#belltom

The alcove is barely wide enough to be useful and Phantom has been wearing a groove in it for — they don't know how long. Long enough that their tail has stopped lashing and started doing the low miserable drag that means their body has given up on expressing distress theatrically and moved into something more fundamental.

Long enough that the cold has stopped registering.

Long enough that the thoughts have stopped being discrete and started being a single continuous pressure behind their eyes, cycling, finding no exit, and cycling again.

The ritual. Third movement — did they review the third movement properly, they should check, they meant to check before supper and then supper happened and then the conversation with Imperator happened and now it's—

Turn.

—late, and the notation was ambiguous in two places, and if they get it wrong tomorrow it won't be catastrophic but it will be embarrassing and Phantom does not do embarrassing, Phantom does terrifying, Phantom does—

Pace.

—Swiss looked at them funny last week. Not worried. Almost worried. The gap between those two things is enormous and humiliating and Phantom can't stop turning it over, can't stop looking for the thing they must have done or said or failed to do or say that put that almost there instead of his normal smile—

Turn.

Their quintessence crackles at the edges.

They can feel it, which means anyone with half a sense could feel it, which means they should go somewhere more private except this alcove is the most private place they found and they're already in it and moving feels impossible, stopping feels impossible, everything feels like it's running slightly too fast to catch—

They don't hear him arrive.

They never do.

What they notice first is that suddenly the alcove feels more occupied than it did before. Phantom's quintessence registers the presence a half-second before their brain does. Old instinct. It spikes them alert before they can decide whether to be, and they spin—

Cowbell is standing in the entrance of the alcove.

Not filling it, exactly. He's not built for that, too long and too angular, more like a piece of the shadow detached and arranged itself into his shape. He isn't particularly close, really barely inside. He has his hands in his pockets and his head tilted at an angle that means he's been there long enough to have opinions about what he's seen.

Phantom's heart does something embarrassing.

"Don't," they say.

"I haven't done anything."

"You're looking at me."

"I am," Cowbell agrees, without apology.

Phantom turns away and faces the far wall. Their tail betrays them immediately, curling up at the tip, a tell that means anxious and trying to hide it, which is worse than just being anxious, and they know Cowbell can see it, which is—

"I'm fine," they say.

"You've been in here for forty minutes."

Phantom's jaw tightens. "I like this alcove."

"You're crackling."

"I always crackle."

"Phantom." His voice is low. Still not a command. Something more patient than that, which is somehow worse. "Your quintessence is loud enough I could feel it from the corridor."

They spin back around before they mean to. "Then maybe you should have stayed in the corridor."

He looks at them.

Just — looks. That Cowbell quality of attention that doesn't flinch and doesn't soften. That takes in the tail and the crackling edges and the forty minutes of groove-wearing and the way Phantom's hands have curled into fists without them noticing. He reads all of it, quiet and complete.

Phantom wants to crawl out of their own skin.

He steps forward.

One step, unhurried, and Phantom's back finds the stone wall before they decide to put it there. Cowbell doesn't stop until there's barely a breath between them, until Phantom has nowhere to look but up at him, nowhere to go that isn't him, and the alcove that was a refuge becomes something different.

"I don't need—" they start.

"I know what you need," Cowbell says, "and it isn't more room to pace."

Phantom opens their mouth. Closes it as his hand comes up slowly. The movement is telegraphed, careful in the way he's learned they require. His palm settles cool against the side of their face.

Oh, Phantom thinks, and loses the thread of everything else immediately.

Because Cowbell is listening. Not with his ears, but with whatever dark adjacent sense he has that doesn't have a clean name, that reaches and sorts and finds. Phantom can feel it moving through their quintessence like fingers through water, not grabbing, just — searching.

Don't, some part of them thinks, the anxious grinding part, the part that is still reviewing the third movement of tomorrow's rehearsal. Don't find it, don't—

Cowbell finds it, of course.

The frequency is embarrassingly specific. Not their quintessence broadly, not their emotional field in general, but the exact cycling pitch of the spiral, the precise wavelength of this particular anxious loop, and when Cowbell's thumb presses gently against their temple and he pulls—

Phantom's knees go.

Not all the way. Cowbell's other hand catches their hip, steadies them, and Phantom makes a sound they will be reviewing with great shame later because it's neither dignified nor vague — it's just helpless, punched out of them by the sensation of their own frequency being held by someone else. Like having a splinter drawn out of somewhere they didn't know had been aching.

"There," Cowbell murmurs. "Let's make it better."

He pulls again, not harder, just deeper — and Phantom's head tips back against the stone and the spiral stutters. Mid-loop. The ritual checklist hits a thought and loses it. Picks it up and loses it again. Phantom tries to follow it and finds they can't quite—

"Stay with me," Cowbell says.

"I'm—" Phantom tries to think of how that sentence ends. "Cowbell—"

"I know." His hand slides back into their hair. "Let go of it."

"I can't, I have to—" The ritual. The third movement. Swiss's face. "I have to—"

"You don't," he says, so simply that it almost works. "Not right now. Right now you're mine."

He shifts. His body presses closer, stone behind and him in front, and Phantom's hands come up and grab his shirt in fistfuls because they don't know what else to do with the feeling building at the base of their spine, that gathering resonance, too much frequency, their whole nervous system attenuating to a signal that isn't theirs—

And then Cowbell breathes out slow, and floods them.

The sound that leaves Phantom is frankly obscene.

It hits everywhere simultaneously.

Not warmth, because it's warmer than that. Not electricity, this is even more intimate.

It's Cowbell's quintessence pouring into the spaces between Phantom's own and filling them. Their mouth drops open, fingers twist in his shirt. The thought about the ritual comes back and crashes immediately against a wall of pure overwhelming sensation and dissolves. This time, it doesn't come back.

There's no room.

Oh, some small remaining piece of them thinks, dimly. Oh, that's—

Cowbell shifts his weight, just slightly, a small adjustment that brings him closer and brings the full length of him against them, and Phantom's breath catches on nothing. Their quintessence, apparently not as settled as advertised, pulses once in response. Interested. Attentive, despite everything, in that animal way that bypasses all the machinery that's currently offline.

