the time you reach the dorm, your heart is racing again for entirely different reasons than fear of bombs.

You flop face-first onto your bed and groan into the pillow.

This man is going to be the death of you. And the slowest, most infuriatingly delicious death it’s ever been.

…

You’ve been here six weeks now, and somehow you’ve survived living with a human mountain who wears a mask to bed and could probably deadlift the entire dorm building.

Six weeks of slow, maddening adjustment.

You and König have settled into a rhythm that feels almost…domestic. He grunts a greeting when he gets back from whatever classified hell his task force drags him through.

You tease him about leaving his giant boots in the walkway like landmines. He deadpans back that if you trip then he’ll catch you then watches with thinly veiled amusement as you turn red and mutter something about not needing rescuing.

He feeds you. Constantly.

Every few days there’s a foil-wrapped parcel on the table with a sticky note in sharp block letters: Eat. You skipped lunch again.

Sometimes it’s grilled chicken and vegetables portioned like he’s prepping for deployment.

Sometimes it’s those ridiculous plant-based burgers you’re secretly addicted to now.

Once it was a whole box of those fancy chocolate truffles you mentioned liking in passing.

You still don’t know how he remembered.

Your parents call every Sunday like clockwork.

“ Is everything okay, sweetheart? Is your roommate treating you well?”

You roll your eyes and assure them, again, that König isn’t some creep. He’s quiet, tidy, terrifying to everyone else but oddly respectful to you.

They sound relieved every time, as if the word “soldier” is a magical shield against all bad things.

If only they knew how often you lie awake wondering why your stomach flips whenever he brushes past you in the narrow kitchenette.

The tension is unbearable and delicious. You’re twenty-three. He’s…older. Noticeably. You try not to think about the exact math, because it feels forbidden in a way that makes your skin too tight.

He’s your roommate. Your friend, maybe. Nothing more.

Except for that one evening last week.

You’re sprawled on the couch in oversized sweats, picking at the takeout Thai he brought home “because women always want to eat.”

His words. Delivered with that dry, accented certainty that makes you want to both laugh and climb him like a tree.

“ Thanks for dinner again.” You say, mouth full of pad thai.

“ Seriously, I’m gonna start thinking I’m your girlfriend or something with all this spoiling.”

The words tumble out before your brain catches up.

You freeze.

He freezes in mid-reach for his water bottle and his massive frame suddenly statue-still. Even behind the mask you can feel the shift in the air, thick and electric.

Silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Your laugh comes out high and panicked. “ Kidding! Obviously. I mean, you’d have to actually take me on a date first, old man. Buy me flowers or whatever ancient ritual you Austrians do.”

His eyes narrow, but the crinkle at the corners gives him away. “ Old man?”

“ Yeah. You probably listened to vinyl records in your crib.”

He huffs in half laugh, half warning. “ Careful, Maus. Keep teasing and I will stop bringing food.”

“ You wouldn’t dare.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping dangerously low. “ Try me.”

You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly. The moment hangs, heavy and sweet, until you both look away at the exact same second like cowards.

There are other moments you pretend don’t happen.

Like the nights you jolt awake to low, ragged sounds from his room. The panting and muffled groans that make your imagination run filthy laps.

You press a pillow over your head and curse him for not using headphones, whatever porn he’s watching. You refuse to acknowledge the ache between your thighs or the way you have to change your own sheets the next morning.

Worse: your favorite black lace panties have vanished.

Then the red ones. You’ve torn apart your laundry basket twice. You’re convinced they’ve fallen behind the dryer or something equally mortifying.

The idea that König might have found them or seen them, touched them makes you want to die on the spot. You’ve rehearsed asking him a dozen times “Hey, random question, have you seen any…women’s underwear lying around?” and every version ends with you spontaneously combusting.

So you say nothing. You buy new ones and pray.

Tonight you’re at the kitchen counter, stress-eating cereal straight from the box because exams are trying to murder you.

The door clicks open at 23:40, later than usual. König ducks inside, gear bag slung over one shoulder, moving quiet despite his size.

He pauses when he sees you. “ Still up?”

“ The brain won’t shut off.” You mumble around a mouthful of frosted flakes.

He drops the bag, pulls two protein bars from his pocket, and slides one across the counter to you without a word. You stare at it, then at him.

“ I’m already eating cereal at midnight. This is not a protein emergency.”

“ Eat anyway.” He says.

“ You’re cranky when you’re hungry.”

“ I am not cranky.”

He arches a brow.

You tear open the bar and take an aggressive bite. “ Happy, dad?”

The eye crinkle again. “ Very.”

He moves to the fridge, back to you, and you allow yourself one quick glance at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.

Six weeks in and the tension hasn’t eased, it’s worse. Thicker. Like the air before a storm.

You wonder if he feels it too.

You wonder if he hears you some nights, the same way you hear him.

You wonder how long you can both keep pretending this is just friendly roommate banter.

Because it’s not.

And you’re running out of excuses to ignore it.

…

You’re crammed into your favorite cheap eatery just off campus, the one with the greasy tables and the best bulgogi bowls in a ten-mile radius.

It’s lunch break, and your friends are in full post-quiz autopsy mode, arguing over whether the professor wanted “afferent” or “efferent” for question twelve.

You’re half-listening, half-daydreaming about a nap, chopsticks hovering over your rice.

The sliding door whooshes open.

Conversation dies instantly.

Four pairs of eyes swing to you like you’re the main character in a K-drama.

You feel it before you see him: Brent Kim, club president, 4.0 GPA, literal walking Pinterest board, strolling up to the counter in a cream sweater that probably costs more than your tuition. Dark hair perfectly tousled, and a smile bright enough to power the city grid.

Your mouth drops open. A fly could homestead in there.

“ Close it.” Maya hisses, kicking you under the table.

“Before something nests.”

You snap your jaw shut, but your stare stays glued. Brent orders in a smooth, polite voice and then turns. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you, and that smile widens.

Oh God.

He walks straight to your table.

Your friends turn into vibrating chihuahuas trying not to squeal. Someone’s foot is rapidly tapping Morse code into your shin: SAY YES TO WHATEVER HE ASKS.

“ Hey…” Brent says, stopping beside your chair. Up close he smells like cedar and winter air.

“ Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You manage a brilliant “Hi” that comes out more like a squeak.

He chuckles in low and warm.

“ Quick question…are you free this Sunday? It’s the club’s founding anniversary. All members are supposed to show, but I figured I’d personally remind my favorite bio major.”

Your brain short-circuits. Favorite?

Your friends are making frantic hand gestures: nodding heads, thumbs up, one of them literally mouthing GO.

You clear your throat. “ I…yeah. I’ll be there.”

“ Perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, embossed card, a thick cream stock with gold lettering.

A ticket.

“ You’ll need this at the door. Security’s tight this year.”

He holds it out. You reach and your fingers brush his.

Electricity shoots straight up your arm, down your spine, pools hot in your stomach. It’s barely a second of contact, but your entire nervous system files a dramatic incident report.

Your friends lose the battle. A chorus of stifled squeaks erupts.

Brent’s smile turns knowing. “ Looking forward to seeing you there.”

He nods to your friends, grabs his takeout from the counter, and leaves while the door sliding shut behind him like the end of a movie scene.

The second he’s gone, chaos.

“ OH MY GOD YOU TOUCHED HIM.”

“ HE SAID FAVORITE.”

“ YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE.”

“ It’s not a date!” You protest, face nuclear.

“ It’s a club thing!”

“ With a personal invitation and actual finger contact.” Maya counters.

“ That’s a date, babe.”

You hide behind your bulgogi, grinning like an idiot despite yourself.

Forty feet away, at a corner booth half-hidden by a fake ficus, four very large men in civilian clothes sit in tense silence.

König’s metal spoon is bent at a forty-five-degree angle in his fist.

Soap is biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing that it’s turning white. Ghost watches the scene like he’s observing wildlife. Price just looks tired.

“ Aw, look at that…” Soap whispers, voice syrupy.

“ Proper college romance. Finger brushin’, blushin’, the works. Makes ye miss uni, doesn’t it?”

Ghost grunts. “ Nobody would’ve dated your weird ass in uni.”

Soap gasps, hand to chest. “ Excuse me, Lt. Spooky is calling me weird? You wear a skull mask to Tesco.”

“ Both of you shut it.” Price mutters, rubbing his temple.

Then, quieter. “ Didn’t think König’s type was…college girl.”

Ghost snorts. “ Don’t know what the fuck he ate to start fancying a student. They’re all headaches and drama.”

Soap leans in, eyes dancing. “ Maybe she makes his soldier stand at ease, if you catch my—”

Ghost kicks him under the table. Soap wheezes.

König’s voice is low, dangerously even. “ I don’t like her. She can flirt with whoever. I don’t give a fuck.”

Soap finally loses it then a choked giggle escapes.

“ Right. That’s why you’ve been nicking her knickers like a bloody magpie. Wanking into them every morning, sniffing them like they’re laced with coke—”

“ Shut. Up.” König’s growl could peel paint.

