#ii x reader

• being close to paper it was only a matter of time before you met looseleaf

• the contrast was easy to see, and you could understand why the others were weary of them but still that wouldn't stop you from befriending the rougher version of your friend

• having paper's favor is key in getting on looseleaf's good side after all their whole purpose is keeping paper safe so if you've got an issue with paper don't even bother trying to talk to them

• looseleaf started off just as abrasive towards you as they were with anyone else but the longer you stayed around them they stopped seeing you as a threat

• looseleaf mostly just stayed around you when not provoked due to feeling more comfortable around you then anyone

• paper noticed the shift in their behavior first, the way they stopped snapping at you, the way their hand found yours when no one was looking and especially how they started talking about you to paper

• paper brought it up to you with barely contained excitement, he was both surprised and excited that looseleaf started becoming less hostile. Paper couldn't help but thank you for being so understanding with them

• of course it was no problem for you, you found the guy extremely fun to be around and despite their aggressive behavior you could tell they just wanted to protect paper

• when looseleaf asked you to be their partner you both were sitting on the couch at hoot and they just turned to you and asked point blank if you wanted to be their partner. After the shock wore off you of course said yes and they just nodded with a smile before turning back to the tv. Just now their shoulder was against yours

• paper was more emotional about you two dating then looseleaf was. He was just so happy that they now had someone else that they trusted besides himself

• looseleaf tries to not be so physically aggressive nowadays, especially with you helping them voice their anger and discomfort without throwing people

• they trust you to keep paper safe so they don't have to front in every mildly distressing situation (which In turn helps them be less on edge)

• they started fronting more regularly and not just is severe situations and actually interacting with the other people in hoot without just grumbling and walking away which in both you and paper's eyes is a massive improvement

• they like to hug you from behind and when you turn to face them they promptly sling you over their shoulder and carry you like a sack of rice

• their favorite part of you is probably your face, not necessarily just because of how it looks but also it's warmth and the way your eyes scan their features with such care

• please cuddle them, looseleaf loves being able to just relax into your touch without worrying about something happening while their guard is down

They had let you come this far. You felt it in the bones of the woods, in the hush that wasn’t quite silence. If you stopped long enough, you could almost sense the line where their awareness brushed yours – a soft static at the back of your skull, tender and invasive. You turned in place at once, scanning the trees, the fog coiling like gauze around your ankles. Every direction looked the same, the same pale trunks and latticed shadows, and yet you knew without knowing that four sets of eyes marked your every move. They’d felt the moment you unlatched the cabin door, the faint catch of your breath as you stepped into the cold, the muted thump of your boots on the wooden porch. They could have called out. They could have ended this before it began. But they didn’t. You knew why. The waiting was its own pleasure. The anticipation was the thread you were all weaving, pull after pull, until it was too tight to escape.

The idea that they were careless never crossed your mind. Careless was human. They were something else – ancient patience wrapped in flesh, instinct honed into ritual. You’d come to know the difference between the whisper of an animal and the movement that preceded them: a ripple that passed through the air like breath drawn in and never released. You’d learned the signs – the way the forest itself seemed to listen harder when they were near, the way even your thoughts grew heavy, slowed, reverent. Vessel’s presence always arrived first, an invisible gravity that drew every nerve toward it. III always followed close behind, laughter stretched thin through the trees, a vibration more felt than heard. II and IV moved like twin shadows, silent, constant, setting a perimeter that was both safety and trap. It had been like this for months: the game that wasn’t a game, the ritual that disguised itself as a chase. You told yourself you understood it. You told yourself you weren’t afraid. But your heartbeat betrayed you, drumming quick and bright against your ribs, a rhythm they would recognize instantly.

It began the way it always did – quietly, like a thought you weren’t supposed to have. The first thing was the air; it thickened, heavy and wet, pressing close against your skin until even your smallest movements stirred it like water. Then came the sound, low and almost tender, a shift that wasn’t quite footstep, wasn’t quite wind. You stopped walking, and for one long moment, the world held its breath with you. The fog pulsed – an inhale, an exhale – and you could swear the earth moved in time. You strained to hear something beyond the pounding in your ears, but the silence had texture now, rough and granular, like a sound on the verge of forming words. You turned slowly, scanning the crooked columns of trees. The light from your pocket torch flickered weakly, revealing only pale bark and the suggestion of movement too far away to be certain of. The air smelled sharper now – ozone, wet stone, something faintly metallic. You told yourself it was just rain coming. You didn’t believe it.

A single breath brushed the back of your neck, warm and delicate enough to raise every hair. You froze. That sensation – soft pressure against skin, recognition blooming beneath the fear – was unmistakable. The cold inside you shifted into something else, something that pulled your stomach tight and left your throat dry. You knew that breath. You’d felt it before, always right before the hunt began. The forest wasn’t empty anymore. They were here Somewhere between the trees, hidden just past sight, moving in perfect silence except for the rhythm of their breathing mingling with yours. Vessel’s presence pressed close, a warmth that burned without touch. III’s laughter – hollow, distant – skimmed through the fog, teasing the edges of your composure. II and IV flanked unseen, steady as sentinels, their stillness more unnerving than any sound. You didn’t run. Not yet. The thought of it danced behind your ribs, sweet and poisonous, waiting for permission to bloom.

You turned a fraction, just enough that the dim light skated across the trees to your left. Fog rolled over your boots and climbed your legs, curling into the folds of your clothes like something alive. The breath you’d felt a moment ago had vanished, but the echo of it stayed – a heat that refused to fade. The forest rearranged itself around that absence; every branch seemed to creak a little closer, every shadow a little darker, as though the world were drawing in to listen. You took one step forward, deliberate, and the sound of it cracked open the stillness like a pulse. Somewhere behind you the undergrowth shifted, slow and purposeful. You couldn’t tell how far away. It didn’t matter. They had started moving. The knowledge lit every nerve in your body.

Your heart climbed into your throat, but the fear never reached panic; it hovered just below it, balanced on the edge of excitement. You could taste it – the faint sweetness of adrenaline mixing with the damp air. Another sound now: a low hum that rose and fell in a rhythm too precise to be chance. It brushed the underside of your awareness, familiar and ancient. Vessel’s hum. It wound itself around the trees until the entire forest seemed to vibrate with it. The light in your hand trembled. The fog thickened into ropes that twisted and shuddered under the weight of something unseen. Your body remembered what came next before your mind could. Muscles tightened; every breath drew deeper, slower, ready. You closed your eyes and, for a heartbeat, let the dark fill them. The sound of your own pulse answered theirs.

A flicker – so small you could have imagined it – broke the rhythm of fog and dark. The faintest pressure swept through your chest, a ripple that caught your heartbeat and made it stumble. You knew that signature; IV was close now. His presence didn’t announce itself with sound but with a feeling, the sense of a blade drawn flat along your ribs. Cold, precise, patient. Your lungs expanded around it until it felt like breathing against steel. You opened your eyes. The world had changed shades; black to grey, grey to silver, the fog reflecting the light of a hidden moon. A shimmer passed between two trees ahead, barely the shape of a man, too tall, too fluid, melting back into the mist before you could focus. You should have been terrified. Instead, heat climbed the back of your neck, curling down your spine like an answer you didn’t want to say aloud.

You swallowed hard, the sound loud in your ears. The hum had stopped. The woods waited. Every instinct you owned screamed move, but the stillness pinned you where you stood. Then Vessel shifted behind you – a single, measured step that pressed the scent of him forward, rich and dark and familiar. Leather, smoke, something faintly sweet like resin, and metallic like blood, or perhaps the strings of a guitar. The whisper of fabric. The quiet intake of breath as he exhaled near your ear. The smallest sounds, but each one landed heavy, deliberate, claiming space inside your head. 

“Don’t run,” He said, voice low enough that it barely reached language, more vibration than words. It brushed across your skin and sank in. You didn’t dare turn. You didn’t need to. You felt the words slide through you, warm and dangerous, and with them came the first tremor of certainty that you were no longer walking alone but standing inside a ritual already begun.