Cowbell feels it.

"Still with me?" His head dips, mouth finding the hinge of their jaw.

Phantom tries to form a sentence and gets as far as an exhale.

His teeth close against their jaw, gentle, dragging slow. Underneath it, threaded through it, Phantom feels his quintessence begin to pull back. Not withdrawing so much as… gathering. Concentrating with an intentionality that is distinct and purposeful and nothing like the flooding from before.

Phantom's brow furrows.

Something is different, something is changing, something is—

"Cowbell," they say, confused more than anything, trying to locate the feeling, trying to put a shape to it—

He presses in, slow and purposeful, and Phantom's mouth drops open.

Oh.

Oh.

It's — he's — the quintessence inside them gathers and moves and fills in a way that is suddenly, unmistakably, catastrophic. Phantom's brain attempts to process this information and simply fails. Skids sideways off it like a thought too large for the available surface area. They feel their face do something complicated and entirely outside their control.

"That's—" they start.

"Mm," Cowbell says, against their jaw, wholly unbothered. Pleased with himself, the unbearable creature.

"You're—" Phantom tries again. "Are you — Cowbell, are you—"

"Yes," he says simply.

Phantom makes a sound that they will take to their grave.

He doesn't stop. Why would he stop — he's Cowbell, he has found a thing that works and he is going to work it with the same systematic patience he brings to everything.

He finds that sweet little spot, the one that always makes their eyes go wide and their thighs tremble. Each slow deliberate press of quintessence there — there, exactly there — knocks the breath out of Phantom before it knocks out the thoughts.

The ritual—

Press. Phantom's hips stutter forward.

Gone.

Swiss—

Press. A sound leaves them they didn't decide to make.

Gone.

Every time a thought surfaces he's there, filling the space it tried to occupy with something so immediate that Phantom's body simply — prioritizes.

Thought attempts to form? Their body registers this instead. The thoughts dissolve, crowded out, outranked by pure sensation before they can finish becoming language.

Phantom's hips have started moving without their input and their tail is wrapped around his ankle and their face is buried in his neck and none of this is something they decided — their body decided, some deep animal part of them that does not care about rituals or notations or the expression on Swiss's face, that cares only about more, closer, deeper, please—

"Please," they hear themselves say.

"I know," Cowbell says. His hand presses flat against the small of their back, holding them in place, holding them still while he does exactly what he wants to do at exactly the pace he has decided they need. "I'll take care of you."

Phantom's whole body shudders.

They don't have enough cognition left to be embarrassed. They don't have enough cognition left for much of anything, really.

Just sensation.

Just the slow building press of him moving through them in a way that shouldn't be possible and is somehow more intimate for it.

Just the cold stone at their back and Cowbell's warmth everywhere else and the mingled hum of their quintessence and his blurring at every edge until Phantom can't locate where they end.

Maybe they don't.

Maybe that's fine.

"Cowbell—"

"Shh." Still fond. His mouth moves to their temple. "You don't need to think right now."

He's right. He is so unbearably, insufferably right, and Phantom tips their head back against the stone and lets go, all the way this time, fully and without reservation. They surrender the last grip on the last thought and just — receive. All of it. All of him.

The sound that leaves them is quieter than the ones before. Not desperate or overwhelmed. It's the ache of pure release. Something set down that has been held too long, finally allowed to rest, and underneath it a warmth spreading slow and complete through every part of them until there is nowhere left that isn't full, isn't his, isn't absolutely and completely silent.

Cowbell exhales against their hair slow and satisfied. Like something in him has settled too.

Phantom doesn't think.

Phantom breathes, and shakes, and holds onto his shirt, and the quintessence between them pulses soft and tidal and utterly indistinguishable from one body to the other, and the silence in their head is so complete it has texture — warm and dark and held, the silence of a bell with a hand pressed flat against it, resonance stilled at its source.

"Good," Cowbell murmurs. His hand strokes slow up their spine. "Stay there."

Phantom does.

Doesn't reach for the spiral. Doesn't reach for anything. Just exists in the narrow warm space between Cowbell's heartbeat and the cold stone wall, wrecked and quiet and wonderfully, completely full, and finds they have absolutely no objections to any of it.

The rehearsal can wait.

Everything can wait.

This is the only thing that's happening right now.

The shadows in the den pulse like lungs.

Phantom lies draped across the couch like a spoiled little god-thing, limbs thrown wide, one arm flung dramatically over their eyes. Head tipped back, throat bared and eyes half-lidded. Their thighs are parted, their other hand lazy between them.

Their tail curls. Stretches. Flicks idly at the floor.

It’s been a long day in the infirmary. They’ve spent hours with gloved hands and a steady breath, coaxing bodies back from the edge — stitching wounds, soothing nerves, easing pain, and drawing smiles from the hurting.

But now, their own skin buzzes. Their muscles ache with unspent tension. They don’t want quiet. Don’t want praise.

They want contact.

Something firm. A little cruel. Bent back under pressure until they spark.

But no one’s come.

They expected an audience by now.

Phantom sighs. Dramatic. Bored.

Loud enough to echo, just a little.

They let their wrist fall from their forehead so they can peek beneath it, one eye open and expectant.

The den remains dim.

Flickering firelight. Familiar shadows.

Empty…

Strange, for the hour.

This is when the others usually start to gather. When the den breathes with warmth and chatter, when bodies pass through, trailing laughter and static and the scent of skin and abbey life.

But now, there’s only the crackle of the hearth.

No footsteps. No voices. Not even the low murmur of someone humming down the hall.

Just... silence.

It scratches. Catches on something in the back of their brain like a dull hook.

A little too quiet. The wrong side of still.

Like the walls are listening. Like the firelight doesn't quite reach the corners.

Like something just out of sight is watching them breathe.

Phantom shifts. Stretches. Lets the leather beneath them creak in protest—anything to break the hush, to drown out the tremble in their own breath.