Soap raises both hands, still grinning. “ Just sayin’. And remember that time you made her a protein shake with your own special—”

Ghost mutters. “ It gave me nightmares for weeks.”

“ Milk mixture for breakfast?” Soap finishes cheerfully.

“ Real romantic, big guy.”

König’s jaw flexes under the mask. The spoon is now a pretzel.

Price sighs heavily. “ Let the man sort his own mess. She’s an adult. He wants to court her properly, fine.”

He fixes König with a hard stare. “ But if you do something stupid like more bodily fluid cuisine…I’ll smash your skull myself.”

Soap leans back, folding his arms. “ My professional advice? Make a move before the pretty boy snatches her. College lads move fast.”

Ghost kicks him again. “ Don’t listen to this idiot. Whatever you do next will already be creepy as fuck after the panty theft and the…milk incident.”

König stares at the bent spoon like it personally betrayed him. His food is untouched.

Across the restaurant, you’re still being grilled by your friends, laughing and blushing and replaying that finger brush in your head on loop.

You have no idea that six weeks of stolen glances, late-night groceries, and carefully portioned meals have built something far more complicated than friendship on the other side of the room.

Or that the man currently mutilating cutlery has memorized the way you blush, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of every missing pair of underwear now hidden in his locker.

Sunday is four days away, and König’s grip on the ruined spoon finally snaps it clean in half.

…

You float back to the dorm on a cloud of giddy stupidity, the gold-embossed ticket clutched between your fingers like it’s made of glass.

Brent’s cologne still clings faintly to the card in clean, expensive and perfect. You press it to your nose once in the elevator, then feel like an idiot and shove it into your pocket before anyone sees.

The dorm is quiet when you push the door open. No towering shadow, no low Austrian greeting. König must still be on shift.

You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the couch, and collapse backward with a happy sigh, replaying the finger-brush moment for the hundredth time.

Your gaze lands on the coffee table.

His comic book. The one he’s been nursing for weeks that sits there and spine cracked open like he just set it down.

Curiosity wins. You reach for it.

The cover looks innocent enough: stylized art, bold colors. You flip to the dog-eared page.

Your brain blue-screens.

A woman bent over a desk, skirt flipped up.

A man behind her, a massive, hooded, unmistakably dominant, is thrusting so hard the speech bubbles are just a string of filthy German curses and broken English pleas.

Explicit doesn’t cover it.

You see everything: thick cock stretching her open, her mouth wide in a scream, sweat flying off both of them.

You yelp, hurl the book across the room like it’s radioactive, then frantically cross yourself even though you haven’t been to church since high school.

“ Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

The bedroom door creaks open.

König fills the frame, arms crossed, mask in place, those icy eyes locked on you. He’s in a black t-shirt and tactical pants, sleeves stretched around biceps that look illegally large.

Day off, apparently and he’s barefoot, silent as a ghost.

You swallow. “ When…when did you get back?”

“ Day off.” He says simply, voice gravel-rough.

You stand too fast, nearly tripping. “ Cool, cool. I’m just…gonna head to my room—”

You don’t make it two steps.

“ Enjoy your little lunch date with the college boy?” He asks, tone dripping sarcasm.

You freeze. Turn slowly. “ How did you—”

“ I saw you.” He cuts in, starting toward you with deliberate steps.

“ At the restaurant. You and your giggling friends. Him handing you that pretty ticket like a good little prince.”

You back up instinctively. “ I didn’t see you.”

He chuckles, dark and humorless. “ No. You were too busy blushing at that pathetic boy.”

Your spine hits the sink counter. Trapped. He keeps coming until he’s looming, one hand planting on the cabinet beside your head, caging you in. He has to bend to bring his face close then the heat radiates off him.

“ What’s your problem?” You demand, voice shakier than you want.

“ Why are you insulting Brent?”

König mutters something harsh in German like Scheiße, probably then switches back.

“ Don’t like what I saw. Wanted to walk over, grab him by the neck, throw him across the room.”

His mask brushes your temple as he leans closer. You feel his breath through the fabric, warm and unsteady.

“ I’m jealous.” He growls.

“ I'm possessive. Don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

“ I’m not yours.” You shoot back, but it sounds weak even to you.

He laughs, low and dangerous. “ The moment you walked into this dorm, Maus? You were mine.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut in a hot, coiling need twisting low in your belly. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.

He doesn’t budge. Instead he presses forward, pinning you harder against the sink.

You gasp.

Something huge and impossibly hard grinds against your stomach, long, thick and throbbing through his pants.

Your thighs clench involuntarily.

“ I've been trying to control it.” He whispers, voice ragged now.

“ Every night I hear you through the wall. Every time you bend over in those little shorts. Every time you laugh at my notes. I stroke myself raw thinking about you…how tight you’d be, how you’d cry my name while I split you open.”

Your breath hitches. A soft, embarrassing sound escapes your throat.

He hears it. His gloved hand catches your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip.

“ I want to fuck you so deep you forget that boy’s name exists.” He murmurs against your ear.

“ I want to bend you over this counter right now, shove your panties aside, and bury every inch inside you until you’re dripping down my balls.”

“ I want to feel you clench around me while you beg…louder than you do in your sleep when you touch yourself thinking no one hears.”

You’re soaking through your underwear. Your hips twitch forward without permission, seeking friction against that massive bulge.

“ I want to ruin you for anyone else.” He continues, filthy and relentless.

“ Fill you up again and again until the only thing you remember is how good my cock stretches you. Until you’re addicted to the way I wreck this pretty little pussy.”

His thumb slips into your mouth, just the tip, and you suck on it helplessly while your eyes flutter.

He groans, the sound tortured.

“ Say you’re mine…” He demands, voice cracking with restraint.

“ Say it, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been dreaming about.”

You’re trembling, heart hammering, body on fire. The comic book lies forgotten on the floor, and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

…

You stare up into those piercing blue eyes, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.

His thumb is still pressed against your lower lip, waiting.

You make the mistake.

A tiny, breathless “Yes” slips out.

The second it leaves your mouth, his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.

Then you’re airborne.

One massive arm hooks under your thighs, the other across your back, and he hoists you onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

You squeak in half protest and half thrill as blood rushes to your head. His stride eats the distance to his bedroom in three steps.

The door bangs open as he tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce once, twice, hair fanning across his dark sheets.

The room smells like him, gun oil, pine soap, and something darker. Your eyes dart around. The tactical gear neatly stacked, protein powder on the dresser, and—

You gasp.

One of your missing black lace panties is draped over the back of his desk chair like a trophy, the crotch darkened with dried stains.

König follows your gaze.

“ I haven’t washed that one.” He says, voice rough with satisfaction.

He plucks the fabric from the chair, holding it up between two thick fingers. The evidence is unmistakable, crusted and almost dry cum streaking the center.

“ It still smells like you. And me.”

“ You…you stole my panties?” Your voice cracks, equal parts horror and filthy arousal.

He chuckles, deep and unapologetic, tossing the ruined lace aside.

“ Not sorry, Maus. I need your scent. It gets hard just walking past the laundry room.”

He crawls onto the bed, a massive frame caging you in. “ Addicted.”

Your brain flashes to the comic book on the living room floor. “ That…that comic—”

“ I needed something to look at while I pictured you.” He admits without shame, lowering himself until his weight pins you deliciously.

“ Better visuals when I fuck my fist thinking of this tight little body.”

Before you can form a reply, his hands fist the front of your uniform blouse. Fabric rips like paper. Buttons ping across the room. Cool air hits your skin and you gasp as your bra is exposed.

“ Scheiße.” He groans, eyes devouring you.

“ Perfect.”

His huge palms cover your breasts completely and your chest looks tiny in his grip. He squeezes, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard and aching.

Then his mouth descends. Hot, wet suction on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arch with a sharp moan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask.

He switches sides, biting down harder, marking you. By the time he pulls away, both nipples are swollen, shining with his saliva, throbbing in time with your pulse.

He doesn’t stop there.

König moves down your body like a predator, shoving your skirt up to your waist. Your panties are soaked as he rips those too, the sound obscene.

You’re bare to him now, trembling.

He spreads your thighs wide, settling between them like he belongs there. A deep, guttural groan vibrates against your skin as he buries his face against your slick folds.

“ Fuck, you smell better than the panties.” He rasps.

He inhales deeply, nose dragging through your slit. The vibration of his groan shoots straight to your clit. You jerk, hips bucking, but his hands pin you flat.

“ Stay still.” He orders, voice muffled against you.

One thick finger traces your entrance, gathering wetness. You whimper when he pushes inside slowly at first, letting you feel the stretch.

He pulls out, stares at the faint red streak on his finger.

“ Blood?” His tone is reverent, almost awed.

“ You’re a virgin?”

You nod, biting your lip.

A dark, possessive sound tears from his throat. “ Mine. Only mine.”

He thrusts the finger back in but this time hard. No gentleness. His digit is huge, stretching you open with brutal rhythm.

You cry out, back bowing. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.

“ Taking my finger so well.” He growls.

“ I can’t wait to feel this cunt choke my cock.”

