dae

SLASHERS

Jason Voorhees : -How the slashers would react to sleeping in the same bed as you for the first time .° ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁, SFW, GN -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN -How the slashers would react to the reader being hard-of-hearing(⁠๑﹏๑), SFW, GN Brahms Heelshire : -How the slashers would react to sleeping in the same bed as you for the first time .° ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁, SFW, GN -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN -How the slashers would react to the reader being hard-of-hearing(⁠๑﹏๑), SFW, GN -"Deserved what you got", 8600 words, NSFW, F!AFAB, Deaddove Thomas Hewitt : -How the slashers would react to sleeping in the same bed as you for the first time .° ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁, SFW, GN -Slashers with a slow and clumsy reader ｡𖦹°‧, SFW, GN -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN -Slashers dating and comforting a ftm reader ᯓᡣ𐭩, SFW, FTM -How the slashers would react to the reader being hard-of-hearing(⁠๑﹏๑), SFW, GN Bubba Sawyer : -Slashers with a slow and clumsy reader ｡𖦹°‧, SFW, GN Bo Sinclair : -How the slashers would react to sleeping in the same bed as you for the first time .° ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁, SFW, GN -Slashers with a slow and clumsy reader ｡𖦹°‧, SFW, GN -The Sinclair brothers with a reader who loves their plushies and can't live without them꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱, SFW, GN -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN -Slashers dating and comforting a ftm reader ᯓᡣ𐭩, SFW, FTM -How the slashers would react to the reader being hard-of-hearing(⁠๑﹏๑), SFW, GN

-"Stayed silent and stayed starving", 1910 words, SFW, GN Vincent Sinclair : -How the slashers would react to sleeping in the same bed as you for the first time .° ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁, SFW, GN -Slashers with a slow and clumsy reader ｡𖦹°‧, SFW, GN -The Sinclair brothers with a reader who loves their plushies and can't live without them꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱, SFW, GN -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN -Slashers dating and comforting a ftm reader ᯓᡣ𐭩, SFW, FTM -How the slashers would react to the reader being hard-of-hearing(⁠๑﹏๑), SFW, GN -"The calm after the storm", 8766 words, SFW, GN Lester Sinclair : -How the slashers would react to sleeping in the same bed as you for the first time .° ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁, SFW, GN -Slashers with a slow and clumsy reader ｡𖦹°‧, SFW, GN -What would it be like to date Lester as a cane user ⟡˖ ࣪, SFW, GN -The Sinclair brothers with a reader who loves their plushies and can't live without them꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱, SFW, GN -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN -Slashers dating and comforting a ftm reader ᯓᡣ𐭩, SFW, FTM -How the slashers would react to the reader being hard-of-hearing(⁠๑﹏๑), SFW, GN Candyman (Daniel Robitaille) : -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN Harry Warden : -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN

SAW

Amanda Young : -How the slashers would react to the reader crying in front of them for the first time૮◞ ‸ ◟ა, SFW, GN -"You reek of betrayal, pretty girl", F!AFAB, NSFW, dead dove-Slashers dating and comforting a ftm reader ᯓᡣ𐭩, SFW, FTM Mark Hoffman : -"Whatever Happens, Don’t Move", 7387 words, GN, NSFW w/ no smut

SOA

Chibs : -"No Going Back" PT.1, 9568 words, NSFW, F! -"No Going Back" PT.2, 10336 words, NSFW, F!

Jason Voorhees

➛ Jason understands almost immediately before you tell him, because he notices what you respond to and to what you don't.

➛ The sounds that make you turn around, the sounds that don't.

➛ Jason spends most of his life observing, it's how he survived, so he learns your patterns quickly.

➛ Once he does? He suddenly adapts completely.

➛ And I mean suddenly. Like, you don’t even think he knows about it, yet one day you wake up and out of nowhere he’s acting the exact way you need him to so that it’s easier for you to live.

➛ The interesting thing is that Jason rarely relies on words anyway, since he doesn’t speak and the little he knows how to write he barely uses, most communication between you happens physically.

➛ A touch on your shoulder, a nod, a look, a hold of your hand.

➛ If you're separated in the woods, he becomes very aware that grunting loudly for you may not work, which means he starts using other methods. Like visual signals, or a flashlight. Anything that guarantees you'll notice.

➛ The thing Jason hates most is seeing you get frustrated with yourself, because from his perspective you're fine. Nothing about you needs “fixing”.

➛ So whenever you start apologizing for asking people to repeat themselves, Jason just stares at you like you've said something ridiculous. Then immediately redirects your attention elsewhere.

➛ Conversation over.

➛ No self-criticism allowed.