Any sound will do.

They shift and suddenly… a touch.

Not a full one.

But something.

At their collarbone, featherlight—and then it's gone again.

Like it was never there at all.

They freeze.

Every hair on their body lifts.

They bring one hand up slow, press their fingers to the spot.

Nothing.

No heat. No mark. No reason.

Their tail gives a sharp flick.

They tell themself it’s just a nerve twitch. Post-shift tension, maybe. Simple shivering myokymia. Textbook. Harmless.

Nothing to worry about.

But then—something warmer. A brush at the nape of their neck, soft and slow, like a mouth that knows them. Like a hand with all the time in the world.

Phantom jerks upright with a gasp—but there’s no one behind them.

Just shadows.

Just fire.

But the flames... they move like something passed too close. Like something just ducked out of sight.

Phantom’s breath catches. They swallow thickly, eyes locked on the fire as it settles.

The air doesn’t.

It’s the smell first. Faint. Almost forgettable. That odd, impossible trace of petrichor, all wet stone and turned soil, damp and rich. Something half-remembered from a childhood storm.

Or a garden left to rot.

It doesn't belong here.

Beneath it, thinner than smoke, a hum begins to build.

Not a sound, exactly. More like a shimmer behind their eyes. A taste behind their teeth. Static.

Slow, creeping dread that clings to the skin like breath on glass.

Phantom swallows. The air feels thick. Like the space has changed shape around them. Like they’re being watched — not from across the room, but from inside it.

That’s when they feel it.

A second heartbeat.

Not theirs.

Not… theirs.

They don't hear it, not really — but it’s felt.

Thump thump.

A deep-thrum pulse blooming inside their chest.

Thump thump.

Through their bones.

Thump thump.

A chill ripples down Phantom’s spine. Their pulse skitters, hiccups, trying to catch the rhythm of that other beat.

They blink. Swallow. Try to laugh the fear out of their throat.

“You’re such a drama queen,” they mutter to themself, like they can shame the dark into behaving.

They lie back down. Adjust their legs. Stretch their arms again like it’s a show.

Like they’re still alone.

Try to melt into the couch like nothing’s changed.

The second heartbeat gets louder.

Thump thump.

It echoes inside them. Their chest. Their ribs. Their throat.

Thump thump.

The couch vibrates beneath them, subtle but wrong, like the heartbeat belongs to something larger.

Phantom bolts upright again.

The hum in the air spikes.

It’s not just static anymore—it’s alive. Crawling down their spine. Swarming in their ears. Their head fills with bees, their mouth with cotton, their limbs won’t move right, too light, too heavy—

A heartbeat that doesn’t belong to them, echoing through their body like a drumbeat inside a coffin.

Wrong. Wrong. Everything is wrong—

Thump thump.

Their pulse halts.

Silence.

Dead.

Heavy.

Listening.

Phantom can’t breathe, can’t blink. Can't form a coherent thought and—

“Hi,” says a voice. Soft, near their ear, like it’s inside their head.

Phantom screams.

It punches out of them full-body, instinctive, an edge-crack of real fear. They twist off the couch in a tangle of limbs and tail, a yelp leaving them half-shrieking, hands thrown up like they could ward off a ghost.

Cowbell is already there, unbothered and smiling.

He cocks his head.

“Oh,” he says, gently. “You don’t like being scared anymore?”

He steps forward, slow.

“...I thought you liked games.”

Phantom swallows.

“Y—you—” they start, then stop. Clear their throat. Try again with more venom. “You’re a dick.”

Cowbell raises his brows. “That’s new.”

Phantom glares. Or tries to. They're stuttering around the edges, clutching the edge of the couch like it might anchor them, like it’s not still humming with leftover dread.

“I wasn’t—scared,” they mutter, entirely unconvincing, climbing onto the couch.

“Oh no?” Cowbell steps forward. The wood floor creaks like a warning beneath him. “Is that why you screamed like a banshee and nearly kicked your own face?”

Phantom sits up straighter. Crosses their ankles. Crosses their arms. Immediately regrets both choices when their thighs twitch in aftershock and their arms press too close to their own chest, like they’re trying to contain the static still buzzing in their bones.

“I was... startled,” they amend, sniffing like they’ve recovered. “Not the same thing.”

“Ah. My mistake.” Cowbell tilts his head. He’s smiling again. “Because startled ghouls definitely vibrate like a sacrificial altar and curl up like they’re waiting for the knife.”

Phantom flushes and is betrayed by their tail, curling up defensively between their ankles.

“I was relaxing,” they snap. “Alone. Until you decided to go full horror movie poltergeist about it.”

Their core still thrums from the fear, their limbs still twitchy, and the worst part is… they like it.

Cowbell hums. “Didn’t hear you complaining when I was in your bones.”

“I wasn't—!”

They stop. Realize what they’ve said. Realize what it sounded like. Realize Cowbell is grinning.

“Don’t,” they growl.

Cowbell raises both hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

He looks at them a moment longer, lets the silence stretch, and then he’s on the prowl again.

The floor creaks again under his weight, a low, aching sound that makes Phantom’s tail twitch like a live wire.

They try not to react. Sit up straighter. Chin high. But their knees inch apart.

Cowbell stops at the edge of the couch, reaches without warning, and touches their elbow.

Just two fingers, light as a whisper.

Phantom jolts like he slapped them.

Cowbell hums, nose twitches. Once. Twice.

He smiles, leans in.

“You liked it.”

Phantom freezes.

“You’re still scared,” Cowbell says softly, his fingers dragging slowly up the line of their arm. “And you like it.”

Phantom shivers. Visibly. The kind that starts at the base of their spine and ripples outward like a pulse. Their breath catches on it, sharp and shallow.

“I wasn’t—” they try, voice cracking. “You think I—?”

They don’t get the chance to finish.

Cowbell moves like the inevitable. A shift of weight, a quiet creak, and then—

He’s there.

