#rough mdom

The storm in Snezhnaya had no interest in mercy, and neither, generally, did he.

Dottore moved through the snow storm with the brisk indifference of a man crossing a room he was familiar with. Snezhnaya’s winters were an inconvenience to be routed around, not endured, and his escort trailed a careful distance behind, having long since learned not to speak unless spoken to. The mission ahead was unremarkable. A supply route to confirm, a facility to inspect, nothing that required his full attention, which was, admittedly, why he noticed it.

A flicker of black against the white.

He might have dismissed it– a bird? Driven low and vulnerable by the wind, it was hardly worth the fraction of a glance he spared it, except that the shape was wrong. It moved wrong. It didn’t so much fly as fold, mid-motion, the way a variable folds when an equation resolves itself, and where a human had been stumbling through the drifts a blink ago, there was now a small, dark thing curled low against the snow, feathers driven flat one moment and puffed the next, some instinctive system trying and failing, to gather heat it did not have to spare.

Dottore stopped walking.

His escort nearly collided with his back and had the sense not to ask why.

He watched for a moment, longer than concern would have permitted, longer than urgency would have allowed. Not out of hesitation, hesitation was for people who had not already finished the calculation, but because there was, he found, a certain professional obligation to observe a specimen accurately before disturbing it. THe shift had not looked deliberate. No control in it, just seemed like a survival instinct.

He pondered what he could from his position: the size of the creature, different to any true bird, the way the feathers seemed to belong to it rather than replace something, patterned like an afterthought grafted onto a body that had, moments ago, with two legs. The traits of a hybrid shapeshifter would explain the phenomenon.

He had read reports of such things. He had never had the good fortune of finding one just in front of him.

“How unfortunate,” he said, to no one, and began working toward it.

He crouched, unbothered by the snow soaking into the hem of his coat, and studied it the way he might study anything half-alive and full of questions.

“You’ve made rather a mess of yourself,” he said,

“Tsk, freezing to death mid-transformation. Sloppy. Though I suppose you weren’t given much choice in the matter.”

No response. Only the faint ragged movement of feathers trying, hopelessly, to hold in the warmth that had already mostly gone.

Dottore considered, briefly, the shape of the decision infront of him, not should he, which was never really the question, but was it worth it? A shapeshifter, found alive, however in a critical state, was not the sort of variable one encountered twice. Leaving it here would settle the matter cheaply and immediately. Taking it would cost him time, resources, the responsibility of carrying something half-frozen back to a facility that had better things to process today.

The greater loss, he thought, was letting the data die in the snow.

“Well,” he said, already reaching for it with efficiency, “Let’s see how much of you is left to examine.”

He did not gather it up with his both hands, did not cradle it against his coat the way any human might have. He simply peeled off one glove, slid his bare palm beneath the small, half-frozen crow. It weighed almost nothing. That, too, he noted.

The crow curled instinctively into the warmth of his palm, feathers pressing flat against his skin, too far gone to do anything but accept the heat it was given. He held it there, level and unhurried, one hand outstretched before him as he resumed walking to his laboratory.

The warmth felt nothing like kindness.

__________________________________

Warmth came back before thought did.

You opened your eyes just to see a faint stray of light coming in. It was not sunlight, or fire light. It seemed like a surgical light..?

You tried to sit up and noticed, with a small jolt of alarm, that you could not.

You were, you realized with growing horror, still a crow. Small, black, undignified, nested in what appeared to be. You took a moment to process this, the folded corner of an expensive coat on a table that was absolutely not designed to be a bed.

Shift back, you told yourself, the way you’d told yourself a thousand times before.

Nothing happened.

Suddenly, the creaking sound of the white door echoed through the unfamiliar room, with a tall masked man with silver-blue hair entering.

“Ah. Awake.”

The voice sounded entirely too pleased with itself of a sentence with so little content. You went very still, every feather on your small figure rising at once and turned your head toward the source of sound.

He was seated an unhurried distance away, one leg crossed over the other, a notebook balanced against his knee. Red eyes beneath the pointy mask, unreadable, tracked you with the same clinical patience you imagined he might give a slide under a microscope. There was nothing in his expression that resembled relief, or welcome, or anything you might have wanted to see from the person who had dragged your half-frozen body out of the storm.

“Don’t strain yourself trying to change back,” he said, before you’d so much as attempted it again, as though your thoughts were as transparent to him.

“You’ve been at it for the better part of an hour already. Rather embarrassing, watching something struggle.”

You opened your beak, some urge to snap back at him, but produced nothing but a thin croak.

Something in his mouth curved, not quite a smile. “How articulate.”

He placed the notebook aside, and approached the table with slow, deliberate steps, the way one might approach something skittish they had no interest in startling, not out of kindness, you understood immediately, but because startled specimens tended to produce less reliable data.

“You’ll forgive me for skipping the formalities.” he said, leaning down until his shadow fell fully over your small, feathered form. “Names are better exchanged once I’m confident you’ll survive long enough for them to matter, For now-” he reached out, tilting your chin up with one gloved finger, turning your head this way and that. “Let’s see exactly what I’ve brought.”

_________________________________________

The first month, you escaped thirty-seven times.

The first attempt was clumsy. The second, ambitious. By the seventh, you had discovered that the laboratory possessed more hidden corridors than doors, and that the guards, though well-trained, had the unfortunate habit of assuming a crow incapable of understanding architectural layouts.

The thirty-seventh ended much like the first thirty-six.

The laboratory door slid open.

“.....Finished?”

You froze atop a bookshelf

Dottore stood beneath you, a stack of reports tucked between one arm. He sounded neither irritated nor amused. Merely curious. You stared. He stared back.

“Well?”

A long silence. Then, with all the dignity available to an exhausted crow, you fluttered down onto the desk. He made a note.

Escape attempt 37

-subject returned voluntarily.

-reason remains uncertain.

He never once wrote your name. Only Subject, followed by a number that changed less often than you'd have liked. He logged your feeding schedule, your shift frequency, the days you refused to speak in either form. He logged, once, the exact moment you stopped trying to leave, though whatever conclusion he drew from that, he kept entirely to himself.

Months passed. The escapes stopped being counted, mostly because they stopped happening. You learned the rhythm of him the way you'd once learned the ventilation shafts, instinctively, without meaning to, which reports he wanted first, which tools he reached for without looking, until it became easier to simply have things ready than to wait to be asked. "Scalpel," he said one afternoon, and it was already in his hand before the word had finished leaving his mouth. He paused, not gratitude, nothing so generous ever crossed his face around you, turning the instrument over as if it might explain itself, then looked at you the way he looked at anomalies in his data. "You anticipated that." "You always ask for it after the second incision," you told him. He said nothing further, but he watched you a moment longer than the observation strictly required, and something in his expression resembled a man quietly recalculating a variable he'd assumed was fixed.

It was around then that you found the error in his notes, a miscalculated variable buried three pages into a report, easy to miss unless you'd spent months learning the particular shape of his mistakes, which were rare enough to be memorable. You corrected it in the margin, small and unsigned, and braced for nothing to come of it. He said nothing the next morning either. But the notebook started staying open after that, not handed to you, not offered, simply left, angled just slightly toward whichever chair you tended to occupy, as though by accident. It hadn't been. Neither of you said so.

The first mission came without much ceremony. "You're coming with me," he said, already halfway out the door, and when you asked why, he told you he needed a pair of hands that wouldn't faint at the sight of exposed viscera, and that you were, unfortunately, the only candidate who met that bar reliably. That was the reason he gave. You didn't ask for another, you understood by then that whatever this had become would always be filed under usefulness in his ledger, never anything softer. You went anyway.

Somewhere in the months that followed, without ceremony or announcement, the notebook changed. You noticed it by accident, glancing at a page left open longer than usual, an entry dense with clinical shorthand, except for one line near the bottom, where Subject C-17 had quietly become your name instead. No footnote. No explanation. As if the correction had simply always been there and you were the one behind on the update. You said nothing. He never brought it up. But you found yourself rereading that single line more times than the occasion warranted, and somewhere beneath the part of you that still remembered thirty-seven escape attempts, something settled that hadn't settled in a very long while.

It was Pantalone who noticed first, out loud. "You still have the crow?" he asked lightly, glancing your way like a curiosity left over from some indulgent phase of Dottore's research, which, to be fair, was exactly how you'd started. Dottore didn't look up from his notes. "She's assisting with the project." "Interesting," Pantalone said, in the tone of a man filing something away for later amusement. Dottore didn't understand why that was amusing. Watching from the corner of the room, you thought you might.

After that, he stopped leaving you behind for meetings he once wouldn't have dreamed of bringing an assistant to. You attended in your smaller form, perched on his shoulder like an afterthought he'd forgotten to correct, silent through hours of politics you had no formal right to witness. He never announced why. When Sandrone glanced pointedly at you during the third such meeting, he only said, without looking up from his notes, that you were quieter than most of the room and considerably more useful, which ended the conversation, though not the glances.