The words didn’t fade when he finished saying them; they lingered in the air like a heat shimmer, bending the mist around you. Don’t run. You could feel the shape of them tracing down the back of your neck, settling low between your shoulder blades. Your heartbeat slowed and deepened until it felt like it belonged to the forest itself. Vessel’s presence was close enough now that the rhythm of his breathing braided with yours. The fog trembled each time he exhaled, the moisture rising off his skin carrying that faint metallic scent you could never name. Every instinct screamed to turn, to look at him, to see – but the spell of his voice held you still. Somewhere beyond that thin veil of silence came the faintest scrape of boots through wet leaves, a single, deliberate movement that marked the others closing in.

You became aware of every inch of yourself: the damp fabric clinging to your arms, the ache in your thighs from standing so tense, the chill at your fingertips. The fog tickled at your knees as if alive, twining itself around you before slipping away again. Vessel took another step, and the cold behind you fractured into warmth. The forest seemed to draw back, as if holding its breath for what might happen next. You felt him lift a hand, could almost sense the rings catching what little moonlight filtered through the canopy. When his fingers brushed your hair aside, the touch was light – barely pressure at all – but it carried the weight of command. The pads of his fingers traced the curve of your neck once, twice, each pass slower than the last.

“If you do,” He murmured, the voice almost tender now, “I’ll have no choice but to chase you.” The last word fell into your skin like a promise. The fog thickened, the world went soundless, and for one perfect moment, the only thing that existed was his breath ghosting across your throat and the echo of those words folding into your pulse.

The air itself seemed to quiver around you. His breath slid away and left a hollow where warmth had been, a space that filled immediately with tension. The forest’s hush pressed in tight; even the tiny sounds – the drip of condensation, the faint stretch of bark – vanished. You could almost feel the moment their attention sharpened. Somewhere to your left, II shifted his weight, a whisper of movement so soft it felt imagined. Farther back, a breath of laughter threaded through the fog – III, always poised between menace and amusement. Each sound mapped them around you, a loose circle closing slow. You still hadn’t turned. Your pulse had climbed again, but it wasn’t panic anymore; it was rhythm, the same pulse that lived in the drums of their songs, the same heat that had pulled you out here in the first place. The night was holding you in its mouth, and you could feel it begin to taste.

You wet your lips and finally looked over your shoulder. The mist parted enough to catch a glimpse of Vessel’s outline: tall, still, the faint glint of his rings catching the ghost-light. The veil of fog gave his shape edges that seemed to waver between solid and spectral. He tilted his head the slightest degree, the gesture so deliberate it made your stomach twist. Beyond him, the other three shapes blurred into the trees – movement without form, waiting for his cue. His next words came quiet, carrying through the damp like the scrape of metal drawn slow across stone. A glint of sharp canines as he spoke. “And I can’t promise what comes after, darling.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t mercy either. It was something older, the kind of truth that made the blood in your veins hum. You could feel the promise in it: pursuit, capture, the shattering relief that always followed. You drew a breath that tasted of iron and rain, and the forest seemed to bend closer, urging you to move.

You reacted before your mind could think. One sharp inhale, and the air snapped back into motion; you pivoted on your heel and ran. The fog tore at your legs like cloth, cool and wet, each step sinking into the spongy soil with a muted thump. The forest’s breath changed again – no longer quiet, now a low vibration that filled the air and the ground beneath your boots. Branches swayed without wind. Leaves lifted and fell in slow cascades. Behind you, the first sound came: a low rush, not quite footsteps, not quite wings, something fluid that belonged more to shadow than to flesh. Your chest tightened with the sudden, giddy shock of release. The fear in your stomach unfurled into heat. The sound of your pulse swallowed everything.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You could feel them. Vessel’s pursuit was not movement but presence, a tide rolling behind, dragging the fog in its wake. III’s laughter burst once – high, bright, too close – and vanished again. The air to your left bent; II was keeping pace, his presence a steady, silent anchor. IV lingered behind, the faint metallic hum of his energy vibrating through the trees, marking the perimeter so you could not escape. The forest’s paths twisted under your feet, the ground alternately soft and slick, forcing you to fight for every stride. Branches reached down, scraping along your shoulders, snagging the fabric at your sleeves. The night air cut your throat with each breath, sharp and cold and intoxicating. Somewhere behind, something – someone – breathed your name, the syllables stretched into a low growl that made the back of your neck burn. The chase had begun, and every sense in you screamed not to stop.

The ground blurred beneath you. The fog streamed away in ribbons, torn by the sheer speed of your movement, and every stride felt half-weightless, as though the forest itself were carrying you. Damp leaves slapped against your shins; tiny droplets of mist clung to your lashes, breaking into cold rivulets when you blinked. You didn’t know which direction you’d chosen – only that the land sloped downward, and the air grew thicker with the smell of moss and water. Your breath came harsh and rhythmic, the sound swallowed by the trees. Behind you, the forest cracked open: branches groaning, underbrush giving away, the rush of pursuit blooming like a storm. It was impossible to tell where they were; they were everywhere at once, voices and motion threading through the fog in perfect sync.

The space between each heartbeat stretched thin. Somewhere to your right, a figure flickered through the grey – III, grinning, his outline dissolving even as you saw it. His laughter rolled low and lazy, as if he already knew where this would end. Ahead, shadows split and merged; II was there, always quiet, always precise, herding you without touch, steering you through paths you couldn’t see. You ducked beneath a low branch, bark scraping your shoulder. A fine mist of dew sprayed over your hair. You could taste the earth in the air now, damp and metallic. Every breath drew their scent closer: heat, smoke, something sweet and rotting all at once. Then, sudden – so close it vibrated through your bones – the thud of Vessel’s boots hitting ground in rhythm with your steps. The sound struck something deep inside you, a pulse answered by another. You ran harder, not to escape but to draw them nearer, every stride a dare flung into the dark.

You ducked between two oaks, their trunks slick and dark as oil. The earth dipped, soft with rot, and your boot slid, pitching you forward into the thick of the mist. The ground caught you with a wet smack – moss, leaves, the give of rain-soaked soil against your palms. For a heartbeat the world tilted. The fog was so dense you couldn’t tell up from down, only the glimmer of moonlight breaking in small, trembling patches through the blacklit canopy. The air around you quivered; the forest’s heartbeat merged with your own. You pushed to your knees, breath ragged, listening. No sound. No laughter. Just the endless low hum. You could feel it in your bones, humming against the dirt beneath your hands. They were close – so close that the rhythm of their movement had become part of the ground itself.

The fog quivered, then shuddered outward as if recoiling from what stepped through it. Vessel emerged first, but not entirely as a man. The shape of him held – tall, deliberate – but his edges pulsed and bled light, faint and wrong, as if a second form were trying to claw its way out from beneath the skin. His coat moved on its own, fabric writhing with shadows that twitched like living things. Where moonlight touched his face, the smooth mask rippled; the surface shimmered translucent for a moment, revealing something that glowed faintly underneath – veins of pale gold webbing through darkness, alive and shifting. The air around him vibrated, bending the fog into concentric circles.

Behind him, the forest began to fracture. III was first to lose coherence, always giving in to temptation, his grin splitting wide enough to show too many teeth, eyes scattering like sparks in the mist before reforming somewhere else entirely. His laughter came from two directions at once. II followed, his outline stretching upward until his shadow touched the canopy, limbs elongating, impossible angles snapping into place only to melt again into smoke. IV was almost invisible except for the distortion he left in the air, the faint electric shimmer of a heat mirage that crawled up your arms like static. Vessel raised his head, the movement slow and regal, and when he spoke his voice carried two tones at once – one human, low and rough, the other resonant and hollow, echoing through the trees. “Run again,” He said, the words humming in your bones, “if you still can.” The mist twisted into spirals at his feet, coiling like breath from the lungs of the forest itself, and you realized the night had begun to take their side.

You staggered backward, palms slick with soil, and the ground seemed to pulse under you as if echoing your heartbeat. The trees themselves leaned inward, their branches bowing under the pressure of something unseen. The fog glowed faintly now – not with moonlight but with the light bleeding from them. Vessel advanced one step, and every fiber of the forest responded: leaves shuddering, roots twisting faintly in the earth. The air thickened until it felt like water against your skin. You blinked, and the fog behind him erupted in motion; III split into twin smears of shadow that darted through the trees, his laughter rising and falling like a chant. II glided closer, his outline bending until you could see through parts of him, the night showing through his torso in fractured pieces. IV flickered in and out of existence, each reappearance marked by the faint scent of ozone, by a hum that crackled in the fillings of your teeth.