The heat coils tighter, unbearable. “ König…I’m—”

“ Cum.” He commands.

“ Explode on my hand. Show me how you fall apart.”

You do.

The orgasm slams through you, thighs shaking violently as you clench around his finger. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing his name.

When you finally sag, boneless, he withdraws slowly. His finger glistens with your release and that trace of blood. He brings it to his mask, slipping it underneath.

You hear the wet sound of him sucking it clean, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Then he pulls it out, shiny with his saliva, and presses it to your lips.

“ Suck.”

You obey without thinking, tongue swirling around the thick digit, tasting yourself in tangy, musky, mixed with him. His gaze is molten, fixed on your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck obediently.

“ Good girl.” He praises, voice hoarse.

“ Clean every drop.”

You do, until his finger is spotless. He withdraws it with a wet pop, eyes never leaving yours.

“ This is just the start, Maus.” He murmurs, settling his hips between your thighs so you feel exactly how hard he is massive, burning against your sensitive skin.

“ By the time I’m done, you’ll never think of that boy again.”

…

König drops his massive body beside you on the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. He’s still fully clothed except for the gloves tossed aside, mask in place, chest heaving from the restraint he’s barely holding onto.

Those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, dark with hunger.

“ Straddle me.” He orders, voice low and rough.

“ Take me out.”

You huff, half-hearted protest bubbling up. “ You’re so bossy—”

His glare sharpens, one brow arching above the mask. The look says try me.

You swallow the rest of your complaint and climb over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He spreads his thick thighs wider, giving you room, watching like a predator as your trembling fingers fumble with his zipper.

The second you reach inside, your hand closes around heat and steel. You pull him free and nearly whimper.

He’s enormous. It's angry red, veiny, easily ten inches and thicker than your wrist.

Your fingers don’t even meet around the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slick and glistening.

König groans, hips twitching. “ Lube it, Maus. Use that pretty mouth.”

You stare at the monster in your hand. “ I can’t…it’s too big. I’ll choke.”

He chuckles, dark and filthy. “ Don’t deepthroat, Liebling. Just the tip. Suck like you mean it. Use your hands for the rest.”

You gulp, leaning down. Even the head stretches your lips wide, salty and hot against your tongue. You swirl around the crown, slurping messily, cheeks hollowing. Both hands pump what you can’t fit in which is most of him.

König’s head falls back, throat working on a growl. “ Fuck…genau so. Good girl.”

You lose yourself in the rhythm. The sucking, stroking and spit dripping down his length until huge hands suddenly grip your ass, lifting you like you’re weightless.

You squeak around his cock as he positions you higher, tip nudging insistently at your soaked entrance.

“ W-wait—” You gasp, pulling off with a wet pop.

“ It won’t fit!”

“ It will.” He rasps, holding the base steady.

“ Your greedy little cunt will take every inch. Sink down. Now.”

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, hands braced on his chest. Slowly and agonizingly, you lower yourself.

The stretch burns. Your walls flutter and resist, then yield in tiny increments. You hiss, eyes watering as the broad head breaches you. König curses in German, fingers digging into your hips.

“ Scheiße, so tight…mein Gott.”

He slaps your ass sharply. The sting makes you clench, and another inch slides in. You moan despite the ache.

Deeper and deeper. Until your ass meets his thighs and you’re impossibly full, his cock seated so deep you feel it in your throat.

Both of you moan in raw, broken sounds.

“ Look…” He laughs breathlessly, pressing a palm to your lower belly. A visible bulge distends your skin where he’s buried.

“ Taking me like a perfect little slut. My cock’s rearranging your insides.”

The degradation sends heat spiraling through you. You lift experimentally, whimpering at the drag on how your walls cling to every vein. Then sink again. Pain melts into dizzying pleasure.

Soon you’re riding him in earnest, slow rolls turning to desperate bounces. His hands guide your hips, but he lets you set the pace, eyes glued to where you’re joined.

“ Faster…” He growls.

“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”

You do. You are chasing the friction, breasts bouncing, and moans spilling freely. The bulge appears and disappears with every thrust.

Suddenly he surges up, flipping you beneath him in one fluid move. Your legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you nearly in half.

He looms above, massive and overwhelming.

“ Zu klein für mich.” He murmurs, voice thick with awe and possession. (Too small for me)

“ Seht nur, wie ich diese winzige Muschi dehne.” (Just look how I'm stretching this tiny pussy)

He starts moving in deep, punishing strokes that punch the air from your lungs. The bulge drives deeper; you feel him everywhere.

König buries his masked face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he switches to German, words hot and filthy against your ear.

“ Du gehörst mir…so nass für mich…werde dich füllen bis es überläuft…kleine Schlampe nimmt jeden Zentimeter…” (You belong to me...so wet for me...I'll fill you until it overflows...little slut takes every inch.)

You don’t understand most of it, but the tone, it's possessive, degrading, adoring and pushes you higher. Your nails rake down his back through the shirt.

Another orgasm builds fast and brutal. “ König…please—”

“ Cum.” He snarls.

" Spritz in meinen ganze Schwanz, du verzweifeltes Mädchen!" (Cum all over my cock, you desperate girl)

You shatter.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves. You squirt hard, soaking his hips, the sheets. Your walls milk him relentlessly.

He roars your name muffled behind the mask and slams deep one last time. Heat floods you in thick, endless pulses.

There’s so much it overflows immediately, creamy white leaking around his buried length, dripping down your ass.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re tucked against his hard chest, still impaled and full.

His hand strokes your hair, voice softening to a rumble.

“ Gut gemacht, Liebling…so perfect for me…took everything I gave you.”

Only then does he ease out in slow and gentle until both of you moaning at the lewd, wet sound. Cum gushes out after him.

His cock that is still half-hard, shiny with your mixed release rests heavy and twitching against your stomach.

He strokes your hair, blue eyes searching yours.

“ No event on Sunday.” He says quietly.

“ It's useless. You stay here.”

“ But I—”

He cuts you off with a low growl. “ I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Until that boy’s name is erased from your pretty head. Then I’ll spend all day making you come again and again. That’s your Sunday.”

You open your mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly but his stare pins you.

Intense. Possessive. Promising.

You swallow. Nod.

A slow, satisfied smile crinkles his eyes.

“ Braves Mädchen.” He presses a masked kiss to your forehead. (Good girl.)

“ I’ll make it memorable. Better than any pathetic invitation.”

You melt against him, sore and spent and secretly thrilled.

Sunday was never going to that club anyway.

…

Everything has flipped upside down in the best, most filthy way possible. Since that first night, the dorm has become a non-stop haze of sex.

You barely make it out the door for class without König pinning you against the wall, fingers or tongue or cock inside you until you’re late and wobbly-kneed.

You try to study at the desk when he crawls under it then spreads your thighs, and eats you out until your notes are smeared with desperate handprints.

He comes back from shift smelling like sweat and gunpowder, and you’re on him before he can drop his gear bag while riding him on the couch, the floor or in the shower wall.

Sunday arrives exactly as he promised: unforgettable.

You wake up naked where clothes are pointless when König is in the same postcode. He’s sprawled beside you, equally bare, that huge scarred body on full display.

The first time you really see all of him in daylight, you nearly drop the orange juice. His body is a map of violence and power while broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved deep, a thick happy trail leading straight to that monstrous cock that never seems to go fully soft around you.

Scars crisscross his skin: jagged ones across his ribs, a burn on his shoulder, a long surgical line down his thigh.

He catches you staring and shifts, suddenly awkward for a man who just fucked you senseless.

“ Not pretty.” He mutters, reaching for a shirt.

You stop him, fingers tracing a raised scar on his chest. “ Are you kidding? You look fucking hot. Like a war god or something.”

You press a kiss to one mark, then another. “ Never cover up around me again.”

Breakfast prep starts innocently enough. You’re on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized shirts where the only thing you’re allowed to wear while your legs spread while he stands between them slicing strawberries.

Then two thick fingers slide into your bare pussy without warning.

“ Guten Morgen, Liebling.” He murmurs against your neck, pumping lazily.

“ Already soaked for me.”

You whimper, gripping his shoulders as he works you open, thumb circling your clit until you’re shaking. By the time you come, clutching his wrist, breakfast is forgotten.

He lifts you effortlessly, sets you on his cock, and goes back to chopping vegetables while you ride him slow and greedy. You roll your hips, chasing friction, while he calmly slices bell peppers one-handed.

The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and hotdogs fills the air. When the scent of frying fat hits, you both lose patience then you slam down hard as he thrusts up brutally, and you come together with muffled groans against each other’s skin.

His release painting your insides as the bacon pops in the pan.

The rest of the day is pure debauchery.

Clothes never make a reappearance. You drift around the dorm naked, his cum drying on your thighs, breasts marked with fresh bites.

Every time you pass him. When he's reading reports on the couch or cleaning his gear at the table while his cock is hard and swinging heavy between his legs like a permanent invitation.

You take it often.

You drop to your knees while he’s reviewing mission briefs, deepthroating as much of that monster as you can in which is still only half.