Thomas Hewitt

➛ Thomas understands before you ever tell him.

➛ Not because he figures out the medical reason, but simply because he notices you struggle and that's enough for him to investigate.

➛ Once he realizes you're hard of hearing, he becomes incredibly careful.

➛ Thomas is already a quiet person, unable make any sounds other than grunts and whines, and unfortunately he's also huge.

➛ Which means he accidentally scares you all the time… At least initially.

➛ The first time he walks into a room and accidentally startles you? He feels awful. Absolutely awful.

➛ You spend the next ten minutes trying to reassure him.

➛ After that, he starts making sure you know he's nearby.

➛ Heavy footsteps, stomping all around the house, a gentle knock against a doorway that grows louder until you turn around, a big tap on the table… Anything to announce himself and not scare you.

➛ One thing Thomas absolutely loves is when you're resting against him because then you can feel him.

➛ His movements, his breathing, his heartbeat… Everything you normally can’t hear, now you can with your touch.

➛ Communication becomes easier and he loves having you close.

➛ It's a win-win situation.

Brahms Heelshire

➛ Brahms notices because you don't react when he expects and wants you to, which immediately catches his attention.

➛ He's observant when it comes to you, almost obsessively so. Well, totally obsessively if we’re being honest.

➛ Once he realizes you're hard of hearing, he becomes fascinated. Not in a rude way, just genuinely curious.

➛ He asks a lot of questions, probably too many, most of which you don’t get because it’s hard to hear every words since many of them are muffled by his porcelain mask…

➛ That’s what he does at first. Then, he starts adapting surprisingly fast.

➛ The biggest change? He becomes much more expressive.

➛ More gestures, more facial expressions that you rarely see and more physical communication.

➛ Which honestly suits him!

➛ The downside? If somebody tries to make fun of you for it, Brahms takes it very personally.

➛ You are now witnessing the emergence of an extremely offended wall man.

➛ Thankfully, you don’t see that many people, so it doesn’t happen that much, but it somehow always does when you do see someone.

➛ Even if the person didn’t do anything to offend you about it, he’ll still attack them and swear to you he saw them mocking you or be annoyed by it.

➛ Good luck…

Bo Sinclair

➛ The first thing Bo notices is that he has to repeat himself.

➛ Not constantly, but enough that he starts narrowing his eyes every time you answer a question wrong or flat out don’t even answer.

➛ At first he thinks you're ignoring him, then he thinks you're messing with him… Then he realizes you've genuinely misheard him three separate times.

➛ The realization hits him like a truck and out of nowhere, it clicked in his mind randomly 

➛ And suddenly, a lot of things make sense.

➛ Why you always preferred sitting on a certain side next to him, why you looked at his mouth whenever he spoke, why you got startled sometimes when he entered a room even thought he came in yelling…

➛ The moment he understands what's happening, he immediately becomes hyper-aware of it.

➛ Will he admit that? Absolutely not. Instead he'll start making sure he's facing you when he talks.

➛ Not because he's helping, but because "it's easier for him."

➛ Sure, Bo. Whatever helps you sleep at night.

➛ One thing that genuinely pisses him off is when other people get impatient with you. The second somebody starts doing the whole; “nevermind” thing after having to repeat themselves only once? 

➛ Bo is already irritated because now YOU look embarrassed. And he hates that.

➛ So suddenly he's snapping at them instead.

➛ "The hell's your problem? Just fuckin’ say it again!"

➛ He becomes surprisingly good at getting your attention without startling you, usually by tapping gently your back to turn you towards him or flicking a light switch quickly if there’s one.

➛ He learned to do it the nice way since the first time he accidentally scared the absolute life out of you by walking up behind you.

➛ He felt horrible.

➛ You never find that out, but he did. He even had a hard time sleeping because of it, kept cursing himself out while you were sleeping peacefully next to him.

➛ Bo is surprisingly patient and soft about it, even if it does frustrate him sometimes. Mostly because he’s scared of you not hearing danger coming, like a tourist escaping and trying to attack you to escape.

➛ But now he has an excuse so you never leave his side, so there’s one positive for him at least.

Vincent Sinclair

➛ Vincent notices almost immediately, mostly because Vincent notices everything.

➛ Tiny habits, patterns, how you unconsciously angle your better ear toward conversations with his brothers, the fact you watch people's mouths or the way your expression changes when you miss a word.

➛ He figures it out long before you tell him.

➛ When you finally explain it, his response is simply; ‘I know.’

➛ Unlike most people, Vincent never gets frustrated when he has to repeat himself, for obvious reasons.

➛ Communication difficulties are something he's lived with for most of his life before him and his family learned sign language, which was surprisingly late.