Knees pressed into the couch cushions, bracketing Phantom’s thighs. One hand on the backrest behind their shoulder, the other still ghosting along their arm. The heat of him, his scent, that storm-rich soil, surges in all at once.

Phantom tilts their head back, wide-eyed, breath shallow. Trapped between the couch and Cowbell and the thrum still beating through their bones.

Cowbell leans in.

“So pretty when you shake,” he says softly, almost sweet. His fingertips skate just beneath the hem of Phantom’s shirt, tracing heat against cool skin. “You sure you weren’t scared?”

Phantom swallows hard.

They don't answer. Can’t, not with Cowbell this close, not with the air thick and wrong and his breath ghosting across their jaw.

He’s barely even touching them, just that one hand, resting so casually on the couch back, fingers curled inches from their neck. The other one has stilled just under their sleeve, hot against their bicep.

But he’s everywhere.

In their space. In their blood. In the aching pulse between their legs.

“You’re not running,” Cowbell murmurs.

His thumb strokes once, slow, against Phantom’s skin. A mimic of comfort. A warning.

“Should I?” Phantom breathes.Their voice is tight, throat clicking around the words. But they hold his gaze.

Cowbell’s eyes glint.

“Maybe,” he says, tilting his head the way a cat does before it pounces. “But you won’t. Will you.”

He lets that hang. Lets it settle between them like a hand on the chest.

And then, soft like mercy wrapped in threat:

“Good little sparkplug.”

Phantom shudders.

The words land somewhere low in their belly, coiled and hot and shameful. They don’t mean to react, but Cowbell notices.

He always does.

He hums like a lullaby might follow and, very slowly, reaches up with one hand to brush Phantom’s hair behind their ear.

It’s a soft touch.

Too soft.

Phantom flinches with how tender it feels.

Cowbell’s knuckles graze their temple, drag featherlight down the slope of their cheek. Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s checking for heat.

“You’re shivering,” he says quietly, thumb tracing the corner of their jaw. “Is it because you're scared of the dark?”

Phantom opens their mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Cowbell’s smile sharpens.

He shifts closer, barely— enough that Phantom feels the heat of him, the press of his presence like it’s filling in the cracks where all their bravado used to live.

“Not so loud now, sparkplug,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under their chin. “Did I steal your voice? Or are you just—” his head tilts, nose twitching once more, “—trying not to moan?”

Phantom tail flicks, then curls defensively. Their breath finally stumbles out in a hitch.

“You’re—” They try again. Fail. Swallow. “You’re in my space.”

Cowbell’s eyes flash.

“Am I?” he purrs, dragging the words out like smoke. “I think you like when I get close.”

Cowbell watches them squirm, expression unreadable. That quiet intensity, like he’s listening to more than their words. Like he can hear what their bones are trying not to say.

He leans in again, nose brushing their temple. Inhales. Hums.

“You wanted an audience,” he murmurs.

Phantom shivers.

Cowbell doesn't pull away.

“Came out here and spread yourself across the couch like that,” he continues, voice low and warm and wrong. “You wanted someone to look. To want.”

Phantom’s jaw tightens. Their tail coils, breath shallow.

“But now you’re trembling,” Cowbell murmurs. “Now you’re shy.”

“Long day,” they grumble. “Needed to unwind.”

Cowbell tilts his head. “Mhm.”

He shifts again, stands over Phantom like he's considering an art exhibit, and then his hand are back. Tipping them, sliding them, draping them along the couch like they were when he first saw them.

Phantom's eyes flutter shut, fingers dipping low. They groan at what they find.

Cowbell drags his gaze down their body — lazy and thorough. Sees the tension under the bonelessness, the slick sheen between their thighs, the little tremor in their breath.

“Such a sweet little mess, trying to be coy.”

He lays one hand on their knee. Presses it further open.

Phantom’s breath stutters.

Cowbell smiles.

“Let me take care of it.”

Cowbell doesn’t wait for an answer.

He slides one hand up Phantom’s thigh, slow and warm. Like a lover might. Like a friend.

Phantom’s breath catches. Their knees fall wider without meaning to. Cowbell’s hand doesn’t rush, it lingers. Palms broad, thumbs grazing like praise.

“You’re running hot,” he murmurs, voice molasses-thick. “Thought you were scared?”

“I—I am—”

He leans in. Lets his breath ghost across their throat.

“I know, sparkplug,” he says. “That’s what makes it fun.”

He stays crouched beside the couch for a moment longer, just watching them breathe. Watches the way their chest rises. Watches the flush bloom across their throat.

Watches the wet shine of their cunt catch the lamplight.

He licks a fang and climbs between Phantom’s spread thighs like he belongs there, like he’s done this a hundred times and will do it a hundred more.

He leans over them, hand braced by their head, the other trailing up their inner thigh with the kind of patience that makes people cry.

Phantom moans — barely a sound, more of a leak of tension. Their tail curls against the couch, twitching once before flopping over.

Cowbell smirks, his fingers reach the edge of them.

“Don't you wanna feel it,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of their ear. “When the darkness is inside of you.”

They rest there, warm and maddening. Right over the slick heat, not pressing, not stroking. Like they’re testing resistance. Like he’s reading a faultline.

Phantom squirms.

“Bell—”

“Shhh.” He dips his head and kisses their jaw, gentle as anything. “Let me.”

His fingers move.

One slow circle. Then another. A slide inward — two fingers, smooth and easy, because of course they’re soaked for him already.

Phantom gasps. Their whole body arches in place, hips twitching like they can’t decide whether to chase it or flee.

Cowbell chuckles low in his throat.

“There you go,” he whispers. “Let’s see what you’ve been hiding.”

Cowbell’s fingers slide in easy. Shamefully easy.

Phantom lets out a gasp and bites down on the back of their hand to keep it quiet. But it’s no use, the slick sound of him moving inside them gives everything away.

Cowbell exhales, low and reverent. “Fuck. You’re soft.”

His mouth brushes the corner of their jaw, smiling as he curls his fingers just so. Hunting for pressure points like he’s mapping their ruin.