The Harbingers, to their credit, adjusted quickly. Arlecchino barely acknowledged you at all, treating your presence the way she treated most things beneath her direct concern, noted, filed, dismissed. Scaramouche found you endlessly, openly funny, and made no effort to hide it.

"The Doctor's got a pet now," he said once, loud enough to carry across the table, "how domestic." Dottore didn't dignify it with a response, though you felt his shoulder tense fractionally beneath you, which you decided to count as a victory. Childe, for his part, seemed genuinely delighted by you in a way that made Dottore visibly suspicious of his motives, and took to greeting you by name, your name, not Subject, not the crow, every time you entered a room, as though testing to see whether Dottore would correct him. He never did.

It was Pantalone who pressed hardest, and always with that same unbothered smile. "Does it understand what we discuss," he asked once, mid-meeting, tone light enough to pass for idle curiosity, "or is it merely decorative?" "She understands considerably more than most people at this table," Dottore replied, flatly, already returning to his notes, "which I'd have thought was self-evident by now." A small silence followed. Pantalone's smile didn't falter, but something behind it recalculated. You stayed very still on Dottore's shoulder and said nothing, because saying nothing had always been safer, and because some small, traitorous part of you had liked the way he'd answered, quick, unthinking, almost defensive, in a way that a purely clinical arrangement had no real reason to be.

He never seemed to notice he'd done it. You noticed enough for both of you.

It started as research. He arrived one afternoon with a small dish of mixed nuts set beside his usual instruments, informing you, without a trace of irony that he intended to observe whether corvid dietary preference persisted across your forms. You indulged him, mostly out of curiosity about what he'd do with the data. He recorded which ones you picked first, which you ignored, which you cracked open yourself versus which you left for him to shell, and none of it, as far as you could tell, ever made it into any report that mattered. The "study" simply never concluded. Weeks became months, and the dish kept appearing, always with slightly more of whatever you'd reached for first the time before, and slightly less of what you'd left untouched. He never once admitted the experiment had ended. You never pointed out that it clearly had.

Around the same time, he began noticing the other habit, the one you were less inclined to explain. A stray bit of foil, a polished button, the glass stopper from an old vial, all of it accumulating in some corner of your quarters that you told yourself was simply organized, not hoarded. He found the collection by accident and said nothing cruel about it, which surprised you more than mockery would have. He only made a note :specimen retains magpie-adjacent fixation on reflective objects, function unclear, possibly ornamental.

Except the notebook was lying, a little. Because not long after, small things started appearing in places you hadn't put them. A smooth, dark stone, catching the light strangely. A fragment of mirrored glass, sanded soft at the edges so it wouldn't cut. None of it explained, none of it acknowledged, all of it simply present the next time you looked. You started leaving things back, without meaning to at first,a curled wire twisted into some rough, deliberate shape, a coin from some country neither of you had been to. He never commented on those either. You both understood, by then, exactly what the exchange was, and exactly why neither of you would be the one to name it first.

The trouble started with Childe.

He asked casually enough needed an extra set of hands for a task in Liyue, something involving negotiations that required more finesse than force, and you, in his words, had "a good read on people, for a bird." Dottore didn't answer immediately. When he did, it was with the same flat, procedural tone he used for everything. "She's occupied with my research. Find someone else."

"She's not a piece of lab equipment, Doctor," Childe said, grinning in a way that suggested he knew exactly what nerve he was testing. "Let her answer for herself."

You opened your mouth. Dottore spoke first.

"She doesn't need to. I've already answered."

The room went quiet in the particular way it did whenever he said something that revealed more than he meant it to. Pantalone, watching from across the table, said nothing at all, which was somehow worse than if he had. Childe raised both hands in mock surrender and let it go, but not without one last look your way, amused, calculating, filing the reaction away for later the same way Pantalone had.

Dottore didn't look at you for the rest of the meeting. You noticed his hand had settled, at some point, on the back of your chair not touching you, not quite, but closer than procedure required, and it stayed there long after any reasonable justification for it had run out. When you finally caught his eye, he looked, for just a moment, faintly annoyed not at Childe, not at you, but at himself, at the shape of whatever he'd just let slip in front of a room full of people who'd remember it.

He didn't explain himself later. He never did. But that night the dish of nuts appeared again, unprompted, with exactly the kind you liked best already sorted to the top, and neither of you said a single word about what that meant.

The order came directly from the Tsaritsa, which meant there was no version of refusal available to him. You were to accompany Sandrone to Sumeru, to retrieve something the Akademiya had buried deep enough that a subtler pair of hands was required than his usual methods allowed and subtlety, everyone at the table seemed to silently agree, was not among Dottore's more reliable qualities.

He didn't argue. Arguing with a direct order from her was not a mistake he'd ever make twice. But you caught the stillness that settled over him when the assignment was read aloud the same stillness you'd learned, by now, meant something was being suppressed rather than simply absent.

"Two weeks," Sandrone said mildly, already gathering his notes. "Perhaps three."

"I'm aware of the estimated timeline," Dottore said, in a tone flat enough to cut. He didn't look at you. You didn't need him to.

That night, before you left, he said almost nothing useful a list of standard precautions, a reminder to report any anomalous data, nothing that acknowledged what the separation actually was. But he pressed something small into your palm before you go, wordlessly, without ceremony: not a farewell, not affection, just a habit he seemed to need to complete before he could let you leave his sight, and you understood, without either of you saying it, that this was as close to be careful as he was ever going to get.

Sumeru was strange in a way you hadn't expected not the climate, which was gentler than Snezhnaya in every conceivable way, but the sense of walking through a place that had shaped someone you knew without ever having said so. You found yourself noticing things you had no real reason to notice. A particular shade of sandstone. The layout of old Akademiya corridors, half-reclaimed by the forest, that felt, absurdly, like the kind of place a much younger, much angrier version of him might have once walked through unnoticed.

You found the trinket in an abandoned research annex. Sandrone had no interest in a small brass instrument, delicate and old, some kind of measuring device whose function you couldn't fully place, etched with faded Sumeru script along its edge. It caught the light in a way that made your fingers itch before you'd even decided to pick it up. You told yourself it was simply a habit. You didn't entirely believe it.

You didn't decide to bring it back for him until you were already halfway home.

Sandrone noticed, of course. She noticed everything, in that quiet, clinical way of hers that made you suspect she filed people the same way Dottore filed data. She watched you turn the little brass instrument over in your hands more than once during the return trip, watched you wrap it carefully before you'd even reached the border, and said nothing about it until you were both standing in the doorway of his study, waiting to be acknowledged.

"How curious," she said, not quite looking at you, not quite looking at him. "Y/N randomly picked up some old, forgotten thing in the middle of an assignment." A pause, deliberate. "It's rather surprising she wanted to gift it to you, out of all people. How strange."

There was no warmth in it. You'd gathered by then that there rarely was, where Dottore was concerned whatever history sat between them, it clearly hadn't left room for particular fondness. Dottore didn't rise to it. He rarely did, with her.

"Was there a report to file, or did you simply come to observe," he said, without looking up from his notes, "because I don't recall requesting commentary on either."

Sandrone's mouth curved, thin and unbothered. "No report worth mentioning. The mission was uneventful." Her gaze slid to you, briefly, unreadable. "Mostly."

She left without waiting for a response, the door falling shut behind her with a quiet, unhurried click, and it was only once her footsteps had faded down the corridor that the room settled.

He was waiting when you returned, not visibly, not obviously, He didn't ask about the mission first. He asked, instead, with a carefully measured indifference that didn't fool you in the slightest, whether Sumeru had been "tolerable."

You held out the instrument instead of answering.

He went very still.

He took it slowly, turning it over in his hands the way he examined everything, clinically, at first, cataloguing its make, its age, the faded scriptwork along the edge until his thumb found a small, worn inscription near the base, and something in his expression shifted into territory you'd never once seen it occupy. Not detachment. Not amusement. Something quieter, and much harder for him to hold steady.

"Where did you find this," he said. It wasn't quite a question.

"An old annex. It looked forgotten." You hesitated. "I thought-" you stopped yourself, unsure, suddenly, how much of the truth you were willing to hand him along with the object. "I thought it might mean something. To you."

He didn't answer right away. He was still looking at the inscription, thumb tracing it once more as though checking it hadn't changed since the first pass, and when he finally looked up at you, the distance he usually kept so carefully maintained between observation and feeling had, for once, entirely failed to hold.

"It does," he said, quietly, and offered nothing further to explain it no clinical justification, no rationalization dressed as data, nothing to file this under but exactly what it was.

For the first time since the snow, he reached for you the way you'd once reached for shiny, precious things without meaning to not out of usefulness, not out of ownership, but because some part of him had apparently decided, somewhere between the storm and this moment, that he wanted to.

The mission after that one went wrong in a way none of you had accounted for.