The human world was collapsing around the edges. The night insects had gone silent, and even the wind seemed to have forgotten its own rhythm. You rose slowly, your knees shaking, and for a heartbeat you met Vessel’s gaze through the distortions of his form. His eyes were six fractures of light, red shot through with gold, unblinking. He raised a hand, and the motion dragged the fog with it, drawing pale tendrils toward you. The light within him flared once, and the sound that followed was not language but vibration – a tone that reverberated in your chest, loosening something deep inside you. The forest leaned closer, every tree bending slightly, branches whispering against each other in a rhythm that matched your pulse. You knew then, that the chase was no longer between people but between forces, between what you had been and what they were becoming.

The air convulsed with light. You stumbled back another step, boots sinking into the wet soil as the fog tore open around them. Vessel’s glow deepened until it looked less like illumination and more like heat, searing the mist in coils that curled away from his body. He was changing faster now; his height seemed to stretch with each breath, limbs lengthening beyond natural reach, fingers tapering to blackened points that bled faint light at their tips. The mask he wore warped subtly, the edges liquefying until it looked fused to his skin, and where it met the line of his throat you could see faint, pulsing veins of gold spiderwebbing outward like roots under bark. His voice rose again, a low hum that rippled through the fog and through you, dissonant and magnetic.

II had moved to his right, steady as a monolith but no longer entirely human. His body was carved from darkness, smooth as obsidian and edged in dull amber light. His eyes – those steady, grounded eyes – burned like two distant stars, unwavering. The fog slid off him in sheets, unable to cling. His chest moved with the rhythm of something not breathing but vibrating, a resonance that made your ribs ache. III darted behind him in erratic flashes of color, laughter warping into a metallic echo, his grin stretched too wide, his shape bending mid-motion. IV drifted in the farthest shadows, his outline rippling like heat haze, the faint electric buzz of him shaking droplets loose from nearby trees.

Vessel lifted his head, and when he spoke the sound carried through them all; four voices threaded together, layered into a single living chord. It wasn’t speech anymore but invocation. The light spilling from their bodies climbed the trunks of the trees, tracing sigils in sap and bark, the symbols flickering alive before fading again. The air smelled of iron, wet moss, and something older—stone dust, blood, thunder. The fog swirled tighter around your legs, wrapping, urging, as if the forest itself wanted to decide for you whether to run or stay and face what they’d become.

Your knees gave a final tremble as you rose from the moss, heart shoving against the inside of your chest like it could still run ahead of you, but the forest refused to let go. The moment you were upright, Vessel stepped forward again – that same slow, inexorable advance that shifted the very shape of the world around him. His hand extended, palm up, and as if answering a command you hadn’t heard, the air around him thickened, became visible, molten with the breath of something ancient. The mist clung to your skin like heat now, not chill – humid and close, wrapping you in invisible fingers that stroked across your arms, down your ribs, lower still. Every nerve went raw. Behind him, III had stilled completely, and the sudden absence of motion in his grin made it unbearable. II stood further back, patient as stone, eyes locked on you with the steady pressure of judgement, of inevitability. And IV – he was behind you now, his presence coalescing at your back with a buzz like live wire dragged over wet skin. The world folded shut. You didn’t fall to your knees again. You let them take you down.

Vessel reached you first. His fingers found your jaw and lifted it, not harsh, but unyielding – like he was holding up a chalice, inspecting it. His eyes were molten fractures beneath the mask, light pooling deep red-gold in the sockets, the glow of something not meant to see this world but somehow watching anyway. You opened your mouth to speak, or beg, or scream – but his thumb swept slow over your lower lip, silencing the instinct before it formed. His voice was not voice now, but an intonation that rolled across your skin in waves, unlocking you joint by joint. 

“Now,” He whispered, and the sound of it made the trees groan. Something shifted behind you – a hand at the base of your spine, another ghosting over your thigh. IV’s touch, colder than the others, but vibrating with barely restrained current. You gasped, spine arching as his fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, dragging it with painful slowness. III’s laugh coiled low in your ear as he moved around your side, his hands quick and clever, unfastening every button, every strap, with reverence laced in mischief. He stripped away your layers like peeling bark from wet wood, murmuring obscenities half-spoken, half-sung, his voice curling into your skin and lighting it up from the inside. The forest watched, and for the first time, you didn’t care. The ritual had begun. You were inside it now. You were being taken apart.

II moved in to the right of you with the finality of stone shifting after centuries of stillness. His hands – large, grounded, callused – closed around your wrists, not to restrain but to hold, anchor, as if the ritual required a witness to stay tethered while the rest of you slipped loose. His grip radiated heat, not like fire but like deep earth: pressure, gravity, inevitability. Vessel remained crouched before you on your left, watching your breath stutter as III’s fingers traced beneath your ribs, down your stomach, laughter ghosting over the skin he uncovered. IV’s presence behind you surged closer, his breath a warm pulse against your nape as he leaned in, lips not quite touching, his voice just soundless vibrations sinking straight into your spine. The fog had turned to a film, slick and clinging, coiling between your legs, sliding under the fabric that still remained like it had learned desire from them. You gasped when III’s mouth finally met your chest, tongue flicking warm and wet over a nipple already drawn tight with cold and tension, his fingers toying with the other, twisting just shy of pain. Vessel didn’t stop him. He watched.

Your pants were half down your thighs before you realized IV had moved again. His fingers – cooler than the others, trembling with power – hooked into the waistband and pulled them down with agonizing care. You lifted your knees for him without thinking, the damp air clinging to every inch of your newly bared skin. Your thighs trembled with anticipation, not from the cold. One of II's hands moved to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheekbone, and in that moment, the ritual’s wait hit you in full. They weren’t just undressing you. They were unmaking you. Every inch of flesh revealed was surrender, a prayer. Behind your eyes, the forest pulsed with a low, internal drumbeat. Beneath your skin, your pulse began to echo its rhythm. III’s mouth dipped lower, hot breath skating across your abdomen as he tasted the skin just above your hips. Vessel finally moved – his hand slid down your sternum, following the path III had kissed, and you swore his fingers left streaks of molten heat behind, burning lines where none showed.

“You’re ready,” he stated simply, and the fog seemed to pull tighter around your waist in agreement. The word didn’t feel like permission. It felt like law.

You couldn’t breathe right – not because of fear, but because every sensation had bloomed into a kind of unbearable clarity. Your skin was no longer just skin; it was an organ of worship, of reception, trembling beneath every brush of breath and fingertip. III slipped down between your thighs with a hum, voice rasping low and filthy as his mouth found the soft flesh just inside your knee, lips dragging upward in slow, wet kisses. His teeth grazed once – playful, sharp – before he licked the sting away, his tongue tracing circles that spiraled higher, higher, until your hips jerked in response. Vessel didn’t stop you. His hands held your ribs, steadying. 

“Let it happen,” he murmured, and those three words split your spine like lightning. Behind you, IV’s hands gripped your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the soft muscle at the base of your neck. The buzz of his energy was unbearable now – like standing too close to a live wire – and when he bent to mouth at the side of your throat, you sobbed. The sound was swallowed instantly by the forest, offered up like sacrifice.

Then III’s tongue touched your cunt. One slow, deliberate stroke up your slit, thick and warm and just this side of rough. Your head dropped back against IV’s shoulder with a strangled cry that escaped without permission. III groaned in response, hands sliding beneath your thighs to spread you wider, to hold you open. He ate like a man starved, tongue flicking, circling, teasing your clit until your hips began to rock helplessly against his face. He moaned into you, the vibrations rolling through your whole pelvis, and his fingers followed – two slipping inside without warning, slow and curling, searching until your knees threatened to give. Vessel’s mouth was at your ear now, speaking low and hot, his presence nothing but shadow darting between the boys currently worshipping you.

“You feel that? That’s what you’ve been begging for in your sleep. Every fucking night. We heard you.”

And then IV was dragging his hand down your spine, trailing between your cheeks, the pads of his fingers slick with mist and something more. He didn’t need to speak. His touch said it all. They weren’t going to stop. They were going to open you. Every part. All of you.