He threads fingers through your hair, abs flexing, voice calm as he turns pages and praises you in German.

“ So ein braves kleines Ding…nimmst meinen Schwanz so tief…” (Such a good little thing...you take my cock so deep...)

Sunday afternoon, your phone rings.

You’re bouncing on his lap again, facing him, his mouth latched to one nipple.

The screen flashes MOM.

You freeze.

König reaches around you, grabs the phone, and holds it out. “ Answer.”

“ Are you insane?” You hiss.

“ They’ll hear—”

He thrusts up hard once, making you gasp. “ You’re too good at ignoring calls. Answer or I stop moving.”

You glare, but your hips are already rolling again.

You swipe accept.

“ Hi, Mom! Dad!”

Your mother’s voice is warm. “ Sweetheart! How’s school? Is everything okay with your roommate?”

You try to sound normal.

König chooses that moment to slam up particularly deep, the fat head of his cock knocking your cervix.

Your voice cracks on a moan. “ Everything’s g-great…oh!”

“ Baby? Are you okay?”

“ Y-yeah!” You squeak, clawing at König’s chest.

“ Just…stubbed my toe!”

König’s eyes glint with evil amusement. He flips you suddenly, pinning you face-down on the couch, one leg hooked over his forearm. He slides back in with one brutal thrust.

You whine involuntarily.

“ What was that?” Dad’s voice sharpens.

“ N-Nothing! Dropped my pen…keep going, Dad. It's the monthly allowance, right?”

Your parents keep talking about grades, allowance and reminders to eat vegetables. König leans over you, chest to your back, and starts a slow, grinding rhythm.

His masked mouth finds your ear.

“ Quiet, Schlampe.” He whispers in German.

“ Don’t want them knowing their precious daughter is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate, hm?”

You bite the cushion to stifle another moan.

Your father launches into a lecture about budgeting your monthly allowance. König speeds up, pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin barely muffled.

He degrades you softly the whole time. König leans down, mouth at your ear, whispering pure filth in German while your parents talk about finances.

“ Du kleine Schlampe…nimmst meinen Schwanz so gut während du mit Daddy redest…so verdorben…” (You little slut...taking my cock so good while you talk to Daddy...so depraved...)

The coil snaps. You come hard, silent except for a choked whimper, walls fluttering around him. König pulls out just in time, hot stripes paint your lower back and ass then shoves back in to finish deep and flooding you again.

His huge hand clamps over your mouth, catching your muffled cry.

“ Braves Mädchen.” He breathes against your neck.

“ So gehorsam.” (So obedient.)

Your father is still mid-sentence about direct deposits when the aftershocks fade.

“ I…I have to go,” you manage, voice shaky.

“ Assignment due—”

“ Of course, honey.” Your mom says.

“ Just remember…stay safe. Keep your distance from that male roommate, okay? You’re too trusting sometimes.”

König outright laughs in a low, wicked rumble against your spine.

You end the call with trembling fingers. He plucks the phone away, tosses it onto the coffee table, and gives a lazy thrust that makes you gasp.

“ They have no idea…” He says, voice low and rough.

“ That their precious girl is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate every day. Stuffed full of my cum while she lies to them.”

You swat his chest weakly. “ You’re evil.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of you as he starts a slow, lazy rhythm again.

“ Evil?” He leans down, mask brushing your lips.

“ No, Maus. Just keep what’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, but your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.

Sunday isn’t even over yet, and you wouldn’t trade it for any club invitation in the world.

You wonder if he could even be called a man. He carries himself with the charisma of a cursed woodland creature, with a gait silent yet lumbering, and his hulking body curved in on itself slightly. A childish conscience suggests that upon your isolation this human facade would give way to a more terrifying creature; something with yellowed, glowing eyes and a snarl with too many teeth, jagged and crowding his maw.

Perhaps that’s what awaited you behind his awful potato sack of a mask; maybe it would be a fate you would prefer to consummation and such, or a life with a husband unkind. The thought made you reach for your neck, fingers clasping around the metal warmed by your breast, a thin gold necklace with a flat charm, the once ornate detail of Mother Mary is faded from the touch of generations of women in your family, surely many anxious brides ran their thumb over the ridges of the necklace just as you did now. The thought is a comfort to you.

The house is ahead of you now, and he offers you a glance, his eyes are as glaring as when you first met, and you feel your gut drop unpleasantly. His home is sizeable, with a billowing chimney, it's a comforting promise to your aching legs and cold feet, and it's appearance is welcoming despite your company.

"Give me your things."

Is the first word he utters to you directly. His voice breaks- sounding on edge as he avoids your gaze. You obey, handing him the bags with great effort. He opens the door, letting you enter and remove your damp shoes. The man disappears with your bags and you want to protest, your very last in the way of possessions may as well be his.

"Sit" He says upon his return, you waste no time taking up the only chair in his living room, a large leather armchair, visibly worn and settled to fit his body, it's close enough to the fire to soak up the warmth, and it gives you something to stare at asides from your new husband. "You will have tea and then I will have a look at you," He says in his usual rasp, hooking the kettle over the fire.

'Look at you' is a phrase that strikes fear, it makes you want to shrink into this chair and disappear at the thought of him peering, his angry gaze fixed on you in your prettiest dress. But you don't, you simply lift and drop your chin in a nod.

"I've been told you cook" You nod once, looking up at him. "Good. mien frau should cook and clean. I am not... a mean man. But I will not treat you as a child. Understand?" Again, you nod.

"You will call me Konig, and you will not fear me." He says, his voice tense. "You do not fear me, do you?" He asks, staring down at you.

You shake your head 'no', a lie.

"Good." He huffs, tugging off that mask that had shadowed his nose and mouth ever since you'd first seen him at your parent's farm, he had come to give your uncle goats and money, at the time you had wondered and not dared to ask why, it seems they had been a sort of payment for you. The thought makes the warmth of the fire feel almost suffocating.

He runs a hand over his face and to your relief, he is not a monster. Quite the opposite, his face is dirty; ash-smudged, and weathered but he is not grotesque in the least. He is older than you thought, perhaps younger than your uncle, but it is hard to tell because he has a full head of hair, unlike most of the older men of your kin. He is far from handsome in the way you would appreciate before, but faced with the fact that he is now your husband you are pleased that he is not unsightly nor wear the marks of an ever older age.

"You cannot speak. Your father should have told me you were mute. Always was a swine" He huffs, squatting down to prod at the fire.

"Fredrick is my uncle" You object strongly, shrinking as you immediately notice your volume, your voice cutting through the crackling of the hearth.

He chuckles gruffly. "Very well." He says slowly, his voice nearly a coo.

"Fredrick is my uncle." You repeat, quieter. "My father would never sell me off"

"Is that so?" He asks, gaze hardening again. "Your uncle does not love you. You cost me three goats and their feed." He says, coldly. "What a sorry fool." He says, taking off the tea, and pouring it into a large tin mug for you.

You're not sure if he refers to you or your uncle but there's no time to deliberate as he holds out the mug to you expectantly.

Warmth blooms in your chest as you sip down the fragrant tea. Konig watches you silently in that way of his. When you finish you can hardly have time to set down the cup before his arms are on your shoulders, pulling you up and planting you before him.

"I have waited long enough frau, it is time to look at you." He growls, giving your shoulders a squeeze "You may take off your dresses."

"M-my dresses?" You say, panic filling your chest at this demand.

"Yes. That is what I said."

You hesitate, swallowing thickly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

"Why do you tremble? I am only asking to see you. If I were going to bed we wouldn't be in the living room, would we?" He prompts gruffly, searching your face. "I gave you tea." He says, almost gently.

He takes a deep breath through his nose as you tremble there.

"Fine, if you wish to keep your silly dresses on, I will have to touch you."

"S-silly?" You say, twisting up the hem of your dress.

"It makes you look like a girl. Those bows." He says, tugging on one. "You are not a girl, you're mien frau now, aren't you? Be a good one and sit still."

His hands are rough, the pads of his fingers calloused and abrasive against your skin as they trail up your arms. His hands cascade over your body almost methodically, as if he takes no pleasure in your appearance. All too quickly his palms press into your breasts, you let out a short gasp as he dares to palpate your chest, his large hands squeezing just hard enough to make you twist in discomfort. He lets out a soft grunt of approval, his hands slipping down to your hips and belly which he palpates as well, his broad hands gentler, pausing and touching any freckle scar or birthmark as he takes you in. You swallow thickly, staring at his focused expression as he acquaints himself with your flesh.

"You'll do fine, woman, though you are too small. You cannot be this small with my children when you have them. When it's time" He mutters, mostly to himself.

The day isn’t even halfway over and your bone tips already ache with hard work. 

It isn’t to say your workplace is busy. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. A cut-rate motel with more vacancies than residents found far-removed from the highway, taking only cash, no card, which is good for deterring paper trails and welcoming the transient but is bad for providing records when the police come knocking. 