It wasn't catastrophic, you'd walk away from it, you knew that much even as it was happening, but a blade caught you across the ribs before you could shift clear, and by the time you made it back to the lab, your human form was shaking too hard to be useful and your crow form wasn't an option, not with a wound that size. You didn't remember much of the walk back. You remembered his hands.

He didn't send for anyone else. That, more than anything, told you how seriously he was taking it. Dottore, who delegated everything that didn't personally interest him, doing the cleaning and stitching himself, sleeves pushed back, face unreadable in the particular way it went when he needed complete focus. His hands were steady at first, clinical, exactly as precise as you'd expect from a man who'd done far worse to far less willing patients. He didn't speak much. He didn't need to; the quiet was its own kind of attention, the sort he rarely gave anything that wasn't a problem worth solving.

Somewhere in the middle of it, though, cleaning a cut that had already stopped bleeding, checking a bandage that didn't need checking again, his hands stopped being quite so steady.

You noticed before he did, or maybe he noticed and simply didn't stop. His fingers lingered at the edge of the bandage a beat too long, tracing skin that had nothing left to examine, and when you looked up at him, he wasn't looking at the wound anymore.

"You should rest," he said, low, though he made no move to step back.

"You're not moving," you pointed out.

Something flickered behind his eyes, irritation, maybe, at being caught, or at himself, for the same reason as always. "I'm making sure the wound is properly closed."

"It's already closed."

He didn't have an answer for that. For the first time since you'd known him, he didn't reach for one.

You could have let the silence hold. You didn't.

The surgical lamp hummed, a steady, droning vibration that echoed the throb in your ribs. The world tasted of copper and sterile alcohol. Everything felt distant, as if the room were viewed through a thick sheet of frosted glass. The anesthesia clung to your mind like wet wool, heavy and suffocating, turning your thoughts into slow, drifting clouds.

Dottore leaned into your line of sight. His mask caught the harsh white light, splitting his face into a void of porcelain and shadow. He didn't move. He simply watched, his gaze tracing the rise and fall of your chest with the precision of a clockmaker.

"Can you hear me?"

The words sounded like they were coming from the bottom of a well. You tried to nod, but your neck felt like it belonged to someone else. A small, broken sound escaped her throat.

"Focus. I need to know the level of cognitive impairment remaining."

He reached out, his gloved fingers pressing firmly against your cheeks. The coldness of the latex was a shock, a sharp needle of reality piercing through the fog. He shifted, his weight leaning over you, the scent of ozone and expensive chemicals enveloping her.

"You're drifting," he noted. His voice had lost its clinical edge, it had dipped into something lower, a resonant vibration that seemed to hum against your skin. "The sedative is still saturated in your bloodstream. Your heart rate is elevated. Interesting."

You blinked, your eyelashes heavy. You tried to lift a hand to push him back, but your arm felt like lead, flopping uselessly against the metal table.

"I... can't..."

"I know you can't."

He didn't pull away. Instead, his hand slid down, tracing the line of your jaw, then dipping lower to the edge of the bandages wrapping your torso. He didn't touch the wound, but his fingers lingered on the healthy skin just beside it.

"You were reckless," he murmured. "A lapse in judgment. A variable I hadn't accounted for."

"Did I... fix it?"

"The wound is closed. The internal bleeding stopped. You are, physically, a success."

He paused. The silence in the lab grew heavy, thick with a tension that felt different from the sterile atmosphere of the surgery. Dottore’s breathing shifted, becoming rhythmic and shallow. He moved his hand, sliding it beneath the hem of the thin hospital gown, his palm flat against the warmth of her stomach.

You shivered. The sensation was magnified by the drugs, every touch feeling like a lightning strike across a numb landscape. You tried to speak, to ask what he was doing, but the words dissolved into a hazy sigh.

"Your skin is flushed," Dottore whispered, his face inches from hers. "A systemic reaction to the trauma, or perhaps a response to the stimulus. I find myself wondering which."

"Dottore... stop..."

"Hm, should I?"

He didn't stop. He shifted his position, stepping between your sprawled legs, the heavy fabric of his coat brushing against your thighs. The movement was deliberate, devoid of the usual clinical haste. He looked at you really looked at you, not as a specimen or an assistant, but as something he intended to consume.

"You've spent months learning my rhythms, y/n. You've corrected my notes. You've anticipated my needs."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The heat of his breath contrasted sharply with the chill of the room.

"Now, I want to see how you react to a variable you cannot anticipate."

His hand moved higher, his fingers grazing the underside of your breast. You gasped, your back arching instinctively. The anesthesia made the pleasure feel distorted, an overwhelming wave that crashed over you without warning, stripping away your ability to resist. You felt the world tilt, the white ceiling spinning as he captured your mouth in a kiss that tasted of desperation and dominance, blowing your mind away.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claim. He tasted of iron and obsession.

Dottore pulled back just enough to look into your glazed eyes. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the red of his irises.

"Tell me you want this," he commanded. "Fight through the fog. Give me a conscious response." He was completely aware that you did not have the strength to protest.

You struggled. You wanted to say no, to reclaim the boundary he was systematically erasing. However, your body was screaming for something else, your hole clenching around nothing and your mind going more cloudy not because of the anesthesia, but the intimacy you are in. The warmth of him was the only thing keeping the cold of the lab at bay. The bond you guys had built, the shared silences, the hidden gifts, the unspoken trust, warped under the pressure of the moment. Your hand, trembling and weak, managed to clutch at the lapel of his coat, pulling him closer.

"Please..."

"Please what?"

"Just... don't leave."

A dark, triumphant sound vibrated in his chest. He stripped away the remaining barriers of cloth with a sudden, violent efficiency. The air hit her skin, cold and biting, before he replaced it with the crushing weight of his body.

He did not waste time entertaining you with his tip, and pushed his length all the way inside you.

You cried out, the sound echoing off the walls. It was too much, the pain in your ribs, the haze in your mind, and the sudden, invasive fullness of him. He froze for a second, his muscles locked, his forehead resting against yours.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes-..," you whispered, your voice so vulnerable, near to crying.

"Good."

He began to move, a steady, punishing rhythm that mirrored the precision of his research. Each thrust was a calculation, designed to elicit a specific response. He watched your face, his eyes tracking every flicker of pleasure and pain, as if he were recording the data in real-time.

"Your pupils are dilating. Your respiration is erratic."

He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, bruising the pale flesh. He wasn't being careful anymore. The mask of the Doctor had slipped, leaving behind a man driven by a hunger that no amount of knowledge could satisfy.

"You are the only thing in this facility that doesn't bore me," he groaned, his voice breaking for the first time. "The only variable that refuses to be solved."

As you parted your lips to gasp for air, he captured them with his, giving you no room to breathe. It was messy and almost like a predator devouring its prey.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The fog in her mind began to clear, replaced by a strong desire for release. You could feel the friction, the heat, the way your breaths mingled in the chilled air. You stopped being a subject. You stopped being an assistant. In the wreckage of the moment, you were simply two broken things colliding in the dark.

“Ngh- Doctor I-..!”

Dottore gently wiped the single tear trailing down your cheek and arranged your strands of hair.

“Shh.. Not yet. You can hold it in for a bit, can't you?”

After few moments, the doctor's movements accelerated vigorously, hinting an immediate need for orgasm.

“Come for me,” he groaned in the crook of your neck as he slapped into you faster. “I- I’m close.”

As the climax hit, it felt like a physical blow. You clung to him, your nails scratching into his back, your world narrowing down to the point where your bodies met. Dottore let out a low, guttural sound, his body shuddering as he collapsed against you, his weight pinning you to the table.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sound was the hum of the surgical lamp and their ragged, synchronized breathing.

Dottore eventually shifted, pulling away slowly. He didn't offer a hand to help you up, nor did he apologize. He stood and began to dress, his movements returning to their usual, effortless composure. He reached for his mask, sliding it back into place, the porcelain void returning to hide his expression.

He looked down at you, lying breathless and shattered on the metal table.

"The recovery period will now be extended," he said, his voice once again flat and clinical. "I'll need to monitor the effects of the physical exertion on your sutures."

You watched him, her chest heaving. The haze was gone, and in its place was a terrifyingly clear understanding of what you were to each other.

"Was that part of the research?" You asked, your voice raw.

Dottore paused at the door, his silhouette sharp against the hall light as he looked back to you over his shoulders.

"No," he replied. "That was for me."

You used to be a large co-ed friend group of seven, but over the years, things changed significantly. Two people paired off and grew distant, one moved away, and another girl drifted after confessing a crush to Jian, who wasn’t reciprocating. It was a rocky time for the group, but it seemed like every member you lost only brought you closer together.

"Ugh." Jian groans while bending backwards over his chair. His arms stretch out in a large Y, raising his white shirt and exposing the skin of his stomach.

"My back hurts so much. Haoran, rub my back." He commands and Haoran in response lightly smacks his head.