➛ If anything, he becomes the easiest person to talk to.

➛ He's incredibly patient, the patience of a Saint.

➛ Never makes you feel bad, never acts annoyed and never rushes you. He knows how it feels, and he never wants you to feel like that, especially not because of him.

➛ And if somebody starts talking over you because they assume you're not smart or trying to understand? Vincent immediately gets irritated.

➛ You can physically see it, even with his mask on. The glare alone could kill.

➛ Honestly, being with Vincent is probably one of the most comfortable relationships you could have.

➛ Half your conversations end up being nonverbal anyway, even if you take out the sign language.

➛ A look, a gesture, a touch, a scribbled note…

➛ Over time, you have invented your own little language through gestures that only the two of you understand.

➛ Sometimes entire conversations happen without a single spoken word, which is relaxing for the both of you.

➛ He doesn’t have to fight to be understood without being able to speak, and you don’t have to tire yourself trying to hear or read his lips.

➛ A match made in heaven !

Lester Sinclair

➛ Lester finds out because he accidentally spends twenty minutes telling you a story you only heard half of.

➛ And when he realizes, he feels SO bad.

➛ Not because you're hard of hearing, because now he's wondering how many times he's accidentally made things difficult for you.

➛ From now on, expect a lot of; "Can ya hear me alright from there?", "Need me ta repeat that?", "Hold on, lemme come closer!"

➛ He doesn't treat you differently, he just adjusts naturally.

➛ Honestly, after a while, he even stops even thinking about it.

➛ If he notices you're struggling to hear somebody, he'll casually repeat what they said straight into your hear without making a big deal about it or even thinking about it.

➛ The thing that bothers him most is when you apologize for it because Lester genuinely doesn't understand why you're apologizing.

➛ To him, repeating himself is such a tiny thing.

➛ So every time you say sorry, he looks confused.

➛ "For what? You can’t help it!"

➛ Nobody has made you feel like it was such a normal thing, so much so, he even manages to sometime make you completely forget about it!

➛ Out of habit, you even turn towards him every time you miss a word, which makes him feel all warm in his chest from pride.

Amanda's apartment feels heavier tonight, the air so thick that it presses in on you like a vice, pushing against your lungs with every breath, thick enough to choke on. You’ve been pacing so long that the carpet beneath your feet is warm, the same worn path traced over and over until your legs ache and your nerves feel raw. It seems like you’ve been doing so for hours, your footsteps, each one echoing the frantic beat of your heart, the only sounds you can hear. The single bulb overhead buzzes faintly, casting long shadows that dance across the peeling wallpaper like ghosts mocking your resolve. You glance at the clock on the wall; 2:17 AM. Amanda should be out until dawn, running whatever errand keeps her in the underbelly of the city, yet still, the uncertainty gnaws at you. What if she's early? What if she senses it, like she somehow always does? But you quickly reassure yourself; Amanda shouldn’t be home yet, she never is. And if she was, you would have heard her.

That knowledge is the only thing keeping you moving, the only thing keeping your hands from freezing as you crouch beside the bed and shove clothes into the duffel bag. Your fingers tremble so badly you fumble the zipper twice before it finally catches. You just stuffed in it the last of your essentials; a worn sweater which you forgot if it was yours or Amanda’s, your phone charger that's barely working anymore and that stupid little notebook you started months ago, filled with half-written plans, crossed-out bus routes and addresses you never had the courage to go to when an argument started to get too heated with Amanda. The weight of it all, the clothes, the memories, the regret, settles on your shoulders. Six months, that's how long you've been tangled in this web with her. Six months of stolen moments that quickly blurred into nightmares, of her touch that ignites fire and ice in equal measure. She's a drug, seeping into your veins until you can't tell where the high ends and the crash begins.

You pause by the window, wiping grime away with your sleeve just enough to peer outside at the empty street below. No sign of her silhouette and no flicker of headlights cutting through the fog. No shadow pacing back and forth like she sometimes does when she thinks you’re asleep. Freedom feels close enough to taste. You imagine the bus station, the hum of strangers oblivious to your turmoil, the fresh start you've daydreamed about in the quiet hours when she's asleep beside you with her breathing ragged from whatever demons chase her. But doubt creeps in, insidious and familiar. What if she finds you? What will she do to you? 