You’ll get the occasional trucker, the sparse backpacker. In any case, folks stay here when they don’t want to be bothered. They’ll drive past the splintery welcome sign and stop at the diner for earthy, full-bodied coffee and a slice of famous rhubarb pie. They’ll recuperate in the motel and leave before sunrise, and you’ll be there to clean up what they leave behind, scrubbing the memory out of the fibreglass bathtub for whoever’s next. 

It’s a place where time fleets away. Hallucinatory. Where people pay their due and you hang your head because after all, you’re nothing more than the housekeeping girl. Cottony pinafore and a black dress. Mary Jane flats. Fingers desquamating from years of bleach and vinegar stuck in your nail beds. You get handed dog-eared tips and in return, you don’t ask questions. But maybe you should have.

You’re sliding the window cleaner back into its compartment on the cleaning cart just as your boss scales the veranda. He’s grinning and sporting sweat stains across his armpits. A patchy beard. A loose tie. 

Your nerves lock up tight when he grasps your shoulders. His razorous fingers and the pinchbeck of his wedding band saws under your skin. The dregs of his afternoon drinking knocks into you, and you try not to let your body betray you. Despite that, your eyes water and your nose crinkles. You white-knuckle your dress and almost pop the fabric of your pinafore. 

“How’s my favourite employee?” he grins. “Is she workin’ hard?”

There’s an irreverent innuendo somewhere in his smile. You ignore it and opt for a stale smile.

“I’m working,” you eke out. “I've got to restock the bathroom, then I’m done.”

“That’s good, peach. Real good,” he watches you collect toiletry essentials, then tacks on, “there’s a man in the lobby.”

You falter. The travel-sized shampoo bottle almost slips between your forefinger and thumb. 

“An outsider.”

It’s an observation, not a question. If the man in the lobby were a local, Phillip would have given you a name because in this town, everybody knows everybody. The fact that a name was bereft tells you your new guest came from elsewhere. Maybe he’s cutting through the main road on his way to Yachats for your town’s cascade mountains and bigleaf maple, or for the diner’s famous rhubarb pie. In any case, he's in need of a rest stop. 

“Mh. I’m gonna check him in. Just wanted to let you know I’m givin’ him this room, so try to hurry it up, okay peach?”

You blink slowly. This motel holds twelve rooms—there’s never been a need for any more—and currently, nine of those are occupied. That leaves three. There’s no reason for your boss to put up the new guest in Room 11, especially when you’re still cleaning it.

Phillip reads the question in the bend of your eyebrow. He smiles knowingly and pats your head. “He requested a room on the higher level. Room 9’s aircon is busted and Room 6 shares a wall with the Pettie’s. They’re loud.”

You sigh. “Ah.”

“Sorry peach,” he smiles like he’s apologetic, but you don’t think that’s the case. “Just get it done, alright? And add some extra coffee packets."

You furrow your lips. Displeasure flutters over you but you wash it away with a smile, refusing to irk him. You nod and pivot, bones bending against your skin for an escape as his hand whispers against your bum in an encouraging caress.

Anger simmers in your marrow. Phillip simply chuckles, disparaging.

“That’s a sweet peach.”

His voice gets muted by the tinny, rattling radiator as you make it to the bathroom. You stock it up dutifully—perhaps taking extra long to ensure he's not waiting outside for you—and spritz air freshener around the room when you finish. It’s a flaky, expired bottle of Platinum Ice which barely masks the town’s deep-seated smell of old-growth forest, petrichor and woody debris. You hope the new guest doesn’t have a sharp nose. 

You make sure to stuff the coffee station with extra packets before stepping out of the room. Off the mysteriously stained carpet, onto the veranda. You putter around with your large keyring, thumbing through the nickel-brass since you also have a key to the elementary school, post office, and city hall (aptly titled shitty hall by locals, since this town isn’t much of a city and the building’s roof is held together by nothing but rusty rivets and tassels of sprig collected in the corners). You’ve got so many keys because again, everybody knows everybody, and it isn’t rare to see the housekeeping girl at the motor lodge supplementing her income as a part-time teaching aid. 

Finally, you find the master key. You lock the room and roll the cleaning cart into the utility room before locking that too. Your wrist drags across your forehead, wiping away sweat, and you tug on your dress because perspiration has pasted it onto the pert curve of your breasts, the squish of your thighs. You furtively glance down your bodice and watch how the sweat pocks your skin, knotting your nipples against your cheap bra. Lament catches you in regards to your shower after work—it’s going to be freezing since the heating system here is so fickle—and in the paroxysm of your grief, the sound of heavy breathing eludes you. 

You don’t hear his footsteps. He’s an ambush predator. Stalking and shadowing in the tall grass, waiting for the moment your hackles melt to bite into your neck like an unripe stone fruit. You don’t see him, but you feel him. His breath tickling down your neck. The erogenous zone behind your ear. 

A gasp parts your lips and you whip around, coming face-to-face with a paunchy chest plated by moth-eaten flannel. You heft your head up, exercising the hinge in your neck. Paling at the sight that greets you.

He has a Cabela’s cap on. It’s pulled over his eyes, but a few blonde curls peek out from under the crown of his hat. He has a damaged, blistered face. A cauliflower ear. Nicks on his cheeks that distend from his skin and have turned pallid with time, rippling like seafoam petticoats on waves as he flickers his jaw. He wears jeans and mud-clogged boots and holds a duffel bag. 

His gaze unties you. You slowly find words, fitting them in an orderly queue in your mind as you avert your gaze and stare at the floor. Squirming. Preening. Sweltering.

“Welcome to Sockeye Inn, mister…” 

Silence. He lets your words awkwardly trail off. Doesn’t do anything to belay the discomfort in your belly. The man simply stares at you with brown eyes. 

Humiliation crawls up your spine and settles on your cheeks. It burns through your skin, withering you away, to which you fidget with your fingers and baldly nod towards the door.

“Your room is ready,” you murmur. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Uh– if you need anything just give us a shout. Phone’s on the bedside table.” 

Foolishly, you wait for a response again. Nothing. He towers over you, owlishly blinking, one slower than the other because he seems to have a lazy eye. You clench your skirt and softly shoulder past him, heading for the stairs as you hear him putter with the keyhole. 

You’ve halfway scaled it when a rasp distorted by what seems to be years of cigarettes stops you dead in your tracks. 

“Bring me a BLT and root beer.” 

You burn up at the muscle in his voice. The drag. Just as you’re about to reply, his room door slams shut and rocks across the veranda. 

Your dress is stickier than it was before. Perhaps an ice cold shower isn’t so bad after all.

The end of your shift slowly arrogates. 

After delivering food to Simon Riley—you glinted at the logbook while waiting for his order, reading his name—you left his room as soon as possible. You set the food down and found yourself plugging your nose. The Platinum Ice you sprayed before didn’t accost you— instead, it was pomade. Lucky Strike cigarettes. Decaying heartwood. Bleach. 

You pointedly breathed through your mouth. It didn’t actually help though, since you could taste it then. The ethanol in the air drizzled over your pockmarked tongue and glided down your throat. Collected in your stomach. 

You almost retched it back up at the sight of him.

Through the foggy shower wall, the colour of his hazy contour was striking. It seemed to be a tight fit for him, hemming in his lumberjack build. The shampoo bottle looked like a damn accessory in his large hands and his chased shoulder blades pressed soap against the glass pane, sudsy. 

Your curiosity pulled your gaze lower. Down to the heavy mass between his thighs, thick and fat. Bulbous. 

His spine suddenly went erect, straightening like a chary animal. As if by the agitated pappus of his skin, his chin lifted in your direction, and that’s when the earth collapsed under your feet and you beetled for the door. 

You distract yourself in the kitchen. Emptying the dishwasher. Taking the garbage to the bear-proof receptacles. Putting the oven on steam clean. Kate, the kitchen supervisor, stares at you oddly under her hairnet but she isn’t going to reject a set of helping hands. 

You scrub at a pan hoping it will erase the image burned into your mind. Hoping that the steel wool will have the same effect on your temporal lobe as it does on the pan. You don’t realize your hands are chafing and the pan is flaking, not until Kate is passionately complaining beside you, her spit dashing onto the side of your face.

“—fuckin’ freeloaders. They drain our taxes but can’t even do their damn jobs. Wait until one of their family gets butchered, you’ll see, that’s when they’ll start taking this seriously.”

She waves a newspaper in your face. The paper stack fans in front of you, blowing you with cool air. You’re just barely able to read the big, blocky headline. 

Connection Made Between Ventura, Gilroy and Eugene Serial Killer — Aptly Coined the Ghost.

“Eugene!” Kate slaps the newspaper, frazzled. “Not even three hours from us!”

You scarcely listen to her, her voice ripening into white noise as you scrutinize the police sketch on the newspaper’s margin. The offender is drawn with an overripe balaclava and probing eyes. Dark brown, as if his corneal opacity has laid claim before death. His eyelids have no tension, but a furl of crow's feet gather at the corners. It’s uncanny. Eerie. And even though he’s pressed on paper, you can’t help the unease welling inside you. 

A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop. For him to manifest and crawl out of the paper, dripping ink and viscous tar, ruining your Mary Jane flats and the floor you’d just mopped.