Vessel’s breath was in your mouth before you realized he’d closed the distance again. You tasted him without a kiss – smoke, copper, something unplaceable and thick with heat. His hands moved like commands, one gliding up your thigh while the other flattened across your chest, pressing your spine back into IV’s body. IV’s pulse vibrated straight through you, so loud and constant it was like being pressed to a power line. His breath surged across your neck as he tilted your head with gentle, force, exposing the line of your throat at Vessel’s mouth. He didn’t wait this time. His lips found the hollow of your collarbone and sank in – not teeth, not yet, just pressure and heat, like he wanted to mark you with temperature alone. III’s tongue flicked in hard pulses over your clit, relentless, the wet slap of his mouth echoing against your thighs. The first real cry slipped out of you, and Vessel caught it on his tongue, dragging his mouth up your neck to swallow the next. IV’s hands moved again, dragging down your hips, pulling you against the firm shape of his cock through his clothes, slow and sure, grinding you back against him with no rhythm, just weight. You whimpered, all will gone to mist.

III’s fingers curled deep, scissoring you open as he sucked harder, his voice a ragged growl against your heat - “Fuck, you taste like sin.” – and he didn’t wait for a response, just dove back in, nose pressed to your mound, tongue fucking you as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this plane. Vessel’s thumb pressed against your lips again, not to silence, but to open. You did, willingly. His thumb dragged slow over your tongue, and then he slipped it deeper, pressing down until your mouth fluttered around it, gagging faintly – not from force, but from the want of it. His eyes burned into yours, not cruel, not even stern – just full of want, devouring. IV shifted behind you, one hand dipping low, the tip of his finger slick and cool as it pressed against your ass. The pressure was tentative at first, testing. Then firmer, more insistent. You gasped around Vessel’s thumb, and he pulled it free with a wet sound, only to replace it with two fingers, dragging your jaw open wider as he growled, “Take it. You said you would.” And you did. You took everything.

II’s grip on your wrists finally released. Where III brought chaos and IV pulsed with barely contained electricity, II was gravity itself – the ritual’s fulcrum. You became aware of him again not by motion, but by stillness: a shift in the air, a shadow resolving to the left of you. Three men total were in front of you, one devouring you, with two on either side of him. II moved with deliberation, knees sinking to the moss with the weight of something ancient. While Vessel fed you his fingers and III devoured you with abandon, II reached forward and placed one broad hand against your sternum, just beneath Vessel’s. The heat from his palm pulsed deep into your core, as if it could slow your heart and speed it up at the same time. His fingers spread, thumb brushing the swell of your breast as if he were reading the story of your heartbeat, measuring each rise of your chest for meaning. You moaned around Vessel’s knuckles, body trembling under the layered touch. III’s tongue lashed faster, crueler, and the moment you started to thrash, to twist, II applied pressure – not harsh, not violent, but anchoring. Like stone.

He bent his head and kissed your ribs. Not a bite. A kiss. His mouth soft and reverent, working its way lower with a patience that made your skin crawl with need. Vessel pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet schlick, watching the strings of saliva stretch from your lips, then leaned back just enough to see you writhe. IV behind you was pushing deeper now, his finger breaching your ass with torturously slow precision, and the stretch made you groan, hips jerking forward against III’s tongue, only for II to catch them in both hands and hold. Not stop. Hold. His palms fit perfectly between your thighs, lifting, spreading you further for them. His lips brushed the crease of your hip, a murmur vibrating into your skin: “You’re sacred like this.”

Then he kissed the inside of your thigh – soft, then firmer, teeth grazing. His eyes locked with yours just as Vessel leaned in again, his voice curling hot and low into your jaw: “Let him taste you too.” II’s breath was already there, inching closer to where III’s mouth worked mercilessly. For a second, you didn’t understand – until III pulled back with a slick gasp, chin dripping, licking his lips like a man drunk on honeyed wine. He didn’t move far, just enough to let II replace him, and the weight of that exchange – one mouth traded for another, heat for heat – made something inside you snap. II kissed you there like he meant it. Not rushed. Not greedy. Worshipful. II’s head lowered into the space III had left, and for a heartbeat he paused, exhaling against your cunt like he was warming the altar. The fog thickened around his form, curling like it wanted to touch him, worship him the way he was about to worship you. When he began, it was with a tongue that wasn’t quite human.

Too broad. Too long. Too forked.

It moved with a reptilian grace, tasting more than licking, and every motion pressed deeper than should’ve been possible. The split tips of it curled around your clit from opposite sides, cradling it, flicking in unison before dragging slow and heavy up your slit. You screamed – no decorum left, no dignity – just the sound of a body cracking open under too much pressure.

The ground itself seemed to answer the sound that tore out of you – each cry trembling through the moss and into the trees. II’s shoulders had broadened, his back moving with the slow, tectonic rhythm of something more ancient than animal, more ritual than flesh. His tongue worked in impossible motions, split tips flicking against your clit from either side, then plunging deep as one to lap through your folds like it was tasting prophecy. Every stroke dragged fire across your nerves, and every breath you drew only stoked the heat curling in your gut. Fog clung to him like reverence, glowing faintly where it touched his shoulders, where his clawed hands splayed wide against your thighs to hold you open with fingers that had too many joints, too much patience. Beneath you, the moss vibrated faintly with each moan, reacting to the touch of his mouth as if the forest was trying to come with you. Your thighs shook. Your spine bowed. Still, he licked – slow, sure, intentional. Like he was building something in you.

III crouched at your side now, watching it all with a grin gone soft and indulgent, lazy in the way only predators could be when they knew their prey had nowhere left to run. One hand stroked himself through his pants, the shape of him thick and straining, his fingers curling around the outline as if teasing his own restraint. “Pretty thing’s already shaking,” He murmured, voice hot at your temple, his breath thick with the scent of bark and smoke. “And we haven’t even really started.” His other hand ghosted up your torso, dragging nails that pricked just enough to make you arch into them, until his palm cupped your throat, thumb brushing the hollow as your moans rattled through it. “Sing for us,” He crooned, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the sweat beading there. He laughed low and breathless when he felt the next moan swell in your throat – “That’s it, sweet thing.” Behind you, IV crackled closer, and the shadow-heat of his fingers circled tighter around your hips. You were surrounded, worshiped, wired to detonate, and still the ritual climbed.

IV’s hands were changing again Not just longer, not just stronger – split. Fingers unspooled into strands of shadow-light that wrapped around your waist and pulled, slow and steady, lifting your lips higher into II’s mouth. You gasped as his tongues found you deeper, the flick of each forked tip now joined by a low, thrumming sound from his chest – a purr? No, deeper than that. A resonance, like mountains dreaming in their sleep. The sound traveled up through your cunt into your bones, your breath catching on each pulse as your body shook under the sensation of being filled with sound. Every slick drag of his tongue across your clit made the air stutter, the light shimmer. The trees leaned inward. II licked you like he could rewrite the shape of your pleasure, and it was working.

III didn’t stay idle. The sound of fabric shifting warned you just before his cock sprang free, flushed and thick, twitching in the cold air as if tasting it. His fist curled around it with a sigh of relief, and the next moment he was pressed to your side, stroking slow, eyes half-lidded as he watched you unravel. His grin was still there, but softened by heat. “You should see yourself,” He murmured, voice thick with arousal, cheek brushing yours as his tongue flicked out again, tasting the tear slick at your jaw. “Mouth open, eyes all fucked out. Can’t even decide who to come for first, can you?” He jerked his hips lazily into his palm, precum glinting at the tip like sap in moonlight. “She’ll cry for all of us,” He added, louder now, breath hot against your neck as he rutted closer, voice breaking into a half-laugh, half-growl. “Bet she fucking begs.”

And still II licked. And still IV held you wide and trembling. And still, you hadn’t come. The forest wouldn’t let you. Not yet.

Your body was unraveling at the seams, but it was Vessel who held the threads.

He hadn’t touched your cunt. Hadn’t kissed your mouth. But he was everywhere. Standing just beyond the tangle of limbs and shadows, the air around him warped like heat above fire. His form had grown taller again, or the forest had grown smaller – it was hard to tell. His mask shimmered, not solid anymore but semi-liquid, rippling faintly like it was breathing with him. Beneath it, his eyes burned through you – sixfold now, rings of red and gold nested like a predator’s gaze reflected in still water.One hand rose, fingers long and blackened at the tips, stretched wide over your chest without touching. And yet you felt it. The gravity of him. The pressure. The air thickened, your ribs tightening like you were being pulled upward by your sternum into his palm. His voice emerged in tones layered so low you felt them more than heard – “You don’t come,” it rumbled, “until we call it.”