The bag slung over your shoulder as you turn toward the beaten down door, rusty keys jingling softly in your pocket. Your pulse thunders in your ears, drowning out the distant hum of traffic. One step, then another. Every instinct screams at you to move faster, but terror keeps you slow, cautious, like a prey that knows sudden movement means death. The doorknob is cool under your palm, you twist it slowly, holding your breath as if the sound alone could somehow summon her. Yet nothing. Thankfully nothing. Relief floods you while you ease the door open a crack, the hinges whispering a promise of escape. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, cold steel kisses your throat. The knife presses there, unyielding, the serrated edge dimpling your skin just enough to prickle with warning. Your breath catches, body freezing mid-motion. No footsteps, no creak of floorboards, no warning whatsoever. She's just... suddenly here. Her presence radiates behind you like heat from a furnace, her breath hot against your ear.

"Going somewhere baby?"

Amanda's voice is a low rasp, laced with that dangerous amusement that always precedes the storm. The blade doesn't waver, its tip tracing a feather-light line along your jugular, sending icy shivers cascading down your spine. The bag slips from your shoulder, thudding to the floor. Your heart hammers so fiercely you swear she can feel it through your back.

"Amanda! How—" you say, almost out of breath, voice cracking. "When did you—"

She chuckles, a sound that's equal parts silk and razor wire. Her free hand snakes around your waist, fingers splaying possessively over your stomach, pulling you flush against her. You feel the hard lines of her body mixed with the subtle tremor of restrained fury. 

"You really believe I wouldn't know?” The knife presses harder, a tiny bead of warmth blooming where it nicks your skin. “You reek of betrayal, pretty girl. You’ve been acting wrong all week.”

Tears burn your eyes, panic crashing through you. Yet, beneath it, that shameful, traitorous heat coils low in your belly, the spark slowly but surely igniting. The fear twists into something darker, warmer. You should scream, fight, run, but your body betrays you, leaning into her hold even as tears start to prick your eyes. 

"I can't! This isn't healthy! You're destroying me—"

"Destroying you?” She repeats as her lips brush your earlobe, teeth grazing the shell. “No, sweetheart, I'm remaking you. In my image." 

She spins you in place slowly until you're facing her, the knife never leaving your throat. Amanda's eyes burn in the dim light, dark and feral, her hair a wild tangle framing features sharpened by sleepless nights and unspoken torments. She's beautiful in her menace, a trap wrapped in temptation. You search her face for mercy, for the woman who sometimes whispers vulnerabilities in the dead of night, but tonight, there's only possession. 

"Please, let me go—"

"Begging already?” Her smirk widens, predatory. “We haven't even started!" 

With a swift motion, she kicks the door shut behind you, the lock clicking loudly like a death sentence. The knife trails down, hooking under the collar of your shirt, slicing through the fabric with deliberate slowness. Threads part, exposing the rapid rise and fall of your chest. She watches, transfixed, as your pulse flutters visibly.

"Strip." she commands, stepping back just enough to give you space but not enough to escape. 

The blade hovers, a silent threat as your fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt, peeling it off inch by inch under her gaze. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps, but it's her eyes that make you shiver, hungry and unblinking. Jeans next, shimmying them down your hips, stepping out until you're in nothing but underwear, vulnerable and exposed. She circles you like a hunter with it’s prey, the knife's flat side gliding along your arm, your side, mapping what she claims as hers.

"On your knees."

You sink down in a second, the carpet rough against your bare skin, knees protesting, sending a dull ache radiating upward as you settle into position. She's closer now, towering over you, her scent, a mix of sweat, metal, and something else faintly metallic, like old dried blood, enveloping you. She grabs your chin harshly, forcing your gaze upward to meet hers, the knife now resting against your cheek.

"You really thought you could leave? After I gave you everything?"

"It's not—" 

The denial dies as she slices a shallow line across your collarbone, blood welling up in a thin crimson trail. The sting is sharp, immediate, but despite yourself, it blooms into a throbbing heat that pools between your thighs. Amanda's thumb swipes through the blood, bringing it to her lips. She sucks it clean, eyes fluttering shut for a moment in bliss.

"Delicious." Her other hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat fully. The knife follows, pressing just enough to draw another droplet. “Your fear makes it sweeter.”

The knife bears down to coax yet another trail of blood, which she watches with rapt fascination. She bends down, her mouth hovering over the fresh incision, her exhales teasing the raw edges. Then her tongue emerges, flat and insistent, laving the wound with languid strokes that blend the metallic bite with slick heat. You gasp sharply, the dual assault of pain and pleasure rocketing straight to your center, where dampness gathers unbidden, soaking through fabric. Your thighs clench instinctively, a futile attempt to quell the rising tide. Her breath fans the wound as her tongue darts out again, lapping at the last remaining of blood slowly. You gasp, the wet heat contrasting the bite of pain, sending jolts straight to your core. Your panties grow damp, arousal betraying your terror.