Hemlock hits the back of your throat. Lemony, sedgy. Your eyes fixate on the information detailing his crimes. Spines broken and necks snapped with inhumane strength. Pieces of flesh carved with the precision of either a surgeon or a butcher. Rigour mortis locking the victims in a scream, nail beds caked with skin which implies a struggle, but leads nowhere since the Ghost’s DNA hasn’t been found on any database.

(He’s as elusive as his name suggests. Investigators say he could be foreign, or that he has a clean record. The latter seems unlikely for the violent calibre of his crimes.)

There’s also his modus operandi—slicing off his victim’s ring finger, taking it with him. A cruel reward. 

“They say he’s taking Route 101,” Kate tacks on. “That he’s a long-hauler. How the hell will they catch a long-hauler?”

You shake your head, shrugging. Your tongue is too heavy and your gums rub against the round of your cheeks when you try speaking. The sentence gets snagged on your molars, and all that comes out are sparse words, lamely falling to the floor with how out of breath you are. 

“…They’ll catch him.”

“They better,” she shortly huffs. “I don’t want this town making the paper for all the wrong reasons.” 

Death comes to you in a cornfield. 

You’re sprinting through the crop, barefoot and scantily clad and pricked by thorns. Your clothing catches on thistle and corn husk, slowing you down, but the quick-footed trampling at your tail keeps your pace steady and stable.

Your lungs burn. Your bones rasp. Your eyes well up with how fast you’re moving, with how your retinas strain to see more in the pitch black than just reflective corn silk and the crescent moon. 

The midnight sky is close to swallowing you whole, but at this point that would be an act of mercy. The whistle of his cleaver slicing through the air and the stomp of his boots are promptly catching up, heckling you, barely whispering against the flowy cotton of your dress.

By a cruel twist of fate your foot catches on a tiller and sends you flying. Your nose softens the impact, the crack of cartilage reverberating through your skull, glutinous red spurting down your chin as you try scrambling to your feet.

But true to his name, Ghost, he slips through matter and suddenly, he’s standing in front of you.

Black, sweaty tank top. Freshly sharpened meat cleaver. Stout arms. Predatory eyes. Rotting balaclava—which at this point, you’re starting to believe was grafted onto his face, fitting him like skin. 

You raise your hands for mercy. 

But you should know dead stars have exhausted all their luminosity—that after death, they hold no power. That space is a graveyard. That’s why the Ghost poises his cleaver behind him. That’s why the last thing you see is his cleaver handle swinging towards you, about to collide with and shatter your cheekbone into a million pieces—

—but daylight strikes you with no clear trajectory. 

It’s your alarm that rings, waking you up from a nightmare, telling you to brush your teeth and scrub yourself down and pop your supplements before biking to work. You do so sluggishly, standing under the shower spray as you massage your cheekbone. Burning your toast as you scour the news for developing details on the Ghost case. Ordering a cup of coffee from the local diner and gulping it down behind the motel lest Phillip catches you.  

Your nightmare—omen, prophecy, portent of death?—pursues you like the persistent stench of fish on an angler’s hands all morning. You flinch at the slightest noise while scrubbing toilets, you constantly look over your shoulder while sweeping floors.

Malaise builds in your blood vessels like creosote. It doesn’t thin into fluid, flowing in and out of your appendages and around your sex until you situate yourself in front of Room 11. Fluffing up your skirt and puffing out your chest.

You announce your presence and rap the door with your Mary Jane flat because your hands are occupied with new bed sheets. Your knuckles blanch around the linen, quivering, struggling to keep it in your grip. The sheets almost flutter to your feet when a voice penetrates the door, abrasive and husky. Rough. Grating against your spine and shaving down the vertebrae. 

“Door’s open.”

You wait a few seconds before contorting yourself against the threshold. You try the handle and lo and behold, it’s unlocked, swinging open when you press your weight onto it. 

You step inside and toe off your flats. Next to Simon’s boots, they look fit for a doll, and a dizzy spell ricochets through you at the size difference. At the stark reminder that he’s as big and packed as a thick tree stump.

You walk inside and heed the CRT television playing the news. 

It does nothing to soften the scream that rips out of you as you round the corner.

Simon is in bed, pulling on a cigarette. His pudgy tummy and bristly chest are bared, the steel wool of his happy trail disappearing into the bed sheets furled around his hips. The flat sheet is thin enough to outline something stirring. Something thick and pressed against his inner thigh. 

He stares at you, eyes of Argus. It’s so intense you’re sure he can sense the slick running down your back. The dew that settles in the gusset of your panties. 

You stutter. “I can come back later.”

Simon sits up with a groan. It rattles you. His joints must be fettered with age, or hard work, but in any case your head goes cottony with the picture of him splitting wood and hauling heavy bovine flanks. 

You swallow thick as he shakes his head. “It’s no problem, sugar. I’m not even here.”

The pet name makes you squirm. You sure do feel like it—sugar, that is—with the way you could melt on his tongue, wedge yourself between his teeth. Turn syrupy and sappy at the back of his throat.  

He takes another drag of his cigarette. You watch raptly as his jaw feathers around it, lips proffering another plume of smoke. 

He blinks. “Well?”

You eke out an apology and fiddle with your hands. 

“I’ll have to, um, change your bedsheets first.”

Simon shakes his head. He taps the ashy casualties off the tip of his cigarette and you watch as it sinks onto the bed sheet, almost burning through the floral motif. “No need.”

“Well,” you cough, forcing your eyes away from him, “if I don’t, my boss…”

Simon pricks up. The hind of his spine straightens the same way a dog would sit straight and plumb after hearing rustling in a bush. His muscles tighten, thick, and his face twists into a sneer. The bed sheet around him falls and you lock up tight lest it bare his pubic bone. 

“Is he a minger?”

“I’m sorry?”

He huffs. “‘s he a bully?”

“Oh, no,” you blandly laugh. “Mister Graves isn’t a bully. He just…”

“Makes you uncomfortable?”

There’s a lapse between acknowledging his question and spitting out an answer that makes you kick yourself. Simon already looks dubious. You hug the sheets closer to your chest and smile, your cheeks feathering like beeswax.

“He’s a kind man.”

“Not wha’ I asked,” he says. The bed creaks as he leans forward, the sheets slipping lower, scarcely covering his sex. “I asked if he does stuff he shouldn’t be doin’.”

Your heartbeat quickens. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it. He probably can, albeit softly, due to his lumpy cauliflower ear.

“He’s a married man,” you mumble. “He doesn’t touch me if that’s what you mean. Not like that.”

“There’s only one way to touch someone,” Simon grunts. His chest starts churning a little, as if he’s agitated. “Does he put his hands on you?”

Your skin burns, remembering. A phantom scar runs through you, long and creeping, mapping all the places in which Phillip’s pinchbeck wedding ring has burned you. The suture of your spine, the pappy flesh of your neck, the rise of your hips where his palm has melted through your dress and smarted your skin.  

Your silence makes Simon grunt. 

Panic surges up your throat. You feel the need to defend Phillip, in some approximation of gratitude and fear since you’re on his payroll and you don’t want to reap the consequences should you rat on him and he find out. 

“No!” you hurry. “Mister Graves isn’t like that. He’s a good man. Honest.”

Simon’s eyes push against your skin. He scrutinizes you, tests you. Waits to see if you’ll fidget too much and flake away and sink into the carpet. 

He growls. “You fancy him, is tha’ it?”

Answering yes is the only way to shake him off your leg. You do so archly, so it seems as though the thought of your boss has you flushing when really it’s Simon. He’s fully upright, and now you can see the girthy base of his cock. Stirring, twitching. You suppress a moan.

“Yeah…” you murmur. You can feel your makeup turning blotchy, running down your cheeks. “It’s just a bit…embarrassing, is all.”

He lapses into it again. Staring at you. Razoring his way into your head and thumbing through your consciousness, searching for an Achilles’ heel. A crack he can break into a hole because he has the size for it—barrel-chested, stupidly thick fingers. 

Simon slips out of bed and disturbs the coiled aches of the mattress. He holds a washcloth over his crotch. It’s crusty and keeps shape and covers almost nothing, confirming your inkling. 

His bulbous cockhead winks at you from under the hem. It’s heavy. Leaky. Dripping precum that laves down his legs and gets caught in the wiry hair of his thigh. 

Anxiety pools in your armpits and around your groin. Or maybe that’s just arousal. Brackish and sticky, rubbing your pussy lips together, hugging your clit. 

Simon pulls on his cigarette once more and then folds it into the bedside table. You should scold him. You should tell him that he’ll have to pay for damages even though the wood is already degraded and mouldy. You should scuttle out of the room and call for Phillip, but that would be a crueler fate. Instead you stay fixed to the carpet as Simon steps forward. Cock swinging between his legs, tummy jiggling. 

You don’t know whether he’s going to pull you in for a kiss or rip off your dress or—and you’re unsure why you think of this—take you by your skull and smash it against the television stand. He has the muscle to, surely, but somehow you know he won’t. And the thought of that makes your skin hot.