“Felt you clench just now,” he murmurs. “You like that? You like knowing someone could walk in and see what I’ve got my hand in?”

Phantom shudders. Doesn’t answer. Can’t.

Cowbell chuckles, deep and quiet, a sound meant for inside a body.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “You look so pretty like this, laid out and leaking. I bet no one would even be mad.”

His thumb ghosts up to stroke their clit — once, lightly. Phantom jerks. A broken noise spills out of them before they can catch it.

“Mmhm,” Cowbell hums. “There’s my little sparkplug.”

He fucks them slow, fingers curling with precision, patient as sin. No rush. Just steady, obscene pressure, designed to unravel them one breath at a time.

Phantom trembles. Their hands fist in the couch cushions. They’re panting now, open-mouthed and silent, like they’ve forgotten how to beg.

“Poor thing,” Cowbell croons. “Was it hard? All that waiting? You should’ve just asked me. Everyone knows who you belong to.”

That does it — Phantom keens, hips twitching, thighs trying to close around him. But Cowbell just presses a hand to their belly and holds.

“Uh-uh. Keep ‘em open. Can't hide now.”

His fingers speed up, just a little. Just enough to make it unbearable. The wet sounds get louder, lewder — echoing through the soft den lighting like a warning.

“You hear that?” he whispers. “You’re dripping down my wrist. Soaking the couch. Anyone walks in now, they’ll know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

Phantom sobs.

Cowbell growls soft and low, the sound buzzing right against their jaw. “That’s it,” he says. “Give it to me “

His fingers move slick and sure, spreading them open and watching their hole flutter around him.

Phantom whines, breathless and humiliated, but they don’t close their legs. No, they lift their hips to meet him, a helpless little grind. Their body shivers, slick and open, trying to take more.

Cowbell lets them feel it—every slip and clench, every shame-sweet tremble.

“That's it,” he murmurs. “There’s my good little sparkplug.”

Phantom whimpers, hips twitching under his hand. Their thighs are soaked. His wrist shines.

They’re close. Cowbell knows it.

Which is why he hears the creak of the door before Phantom does.

The swoosh of a hinge, the thump of a boot landing on wood.

Phantom goes rigid.

Cowbell doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look.

He just turns his head slightly, voice rich and syrup-slow.

“You let it in,” he says. “Let me fill you with it.”

Thump.

Cowbell curls his fingers right there, eyes bright as he watches Phantom’s screw shut.

Thump thump.

Except Cowbell is entirely still. Just watching. Head tilted at that uncanny angle, pupils blown wide, tongue clicking softly like a capacitor winding up to discharge.

“You really think you’re hunting me?” he murmurs, voice low and almost… fond.

Phantom lunges anyway. They shove him back against the wall — or try to. It’s like trying to move a statue that just happens to yield an inch out of curiosity.

Phantom rises on their toes, mouth finding his throat, scraping teeth across warm skin with the righteous edge of someone reclaiming control.

And for three whole seconds, it works.

But then Cowbell exhales and adjusts. In one smooth, impossible shift, he lifts Phantom under the arms, effortless, like repositioning a puppet. Before they can react, his knee slides up between their legs and he settles them on it, letting their full weight grind down against the pressure.

Phantom jolts.

Their hips twitch downward on instinct. Once. Twice. And then they freeze, lips still against his neck as the sharp heat of contact bleeds up their spine.

Cowbell hums. Pleased.

“Had to lift you,” he murmurs. “You're not tall enough to squirm where I want you.”

One hand comes up slow to catch Phantom’s jaw. He wraps firm fingers around it and tilts their face upward, thumb dragging slow beneath their chin until their eyes meet his.

Cowbell is a foot taller, and it shows now. In the way he looks down without bending his neck; in the way Phantom’s whole body has to stretch just to fail at looking dangerous.

It’s laughable.

Cowbell doesn’t laugh.

He just presses his knee higher.

Phantom gasps. Thighs tremble.

“Mmm. There we go,” Cowbell murmurs, voice dropping like he’s reading a voltage meter. “Your whole body still hums for me.”

Phantom bares their fangs again, desperate to snarl, to resist — but the sound that comes out is high and broken, more keening than threat.

Cowbell shivers like he’s just tasted his favorite flavor.

“There it is again,” he sighs. “Still sparking.”

He leans in, lips brushing Phantom’s temple, but his knee stays exactly where it is — a perfect fulcrum of pressure and stillness. Phantom breathes like they’ve been running. Their hands twitch uselessly at Cowbell’s chest, caught somewhere between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

Cowbell doesn’t seem to mind either option.

Phantom’s breath hitches. Their fangs glint in the light, the last scrap of defiance clinging to the edges of their voice.

“You don’t scare me,” they snap.

It comes out half-snarl, half-breathless.

Cowbell stills.

Grins. Slow and sharp and just wide enough to be wrong. His knee presses up, ever so slightly, and Phantom twitches in place, fighting not to react.

“Are you sure about that?” he says, voice low and curious.

Phantom opens their mouth, to deny it, to lie, to say anything at all, but Cowbell’s thumb is already there, sliding across their bottom lip, smearing spit and control in equal measure.

“You don’t smell sure,” he murmurs. “You smell like lightning and sugar. Like you want to be afraid.”

Phantom freezes, caught in the pull of his gaze.

“Like you want me to press harder,” Cowbell continues, softer now. “Like you want to know what happens when the voltage jumps. When your body finds the limit. When the current leaks.”

He leans in until their foreheads nearly touch.

“Because I think you’re full of live wires,” he purrs. “And I want to bite every single one.”

His hand rises again, thumb dragging across Phantom’s bottom lip, even slower this time. He tilts their head back against the wall until their jaw begins to slacken under the pressure.

“Open,” he murmurs.

Phantom hesitates — just for a second. Just long enough to believe they still have a choice.

Cowbell’s grin sharpens.

His thumb presses down, parting their mouth. Two fingers slide in slow and deliberate and entirely unshakable.

Phantom moans around them. Reflex. Electricity. Need. Their jaw stretches wide, lips trembling around the intrusion, tongue fluttering against the pads.