At the base of you, II’s tongue pulsed impossibly deeper, rougher now, like molten stone dragged across silk, one forked tip fluttering against your clit in fast, flickering taps while the other pushed inside you again, thick and heavy, filling your cunt in slow, spiraling thrusts. His hands held your thighs so wide you trembled, clawed fingers digging into the soft muscle just shy of pain. Shadows curled up his arms like tattoos come alive, wrapping your legs in living ink that slid and writhed in time with the rhythm of his mouth. Behind you, IV had gone still, but only physically – his energy crackled like a storm trapped under your skin. His fingers were buried deep in your ass now, three of them stretching you around a pressure that felt like the head of his cock waiting just out of reach. His breath was static against your skin, and every few seconds a jolt leapt from his chest into yours, invisible lightning that snapped your muscles taut, then let go just before they broke.

And III – III was everywhere. Kneeling at your side, one hand fisting his cock, the other sliding wet fingers across your chest, over your throat, up into your mouth without asking. “Suck,” He ordered, and you did, lips wrapping around his knuckles like they were the only thing anchoring you to earth. His grin was crooked now, hair falling into his eyes, cock flushed and bobbing against your hip with each excited jerk of his wrist. “You feel her shaking?” He hissed, eyes darting to Vessel. “She’s going to come if we don’t hold her down.”

Vessel didn’t speak. He reached into the air, fingers closing like he was grasping something invisible – and you felt it. A hand, spectral and massive, pressed between your legs, not replacing II but amplifying him, dragging your clit against II’s mouth with perfect pressure, guiding the movement of his tongue without ever touching the flesh. The whole forest groaned. The trees leaned inward. Fog turned thick as oil around your knees, coating your skin like sweat. The boys closed in – not just as men, but as forces – ritual, hunger, purpose.

Then Vessel spoke again, and his voice was the sky splitting open. “Now.”

The word ignited something inside II. His tongue slammed up into you with brutal force, the split tips curling inside. IV thrust his fingers deeper, spreading you wide enough to take more, readying you for what would follow. III bit your shoulder – hard – grinning as he growled, “Come for us, you fuckable little offering.” And Vessel – Vessel dragged the force of his power through you like a chord snapping.

You screamed. Shattered.

Pleasure tore through you, not like a wave but like a detonation. Your body convulsed, lumbs flailing against the hands that held you, back arching until your vision whitewashed. Every nerve fired at once, your cunt clenching around II’s tongue, your ass squeezing IV’s fingers so tight it made him groan aloud behind you. Shadows wrapped you whole. Fog flooded your lungs. And above it all, Vessel stood tall and still, one arm raised like he was conducting a symphony made only of your moans. 

When I make it back to the green room, back to the drum set, my brain is still fumbling—like it hasn’t caught up with the rest of me yet.

The room hums faintly, amps still warm, air thick and close. My pulse is wrong. Too fast. Uneven. I focus on the snare in front of me because it looks untouched, pristine, like proof that nothing happened here.

My hands shake when I reach for the drum key.

If I keep moving, maybe I won’t have to think.

That illusion shatters the second I hear him. III's low, unmistakable snicker coming from the doorway.

“Wow,” he drawls. “Didn’t think I’d actually get him to crack.”

I don’t bother turning around. “Don’t start.”

He laughs, already moving closer. “Start what? I’m just checking on my favorite tech. You look a little flushed.”

"Gee, wonder why," I shot back.

III laughs, that loud, shameless kind of laugh that always makes it sound like he's having more fun than he should. "You can't blame me for wanting to see what would happen. I mean, I poke him once, once, and he completely loses his mind? That's comedy gold."

I look up at him, deadpan. "Once? It's been two days now. You nearly started a war over your need for entertainment."

"Yeah, but it worked, didn't it?" He's grinning so hard I want to throw a drumstick at him. "I've been trying to get him to admit he likes you for weeks. You're welcome."

I stare at him for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or strangle him. "You're serious? You did all that just to get him to—"

"Come on, don't act like it wasn't obvious!" He waves a hand dramatically, pacing around like he's narrating the world's juiciest gossip. "He's been looking at you like a kicked puppy behind that mask forever. I just... sped things up a little."

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "You're unbelievable."

He laughs again, soft this time, and bumps my shoulder with his. "Hey, don't be mad. I was rooting for you two. Think of me as your... chaotic cupid."

"That's one word for it," I mutter, but I can't stop the smile tugging at my lips.

III catches it immediately. "Aha! There it is. The 'I'm mad but secretly grateful' face. Don't deny it."

"Grateful?" I snort. "You should be grateful I'm not telling him what you did."

His grin falters for half a second—just long enough for me to notice. "Yeah, let's, uh... maybe not do that," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "He'd probably throw a drum stick at me with unbelievable speed."

"Probably?"

"Okay, definitely. Speaking of, have you seen his throws at the end of our rituals lately? I feel bad for the poor fuckers catching those sticks." He laughs again, the sound softer now, more genuine. "Seriously though, he doesn't know I was just messing with you to get under his skin. So maybe... let's keep that between us?"

I lean against the drum kit, arching a brow. "You're scared of him?"

He scoffs immediately, too quick. "Please. I'm not scared. Respectfully cautious, maybe."

"Uh-huh."

III smirks, stepping closer until he's right beside me. "Anyway, if he asks, you and I were just talking shop, alright? Something boring. Like drumheads or tuning tension or whatever makes his eyes gloss over."

I can't help laughing. "That's your cover story?"

"Hey, it's solid." He shrugs, grinning again. "You'd be surprised how fast he stops listening when I get technical. It's my superpower."

The tension that's been sitting heavy in my chest finally eases. There's still that weird electric hum in the air—like II's presence lingers even though he's gone—but III's teasing makes it bearable.

He glances toward the door again, voice dropping lower. "You should've seen his face, though. I don't think I've ever seen him that pissed. Guess he really does have it bad for you."

My heart stutters, and I look away, trying not to smile. "Yeah," I readjust my shorts again, the previous events replaying in my head. "I've noticed. You're a fuckin menace for that." 

"I'll take that as a compliment," he says with a wink. "Just remember, I did you a favor. Now he knows what he wants."

I shake my head, laughing quietly. "You're gonna get yourself killed one day."

He grins, backing toward the door. "Probably. But until then? Totally worth it."

He gives me one last mischievous look before disappearing down the hall, humming to himself, and the room feels lighter again—like the chaos has finally shifted from dangerous to just... familiar.

And even though I know II doesn't have a clue what really went down, I can't help thinking that maybe, for once, III's meddling actually did something right.

When III finally wanders off, the room feels weirdly calm. The laughter fades down the hallway, swallowed by the distant rumble of amps being tested, the shuffle of crew moving gear, the faint echo of the crowd on the other side of the walls.

Showtime's close. The shift in the air is unmistakable—like the whole building is holding its breath.

I check my watch, then the drums. Routine steadies me. Floor tom tension, mic cable alignment, monitor feed. Everything is where it should be, every screw tightened just enough. It's muscle memory by now, but my hands still feel a little unsteady when I touch the snare—the same one he'd just...

I stop that thought dead. Not now. Not when he's five feet away again, mask on, shoulders loose, acting like he didn't just ruin me against a wall thirty minutes ago.

II sits behind his kit, head slightly bowed, testing the kick pedal. Every hit vibrates through the stage and straight into my chest. He doesn't look at me, not directly, but I can feel it. That quiet gravity pulling between us.

III and IV are already in position, silent as ghosts. IV runs one last scale on his guitar—each note soft and haunting—and III adjusts a cable without saying a word. The lighting tech signals from offstage; we've got one minute.

The world outside the curtain grows louder, a restless ocean of bodies and noise. My headset crackles faintly as someone counts down in my ear, and my heartbeat starts to sync with the steady pulse of the kick drum warming up.

Then, as if someone flips a switch, everything shifts. The lights drop to black.

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breath and anticipation.

Vessel steps out first, slow and deliberate, the mask glinting faintly as the opening synth swells. The crowd's roar breaks against the stage like thunder, but the band doesn't acknowledge it. They never do.

III's bass hums low, IV's guitar slides in, and then II moves—precise, powerful, that impossible rhythm that feels less like drumming and more like invocation.

Every hit is a heartbeat. Every sound feels alive.

From my spot at the side of the stage, I watch them slip into that otherworldly trance. They're not people anymore; they're conduits, and the air around them thrums with something sacred, something dangerous.