You’re at his mercy.

You gird yourself for his lips or for your dress to be torn off, but your preparations flux away as Simon steps close and crowds you against the television stand. The stench of Lucky Strike cigarettes and gamey meat impair you, as he reaches behind you and increases the television volume. You want to say something but cotton fills your mouth and the news report floods your ears. It’s fragmentary—you can only heed oddments of the news anchor’s latest updates. 

The Ghost is still at large. Corpses keep popping up around California and Oregon, each with their ring fingers sliced off. The tipline has been leading investigators nowhere, shepherding them to the end of the earth and over the edge, floating, where they’ll move through molasses and will never be able to catch him. 

White male. 6’4”. 196 centimetres. Brown eyes. Heavyset. Likely military background. Likely a surgeon, or a butcher. A dangerous, ruthless individual. 

If spotted, do not approach. 

Simon’s breath fans against your neck, rousing the bristles of your warm cheeks. He turns off the television and steps back. An ether opens up in the pit of your stomach as your gaze falls on his bulging pelvis, on the purplish veins and webbing muscle, sitting like a tuft under his navel, disappearing behind the washcloth where his cock stirs. 

Simon tuts. “World’s goin’ to shite.”

You nod.

“You shouldn’t be out here anyway,” he tacks on. “Should be at home takin’ care of your man’s house. Keepin’ safe.”

You flash your naked ring finger embarrassingly fast. “I-It’s just me…and my cat.”

His eyes darken. His head tilts down at you. He purrs. 

“Better get started on mine then,” he breathes. “Put yourself to good use.”

You shyly get to cleaning his room. 

You try to ignore his hand disappearing behind the washcloth, pumping his cock. You can’t ignore the silk ruining your panties. Scarcely, you manage to ignore the caution creeping up your back. Your lower instinct that screams at you as you feel his stare tracking you across the room, burning. Smouldering. Warning. 

Daylight scissors into you.

It melts the sleep in the corners of your eyes. It clears the haze in your head. It interrupts the sultry dream you were having. Your flesh is still pocked and your clit is still peaked, as you rehash the contents of it. 

You can still feel Simon’s weight on top of you, sweat compressioning you, the sheets gathering under your slick back. Your underwear had dangled from one of your ankles, flapping and swaying as Simon pounded into you. Your head bobbed over the lip of the mattress. Your tits bounced, nipples caught between his gnashers. Your slick ran down your cunt and over your asshole, pooling onto the floral bed sheets. You just quit your job. You didn’t care about the sheets. Or the Pettie’s down the veranda. Phillip was on the other side of the door too, and he could hear everything. Your moans. Simon’s balls dragging over your furled hole. His groans—

—And the sudden tearing of cartilage and skin stretching, rubbery, as Simon shifted into something else above you. Something larger. Deadlier. His drool dripped onto your chest, and his cock was suddenly too big for your pussy, popping back out until only his tip managed to squeeze inside your puffy hole. He snarled down at you, but it got covered by a creeping balaclava. You still reached your orgasm, quivering around his cockhead. Watching him go spotty and graphite-like in your vision, as if he were a composite sketch.

You get out of bed and wash the absurd dream away under the shower. The nozzle hits your clit weakly, and you never reach your high. You show up to work pigeon-toed and sweaty. Pent-up. You scrub harder at bathtubs and almost snap at Phillip when he swats your bum. Almost. Simon is watching from the dining hall, and he makes you skittish.

The day rolls by sluggishly. There’s a Do Not Disturb sign dangling from Simon’s door, so you don’t get the chance to see him in his room. You huff and puff at the Pettie’s and give Kate attitude. It’s the peak of afternoon when you’re sent home, shoulders stiff because Phillip squeezed them and tacked on, ”I can always help out if you’re stressed, peach,” before shepherding you out the door.  

You bike into town. Indulge in the diner’s famous rhubarb pie because the motel’s cherry pie is nowhere near as good, though you’ll never tell Kate that. You polish off your treat then ride to the beach (which is more of a graveyard for birds and braided, washed ashore sea meadow), and prop your bike against the wooden bollards.

The beach is familiar with you. It sees you when you're overwhelmed by the monotonous colour of your life. You never worry about meddling kids or loud teenagers or anything, because the stench of fish usually keeps them away anyway. It's your own Shangri-La. Your little Eden. Albeit overcast and greyscale, with an ocean spray that gets into your hair and dries out your mouth.

You slip out of your Mary Jane flats and wade through the sand dunes, breathing in salt and sulfur and tasting it on your lips. You maneuver around seawrack and driftwood and eventually find yourself seated behind a tussock of seaoats, watching as the waves lazily beat against the shore.

It's easy for you to lie down and get comfortable among the scent of iodine and the feel of pillowy granules. It's also easy to let your eyes flutter shut, lulled into limbo by the ebbing tide and murmuring waves.

You stir awake with flaccid lungs.

Presentiment hangs in the air, thick, like a blanket of smog. It interrupts your breathing pattern and makes you light-headed. Vertiginous. Makes you see things that aren't there…

…Such as the off-white scleras and twists of dilated blood vessels that stare at you from the foreshore.

They approach you eerily. Two pieces of driftwood floating over the waves, jolting slightly as it hits the sand, splintery and mossy and heavy.

The man feathers toward you from the blue glow of the beach. You squint through the darkness, because maybe it's the sheriff, but you know he walks with a drunken gait and he…strides like a bear on its hind legs.

The way he lurches for you says otherwise. Perhaps he's rather a panther or a coyote, or some crude backyard breed of all three.

A large palm splits itself over your mouth. An arm lays beside you and secretes a musk of sweat and iron. A knee digs into the plush of your cunt, agitating your clit, as a warm breath fans over your pulse point.

"Waited for me, didn't you?" he rasps against your neck.

In your stupor, you brace your hands against his shoulders. A sticky substance coats his skin, too viscous to be sweat.

Nausea knots in your throat. Tremors wash over your body. You dig your nails into his flesh, and when your hands don't fall through it like you hoped, you gravely realize he's made of muscle and skin instead of your drunken, sleep-inspired imagination.

You experience a cruel loss of equilibruim. If you weren't already lying down, you'd collapse to the ground. You go limp in the sand, thawing into his hands which you unwillingly notice are caked with that sticky substance too.

"There's dangerous folk 'round here," he grunts. "What if someone else followed you? A big, bad man?"

A chord of recognition stirs in your brain at his voice. That brash accent.

"Simon…?"

He chuckles. "It's me, sugar."

You squeeze your thighs together but it's abortive. He pries them apart anyway, and cups your pussy through your panties.

He rubs you through the gauze, knuckling your soft lips. Through the darkness you barely see the misshapen silhouette of his mouth. That snarl, curling off him as if he suffers from some chronic wasting disease, slowly atrophying and turning into some vestigal cadaver.

He kisses down your sternum. Grips your hand and forces it over his crotch. Your fingers brush over the solid mass. It's hard due to both stiffened denim and his thickening cock.

"All for you," he mumbles. "Take it out, sugar."

You fumble with the metal teeth of his zipper. You pull him out with both hands and your mouth goes dry. Tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deadly nightshade hitting the back of your throat. Despite you, your thighs squish together, and a rumbling chuckle slips through the seam of his lips.

He's huge. Fat and heavy, so much so you need both fingers to wrap around him.

"Give it a kiss, yeah?" he coos. "Like a sweet girl."

You spread your lips against his cockhead. You pull away and a string of precum chases you, but Simon is pushing your head back down and bucking his bristly pubic bone into to your nose.

"There it is," he grumbles. "Such a big girl, aren't you?"

You look up at him with wide, wet eyes.

The stiffs of hair on his pubic bone tickle your nose. You smell sweat and iron, but you can't tilt your head away, because the stout muscle of his arms keep you in place.

Fighting is futile. His cockhead hits the back of your throat like oleander and he holds your jaw in place, dimpling your cheeks with his rough fingers, letting his balls slap against your chin.

Just as you're getting used to his size, he pulls out, breaking the strands of saliva and precum between you.

"Take off y'panties, sugar."

You pull them off and squirm at the way the gusset clings to your pussy lips a little while longer. Simon takes it against his nose and sniffs it, running his fingers through your pussy, spreading your slick.

You don't get a warning before he's curling one of his fingers into you. Massaging your walls. Scissoring you open. Thumbing your clit.

He adds another and twists them deeper—meaner—into you. He swallows your whimpers but spits them back into your mouth when he empties his saliva down your throat. He keeps stroking the inside of your pussy, your sticky walls, and rubbing your clit.

He squeezes your cheeks together and gives you a big kiss. He coos condescendingly into your lips, and licks away your fresh track of tears. "It's supposed to hurt, baby. Don't be mad, alright? It'll feel good soon."

He gets deeper and deeper. Knuckle-deep, when he curls his fingers inside you. You lock up tight and thrust your hips through the bulk of your orgasm, trembling and quivering around him.

Your lips quiver around a plea when he pulls his fingers out. It's a lapse of judgement on your part—you know it—but you can't help it anymore.