"Look at you, soaking for the blade…" she murmurs against your skin, licking a path up to your jaw. "You crave this as much as I do." 

Her fingers venture lower, batting your bra aside to capture a nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it harshly before twisting with calculated cruelty. You whimper, the sound involuntary, as sparks of agony shoot through your breast. The knife dances lower, scoring a faint line across your breast, blood beading like rubies. She straightens, unbuttoning her pants with casual efficiency, revealing the harness already buckled on, thick, black silicone jutting out, ready. But she doesn't rush, she savors the anticipation, no haste in her movements. Instead, she hauls you up by the hair, the pull sending fresh tears to your eyes, marching you backward until your calves hit the edge of the sagging couch. You tumble onto the worn cushions, springs groaning in protest, and she's on you in an instant, straddling your hips, knees bracketing your hips, the knife pinning one of your wrists overhead against the armrest. Her mouth crashes down on yours, a savage plunder that leaves no room for gentleness as your teeth clash, her bite sinking into your lower lip until it splits open, making you hiss in pain as blood floods the kiss with its coppery warmth. She devours you, tongue thrusting deep to plunder every crevice of your mouth, chasing the mingled flavors with greedy swirls. Despite yourself, your previous desperate need to escape her, you respond, lips parting wider, hands rising to clutch at her shoulders, nails raking her skin. She kisses like she's devouring you, tongue plunging deep, chasing the coppery tang again and again, like a drug. Suddenly breaking away, chest heaving, she drags the blade down your sternum, the tip nicking skin here and there, leaving a constellation of shallow cuts. Blood trickles, warm rivulets painting your torso. 

"You’re mine." she growls, smearing it across your abdomen with her palm. "Say it, tell me you're mine."

Her unoccupied hand plunges between your thighs, palm grinding against your core through the sodden barrier, the pressure eliciting an involuntary buck of your hips.

"I'm yours!" you choke out, the admission unlocking something feral in her.

She rewards you by ripping your panties away, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip. Two fingers thrust inside you without preamble, rough and deep, curling to hit that sensitive spot. You arch off the couch, a harsh moan mixed with a pained goran escaping as she pumps them in and out, the squelch of your arousal obscene in the quiet room. The knife traces patterns on your thigh, pressing harder, drawing a longer cut that makes you hiss. The blade then etches idle designs on your inner thigh, then commits with a firmer press, carving an elongated gash that draws a hiss from your lips, the burn amplifying every thrust. Blood drips onto the cushions, staining them dark while Amanda pulls her fingers free, slick with your juices, and brings them to your mouth.  

"Taste how much you want this." 

You comply, tongue swirling around her fingers, the blend of your tang and the faint iron flooding your mouth, senses overwhelmed. She observes with dilated eyes, breath quickening, before bending to tend the new wound on your thigh, tongue delving into the cut, probing gently before ascending to your folds. She watches, pupils blown wide, then leans down to lap at the fresh cut on your thigh, her tongue probing the wound before sliding higher. Her mouth finds your folds as she goes lower, tongue delving in with voracious hunger. She eats you out like a woman possessed, lips sucking your clit, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on pain. Fingers return before you have time to savour the feeling of her tongue, three now, stretching you wide, thrusting in time with her licks as her knuckles brush your clit on every inward drive. The knife rests on your hip, a constant reminder for you, its handle digging into your flesh. You writhe, hands fisting the cushions, pleasure coiling tight. You continue to thrash beneath her, knuckles whitening as ecstasy winds tighter, coiling like a spring on the verge of snap. But she stops abruptly, rising up with a wicked grin, blood and your slick smeared on her chin. 

"Not yet. I want you begging properly."

With a rough shove, she rolls you onto your belly, hauling your hips aloft until you're braced on hands and knees, on all fours, ass presented like an offering. The knife trails down the arch of your spine, chilling you, before slicing a harsh line just above your tailbone. Blood trickles down your ass as she spreads your cheeks, spitting on your entrance before shoving her fingers back in, this time angling for your ass, one finger breaching the tight ring. You cry out, the burn intense, but she soothes it with her tongue on your pussy from behind, alternating between lapping blood and flicking your clit.

“You taste so much better when you’re scared baby…” she murmurs, adding a second finger to your ass, scissoring slowly. 

The onslaught of sensations, fiery intrusion behind, wet heat before, merges pain into pure pleasure, your body betraying you as you rock backward, seeking deeper invasion.