Cowbell exhales, soft. “Mm. There we go.”

He watches the way their mouth shapes around him. The mess, the tremble, the tremor in their throat as they try to breathe through it.

“Good little sparkplug,” he purrs. “Look at you. You take it so pretty.”

His fingers press deeper, slow at first. Testing. Measuring. Then deeper still, until they brush the back of Phantom’s throat.

Phantom gags once, throat fluttering around the intrusion, but Cowbell only hums like he’s listening for it.

Shudders like he's tasting pleasure in its purest form.

His other hand lifts to cradle their jaw, tilting it up, steadying them. Holding them just so as he fucks their mouth with soft, precise movements.

Drool begins to spill. Slick, warm, sliding over his knuckles and down Phantom’s chin.

He pulls his fingers out just far enough to rub the mess across their lips, smearing spit over their cheeks. Phantom moans around the pressure, eyes glassy, chest heaving.

“You hear that?” he asks, tilting his head. “All that wet, all that noise… and I’ve barely touched you.”

Phantom whimpers.

Cowbell pushes his fingers in again, deeper this time, palm pressing to their face. Their jaw flexes. Their throat jumps.

He leans in close, breath warm against their cheek. Tilts his head, listening to the wet sounds of their mouth sucking around his fingers.

“You sound like you’re starving for it.”

Phantom can’t nod, not with his fingers buried that deep, but their eyes flutter. Their hands twitch. Their body answers anyway.

Cowbell hums, pleased.

Phantom whimpers, trying to swallow, trying to breathe — but then Cowbell presses his thumb flat on their tongue, holding it down. Their mouth drops open, perfect and helpless.

Cowbell leans in, eyes gleaming. “Pretty little cage,” he whispers. And then he spits into it, deliberate and slow, watching it drip down the back of their tongue.

Phantom chokes, throat working. Cowbell slides his fingers back in at once, thrusting deeper, using his grip on their jaw to fuck their mouth like it belongs to him.

“There we go,” he croons. “Still sparking. Still buzzing. Bet I could get you to come from this alone.”

Phantom tries to breathe through their nose, to steady themselves but Cowbell’s fingers are deep, curling slightly with every thrust. Just to feel. To fill.

They’re dripping now. From their mouth, their eyes, their cunt.

And Cowbell just smiles.

“You were made for this,” he says, voice almost dreamy. “Feel how your throat jumps when I say something sweet?"

Phantom moans around him. Their legs are shaking. They shouldn’t be this close but there’s something about the pressure, the praise, the way Cowbell keeps watching. Like every wet sound, every flicker of their tongue is a code he’s deciphering.

Cowbell pulls his fingers out slow, a glossy trail of spit connecting them to Phantom’s lips. Phantom gasps, blinking hard, dizzy from the lack of air and the overload.

But Cowbell’s not done.

He smears the mess down their chin, then up again, dragging it across one flushed cheek with a quiet hum. Then his fingers twitch, just a brush, and a crackle of static leaps from his skin to Phantom’s neck.

Phantom gasps, whole body flinching like someone yanked a cord deep under their skin. Their breath stutters, pupils blown wide.

“Ohh,” he breathes, delighted. “You buzz different when you get a little jolt.”

Phantom whines. Loud.

Cowbell grins like a saint. The kind that collects relics from broken bodies.

“Open again.”

Phantom does. No hesitation this time. Mouth slack, eyes glazed.

Cowbell doesn’t spit right away. He just breathes over them. Close enough for Phantom to feel the heat, the weight, the anticipation.

Then he whispers, “You want it rougher?”

Phantom’s breath catches. Their whole body answers yes before their mouth can.

Cowbell spits. Harder this time. A messy string that hits their tongue, their lips. Two fingers follow instantly, shoved in without warning, without mercy.

Phantom chokes. Drool spills freely, a wrecked little sob catching in their throat and leaking around the seal.

Cowbell moans.

“Fuck, you're good,” he breathes. “Just made for it. That pretty mouth, that little tremble. Like you were built to be filled. Built for me.”

His pace quickens. He’s fucking Phantom’s mouth steady and full, one hand gripping their jaw, the other curled possessive at the base of their skull.

Phantom’s knees buckle. Cowbell doesn’t let them fall.

He wants them upright. Wants to watch them tremble and take.

“Look at you,” he croons. “You’ve got no idea how loud you’re sparking. No idea what you do to me.”

His breath roughens. Phantom feels it warm against their cheek, vibrating through his fingers.

Cowbell leans in again, forehead pressed to theirs, still moving. Still fucking their mouth with lazy, deliberate precision.

“Think I should come just from this,” he murmurs. “Think you deserve it. Want to paint your tongue with it and see if your pulse jumps when you swallow.”

Phantom whines all high-pitched and desperate. Their thighs press together like it might help, like it might save them. They’re not even being touched anywhere else. But they’re still slick. Soaked. Shaking.

Wrecked by nothing but Cowbell’s fingers and voice and goddamn attention.

Cowbell chuckles.

“Still sparking,” he whispers. “Still mine.”

He pulls his fingers out slow this time, watching the slide, the gloss, the glisten.

Phantom moans at the loss, blinking through the tears gathered on their lashes.

Cowbell cradles their jaw. Brushes the corner of their mouth with his thumb. Then lifts both wet fingers to his own lips and tastes.

Phantom groans when Cowbell moans around his own fingers like it’s his favorite flavor, like Phantom’s mouth was meant to be savored.

He pulls them free with a slick little pop and murmurs:

“Oh, sweetheart. Maybe you are dangerous.”

He smiles wrong again, sharp and crooked and a little too knowing — and then he’s moving. Mouth to throat, tongue dragging down, down, down, mapping every frantic beat with teeth and lips.

Humming like he’s tuning himself to their rhythm.

By the time he licks across their sternum, Phantom’s breath is ragged. Chest heaving.

When he noses lower, mouthing heat into the curve of their belly, their thighs are shaking.