But then II looks up. Just once. Just for a fraction of a second.

The lights flash white, catching the edge of his mask, and I swear he's looking right at me. My breath stutters.

Then the moment's gone. The ritual continues, and I'm just a shadow again, moving quietly through the dark to make sure it all keeps running smoothly.

Still, with every beat that rattles my ribs, I can feel the promise of his earlier words echoing in time with the drums.

Next time he touches you, I'll make him watch.

The world tilts back into focus once the last note fades. The crowd's roar is still rattling the walls, vibrating up through the stage floor like thunder, but the four of them are already ghosts in motion. Silent, collected, masks glinting in the dim light as they disappear down the corridor toward the green room.

I follow with a towel and a half-dead headset, heartbeat finally starting to come down. The second the door shuts behind us, the noise from outside dulls to a soft, distant hum.

Backstage, the mood shifts completely.

IV's the first to break character, peeling off his guitar and swinging it onto the stand before stretching like he just came out of a nap. "God, I swear that monitor was trying to kill me again," he says, half-laughing, muffled through his mask.

Vessel snorts, handing him a bottle of water. "Maybe it just hates your solos."

"Blasphemy," IV gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like he's wounded. "That was art."

I laugh before I can stop myself. "Art's a strong word for whatever that noise was during the bridge."

He points at me in mock offense. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"I'm on the side of accuracy," I say, grinning.

Vessel chuckles, settling into the corner of the couch, still half in performance mode but softer now, more human. He tips his head toward me. "She's right though. You missed that cue by a mile."

IV groans. "You're all against me."

"Maybe you should practice," III chimes in from across the room, tossing his bass pick onto the table. He's grinning, too, less smug now more like a friend winding down after the storm.

The banter flows easy, familiar. It's always like this after a show; the ritual dissolves, and they turn human again. It's weirdly domestic. The masks stay on, but the energy is lighter.

I toss a towel to II, who's sitting on the edge of a flight case, arms resting on his knees. "You good?"

He nods once, sweat-dark curls sticking to the back of his neck. "Fine," he says, voice low and rough from the set.

III snickers quietly. "Fine, he says. You broke half a stick on that closer, man."

II doesn't even look up. "It's called commitment."

I grin. "It's called reckless."

That earns me a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Are you complaining?"

"About you making my job harder? Always."

IV laughs, throwing a towel at me. "Careful, she's feisty tonight."

Vessel hums, leaning back, relaxed. "She's earned it. Kept us in one piece out there." His tone is soft but warm, and it makes me smile in spite of myself.

"Barely," I say, tossing the towel back at him.

 Eventually, IV's sprawled half-off the couch, III's perched on a case tapping out a rhythm with his fingers, and Vessel settled beside me. 

"You held it together tonight," he says, peeling his mask off and wiping the sweat covered paint a bit. "Even when the lights cut mid-set. Nice save."

I grin. "Please, I've wrestled worse cables than that thing. It didn't stand a chance."

He chuckles. "Confidence. I like that."

III makes a dramatic ooh sound from his corner. "Careful, Vessel's flirting again."

Vessel waves him off, amused. "I'm being polite." He turns back to me, head tilting a little. "Speaking of polite conversation... remind me, do you have someone waiting for you at home?"

The question catches me mid-sip of water. "What?"

He shrugs lightly. "You're good at disappearing into work. I just wonder if anyone complains about it."

I snort. "Oh yeah, tons of people. All my imaginary girlfriends are furious."

IV laughs from the floor. "Same."

I smile, shaking my head. "Nah. No partner. Too busy for that kind of chaos on this tour. And anyone who dated me would probably start resenting the sound of tuning keys and sweaty stage gear."

"Maybe," Vessel says, voice softer now, almost thoughtful. "Or maybe someone would find that kind of dedication impressive."

III whistles low. "He's doing it again. That voice thing."

"Shut up," Vessel mutters, though he's still smiling.

I shrug. "If they do, they can send an application to management."

That gets another round of laughter, even from II, who's been silent at his kit the whole time. It's a quiet sound, rough from shouting over drums all night, but it still catches me off guard.

When the laughter dies down, Vessel leans back, elbows resting on his knees. "Too busy for anyone, huh?"

"Pretty much," I say, smiling at him. "Tour life doesn't exactly scream stability."

For a second, the room dips quieter. When I glance up, II's head is angled just enough that I know he's listening.

III grins like he feels the shift, throwing a pick across the room to break the silence. "She's just saying she hasn't met anyone good enough to keep up."

I roll my eyes. "Exactly. See, he gets it."

II's voice cuts in, low and almost too calm. "Maybe she just hasn't had the right person try."

The sentence hangs there like static in the air. IV raises a brow, half-grinning, while Vessel smothers another laugh behind his hand.

III looks between us, obviously enjoying himself. "And there it is."

I shoot II a look that's meant to be teasing but comes out warmer than I expect. "Oh? You're volunteering, drummer boy?"

He doesn't blink. "If that's what it takes."

It's playful on the surface, but the way he says it..Steady, quiet, like he's testing how serious I'll let him be, makes my stomach twist. I can't help but rethink our encounter in that closet. 

Vessel shakes his head, chuckling. "Children, please. We just played a show; let's not start another one."

III laughs so hard he nearly drops his stick. "Too late, boss. The sequel's already in production."

Everyone dissolves into laughter again, the sound echoing off the concrete walls, but underneath it all I can still feel II's gaze on me, steady as the pulse of a drumbeat.

The laughter fades into something softer, the kind of quiet that always settles after the high of a show. Vessel leaned back with his arms crossed, IV's half-asleep on the couch, III's distractedly tapping out some beat on a bottle. The room's warm and comfortable and alive with that post-show buzz.

I push myself up, stretching. "Bathroom break. Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."

III salutes with a drumstick. "No promises."

The hallway outside the green room is dim and narrow, humming with the faint bass from the house speakers still playing out front. My footsteps echo as I pass the storage door—the one they keep propped open for quick equipment runs—and the air smells faintly of wood polish and dust.

I'm halfway down the hallway, trying to convince myself it's just a quick trip to the bathroom, when a painted hand grabs my wrist.

Before I can even turn, I'm being tugged sideways, off the corridor, into a smaller green room I hadn't even noticed before. The door clicks shut behind me, and the world outside. 

The room is cramped and dimly lit, a single lamp near the corner casting long shadows across the walls. Along one side, a spare drum kit stands in pristine silence: the snare polished to a reflective shine, toms stacked like sentinels, cymbals angled just so, sticks resting neatly across the snare. Everything smells faintly of sweat, wood polish, and metal. It's a strange little sanctuary of instruments, quiet and expectant.

And he's standing there, mask off, smiling down at me. 

"Really?" I manage, voice low. "Couldn't even let me get to the bathroom first?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just stands there, close enough that the air feels charged. I freeze, heart hammering. He doesn't speak at first. He just steps closer, every movement deliberate, controlled, taking up all the space in the room. My pulse spikes at the sight of him unmasked, those eyes dark and intense, locked onto mine.

"You said you're too busy for anyone," he murmurs, voice low, calm, commanding. "But I don't think you're being honest with yourself."

Before I can respond, he closes the distance between us. One hand wraps around the back of my neck, tilting my head up, the other pressing firmly against my lower back, anchoring me in place. I'm aware of every detail—the faint gleam of the cymbals reflecting light, the snare just a step to my right, the emptiness of the room filled with tension.

His lips crash against mine, not gentle, not hesitant, but forceful and deliberate, dominating. He owns the moment entirely; I don't even have the space to pull away. My knees threaten to buckle as he presses me against the wall, the spare drum set humming faintly under the lamp like it's witnessing us, like it knows what's happening.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against my mouth, low and hot. "You think you can ignore me. That you can ignore this. You can't."

Then he's back, lips and hands commanding, every movement precise. The room feels impossibly small, the drum set looming like silent witnesses to the way he's claiming this moment. My chest heaves, breath coming shallow and fast, entirely aware that he is in control—and I am utterly, completely at his mercy.

"Just a few hours ago you were in a closet just like this cumming all over my fingers, now you're too busy? Tsk Tsk. That's a pretty contradicting statement, sweet girl." I can't control the whimper I let out at his words. 