"Fuck me!" you plead, voice muffled against the couch. "Please, Amanda, take me, make it hurt so good—"

Her laughter rumbles, victorious and throaty. The fingers slip free, supplanted by the strap's broad tip nudging your pussy lips. She slicks it with the blood from your back, the warmth making it glide as she thrusts in, hard, deep, bottoming out in one brutal stroke. You scream, the fullness and lack of real lub bordering on too much pain, but she sets a punishing rhythm immediately, hips slamming forward. Another scream tears from your lungs, the girth teetering on overload, stretching you to your limits. One hand grips your hair, pulling your head back while the other wields the knife, carving shallow initials into your shoulder; A.Y., each letter a stab of agony that heightens the ecstasy.

"Feel that?" she pants, pounding relentlessly, the strap grinding deep. "That's to know who’s property you are." 

Blood slicks the way, easing the friction, turning each thrust into a wet, messy slide. She reaches around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles that make your vision blur. The build is merciless, your body tensing, walls fluttering around the silicone. She sees it as she drapes her body over yours, teeth latching onto the bleeding script on your shoulder, drawing more blood with deep sucks while her thrusts grow wild, stuttering and frenzied. 

"Cum for me. Prove you can't walk away from this, from me.”

Her words hit like lightning, orgasm ripping through you, pussy clenching hard as you gush around her. She fucks you through it, drawing out every spasm until you're a trembling mess, sobs mixing with moans. And yet, she's not done. Pulling out, she flips you again, straddling your neck before you even have a second to catch your breath. 

"Clean it." she orders, lowering the blood-smeared strap to your lips. 

You lick obediently with ragged breath, tasting yourself mingled with copper, flavors of cum and blood mingling on your palate, while she grinds against your mouth indirectly, her own fingers working her clit. When she's close, she shifts a little higher, planting her pussy on your tongue instead. You devour her without hesitation, thrusting deep into her, sucking her folds as she rides your face. Her hands brace on the arm rest of the couch above your head, knife forgotten for a moment as she chases her release, thighs quivering. She comes with a guttural cry, flooding your mouth, grinding down until you're gasping for air. Collapsing beside you, she pulls you close, knife tracing idle patterns on your arm, not cutting now, just reminding you of its presence.

"Don't ever try that again." she whispers, kissing the deepest wound on your throat. 

Thomas Hewitt

➛ Thomas hears you before he sees you.

➛ The door creaks open, heavier than usual, and your steps aren’t right, too slow, uneven, like you’re dragging something invisible behind you. 

➛ He’s already turning, before you even come into the room.

➛ And then he sees your face; red eyes, wet cheeks and lips pressed tight like you’re trying not to fall apart again.

➛ Thomas freezes as something deep in his chest twists hard.

➛ He steps toward you immediately, heavy boots thudding against the floor, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them. A low, worried sound escapes him, rough.

➛ You try to brush it off. “It’s nothing—”

➛ But your voice cracks and that’s it, it’s all it takes for Tommy to close the distance in two long steps and pulls you into him.

➛ It’s sudden but tight and protective.

➛ One arm wraps around your shoulders, the other presses firmly against your back, pulling you fully against his chest like he’s trying to shield you from the entire world. His mask presses into the top of your head as you can feel his uneven breathing.

➛ You don’t even realize when you start crying harder.

➛ He doesn’t let go. Not for a second.

➛ His hand moves up, big and careful, cradling the back of your head as he presses you closer, like if he holds you tight enough, nothing can touch you again. 

➛ He rocks you slightly, awkwardly, but still so lovingly, letting out soft, distressed sounds each time your shoulders shake.

➛ When you finally manage to get the words out about why your crying; what they said, how they looked at you, how it made you feel, Thomas goes still. Completely still.

➛ The air around the two of you shifts.

➛ His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough that you feel the anger and the protectiveness mixed with the terrifying promise behind it.

➛ A low, guttural sound rumbles from his chest. Not at you, never at you, but at them.

➛ His hand moves to your face then, clumsy but gentle, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him. His thumb brushes clumsily at your tears, smearing them away like he’s frustrated they’re even there.

➛ You can’t see his expression, but you don’t need to to know exactly what it looks like.

➛ You’re his. And there is nothing wrong with you that deserves to make you feel this bad about yourself.

➛ Thomas presses his forehead against yours, the leather of his mask warm from his skin. He lets out a softer sound this time, almost soothing, almost a hum.

➛ Then he pulls you back into his chest again, somehow even tighter yet safer.

➛ He doesn’t have the words to explain gender, or identity, or the weight of what you carry. But he understands one thing perfectly; you’re his man.

➛ And anyone who makes you cry for that won’t get the chance to do it again.

Bo Sinclair 

➛ Bo notices something’s off the second you walk in.

➛ You don’t slam the door like usual, don’t call out for him and your steps are too quiet, too careful, as if you’re trying to not to be seen.