"Just because I'm studying kinesiology doesn't mean you get free massages, you weirdo." Haoran shakes his head disapprovingly and pushes up his glasses before returning to his laptop.

Jian doesn’t pay Haoran any mind, however, instead he turns to face you. He's slouched over the table and has his head resting on his forearms while he looks up at you. "Take pity on me, I've been working on my stats assignment since Thursday." He pouts, asking for the massage without actually asking for it.

You narrow your eyes at him but stand up with a scrape of your chair. "I'm tired too," you agree with a big stretch before breaking into a mischievous grin, "let's go get ice cream."

Haoran quickly closes his laptop and stands up beside you, grabbing your sweater and holding it open to help you into it. Jian, the sloth he is, sluggishly drags behind with a frown. "But what's ice cream going to do for my back?" He complains.

Haoran and you both ignore him while you walk towards the elevator door.

In the convenience store, Jian and Haoran circle the refrigerators brimming with energy drinks, while you stand in line with three popsicles.

They’re joking together, and you watch as Jian keels over laughing. Jian and Haoran have been friends since childhood, growing up together. Their bond was both admirable and annoying; they seemed to move as one, never apart. This made pulling pranks a real challenge. You smile to yourself, recalling the disaster of your last April Fools’ Day, when a sudden hand on your shoulder makes you jump.

Jian’s arm wraps around you as he steps forward to place a bright orange can on the counter. You’re jolted back to reality and quickly set down your popsicles, while Haoran retrieves his card to pay.

You’ve come about 50 meters from the door when you tap your pocket. It’s much emptier than you remembered it being just a moment ago. “Ugh, I think I left my phone in there,” you say, rushing back in to find it.

Scanning the room, you check around the counter before spotting it atop the ice cream deep freezer. Relaxing with relief, you make your way out again when you hear them.

"Why haven't you asked her out yet?" Jian's voice is low but clear and you stop in your tracks. "I don't know man, I don't know if she's even aware I like her." Haoran sighs tiredly. He leans back to rest against the convenience store's brick wall, giving you a clear view of Jian's face.

"Bro, don't worry, just remember the plan and you'll be okay." He reassures, but at that moment, he looks up to find you standing there. Your frozen limbs begin moving, pretending that you didn't hear anything. Haoran stands up straight, "hey, did you find your phone?"

A smile forces its way onto your face, "yeah, I did! Thank God." You're hoping you sound inconspicuous, but you don't feel that way at all. Who were they talking about? Haoran doesn't talk to anyone but you two, they couldn't be talking about you, could they?

You're deep in thought during your walk back when you feel someone watching you. You look to see Jian, eyes staring across Haoran standing in the middle of you both.

He knows you heard them.

Trying to act normal around them after that was difficult. You started to take notice of everything Haoran did: paying for your coffees, lending you his sweaters, always saving you a seat, and asking you about your day. You felt stupid for not realizing sooner, but you felt awful about potentially leading him on. You didn't see Haoran like that, but how could you bring it up to him when really, are you even sure it's you they were discussing?

This predicament cycled around your head in a dizzying manner.

"So what're you going to do?" Jian's voice cut through your thoughts. "Wh—what?" you stammered. "The CSA clubbing night? Are you going to come? C'mon I worked so hard planning it, you have to!"

You let out the breath you didn't realize you were holding in. For the past few weeks, Haoran had been working tirelessly to ensure the success of the event. He was gunning for the President position in your school's Chinese Student Association next year. You agreed to attend when he first brought it up.

Looking at him now though, your stomach twisted with guilt. You didn't want to let him down but you were scared that every nice gesture was giving him the wrong impression.

"Yeah, of course I'll go." You decide finally, but you feel Jian watching you fidget with your hands.

When you finish studying together on campus, you move to pack up your things. “Wait up for me.” Jian called out. You looked up at him a little nervously. “Oh it’s okay, you don’t have to walk me home.” You try but Jian tilts his head with a confused look. “What’re you talking about? We always walk home together.”

It was true, Jian’s student rental house wasn’t far from yours so throughout your undergraduate, it had become a habit to walk home together. You bite down your protests and walk silently beside him.

You had never felt uncomfortable with either Jian or Haoran, but suddenly being alone with Jian felt so tense.

“What will you tell him?”

Jian has always been blunt but this was too much.

“What do you mean?” you stall.

Jian tsks annoyedly, “you know what I mean.”

He has always been the jokester of your group, so his strange hostile tone makes fear rise in you.

You search the street lamps that bathe the road in a yellow hue for a way out but nothing comes to your rescue and so you are forced to answer.

“I don’t… I don’t like Haoran in that way.” Your voice comes out quiet.

“Why not?” He prods.

“I just don’t.”

“Is he not your type?” Jian’s eyes are narrowed.

“No, it’s not— I just… I don’t really want a relationship with him. He’s my friend.”

"But he wants to be something more."

"Look, I didn't even know he liked me until last week. We've been friends for a long time, do we really have to ruin things like how it was with you and Priscilla?" You bring up the last girl to leave the friend group to make your point. 

Jian sighs softly, he seems disappointed.

“I’m sorry.” you say, trying to ease the let down.

“I’m sorry too.” He ends.

The clubbing event came faster than you anticipated. You were on your third attempt at an outfit when your phone went off.

‘We’re outside yours!’ Haoran’s text read. You look back at the short skirt and leather top and decide it’s good enough before letting the two in.

They’re holding frosted bottles of vodka and soju, already pouring shots while you rush to cut up lime wedges. “One more shot, come on!” Jian encourages after a few rounds. You’re swaying already but the last time you went out clubbing, you sobered up halfway through and tonight was definitely not the night to be reserved. 

You do one more with them and cringe. Tonight it burns more than usual and you use soju to wash away its sting.

Jian’s already called the Uber as you try to zip up your boots. Haoran swiftly bends down in front of you to guide your foot in and zips it up easily. You think to yourself about how considerate he is; he’d make someone very happy. The thought churns your stomach with guilt.

You have to find some way to let him down easily.

You push it off as a tomorrow-problem and pile into the car.

We skip the line as special guests of Haoran’s and soon enough the loud music is all you can hear. It might’ve felt weird to go clubbing without another girl, but alcohol buzzed through your veins and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Soon, you felt like you were losing gaps in time. One second you were dancing, then you were falling over and Jian’s hands were the only thing holding you up. You made it to the bar somehow where Haoran fed you water.

You were throwing up in the bathroom while Haoran held your hair back. Your throat burned but Haoran rubbed soothing circles.

Finding yourself in a car, you were practically sitting on top of him, his arm holding you up and his other hand resting on your thigh. You spot Jian staring from the driver seat, his eyes looking back at yours through the rearview mirror.

You’re too drunk to question where you were going, too out of it to wonder how Jian was driving.

The next time you come to, you’re stumbling out of an elevator. Jian is lifting your body and practically walking for you. Haoran smoothly unlocks his door and holds it open for you all. You walk over to his room where you’re set down on the bed. The room spins but you don’t have anything more to throw up. Haoran sits on the bed’s edge and pets your hair.

You feel a shift in weight on the other side of the mattress, but you can't bring yourself to look, instead you're heavy with the force of sleep and you fall unconscious.

By the time you stir awake, it's the next day. Your head throbs like you're getting a brain freeze but you drag yourself up to examine your surroundings. Squinting your eyes, you notice how sore your legs are. You feel like you just ran a marathon, small bruises decorating your shins and knees.

That's when you begin to notice the dull ache between your legs. Touching warily, you feel the fabric of your underwear and your fingers come back damp.

What happened last night?

Haoran's room was as familiar as always, but the blinds were shut and they cast shadows around the room in a creepy way.

Throwing the blanket off yourself, you stop when a wave of nausea hits you as you stand. After gathering yourself together, you find your jacket and bag tossed on his desk chair.

You don't quite understand why you're rushing, but something feels off about this situation and you're scared to waste any time.

You're still dizzy when you accidentally knock over a stack of books on Haoran's desk. Their heavy covers are loud as they clatter to the ground and you freeze in your place.

The door opens instantly, Jian's tall frame remains there while silently looking at you and the fallen books.

He stalks forward like a predator and you instinctively step back. "Sleep okay? You had a rough night." He asks, his tone is so contradictory to the tension in the room. You continue stepping back until your hip meets the desk’s edge.

Jian meets you where you've stopped, you can feel his warm breath and see all the details in his face with how close he's standing.

Your chest is rising and falling from the fear you're trying so hard to hide. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that, I hope I didn't cause you guys any trouble."

"It was a lot of trouble." Haoran's voice rings out from behind Jian. Jian shifts to look back at him, giving you a view of Haoran now leaning on the doorframe.

"Tsk, tsk. You even knocked over my books."

He comes closer, crouching down beside you all to collect them into a neat pile, then, drops them with a loud thud.

In an instant, his hand moves to grab your ankles, knocking you off balance while Jian bends you over his shoulder. Carrying you two steps to the bed, you're tossed back to where you spent your night.