“You taste like copper and rain,” he murmurs against their skin. “Like the first strike of a storm. Sweet little battery. Addictive.”

Phantom tries to spit something back, defiance, insult, anything at all, but it dies in a choked gasp the moment Cowbell’s tongue traces the wet heat between their thighs, damp fabric and all.

They jolt. Back slamming the wall. Fingers curling into fists and then splaying open again, useless.

Cowbell hums. The vibration goes straight into them.

“See? All spark, no discipline,” he croons. “You’ll fry yourself if I don’t keep you grounded.”

He licks again. Slower this time. Meaner.

Phantom’s knees buckle. Cowbell catches their hips like he was waiting for it.

Then he looks up, eyes blown wide, grin feral.

“You want me to drain you?”

Phantom’s only answer is a wrecked moan, thighs trembling, head thudding back against the wall like it might offer mercy.

Cowbell licks his lips. Delighted.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not stopping until you burn.”

Cowbell drags his mouth lower. Lips and tongue mapping heat and pressure like he’s tracing a leyline with his teeth.

He noses into the soaked fabric between Phantom’s thighs again and groans deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes against the seam. “You’re soaked through. Just from me. Just from my fingers in your mouth.”

Phantom twitches, sobbing out something that might be please or might just be static.

Cowbell mouths over them. Still clothed. No baring, no stripping.

Just pressure.

Open mouth. Warm breath. Tongue dragging slow and heavy along the crease where the fabric clings the wettest.

“Still covered,” he murmurs. “Still decent. And still coming apart for me.”

He licks again. Broader now. The cloth drags against Phantom’s skin like a second tongue.

Phantom keens.

Their hips jerk. Thighs tremble around his shoulders.

Cowbell hums like a generator spinning up. The vibration rolls straight through the heat of them and Phantom’s knees buckle.

But Cowbell just keeps mouthing at them. Relentless. Open, wet, soaking the cloth further with his own spit. He doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t need to.

Because he’s listening.

To the whines. To the twitch of their thighs. To the way their breath breaks like a storm front.

One hand stays tight on their hip. The other slides up to press palm-flat against their sternum.

Pins them to the wall by the beat of their heart.

“You feel that?” he breathes. “I’m gonna drink it. Right through the fabric. Right through you.”

And then he sucks.

Hard. Right over the soaked spot. Through their pants.

Phantom shatters.

No warning. No build. Just a full-body convulsion and a choked-off sound no hallway should bear witness to that fractures into sobbing moans as they come.

Still dressed. Still pinned. Still shaking.

Cowbell doesn’t stop.

Just hums long and low again as Phantom’s hips twitch helplessly, still wracked from the shock of it.

“Mmmm,” he purrs, licking over the damp cloth. “Whole circuit shorted out, didn’t it?”

Phantom’s thighs are trembling so hard they’re barely upright. Their hands slap weakly at Cowbell’s shoulders, like they mean to push — but they don’t.

They can’t.

Cowbell’s the only thing keeping them standing. One hand at their chest like a marionette string. Holding them up. Tuning every twitch.

Cowbell noses back in. Licks the slick spot with slow, teasing passes.

“Not even close to done,” he whispers. “You’ve got more in there. You just don’t know it yet.”

Phantom’s body is still jerking, aftershocks firing off in every nerve like lightning in slow motion. Cowbell stays crouched, stays hungry, mouthing over the soaked cloth again and again like he means to wring another orgasm out without even baring them.

And Phantom is gone.

Back arched, mouth slack, eyes blown wide. Their chest heaves in broken little gasps, trying to breathe, trying to think, but all they can do is twitch and moan and ride the edge of something they’re not built to survive.

“Still sparking,” Cowbell purrs, mouthing hot and open against the wettest part. “Your body’s begging, and you haven’t said a word.”

Phantom whines high and shattered — breaks into something worse when Cowbell's tongue flicks just right.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “Say it. I know your mouth still works.”

Another lick. Firm. Precise.

Phantom wails.

“C—Cowbell—”

Just the shape of his name knocks the air from their lungs.

Cowbell moans. “Oh, there you are. Say it again.”

Phantom shakes their head like they don’t mean to, like saying it again might split them open.

Cowbell drags his palm flat to their belly, grounding them. His tongue doesn’t stop. Neither does his voice.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Beg.”

Phantom sobs. Fingers claw the wall like they’re trying to hold onto something that isn’t him.

“Please—” they gasp. “Please, Bell—please—again—I can’t—”

Cowbell hums low, dragging the sound into them. Phantom’s hips buck, their breath hitching on every word.

"You can,” Cowbell says. “You already did. You’ll do it again. Right here. Just like this.”

Phantom cries out, head hitting the wall with a thud. Their voice dissolves into pleading and Cowbell just grins into the heat between their thighs, licking the same spot over and over until Phantom finally breaks:

“Please, Bell,” they whisper. “Please, fuck, please take them off, I need— I need— I need—”

Cowbell moans like a prayer’s just been answered, then moves like he means to return the favor.

Phantom, of course, crumples.

Not from fear. Not even from the orgasm still echoing through their bones. But because the second Cowbell lets go, their legs give out.

He catches them, lets them fold carefully into his arms, onto the floor, thigh to stone, panting and boneless and wrecked.

“Fuck,” Cowbell breathes, eyes wide, hands more gentle than they have any right to be. “Wound that tight and still trying to hold yourself together. Fucking stunning.”

He brushes a hand over their cheek. Phantom leans into it like they’ve been unstrung.

“Absolutely fucking dangerous."

Phantom whines. Their head lolls against the floor, thighs falling open with a slow, desperate twitch — and Cowbell smiles.

“There it is,” he breathes. “Good little sparkplug. You’re gonna give me everything now.”

Cowbell hooks his fingers into the waistband, slow and deliberate, like he’s unwrapping something volatile. His palms drag low over Phantom’s hips, warm and steady, anchoring them in the quake of their own want.

“You did so good,” he murmurs, voice molten. “All that spark, and I haven’t even seen you yet."