➛ That alone puts him on edge.

➛ “‘Bout time you—” He cuts himself off when he finally looks at you. “…The hell happened to you?”

➛ His tone isn’t gentle. It’s sharp as usual, if you didn’t know him you would even think it was aggressive, but there’s something underneath it the moment he sees your face.

➛ Your eyes are red, your expression tight, like you’re barely holding it together.

➛ Bo straightens immediately while you try to brush past him. 

➛ “It’s nothing, I’m just—”

➛ Your voice cracks and Bo’s entire demeanor shifts the second he hears it.

➛ He grabs your arm, not roughly, but firmly enough to stop you. His grip loosens almost instantly when he sees you flinch, but he doesn’t let you go.

➛ “What happened?” he asks again, lower this time. Serious.

➛ You hesitate, and that’s what sets him off.

“Don’t give me that ‘nothin’’ crap! You come in here lookin’ like that and you think I ain’t gonna notice?”

➛ You finally break, almost before he even finishes his sentence.

➛ The words spill out messily; what one of the tourist said to you this morning, the looks, the way their friends laughed, how it stuck under your skin no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

➛ And the second Bo understands? He goes dead quiet. No jokes, no attitude, just silence.

➛ “They said that to you?” And you nod in answer, wiping at your face like you hate that you’re crying in front of him.

➛ Bo swears under his breath, pacing once like he’s trying to burn off the anger crawling under his skin.

➛ “Bunch of damn morons… Think they real funny, huh?”

➛ You sniff, looking down. “It’s stupid, I shouldn’t even—”

➛ He’s in front of you again in a second. Bo grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

➛ “Don’t. Don’t you start that shit.”

➛ His thumb brushes roughly at the tear on your cheek, like he’s annoyed it’s even there.

➛ “Ain’t nothin’ stupid about bein’ pissed when someone disrespects you.”

➛ His eyes scan your face, softer now, but still intense. “You hear me?”

➛ You nod weakly, making Bo exhale, running a hand through his hair before suddenly pulling you into him after a hot second.

➛ It’s not as gentle as most boyfriend would be when comforting their boyfriend. It’s tighter and more possessive than it should. 

➛ One arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you solidly against his chest while the other presses against your back. You can feel how tense he is.

➛ “How many?” he asks suddenly.

➛ You frown, looking up at him as best as you can with how tightly he’s holding you, managing to get out a weak, confused ‘what’ through your sobs.

➛ “How many of ‘em were laughin’?”

➛ Your stomach drops a little at the tone. 

➛ “I hope it’s not the ones who’re already dead.”

➛ He doesn’t push further, but the message is clear. He wants names.

➛ Instead, he just holds you there, grip tightening slightly when you sniff again.

➛ “Listen to me darlin’, I don’t give a damn what they think. They don’t know you, don’t know a single damn thing about you.”

➛ His hand comes up, pressing against the back of your head, keeping you close.

➛ “You’re my boy, alright?” he says, quieter now. “Ain’t nobody gonna tell me different.”

➛ There’s something fierce in it, certain. Possessive, yeah, it’s Bo, but also grounding. Like he’s anchoring you back into yourself.

➛ You feel him relax just slightly when your breathing starts to even out. But the anger? It doesn’t go away.

➛ Later that night, Bo’s still tense. Quieter than usual and watching you more closely.

➛ And if you catch him staring off into space, jaw tight, eyes dark, you know he’s still thinking about it. About them, about what they said, and whether or not they’ll ever get the chance to say it again.

Vincent Sinclair 

➛ Vincent knows something’s wrong the moment he looks at you but feels somethings weird before he even does.

➛ He hears the door to his room open, the pause, then the way your footsteps drag just slightly against the floor.

➛ When he looks up and sees your face, everything in him stills.

➛ Your eyes are red and your expression tight, like you’re holding everything in by force alone.

➛ Vincent straightens slowly as you try to look away while trying to move past him.

➛ “I’m fine, just tired.” you mumble, sniffling.

➛ Vincent doesn’t believe you for a second.

➛ He sets his tools down quietly, wiping his hands on a cloth as he approaches you. His movements are slow and careful, giving you space to pull away.

➛ You don’t. So, he reaches out, gently taking your wrist and rubbing circles on them with his thumbs.

➛ When you still won’t look at him, his other hand lifts, hesitating for half a second before softly tilting your chin up.

➛ Your eyes meet his and that’s all it takes for you as your face crumples, tears flowing.

➛ Vincent’s expression immediately softens somehow even more, concern flooding through him. 

➛ His hands move without hesitation now; one wrapping around your back, the other cradling your head as he pulls you into him.