Straight away, you crawl backwards; kicking the blanket up in a flurry until you're in the furthest corner away from them.

Haoran looms over you while Jian moves to crawl into the bed, gripping your ankle and dragging you towards them.

You scream and try to push him away, but he switches your positions so that you're sitting in his lap, arms held behind you and forced to look up at Haoran.

Haoran.

His kind features and disarming glasses now feel like a mouse trap. You still try to tug yourself free, but the grip on you gets tighter until it feels like your arms might break.

"Guys c'mon… this isn't funny. I'm really sorry about last night, I didn't mean to get that drunk. I just want to go home." Your voice cracks as you begin to cry, unable to stop the tears that begin streaming down your face. You're so terrified of them, two strong men who know you can't escape whatever they have planned for you.

"We were being careless that day. You never should've heard that conversation." Haoran speaks, leaning forward in a menacing manner. "It's a good thing you didn't hear everything though. Maybe then, you would've known better than to keep hanging around us." Jian adds. His breath was warming your ear and it sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"What does that mean? I thought Haoran liked me." You question.

"He does,” Jian’s watching closely for my reaction.

“But so do I."

His words are meant to clear things up, but you only feel nauseous as a chill washes over you.

"When we realized we both liked you, it was Hell. You should've seen how I gave Jian that black eye." Haoran reminisces and you recall the memory he’s referencing.

Jian had showed up with a black eye and Haoran with a busted lip. They had told you that they just got into a fight with someone they didn't want to discuss, they failed to mention that the fight was against each other.

"But then I realized: that's my best friend and you're the girl I love, how could I choose? So we decided that we shouldn't choose, we'd both have you." Haoran finishes, as if all of this was only up to them and you were a mere doll for them to play with.

You shake your head in disbelief.

"No... no. This can't be. You guys need to stop. You're my best friends, why are you doing this?"

"Yeah, the thought that you may reject this did cross our minds. But the solution was very simple,” Jian gestures casually like he’s teaching a math concept.

“Haoran and you begin dating. I’ll be honest, I was so jealous, but, it needed to be done somehow. We planned for him to take videos of you to make sure you'd agree to anything we wanted. Everything after that would come easily."

Haoran laughs, it sounds maniacal.

"Quit being evil, man, I know you're only telling her that to see her reaction." His face was split into a grin while you felt Jian's chuckle rumble against your back.

You pressed your thighs together, the dull ache becoming hard to ignore in light of all this new information. Jian took notice and reached down to caress your inner thigh. "Don't worry baby, we haven't actually fucked you yet, I wanted you to be awake when we put our dicks in you." he growled into your ear.

Jian nuzzles his face into the side of your neck earning a whimper from you. Nerves rush through you as his hand brushes your thigh in slow strokes up and down.

Your heart was hammering so hard in your chest, but you could only sit with all the adrenaline pumping in your veins.

"We did still have to get that insurance though, of course." Haoran admitted, pulling out his phone to show you a video.

It's of you in his bed. Your hair splayed out behind you and your arm is covering your face from the light. Your skirt has been hiked up and your legs are being held apart by arms that you can tell are Haoran's. You're undeniably wet as the phone flashlight highlights the shiny slick coating your cunt and inner thighs. Only Jian's arm can be seen as he pumps a large vibrator in and out of you. Your leather top is unlaced leaving your tits bouncing up and down with each thrust. You watch as your back arches and you moan loudly. Your hands reach to grip the sheets and you see your eyes roll back sloppily. Your body is shaking as moan after moan is pulled out of you and you can tell what that meant. They had made you cum and they recorded it.

You don't even remember it happening, you didn't even have any control over it, but there you were, on their phone, panting and wet like you meant for it to happen.

Horror crashes over you so fast it nearly steals the air from your lungs. Your mouth is dry and it pains you to swallow.

The video keeps playing in Haoran’s hand, your own voice echoing faintly from the speaker, dazed and vulnerable and unaware. Your stomach twists violently.

“Turn it off.” Your voice comes out weak.

Neither of them moves.

“Turn it OFF!” You scream this time.

Haoran finally locks the screen, but the damage is already done. The image is burned into your mind— your body, exposed and touched without permission while they stood over you like you belonged to them.

You shove against Jian’s chest with everything you have.

“Get away from me!”

The sudden movement catches him off guard enough for you to wrench one arm free. You scramble away from them across the mattress, nearly falling off the other side of the bed in your desperation to put distance between you all.

For the first time, neither of them looks amused.

Haoran’s expression tightens. “You’re overreacting.”

A disbelieving laugh breaks out of you, sharp and shaking. “Overreacting?” You repeat. “You got me wasted. You touched me while I was unconscious. You filmed me.”

“We didn’t hurt you,” Jian says quickly, standing now. “We were careful.”

“That doesn’t make it any better!”

Your voice cracks hard enough that silence follows it.

You can see it then— not love, not concern, not even guilt. Just frustration that you're ruining the fantasy they built in their heads.

Haoran steps forward slowly like he’s approaching a frightened animal. “Listen to me carefully,” he says. “We’ve loved you for years. Everything we did was because we didn’t want to lose you.”

“You already did.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

Jian freezes.

Haoran’s jaw clenches.

You slide off the opposite side of the bed, legs trembling so badly you nearly collapse when your feet hit the floor. Your body still feels sluggish, sick, wrong, but adrenaline is beginning to overpower the fog in your head.

The video replayed in your thoughts, a single phone held your demise, but maybe if the police came in time, that video could be deleted before ever getting the chance to be held over you.

“Don’t come near me,” you whisper. 

Jian lifts his hands slightly. “We can talk about this.”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

You grab your bag from the desk chair so quickly it knocks into the wall. Your phone nearly slips from your shaking fingers as you clutch it against your chest.

Haoran notices immediately. His voice changes. Colder now.

“You’re not thinking of calling someone, are you?”

Fear spikes through you again. Not because of the question, because of how calm he sounds asking it.

The room suddenly feels much smaller and you hide the phone behind you away from their view.

Jian looks between us, tension pulling across his face. “Haoran—”

“No,” Haoran interrupts quietly, eyes fixed on me. “Because I've waited long enough for her, she should learn her place.”

Your thumb fumbles blindly against your phone screen behind your back.

Emergency call.

Just one button.

Just one—

Jian notices first.

His eyes widen. “Wait—”

You make a run for it. Rushing into the living area, trying to find anything you could use to stop them, but there's nothing that could. Haoran's body slams into you, knocking you face first onto the couch. His whole body is holding you down, the weight of him making it hard to breathe. His hands each hold a wrist onto the smooth fabric as he grinds his hips into the plush of your ass.

You're sobbing, trying so hard to move, anything at all, but you can't. You feel Jian's presence beside you, ripping your phone away and dropping it with an echoing clatter. You're this helpless under just one man, what could you do against two?

Jian crouches down where you can see him. "You can make it easy on yourself or you can live the rest of your life with that video following you wherever you go. Forget about future boyfriends, your dream job, even your family won't be able to look at you when we're done."

Haoran laughs, "future boyfriend? She won't even get that far, no man would want a slut who cums when two guys hold her down and fuck her." His voice is haunting in your ear as he grinds you into the couch making your hip bones ache from the pressure.

Haoran then lifts you up only to sit down in your place. Jian's hands are instantly on you, unlacing your top while Haoran unzips your skirt.

You're trembling but you don't fight anymore. What choice do you have? This was happening right now whether you wanted it to or not, the video was just insurance that this wouldn't be the last time.

Haoran's serious expression is finally gone, replaced by his familiar easygoing smile. He's watching your defeated cooperation and he's basking in it.

Jian begins peppering kisses down your neck. The skin is so sensitive there but he begins nipping at it then licks away the sting. His hands reach up to cup both breasts, palms kneading while his thumbs brush the tips of your nipples. One hand pinches then twists and you squeeze your eyes shut, weakly trying to drag his arm off of you.

Jian hums approvingly, "personally, I like it when you fight."

Haoran's hands come forward to grip the backs of your thighs, he guides you to straddle his hips as Jian's hands glide to rest on your throat and shoulder. He gives it a squeeze before gently kissing the top of your head.

Haoran's pants were already unzipped and his boxers were shoved down to free his erection. It came up to your belly button, leaking precum and striking another wave of fear through you.

Jian's hands slithered to grip your sides, hoisting you up until you felt Haoran's tip prodding your entrance.

"Please you guys, please don't make me do this." You plead feeling broken.

"Shhh, it's okay." Jian reassures as he eases you downward onto Haoran's shaft. Still slick from their sick fun last night, you go down smoothly. The slowness in which Jian lowers you multiples every sensation as sparks wrack up your body.

You let out a choked sob as your hands reach out to steady yourself on the back of the couch. Haoran begins rocking up into you, hands on your hips to move you back and forth with a groan.