His grip on my jaw tightens just enough to keep me from looking anywhere but him, and my chest hammers against his. Every inch of him presses against me, unyielding, like he's staking a claim in the quiet green room, staking a claim on me.

He leans in slowly, lips ghosting over mine, teasing, dragging, testing. My knees threaten to buckle, and he notices, one hand sliding to the small of my back, pulling me impossibly closer, tilting me so my balance is completely his.

"You think you can ignore me," he murmurs against my lips, voice low and deliberate, vibrating through me. "You can't hide from me. Not here. Not ever."

The words hit me like a drumbeat, steady, inescapable, and he kisses me again. Firm, commanding, all teeth and tongue and warmth and he's rough. He's in control, deliberately owning the moment, leaving me dizzy and breathless. Every movement is calculated, like he knows exactly how to make me melt under him without losing that steady dominance.

His hands roam just enough to anchor me, but not let me forget I'm trapped. One curls into my hair, tilting my head back, the other pressing at my hip, holding me flush against the wall. His body molds to mine like it belongs here, like this space, this room, this moment is only ours.

"You're too busy?" he whispers between kisses, low, possessive, and I feel the weight of it in every syllable. "I don't think you are."

I try to respond, try to say something clever, but my words get tangled in my throat. My hands press against his chest, but he's unshakable, unyielding, keeping me right where he wants me.

He kisses me again, slower this time, more deliberate, dragging the edges of his lips across mine, tracing, claiming, demanding. I feel it in the tilt of my head, the way he holds my spine flush against the wall, the heat of his chest pressing into mine. It's not rough—it's precise, controlled, utterly possessive.

"Come on, where's the fight?" he murmurs, pulling just far enough to brush his forehead against mine. "You don't think I can keep up?" 

I whimper and squeeze my thighs together, licking into his mouth. "Please.." I murmur as I try to press into him. 

The spare drums, the cymbals, the faint light of the single lamp, it's all part of this moment. The instruments are silent witnesses, their cold metal and polished wood amplifying the intensity, and I can't even think about anything else. Not the show, not the others, not the chaos of the tour. There's only him, only this, only the raw, undeniable claim he's making, and I'm powerless to resist.

He lets out a laugh. "Oh but, you don't have time for that, remember?" I shake my head at his words. 

"I have time, no no please I have time." I plead as I grip his shirt tighter against me. II tilts his head, and smirks. His eyes go dark. He has control, and he knows it. I'm exactly where he wants me to be. 

Nodding to the drum stool in the corner, he lets go of me. I blink up at him confused, and unsure. His hand finds the small of my back as he guides me to it. Standing behind me, his growing bulge pressing into me he moves my hair to one side of my neck and leans in to kiss from my shoulder to my ear. Slow, deliberate and wet kisses are pressed as he grips my waist tight, pulling me into feel him. 

Gasping, I tilt my head to give him more room and reach back to grab him when he stops and pulls away. 

"Bend over. Arms on the stool." 

I barely have time to process what he's telling me before I feel a hand guiding me. My head is overblown with lust and need, and at this point there's little I won't do for the mercy of his touch. 

Within a moment I'm bent over, elbows on the stool as he presses up against me from behind. Desperate, I try to grind back against him. I've never felt so needy before, so captured. Calloused, painted hands grab my waist and tug my hips to his, letting me feel everything he was offering. His cock was hard and rutting gently into me from behind, but he was purposely holding back from giving me satisfaction. 

"So, fucking, greedy." II murmured as he palmed my ass through my shorts, before spanking me hard. I yelp out and turn my head over my shoulder to look at him. 

"Too busy huh? Not too busy for this though, I assume." He taunts, and another hard slap lands, making me bite my lip.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it-" I plead, trying to move my hips against his for friction. I hear a sarcastic laugh behind me before my hair is tugged and I'm pulled back against his chest, forced to stand again to relieve the tension of my hair. My mouth hangs open and I pant, half in pain, half in pure need. II bites down on my neck, hard, making me yelp again and try to bend away. I'm stopped by his other hand coming in front to unbutton my shorts, forcing the zipper down before his hand dips in.

"You're not sorry yet, sweet girl." 

His hands are hard. Still tugging at my hair as he licks, sucks, and bites heavy purple marks into my skin, switching sides. I can barely process it however, as his other hand has his fingers circling tight around my clit. "Please II, please." I beg out.

The reply comes muffled and surprisingly calm as he releases his mouth from my abused neck, "Please, what. Be specific." 

"Please, I need you so bad." I cry, grinding my hips into his hand. 

"Oh so now you need me? And here I thought I couldn't keep up." Another harsh bite to my shoulder as his fingers circle faster. There's practically a pool in my panties at this point. 

Shaking my head frantically I plead again. "No I was wrong, I'm sorry. I need you. You're the only one I want please II. I'm not too busy I swear. I'll tell them I was wrong. I'm sorry please." 

Suddenly his hands are removed from me and I whine at the loss of touch. Before I can complain or beg, my shorts are shoved down my thighs, pooling around my ankles. He makes quick work to drag my bra and top off in one quick motion, and then pushes me back down to bend over on the drum stool. 

"You won't need to." Two fingers plunge into my wetness, prodding and curling until I moan out profanities. They move slow but deep, in and out making me arch and grip the stool harder. I faintly hear a zipper and pants being tugged down behind me but I am too caught up in the pleasure. 

Just as quick as they entered, he retracted his fingers and licked them clean. Within seconds I feel his head resting against my opening. I can't see, but I can feel how thick his tip is. I try to rub back against it but I'm met with a sharp spank. II rubs his length up and down my slit, slapping it against my clit before using his foot to push my ankles farther apart, leaving me spread. 

"I'm getting real fucking sick of everyone here flirting with my girl" He finally spoke, spitting down and rubbing it over his cock. 

"Your girl?" I question. He's never referred to me as that before, but I suppose I should have seen that coming. 

My answer comes with a deep push of his cock deep into me, bottoming out with one thrust. The air is knocked from my lungs and I struggle to stay up right. His hands come and find my hips, fingers digging in as he bends to whisper close to my ear, holding back his groans. 

"Mine."

His hand sprawls out on my back as he begins to ruin me in every sense of the world. Despite biting my lip, the sounds of ecstasy escape and leave me breathless. "Oh fuck, II!" I feel like a broken record, crying out with every slow deep thrust he gives me. 

The more I try to focus the better I can make out his grunts and groans behind me. His hands come down to spread me, letting him see every detail of his cock sliding in and out. "So fucking pretty" He mumbles as he fucks into me harder.

My legs feel weak as he fucks me harder. "So.. So good I won't stop." I gasp out. My body feels electric and buzzing with energy. 

A hand reaches down to circle my clit again. "I'm not gonna sweetheart, I'm not gonna." Just as I can feel my peak approaching, the sound of a door down the hallway stops everything. II stops, buried deep inside of me and we both listen. I can't help but clench around him, craving my release. 

Two voices, barely tangible, ring out.

"Where did they go?" It's Vessel, sounding mildly concerned. 

A laugh is heard. III no doubt, I know that cackle anywhere. "II probably sauntered her off to have another 'chat.' God it's infuriating no matter how hard I push them together he won't act."

"What do you mean, act?"

"Oh come on he wants her so fucking bad its near desperate. If only he'd man up and fuck her already-"

A sharp thrust interrupts my ease dropping. I have to hold my mouth to cover my sound of surprise. "II, what the fuck are you doing? They're right there-" Another deep thrust. His hand grabs my face and turns me as much as he can over my shoulder, leaning down to make eye contact. II smiles brightly at me before beginning to fuck me again, staring slow and getting deeper with each snap of his hips, forcing me to bite my lip to keep quiet. With his fingers pushed into my cheeks, his other hand spanks me hard. 

"Did I tell you to be quiet?" 

I try to shake my head no, but his grip doesn't allow it. "No. But they're right outside." I whisper out. The feeling of him deep inside, rutting into me makes my eyes nearly gloss over. 

Another spank. "Good. Let them hear how good I'm 'keeping up'." 

II runs his hands to the root of my hair and pulls tightly, making my jaw go slack and the angle we're at. His thrusts get faster and harder, pulling moans from me that I can barely restrict. 

"Stop," A hard spank, "Holding," Another spank just as hard. "Back." A final strike made me cry out for him. 

"II! Oh fuck oh fuck it's too much." I cry between moans, the truth is I love how overwhelming he's making this. And he knows it. 