He starts to pull. Inch by inch. The fabric clings, soaked through, obscene with how it peels away from skin. Cowbell watches the reveal with his fangs dropped low and a growl in his chest.

Phantom is still trembling. Still panting. Still riding the edge of the last orgasm, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth working around nothing but sound.

The moment Cowbell gets their pants past the curve of their ass, he groans.

“Ohhh, sweetheart.”

His fingers tighten just enough to make Phantom gasp. “Look at this mess. I told you I could make you come without even getting you naked.”

He tugs the pants lower, lower, lower. Frees one leg and drops between their thighs like he can’t wait another second.

Doesn’t touch.

Just breathes. Just looks.

“You’re still leaking,” he whispers. “Still twitching. Haven’t even touched your cunt and you’re giving me everything.”

Phantom sobs. A real one. It breaks on the tail end into his name again, “Bell—!”

Cowbell hums.

Low and familiar, that twisted little funeral tune Phantom’s heard too many times now, and never in the right places. It's not a hymn built for bedrooms or shadowed halls or echoing against the tender, slick heat of their skin.

It slithers up their spine like incense. Like a curse. Like a promise.

It makes them wetter.

Cowbell’s hands spread them open. Thumbs braced inside their trembling thighs, gentle but unyielding — steady, like he’s opening an incision.

There’s no urgency in his grip. Only the focus of someone determined to learn what every inch of them does. He looks at them like a specimen. Like he’s about to take notes.

He takes in every tremble, observes every twitch, every pulse of aching want. Watches the slick dribble from their cunt and catch on his knuckles, like it belongs there. Watches their hole flutter desperate and open like it’s begging for pressure. For more.

His breath drags over them, warm, and then he’s humming again.

That same melody. That same cursed, consecrated tune.

Phantom feels it, the vibration of it, ghosting over their cunt like a blessing.

They jolt. Cry out. Their thighs twitch in his grip but he doesn’t let them close.

Cowbell groans.

“Fucking beautiful,” he says. “You’re still fluttering. Still begging, so full of want and it's got nowhere to go.”

Phantom whines, high and wrecked.

And finally, finally, Cowbell moves.

No teasing. No mercy. Just devouring.

Mouth open, tongue flat and firm, sucking them into his hunger with a moan that burns straight through their bones.

It’s not polite. It’s not pretty. Cowbell eats them like he’s starving — like he’s been waiting all fucking day for this exact meal and now he’s going to savor every bite.

His tongue drags through them slow and ruinous. Laps at the slick like he’s tasting power. Dips low and curls deep and sucks until the noise is wet and sharp and obscene, echoing in the hush of the hallway like wire snapping under tension.

He makes it sound like it hurts.

Every time Phantom gasps, every time their voice breaks or their hips jolt or their thighs try to clamp shut, Cowbell shifts. Tilts his head, changes angle, licks again, deeper. He finds pressure points like he’s taking inventory. Plays their nerves like strings strung too tight.

“Sweet little mess,” he groans, open-mouthed against them. “You taste like lightning and rot. Like ruin. Like mine.”

Phantom tries to answer, tries to do something — anything, but their mouth just falls open and nothing comes out. Static where sound should be. No thoughts where instinct now lives.

Their hands aren’t on Cowbell’s head anymore. They’re scrabbling. At the floor, at their own thighs, at nothing. Just trying to stay right here.

Cowbell moans into their cunt. The vibration is low and wet and full. It hits like full bodied impact with all the weight behind it.

Phantom twitches — jerks — keens.

They’re going to come again. Already. No buildup. No warning. Just pressure. Just burn. Just the moment before detonation. And Cowbell knows.

Of course he knows.

He wants it.

He pins them open, thumbs digging just slightly deeper into the tremble of their thighs, and drags one long, devastating lick right up the center—

—and sucks.

Phantom comes apart.

The sound they make isn’t so much a scream as it is an explosion. It bounces off stone and steel like a warning siren, sharp and white-hot and unforgiving. Their whole body jolts like they’ve been struck by lightning. Hips stutter. Thighs lock around his shoulders. Every muscle clenches and trembles and gives out.

And still, still, his mouth is on them.

Tongue still working. Lips still wrapped. Hunger undiminished.

By the time Phantom realizes, it’s too late. The second orgasm slams through them like a jolt to the spine.

They sob.

They sob.

And then they fall apart.

Spine arching off the floor, muscles twitching, body sparking in every direction.

Cowbell doesn’t stop.

Just groans into the slick mess between their legs, chin drenched, fangs catching the light.

“Still sparking,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue slow and thick through the mess. “Wanna see how many circuits I can fry?”

Phantom can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Their thighs are sticky, their cunt leaking, their voice caught somewhere between a prayer and a scream.

That's when Cowbell finally pulls back — just enough to look.

He’s glowing with it. Lit from within like he’s swallowed lightning direct from the source. Lips slick from nose to chin, hair mussed, eyes dark with something reverent and wrong. He breathes like a ghoul reborn in smoke and voltage.

“Fucking hell,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

His knuckles drag through the wrecked slick between their thighs featherlight.

Phantom jolts with it, their whole body seizing in a twitch. A broken, bitten sound spills from their mouth, high and shivery.

Cowbell hums all low and sweet and cruel on the edges.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs. “Still dripping. Bet you’d take my fingers now, wouldn’t you?”

Phantom can’t answer. Their eyes roll back. Their body trembles, spent and spilling and sparking all at once.

Overfull. Undone.

“You would,” Cowbell purrs, and the smirk on his mouth is a promise more than a threat. “But not today, sparkplug.”

He leans in close. So close their noses nearly brush, breath ghosting over Phantom’s ruined mouth like a secret.

“Next time,” he says, tongue flicking the edge of a whimper from their lips. “Maybe you’ll be the one doing the hunting.”

A pause.

Then he grins, all teeth.

“But I hope not.”

He kisses their open mouth, soft and sticky and shameless, and lets them taste everything he’s done. Everything they gave him.

When he pulls away, Phantom’s still trembling.