“You’re so much better than I could’ve imagined. I had to work so hard not to shove my dick in your pretty pussy while I watched Jian pump you dry last night.”

Jian laughs from behind you while gathering your hair into one ponytail. He softly scratches your scalp to ensure he gets every strand. He then uses it to tug your head back, giving him an entrance to gently kiss you. His other hand returns to your throat again, squeezing and relaxing and then squeezing again like he's playing an instrument. His lips are wet and cold but the kiss heats up as he swirls his tongue with yours. He's biting your lip then sucking before he moves to lick the tip of your ear. Tongue flicking downward, Jian starts suck on your earlobe as the lack of oxygen makes you feel lightheaded.

This intensifies the sensation of Haoran fucking you as he pushes your hips down into him, making your clit grind against his pubic bone with each thrust.

You cry out when Haoran pumps into you particularly deep and the feeling of him hitting your back wall causes goosebumps to form.

Jian pushes your head forward so that your face rests in the crook of Haoran's collarbone. You listen to him unzipping his jeans and spitting into his hand before the wet sound of him pumping himself is heard.

It mixes in with the obscene noises coming from Haoran and you as his arms hold yours to your sides in a tight grasp.

Jian spits again, but this time it lands on your lower back, dripping down and over that tight ring of muscle. Instantly, you try to sit up, pushing off of the couch and against Haoran, but his arms get tighter like a python.

"No! Stop! Please— not there, you can't! I can’t!" You protest and writhe in Haoran's arms, but it’s ignored as Jian's thumb is rubbing circles before pushing in.

"NO!" You scream out. Jian's thumb slips slowly in and out then he hooks it to massage up on your insides. It glides back out to the opening before pressing the muscle to the side, prying it open. Jian spits again, wetting the hole once more before you feel it.

The unmistakable blunt head pressing and rubbing, wanting entrance and not asking for it.

Your hands ball into fists as you sob into Haoran. “It’s okay, shh, it’s okay. You can do this, just relax.” His hand now moves across your back in consoling circles, but you're so tense, every muscle is taut in anticipation.

Jian pushes in as the burning pain melts with the overwhelming feeling of fullness. Haoran has stopped moving, letting Jian work his way into you first. It's agonizing as he continues, every time you think he was done, he'd keep pushing deeper. He's groaning in approval, peppering kisses down the back of your neck. Finally, when he's bottomed out, he thrusts slowly, once, then twice. Until he falls into a predictable rhythm.

Haoran now resumes his movement, using his hands to guide you up and down both of them. They leave you empty only to both fill you up in an instant. Jian begins going off pace, grabbing your ass and squeezing it roughly. He spreads the cheeks apart, causing a burning stretch on your already abused hole.

You can feel them rubbing against each other in you. When one left, the other was filling you, it was an endless and inescapable sensation.

Haoran grabs your breasts, massaging one while popping the other into his mouth. His tongue swirls over your nipple, matching the rhythm of his thrusts and driving you up a wall.

It was all too much, too much everywhere, you were being fucked in both holes. Jian leans over to be flushed against your back, hand gripping your shoulder to make their thrusts deeper than before. The weight of him served as a reminder of how trapped you were. Sandwiched between the two men you thought could've trusted with anything. How did everything change so quickly?

You felt that familiar feeling rise up in you. It was so wrong, the way that you were getting tighter around them and wetter with the thought of how helpless you were, but you couldn't stop it.

"She's squeezing me so tight, I don't know how much longer I can last." Haoran's voice is strained, you can see his eyebrows furrow in concentration.

"Little princess is about to cum again isn't she? Fully awake, sober, and aware. You wanted this all along didn't you?" Jian taunts. You try to shake your head no, but the action falls short when Jian thrusts harder into you, a fast and brutal pace causing you to bounce harder on Haoran.

A moan escapes your lips as you try to focus on staving off your orgasm, your knuckles are white and you work to think of anything else but nothing they're doing makes it easier.

Your back arches and pleasure explodes in you without your permission. You spasm, shaking and moaning involuntarily with each wave of the orgasm that washes through you. Haoran is right there with you, erratic in his thrusts before shoving himself as deep as he can get, like he wants to paint the inside of your womb. His dick twitches with each rope of cum he shoots out and your belly feels warm and icky.

Jian continues, prolonging the satisfaction of your orgasm, but soon joins with some final harsh thrusts. 

He rests above you, breathing hard and keeping you plugged a while longer with both him and Haoran. Then with a quick wet sound, he pulls out and you feel the sticky liquid running down your thigh. He lifts you off of Haoran and gently sets you down on the empty side of the couch. Haoran is still panting but he casts his eyes to you, curled up into a ball with both of their hard work dripping out of you.

You note the sound of the crows cawing as they circle above you in the cloudy sky. It was strange; it was too quiet for New York as you cross the street. Cars may be parked along the side of the road, but there is not a single person out on the streets. 

Instead, you wander the road alone, hands shoved deep into the pockets of your coat as your stomach growls. 

‘Maybe it was a good thing no one was out,’ you think.

Ever since that night, it’s been difficult to look strangers in the eyes without that immense hunger that curled itself in your stomach. All you remember was that you were bleeding out, soulless, red eyes that you were pleading with to keep you alive flashed across your vision; if you recall, “the Drifter” is what the rumors called him. 

Ever since that night, you awoke with a hunger that never went away, roaming the streets with a newfound appetite for flesh. 

You’re a monster. 

Suppressing these feelings has led to your isolation, the only person in your corner being the Drifter himself, as he guided you through vampire-hood. 

He remembers the night all too well. It was classic: a full moon as he heard you screaming for help, alone in an alleyway. The scent of your blood overwhelming his senses, your cries harshly penetrating his ears like a loud screech. 

Surely he should’ve killed you right then and there. Maybe make you suffer a little before he takes you out of your misery. He was known for playing with his prey, according to one rumor, although that person seems to be mysteriously no longer with the living, unable to confirm. 

He couldn’t sink his teeth into you, not when your eyes pleaded with him so prettily. Your vision might’ve been blurred with tears, as your body fought hard to keep itself alive, but your [eye color] orbs that flickered with life and death shone rebellion. 

You’d do anything to stay alive. 

New York hasn’t been the same ever since the first maelstrom. Creatures of various mystical and enchanting forms haunt the streets, almost like out of a fairytale. But there was no prince charming or knight in shining armor to come save you; it was just the Drifter. 

Drifter prowls with his sharp claws, pointed teeth, and the smell of death that lingered around his being. He is the enigma that lurks in the shadows. He is the predator that city folks warn you about if you even dare to walk alone at night. They say you should carry silver jewelry in case you ever get pounced on by a werewolf, and that vampires can’t enter your home without an invitation. But what modern tales don’t warn you about is that the Drifter didn’t abide by any of those made-up rules, only creatures who wished to assimilate with mere humans. 

The Drifter can only be described as selfish, cruel, and bloodthirsty. Unfortunately for you, you’ve become his newest toy. 

He promised you that he’d be there for you in such trying times. It’s going to take some time for you to get used to your new vampiric urges, after all. You know it wasn’t wise for you to trust him, but what else can you do?

The Drifter is no man to be messed with.

You know that more than anyone. 

But who else can you turn to?

There was no one else who could relate to your animalistic cravings, to the looks of terror that flash across the faces of strangers on the streets, the overstimulation in the new strength of your senses. No one could relate, except for the Drifter. 

Over the past few weeks, your body has become fatigued and malnourished due to the promise you set for yourself. 

You can’t drink the blood of people, and you most certainly can’t kill someone. 

But God, you’re starving. 

The Drifter told you to meet him at the nearby apartment. He told you that he knew a way to satisfy your hunger. And out of desperation, you climb up those steps, never looking back, like the day you lost yourself. 

It’s better if you come here on your own accord. After being acquainted with the Drifter for about a month now, you knew better than to disobey him. 

Your mind plays out its cruelest and most wicked memories: you remember the Drifter hunched over the mangled body, the person’s intestines practically spilling out of them, their face completely mauled and unrecognizable. With the state of their body, they were most certainly pronounced dead. There’s a fog in your mind, wondering if your eyes were playing a sadistic trick. A hallucination, a delusion, any excuse that would comfort your soul.

 But it was all real; you watched the Drifter tear this person apart, horrific screams that still play in the back of your head, and the blood stains that have collected on the fabric of the Drifter’s wife-beater. 

The worst part of all is that you were made to watch. Your feet refused to run, and your eyes didn’t dare to look away. You were trapped in the passenger seat as the Drifter held his hands tight over the steering wheel, and his foot slammed the accelerator. 

Drifter would wipe his mouth, smearing the blood across his face, a poor attempt at cleaning himself up as he walks up to you. Your eyes shift down: there’s a trail of the stranger’s blood that tracks against the concrete as the Drifter’s intimidating figure looms over you. The intoxicating scent of iron floods your senses, but strangely enough, it doesn’t disgust you. Like catching a whiff of a freshly baked pie cooling down on a windowsill, it tempts you. The scent curls itself in your belly, comforting you from the emptiness, but not enough to appease the never-ending hunger. 