"There's my girl. Look at you. So fuckin tight squeezing me like you need it. Did you? Hm? Did you need me to fuck all that attitude out of you." He grunts out, and I nearly cum just from his words. I moan and nod dumbly, too fucked out to argue that he was the one who caused my attitudes. 

"Yeah I know sweet girl, I know. Why don't you show me how much you need it? I wanna hear you say my name for me." A tug at my hair grabs my attention as he says this and I whimper out. 

"II! It feels so good, oh God." I whine. 

"C'mon baby, you can do better than that." He reaches down to rub my clit and I nearly scream. 

"Who do you belong to?" II asks, rubbing hard circles making my head spin as he fucks me into oblivion.

"You! I belong to you, I'm yours." I slur out, lost in pleasure.

"You're gonna have to do better than that if you want to cum sweetheart. Who do you belong to? Yell it out and I'll make you cum right here all over my cock. You want that right? Yeah? You wanna feel good for me?" His tip brushes against my cervix and I crumble, I'm sure I'd fall if not for this stool and his hand forcing my head up.

"I belong to you!! Please I'm yours I swear." I cry out, desperate to finish. I was so close, If he moved his fingers a bit faster I'd reach it. 

"Louder. I want them to fucking hear you." II spits, full on railing me into the seat, the room filled with our moans, panting and the sound of his hips driving aggressively into mine.

"I'm YOURS II!! I belong to you!! I'm yours, I'm yours please let me cum!" I scream and beg, tears in my eyes as he releases my hair and fully drives full force into me. I cry out with every thrust as he rubs my clit faster. 

"Cum for me, pretty girl. Make me proud and cum for me. You did so good for me. Let me feel that pussy cum on me." He praises, and I went crashing over the edge, convulsing around his cock while he continued ramming it into me. Three more thrusts, before his pants and groans lengthen and he spills inside of me. I've never felt so full. I don't get any time to recover, because within an instant II pulls out and flips me so I'm sitting on the stool. My aching hands find parts of the drum set to hold onto as he dives between my folds making me yell out once more. 

"Fuck! II Oh my fucking god! I'm too sensitive wait-" I begin but quickly I find myself silenced.

"Shut up and let me taste what's mine." II pries my legs wider, over his shoulders and dives his tongue deep into my hole, moaning as he tastes the mix we've created. The vibrations of his hums of satisfaction send shocks of pleasure to my clit. Quickly, II begins to devour me with hunger, and for the second time my brain completely turns off as my body is taken over by pleasure. 

II's tongue knows my body better than I do, and every little flick sends me closer to the edge. I reach and grip one of the drums as I feel myself start to come, my whole body shakes violently when I go over the edge. He holds me steady as he finishes lapping up my juices before slowly pulling back, having collected some on his tongue. II grabs the back of my neck and leans up to pull me into a kiss, letting me taste myself and bits of him. I moan into the kiss as he forces his tongue deeper until I swallow. 

He pulls back with a wet smack, licking his lips as we pant together and recover. "Yeah? You liked that? I knew you would, dirty girl." He teases, petting my hair as we come down. A soft kiss is pressed to my lips this time, full of adoration and care. Letting me catch my breath, he caresses my face and kisses over the marks he left. 

I don’t remember when the room stopped spinning. Just that II’s hands are steady where mine aren’t.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low and close, like it’s meant only for me. He’s tugging fabric over my legs, guiding my arms through sleeves when I forget what they’re for. I let him. I let him do everything. My body is still humming and my thoughts feel wrapped in cotton.

He buttons my shorts for me. Fix my shirt. Fingers linger at my waist like he’s checking I’m really here.

I am. I think. 

He doesn’t rush.

Buttons. Straightens. Smooths his hands down my sides like he’s grounding himself as much as me. When his fingers brush my hips, they linger, firm and possessive, like he’s checking something that already belongs to him. 

When we step back into the living room, it feels brighter somehow. Louder. Like the air itself knows something happened. The couch is right where it was before, but the energy is different. Charged. I don’t notice the way III immediately sits up. Don’t notice Vessel’s head tilt or IV’s slow smile.

I just let II pull me down with him, settling back into his lap without hesitation. My body folds into his like it’s muscle memory. I curl against his chest, face tucked under his chin, legs drawn in. His arms lock around me instantly, no space, no question.

Mine.

I sigh, eyes already fluttering. If he got us into this, he can absolutely deal with the aftermath. I’m clocked out.

“Well,” III says, far too pleased with himself. “That didn't take long. What, like 2 days?”

II doesn’t respond. He presses his palm flat against my thigh instead, thumb dragging slow and deliberate like he’s daring anyone to look too long.

III snorts. “I was taking bets, you know. Thought Vessel would be first.” He's teasing of course. 

Vessel hums thoughtfully. “I had patience,” he says, eyes flicking pointedly to my neck. “Unlike some people. Were you trying to eat her alive, or was that a statement?”

I blink, lifting my head just enough to squint at him. Eat me alive?

II’s grip tightens. Not rough. Just unmistakable.

“Eyes up,” he says calmly, staring straight at Vessel. “She’s tired.”

III laughs outright. “Oh he’s serious now. Look at him. That’s not ‘post-hookup’ energy. That’s ‘touch her and die.’ Might have created a monster with our little taunts at her.”

IV leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying me with open curiosity. “The poor thing can barely keep her eyes open,” he says gently. “What on earth did you do to her?”

II exhales, something warm and satisfied in it. He drops his chin to my hair, lips brushing my temple in a way that makes my stomach flip even through the haze.

“I took care of her,” he says. “And she’s staying right here.”

III lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, dad. We get it. She’s claimed.”

Vessel’s mouth quirks. “Very claimed,” he adds. “You missed a spot though.”

II shoots him a warning look.

Vessel smiles wider.

I don’t have the energy to process any of it. I just shift closer, my fingers fisting in II’s hoodie like it’s an anchor. His thumb resumes those slow circles against my arm, protective and absentminded, like he could do this forever. A blanket is thrown at us by III, which I gratefully take and cover up with. 

“That’s it,” II murmurs quietly, meant only for me. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time all night, the room feels exactly right.

I let my eyes close. Let the noise fade. Let myself exist right where he put me, warm and claimed and not thinking about anything at all.

I drift in and out while they keep talking around us, voices overlapping like background noise I don’t have to participate in. II doesn’t loosen his hold once. If anything, he settles deeper into the couch, one leg braced, arm firm around my middle like he’s anchored me there on purpose.

III stretches his arms over his head, still smirking. “So what, this means she’s off-limits now?” he asks, very obviously poking.

II doesn’t look at him. “She always was.”

That earns a bark of laughter. “Oh come on. You can’t rewrite history like that.”

Vessel tilts his head again, studying the way I’m tucked into II’s chest, the way II’s hand rests unapologetically on my thigh. “You’re awfully comfortable,” he observes. “She fits you.”

II hums, satisfied. “I know.”

The confidence in it makes my stomach flutter. I shift, pressing closer without even meaning to, and II responds instantly. His hand slides up my side, fingers splaying over my ribs, grounding. Claiming. Like a reflex.

IV smiles softly. “I guess that answers that.”

“Guess it does,” III says. “Damn. Took you long enough, drummer boy.”

II finally glances at him then, expression unreadable but calm. “Worth the wait.”

III whistles low. “Yeah. She looks wrecked.”

I frown faintly at that, lifting my head just enough to glare at him, though it probably comes out more sleepy than threatening.

II clicks his tongue. “Careful.”

That shuts him up real quick.

I let my head drop back against II’s shoulder, eyelids heavy. He adjusts again, easing me sideways so I’m half-sprawled across him now, my legs draped over his. It’s casual. Intimate. Like this has always been the plan.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Get comfortable.”

Vessel’s voice drops, almost amused. “You’re not even pretending anymore.”

“No reason to,” II replies. “She’s staying.”

The finality of it makes the room go quiet again. Not awkward. Just accepting.

III shrugs. “Cool. Guess we’ll flirt with each other instead.”

I snort, finally answering. “You already do.”

I feel II smile against my hair. He presses a kiss there, slow and deliberate, like punctuation. Like the end of a sentence he’s been waiting to finish.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, too low for anyone else to hear.

And maybe I don’t remember everything that happened before. Maybe my body is still buzzing and my thoughts are soft and slow. But this part is clear as anything.

I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.