"Please what?" He grins. It's ugly. Like a truss of stitching falling off his face, mangled and chewed up.

"Can you g-go…" you squirm when he rolls his tumb over your clit, agonizingly slow. "Can you go–"

"C'mon baby," he whispers against your lips, "spit it out. Big girls use their words."

"Canyougodownonme?" you gasp and grip onto him, bucking your cunt into his palm.

He chuckles against your mouth. He kisses down your chest. He crinkles his nose against the husk of your pussy. He deeply inhales and vibrates at your scent. He darts his tongue out and flattens it against your dewy folds, licking a stripe up your slit.

You writhe but he holds you in place with those big, thickened hands of his. They're wet but at this point you can't tell if it's your arousal or that mysterious substance on him. You can't even think about it, not with your thoughts melting away, escaping you like the humming waves.

Simon's a bit too aggressive in how he eats you out. It doesn't come from a juvenile attempt influenced by sex-on-screen with undue emphasis, but rather his tongue spelling devotion into the fat of your cunt.

Your fingers flex into his blonde head of hair. It's closely cropped, but you still manage to pull him closer, grinding yourself down on the bumpy bridge his nose. You pull on his hair and he growls and sends a quake up your spine. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue further into you, softly suckling your juices out.

The waves fold over each other, beating against the shore. They crest and crash and just as they race up the sand dune, teasing your flexing toes, your second orgasm crashes into you too. You twist and twirl Simon's hair in your grip and almost miss the feel of something cold being slipped onto your finger.

You're shaking, trembling, as you raise your hand. You're hazy and the moonlight is shrouded by clouds. It makes the mystery object look smeared across your vision, blotchy and spotty.

You hold it a little closer to your face, examining the twinkle as Simon massages your thighs to ease the quiver.

You turn your hand over and whisper your thumb over its curve.

You bristle when you realize what it is. It hangs off you a little loosely, burning your knuckle.

A pinchbeck wedding ring.

Stained with red, and still warm from the body it was pulled from.

Bile gathers in your throat and burns your mouth. Tears gather in your eyes. A small gasp parts your lips, billowing out of you like the mushroom-head of a flare just as realization fully commits itself to you.

You shiver. Both through realization, and your orgasm. "…What did you do to him?"

"Took care of him," Simon grunts, caressing your hair. "I'm supposed to handle the monsters under your bed, ain't I?"

You spare him a glance. You heed the white of his teeth and a smudge of—you know it's blood—across his cheek. His eyes, hidden in the shadowy canopy. His nose, bent out of shape and speckled with blood.

"You're not going to hurt me."

He brushes your hair back. "No."

You pant into him when he captures you for a kiss. "…Why?"

"I'm supposed to take care of ya," he grunts. "That's what couples do, no?"

He pushes something in your grasp—a folding knife. Your thumb slips over the two initials engraved into the handle—your initials.

"How do y'feel about Kate?" he asks.

Your coworker flashes into your mind. "I like her"

Simon—the Ghost—grunts. "And what about that bloke at the diner? What's his name?"

"I– Franklin?"

"Hn. Does he bother you?"

You thumb through your memory. Perhaps what you say is an embellishment, giddy of what Simon's going for.

"He did steal my bike once…" you mumble.

Simon pricks up. His chest puffs out and squishes against your arm. "He married?"

"Yeah, um," you swallow, "for about ten years."

"You want his pretty ring? Or his wife's?" Simon asks, then kisses you. "Anythin' you want."

Your lips stretch into a smile.

Simon cups your cheek, blood rubbing off on you. For the first time ever, you feel exhilarated at the thought of the future. At the thought of being taken care of. Doted on.

Suddenly the town doesn't feel so cold anymore. It doesn't feel like an invisible barricade is hemming you in. Simon is your ticket out of here, and a ticket to your new life.

You can abandon your pinafore and Mary Jane flats and maybe he'll spoil you with frilly socks and a cute sundress. Maybe he'll fuck you in his truck or in gas station bathrooms as the corpse of a man who wronged you rots in the truckbed. Maybe you'll get caught but at least you'll be together and at least your name will finally be known.

simon had left for water that evening. he wouldn't have been gone for long. it was always risky to leave you alone, without his protection. but simon promised to be quick.

unfortunately, that was enough time for him.

you shouldn't have been so naïve. so stupid. you should've stayed vigilant. but you were just cleaning the den. you didn't feel threatened. you felt safe.

heavy thumps on top of the den. that's what you heard first. you looked up, a little bit of dirt fell down from the den ceiling, and dropped on your head. it must be simon. it has to be. right?

but then. there was slow struggling at the den's entrance. you couldn't see it, it was behind a curve. but you could hear it. simon didn't have to struggle to get inside. it was his den after all, it was just big enough, to let him inside.

maybe he was just struggling with the water. yeah. it's simon, you tried to reassure yourself.

"s-simon...?" your voice was meek, scared, unsure. you've stopped messing with the nest, now only focused on the noises coming from the den's entrance.

the obvious struggles at the entrance stopped.

why? simon would give you an answer, wouldn't he?

the weather was beautiful. there was only few clouds covering the blue sky. the sun glared down, hot and bright. it made the snowbanks sparkle beautifully.

the hot light made the snow melt away, uncovering calm, small rapid. the clear water ran over the rocks underneath it's surface. only more and more snow kept melting into the water, small droplets falling down from the melting ice, and snow.

simon knelt by the river. filling a carved, wooden bucket, with the cold, refreshing water.

he had to keep himself, and the bunny hydrated, after all.

the bucket filled pretty quickly, and simon was ready to head back to the den.

the snow crunched under his steps. simons hot breath came out as steam, as it hit the cold air. frost was starting to form on the tips of his hair.

the wolf's movements stilled, as smell hit his nose. a musk. another male.

simon dropped the water filled bucket, and began to run. you were alone. hopefully you were alone.

but he wasn't there to protect you. oh, god.

panic flared inside simon, his heart beating out of his chest.

the den was just a rocks throw away from the river. simon was quickly there. that didn't calm him down. somebody was kneeling at the den's entrance, trying to dig in. trying to get to his bunny.

simon panted heavily as he approached. the trespasser heard him coming. with a smirk on his face, the intruder turned around, to look at simon. simon's hands clenched into fists, his skin turning white.

he gritted his teeth. "mace." the wolfs voice resembled a growl.

here this bear was, trying to steal his bun. simon knew him, a territorial rival. and now he was attempting to take his fucking mate. his mate. his.

the black bear chuckled darkly, as he stood up.

"can smell her... you're hiding a sweet thing in there..."

"time for you to go, mace." simon grumbled.

mace grinned. "i'll leave you be, for now."

he walked down from the den's entrance, towards simon.

"might wanna keep her in there. never know when she's going to get snatched up."

mace's shoulder knocked against simon's, when he walked past him.

simon was fuming. his whole body moved, as he took heavy breaths.

the wolf listened, until the sound of footsteps faded away, before rushing to the mouth of the den.

"bun? come here." he called out, into the tunnel.

he had to wait a moment, before he saw your head sticking out of the hole.

simon sighed. "come here..." he signaled for you to come closer with his hand. slowly, and hesitantly, you crawled to the entrance of the den, where he was waiting for you.

"you okay, bun?" simon mumbled, his hand gently holding your cheek. after a meek nod of your head, simon leaned in and kissed your forehead.

simon leaned away, and gently guided you back down into the den, following suite after you. once you were down in the nest, simon made sure to hold you tight against his chest.

"you know that I would never let anything happen to you. you know that, don't you, bunny?" the wolf murmured into your ear, his free hand slowly making it's way down your stomach.

"what can i do to calm you down, huh? you're still shaking." his hot breath hitting your ear. simon was being sneaky. before you even knew it, his calloused fingers, pinched your nub.

he chuckled at the squeal you let out. his fingers began to gently massage your little clit.

"i'll never let that happen again. okay?" his voice got more serious, and his touch harder. your legs kicked out at the increasing pressure on your sensitive clit.

his touch didn't relent. it only got more determined.

determined to distract you from the scary situation, you had to go through.

determined to make you feel good.

the feeling was foreign. his touch was so tough, just like him. but his words were so sweet. the pressure in your belly grew. your breathing got heavier. simon noticed. with a wicked smirk on his face, his movements got faster.

"give it to me. c'mon bunny... i know you want to." he so meanly teased.

it just suddenly hit you. your legs tensed up, and your breath hitched. luckily, simon decided to show you mercy. he helped you get down from your bliss, before pulling his hand from in between your sweet thighs. your juices coated his fingers. simon grinned at the sight.

the bunny was now completely limp in his arms, panting and exhausted. simon wiped his dirty fingers against the fur on your stomach. simon's hand grabbed your chin, turning your head to look at him.

"go to sleep, bunny..." he murmured quietly, laying you against his side. his arms rested around you, in a protective hold. he couldn't even imagine how scary it must've been for you, being trapped down here, with no way out, while somebody was trying to crawl inside.

but just as he promised, simon would never let it happen again.

authors note: that poor bucket, alone in the cold forest :(

heart divider by @roseschoices

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