The feeling terrifies you. 

You flinch when you feel Drifter’s hand cupping your cheek, shutting your eyes instinctively, his long claws threatening to pierce the flesh. His hands are cold, lifeless. 

The blood covering his hands still feels warm.

“I like the deer in headlights look ya’ got going for ya’,” the Drifter comments, and despite not partaking in the Drifter’s violent attack, the blood that’s smudged across your cheek feels like it’s covering your hand. 

Opening your eyes again, you don’t say anything as your eyes quickly shift to the ground, unable to meet the glow of the Drifter’s red eyes. You gulp, your vision wavers as you catch sight of the corpse not too far behind the Drifter.

You could only imagine what he’d do to you.

That was what you thought to yourself that tragic night, and it’s what you think to yourself now as the door to the apartment swings open. 

“I told you,” you start, voice small and meek, “I don’t want to eat anyone!” 

You would’ve been angry, but just as the fire ignites, it burns out. Your passion was too strong for your frail body. 

“Aren’t ya’ hungry?” The Drifter asks. It would’ve been a simple question if it weren’t for the heavy, limp body tossed over his shoulder.

Like it weighs nothing. 

Your lip quivers, tears that well up in the corners of your eyes, but refuse to shed. 

The Drifter was the only one you could confide in about your fasting. Even if you weren’t complaining about the aching pain, in the silence you normally shared, he knew. 

He could hear it, the growls of your stomach that pleaded for the bloodshed.

“No!” You answered quickly, too quickly. 

Faux confidence and assurance that the Drifter senses. 

The Drifter drops the body at your feet.

“No!” You yell again, whether that was in response to his actions or your desperate attempt to cling to your remaining sanity, you aren’t sure. 

What you are sure about is the incredible smell that wafted throughout the small room.

You stumble back, shutting the door behind you, trapping yourself in the room. 

No one needed to see this. 

“Thas what I thought,” the Drifter teases you, bending over to pick the body back up. He leaves the room, carrying the body. 

You didn’t get a good look at the room, but you noted the furniture that had been thrown about, as if there had been a struggle. Like there had been life before you arrived. You don’t allow yourself to linger for long, not wanting to be left alone, so you follow in the direction you believe the Drifter has disappeared.

Like an obedient puppy. 

You hated him, yet a part of you craved for his validation more than the blood. 

You’re a monster, but worse of all, you’re pathetic. 

The door is left open for you; your presence is expected. The Drifter has laid the body down on the bed, the sheets that were made one last time stained with its owner’s crimson liquid. The stranger looks like the perfect dinner atop the white sheets, and the Drifter can only think the same as he looks down at your innocent yet honest expression.

You’re salivating. 

“What’s holdin’ ya’ back, dear?” The Drifter asks, approaching your figure and placing a hand on your mid-back, “You deserve this, so c’mon, dig in~.”

His voice is gruff, but you hear his words in a clear, crisp tone. You bite your lip, holding the Drifter’s words close to your heart, letting them echo throughout the chambers of your ribcage as your body moves on its own. 

Like a ghost, your body is weightless as it floats to the side of the bed. The Drifter helps you onto the bed as you straddle the corpse. Your fingers stumble over each button in anticipation, excitement; it courses through your blood, and you swear you can hear the sound of your pounding heart in your eardrums.

It’s funny, you could’ve sworn that thing stopped beating when you awoke in that alleyway. 

You remember the sound of Drifter’s rough voice validating the hunger, reassuring you. His words dripped in honey; maybe this is okay. Your mind goes blank, you don't need to think as your hands unbutton the person’s shirt on their own. 

Typically, it’s a prayer before every meal, but you don’t bother as your tongue glides over your top teeth. It is finally time to use your new fangs. With a sharp inhale, you sank your teeth into the newly revealed flesh of the stranger, instantly sucking up the liquids that poured from the lifeless body. 

“Adorable,” the Drifter compliments, your grasp tight on the collar of the corpse’s shirt, “so beautiful dripping in blood~..” 

He’s enamored, tucking away any hair that may have fallen into your face as you consume the forbidden fruit.

All the shattered pieces left of yourself are set at the front door; you’ll never go back to retrieve them with the Drifter’s hold on you. 

Your eyes nearly roll back into your head, the metallic taste blessing your taste buds as one of the Drifter’s hands crawls towards your hip, rubbing the precious area from outside your clothes.  

You haven’t even gotten to the main course yet. 

You pull away from the corpse’s neck with a heavy sigh, immediately delving back in once the air expands your lungs. You don’t pay any mind to the vital fluids that drip from your chin; instead, you continue to gulp down the juices that flow like a river. 

You’ve been hungry for so long now.

Lost in your feeding, the blood that still ran warm coating and comforting your insides, you don’t notice the Drifter’s hand that roams at the front of your pants, groping your crotch from outside the fabrics. 

The Drifter leans over your body, his chest touching your back, his mouth right next to your ear. He chuckles, his warm breath fanning the shell of your ear, as he feels how [wet/hard] you are as he slips his hands in the waistband of your pants. 

Your fangs sink deeper into the stranger’s neck, your moans muffled by the flesh you’re desperately sucking on, when the Drifter begins to grind his hard bulge up against your ass slowly. Your mind feels dizzy, and you begin to feel a bit overstimulated. This new taste and the sudden pleasurable sensation shouldn’t feel so good, but it’s a feeling your body didn’t know it craved as you subconsciously part your legs, allowing the Drifter to reach further. 

There’s a dreadful shiver that climbs up your spine, an iron grip on the collar of the body’s shirt as the Drifter coats his fingers in your precum, playing around with the fluids and smearing it up and down your [folds/shaft]. You hiss through the flesh, the sound of your gulps, and the slick between your thighs, causing your whole body to tremble in pleasure. 

You’re feeling way too good. 

It’s horrific. How can the hands that are [playing with your poor pussy/jerking off your poor cock] be the same ones that have snapped the limbs of victims in their futile escapes, that have torn flesh apart like it was paper? Hands that have stolen the lives of others, how can they bring your body so much euphoria? 

The Drifter’s movements are sloppy, like he has never tended to another person in a long time. 

“Can’t believe suckin’ on some blood bag’s got ya’ so [wet/hard],” the Drifter degrades. 

His demeaning comment causes a whine to rupture through your throat. The contrast of the Drifter’s unfaltering strokes [between your folds/on your cock] with his sharp claws threatening to puncture your skin. Your eyebrows scrunch together as your fangs separate from the flesh, moaning into the crevice between the victim’s neck and shoulder. 

With a whimper, you catch a peek of the Drifter’s wide, maniacal, and sinister grin, and it makes you let out an audible gulp. Swallowing any words that tried to croak past your lips, swallowing your bravery and disobedience, reminding you of the blood you had desperately gulped down.

You’re trembling in his grasp, a grimace on your features as the Drifter chuckles, a chuckle that shakes you to your core. 

“What? Cat got ya’ tongue?” Drifter asks, that frightful look in your glossy eyes, making his boner strain against his slacks. 

You shut your eyes tight, letting out a shuddering sigh by the way the Drifter [circled your clit with his fingers/tightened his grip around the girth of your cock]. A tear slips its way past your lashes, streaming down your cheek as the Drifter immediately laps it up. 

“Stop!” You cry, thrashing around in Drifter’s hold. His chest presses up against your back, using his full weight to keep you down, as the hand previously on your hip tangles into your hair, stuffing your face into the stranger’s neck.

Your sobs are muffled completely while a storm consumes your thoughts: when was the last time you were able to indulge in yourself like this? It’s been weeks, months, maybe even years. Your selfishness led to the death of a person the world will soon forget. 

You can lie here thinking about how this is all disrespectful, indecent, and improper: Instead of dancing on the grave of the dead, you’re allowing yourself to [get fingered/get a handjob] atop this corpse. The thought: it disgusts you, but what you know will haunt you forever is that there’s a small inkling of a feeling that you know you want more. 

You’re pulled away from your thoughts when you feel the Drifter’s lips ghost around the skin of your neck. 

“Please, no!” You cry, panic rising in your veins.

As if a lack of an invitation or permission has ever stopped the Drifter. He’s the unstoppable force that has torn all your walls down.

“Just wan’ a  lil’ taste is all,” the Drifter fails to reassure you, licking up the side of your neck, sucking the supple skin, “can’t help it, you just smell so good..” 

You bite back a response; you hate to admit it, but his mouth felt euphoric against your skin. The sound of your pulse by your neck drives the Drifter crazy, taking all of his self-restraint not to just pounce on you right then and there. 

Your body feels tense, even with the smoothing circles Drifter is applying [to your clit/to the head of your cock] with his fingers, or the warm sensation of his mouth latching onto your skin, leaving fresh hickies, marking you as his property. Everywhere his hand touched felt like a burn, branding your skin, and you wanted his hands off. But just like any burn, his touch provided your skin the soothing comfort it needed. He can't let go.

The realization hurts. 

Timidly, you crane your neck down and allow yourself to drown your moans into the neck of the victim. The taste of their blood bursts in your mouth instantly. The faucet in your eyes streams relentlessly, the bitter flavor of your tears slipping into the corner of your lips, and you savor the blend, biting down harder. 

“Atta [girl/boy], you keep suckin' ‘em,” the Drifter encourages, pulling on the person’s hair and revealing more of their flesh to you, causing it to rip apart from how tightly your teeth had been clenched.

Your combined strength in a brief tug-of-war makes it feel like something has finally landed in the pit of your stomach. 

You let out a small sniffle, blood, tears, and snot streaming down your ruined expression. Your mind refuses to comprehend just how fragile this person is; you don’t want to acknowledge how easily they broke. 

Instinctively, your lower half subconsciously begins to grind itself against the Drifter’s hand. It begs for release. The Drifter lazily [rubbing between your folds/stroking your cock], your body grows impatient. He’s so close to pushing you to the edge, if only he just [rubbed/stroked] you faster. 

This pleasure isn’t meant for you. 

You know you’ll never reach your orgasm at this rate. 

You whimper, grinding into his hand harder, desperate for your orgasm.

“I know, I know,” he coos, his pace torturous, drawn out, making sure you feel everything, “it feels good, doesn’t it, sugar~?” 

‘What does he know?’ You think to yourself. 

Does he know that because of him, your hands are permanently stained with the blood of others? Does he know of your sleepless nights due to the hunger keeping you up? And does he know that every day you mourn the pieces of you that die?

God, you’re so exhausted from these thoughts.

Your soul has grown weak, but this high is one you wish to ride out. You’ve never felt such fulfillment in a long time. 

“C’mon,” the Drifter starts, curling his fingers in your hair and pulling your head back, his threatening tone dripping with impatience, the sting in your scalp making you release the stranger. 

“You like it when I make ya’ pathetic [pussy/cock] feel good?” 

A sharp pain pulses up your spine from the harsh tug he has on the strands of your hair, wanting to shrink in on yourself under his deadly gaze.

“Mhm,” you whine, bottom lip quivering, “It feels amazing, please let me cum..”

A fatal chuckle erupts from the depths of the Drifter’s chest, withdrawing his hand from your pants, “I know, you’ve got ma’ hand soaked with your precum~.” 

Abruptly, he let go of your hair, and you collapsed. With weak arms pushing your body up, you look over to see him admiring his wet hand. 

And in one swift movement, the Drifter pulls down your pants and underwear, your bottom half completely bare.

He’s a deranged monster, nothing like the romantic vampires you can vividly reminisce about reading about in all your favorite literature. 

The Drifter isn’t gentle, loving, or caring. He acts on impulse, his animalistic instincts. You know all of this, but what scares you the most is getting a taste of just how good it can all feel. 

“You’re my favorite whore,” the Drifter reassures you, licking his lips like you’re a slab of meat, “you know that?”

That sick and twisted feeling forms an uncomfortable knot in your stomach, rubbing your thighs in anticipation. He’s driving you crazy every second he allows the cool air to brush against your sex; you need him to defile you now. 

“Please, ruin me for anyone else.”

Is that what you said? That voice doesn’t even sound like your own. It’s frail, and it’s weak from your endless cries. You're not even fully aware of what you're asking for; you're just saying things to fill the silence because it sounds good. You’re going to bite off more than you can chew. 

Nothing feels real. You’re not sure why Drifter is laughing so much; nothing is funny. Your head feels like it is submerged under water, and it’s difficult to make out or understand the next moments. Shifting in and out of reality as Drifter’s body shifts and rocks against your own. You only snap back into the present when the sudden intrusion of Drifter’s thick cock enters your hole. 

You scream, your nails digging into the arms of the corpse beneath you, leaving crimson lines in the pale flesh. Any ounce or fraction of the illusion of intimacy is shattered; no warmth or comfort is provided by the Drifter as your walls tightly clamp around his girth. His size has your head reeling, practically going limp, with only the Drifter’s large hands keeping your hips up. There’s no time for you to become accustomed to the new sensation when, instantly, the Drifter begins thrusting his cock in and out of your hole, his heavy balls slapping against your bottom half. 

You sob from the sting of your walls; every thrust feels like the Drifter is ripping you in half. Your body can barely handle him, your hole stretching itself beyond belief for the sheer size of his cock. The head of his dick abuses your [g-spot/p-spot], the intense and forbidden feeling knocking the breath out of you. You’re babbling nonsense as your eyes practically roll into the back of your head. 

You didn’t want this, right? 

You felt betrayed by your own body. Why is it that you feel your own [cunt/cock] getting wetter, dripping onto the sheets with each painful thrust of Drifter’s hips? The Drifter consumes your every being, having seen every side of you, from your insides and out. 

You can’t seem to recall how you ended up in this position. But somehow, you found solace in Drifter’s rough embrace, for all the suffering you’ve been put through; somehow, you feel like you’re finally being set free. 

The Drifter punishing your sweet hole with his cock is something your mind tricks you into believing you deserve. Weakly and subconsciously, you rub your hips against the Drifter’s crotch, the sound of his slick coating your walls and piercing your ears.

There’s consolation in the sweet scent of the gore right below your nose as the Drifter pounds into you, your nails still gripped tightly into the stranger’s supple flesh, and the pleasure buried deep inside your hole. 

Before you know it, every painful thrust suddenly loses all feeling, numb to the pleasure, and your face is blank and unfeeling. Your mind homes in on the knot that slowly starts to form in your stomach, the same stomach that gorged itself from the limp corpse you’re still straddling. Nothing can break your focus on each buck of the Drifter’s hips, your body begging for release. A lightning strike, a plague outbreak, or the next maelstrom cannot divert your attention. All your senses are consumed by the Drifter, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Your breathing feels intense and laborious, taking large gulps of fresh air between Drifter’s sloppy pounding. Moans continuously spill from your lips; you don’t pretend to be against the pleasure being forced upon you. 

Your hole twitches around the Drifter’s cock, your stomach fluttering around his massive size as it enters and leaves your hole. 

“Ya’ squeezin’ me like crazy, darling,” Drifter groans from above you through gritted teeth, his grip on your hips tightens, your frame appearing so small in his large claws, too much pressure, and he can break you.

It’s amusing to him just how weak you are, being able to manhandle your body back into his thick cock, his precum lubricating your walls. 

“Not gon last long,” the Drifter warns, and all of a sudden, all of the fear rushes back into your body. 

You’re not sure if you’ll last long either with the way the Drifter is fucking you. 

Your vision wavers: from between your legs, where you take sight of the Drifter’s cock rutting into your tight hole, his thick precum dripping onto the sheets. You look up, and you're instantly met with the lifeless face, the person you have been feeding from. 

Excitement fills your stomach, causing your intestines to tangle and tighten with knots. You feel yourself getting closer and closer to your release, your mind going blank, with a buzzing in your ears. 

There’s a distant calling of your name, but you don’t hear it, too absorbed in your own body, being overtaken by your orgasm as you bite down into the stranger’s neck one last time, sucking the nectar and muffling your loud cries. You swear you see white as with one final thrust, the Drifter coats your insides with his thick seed. 

In that moment, the Drifter is all you need. You belong to the Drifter, branded by his hickies and the bruises where he held onto you too tightly. 

At an agonizing pace, Drifter slips his cock out from between your walls, caressing your ass cheek as he watches his seed drip down from your hole. 

You pull away from the stranger’s neck, letting out a sigh of relief, taking a moment to gather yourself. 

That’s when you gasp, eyes widening as you stumble off the bed, bolting to the connected bathroom. The realization, the guilt, and the shame flooding your veins. Your legs are aching, but you manage to prop yourself on the bathroom sink, wanting to let out a hysterical cry, but your voice had died not too long ago. Gripping the edges of the mirror, nothing reflects back at you.

You’re mortified. 

You don’t even get the luxury of seeing the empty shell of the person you are now, a dead person walking. 

Bleeding out on the concrete, your path dissipating like a trail in the forest, yet your feet kept moving forward. You wonder to yourself why your heart kept beating, why the blood still ran through your veins, why you’re even alive. 

Maybe death would’ve treated you better.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

“Hey, sugar~, you feelin’ alright? Don’t worry, you did amazing, took me so well, and everything~. Could be a famous [actor/actress] with the performance you put on, haha! Oh, don’t give me that long face, makes me wanna eat you up~. Remember, nothin’ wrong with enjoyin’ dark themes in media, as long as you’re enjoyin’ them in a controlled and safe environment, like a fanfiction. No one gets hurt, and you can always take a step back. Drifter’s proud of ya’, darling~. Let’s get us both cleaned up so we can cuddle, yeah? Perfect.”