➛ You break against his chest. He holds you close, firm, but so gentle it almost hurts.

➛ One hand presses between your shoulder blades, steady and grounding, while the other slides into your hair, fingers threading through it slowly. He rocks you just slightly, a quiet, instinctive motion.

➛ No words, just presence, just him.

➛ When you start trying to explain, voice shaking and uneven, you feel him still for a moment as he listens. Really listens.

➛ And as the words come out, of what they called you, how they looked at you, how it made you feel like you had to shrink in yourself, Vincent’s hold tightens before he pulls back slightly, just enough to see your face.

➛ His thumbs brush under your eyes, wiping away tears carefully, like they shouldn’t be there in the first place, then he signs as he gently lets go of you after a quick rub up and down of your shaking arms.

➛ “They are wrong.”

➛ His eye doesn’t waver from yours for a second as he lifts one hand, resting it gently over your chest, then points to you.

➛ “You.” A pause. “My boyfriend.”

➛ His hand lingers there, over your heart, like he’s anchoring the words into you.

➛ His expression softens even more, something warm and certain in his eyes as he signs again, slower this time.

➛ “I see you.”

➛ No hesitation and no doubt. Simply you, exactly as you are.

➛ Vincent leans forward then, pressing his forehead gently against yours. His eye close for a brief moment, like he’s grounding himself to stay calm and not let his twin’s anger take hold of him.

➛ Then he pulls you back into his arms and he doesn’t let go until you do.

➛ Not when your crying slows, not when your breathing evens out, not even when you try to pull away slightly as you say sorry for wetting his shirt.

➛ His grip tightens just a little, a silent ‘stay.’

➛ Later, when you’ve freed yourself of his hold, he still keeps you close.

➛ Sitting beside you, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow, repetitive patterns against your arm. 

➛ Every so often, he glances at you, his way of checking, making sure you’re still okay.

➛ And if your expression drops again, even slightly,  his hand finds yours immediately.

➛ Because with Vincent, you don’t need them to understand; you are his boyfriend, and he sees you, simply because he loves what he keeps seeing.

Lester Sinclair

➛ Lester notices right away. Not in an observant way like Vincent, more like… instinct.

➛ Something feels off the second you walk in.

➛ “Hey, you’re back!” he starts, turning toward you with that usual easy smile but it drops immediately as he realises his instinct was right. “Baby?”

➛ You look like you’ve been trying not to cry for a while… and failing.

➛ Your eyes are red, your face tense, like you’re holding everything together with thread. Lester straightens up fast.

➛ “What’s wrong? You okay?”

➛ You shake your head a little, trying to brush it off. “Yeah, I’m fine, it’s just—”

➛ Your voice breaks and Lester freezes for half a second. Then he’s right in front of you as you almost jump, not expecting him to suddenly be so close to you.

➛ “Okay, no, you are not fine. C’mere.”

➛ He doesn’t wait long, just gently pulls you into a hug, arms wrapping around you in a way that’s a little clumsy but warm. One hand comes up to the back of your head, pressing you lightly into his shoulder.

➛ “Hey, hey, it’s okay…” he murmurs, rubbing your back in slow circles.

➛ You try to talk, but it all comes out messy and broken. The words mixing together of what they said, how they laughed, the way it made your chest feel tight and wrong.

➛ Lester goes quiet. Really quiet. Too quiet for Lester.

➛ “…they said what?” 

➛ You nod, wiping at your face, embarrassed. “Sorry, I just—”

➛ “Hey, no, don’t! Don’t apologize! You ain’t done nothin’ wrong sweetheart.”

➛ His arms tighten around you a little. “People just suck sometimes. Don’t know what they’re talkin’ about half the time.”

➛ He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still on your shoulders. There’s no judgment there, just concern.

➛ “Listen, you’re you, alright? ” he continues, somehow even softer now. “That ain’t somethin’ they get a say in.”

➛ His thumb brushes awkwardly at your cheek, wiping away a tear.

➛ “And for the record? You’re my boyfriend. Ain’t nobody gonna convince me otherwise.”

➛ It’s simple. Casual, even, but it lands.

➛ He pulls you back into a hug right after, like he doesn’t want you drifting too far from him. “C’mon. Let’s sit down, yeah?”

➛ He keeps an arm around you as he guides you over, not letting go once.

➛ Later, Lester sticks close. Like, really close.

➛ He keeps checking in without making a big deal out of it, by offering you something to drink, nudging you lightly and making small jokes just to keep you grounded.

➛ And every time you get quiet or seem like you’re slipping back into your head, he bumps his shoulder against yours gently.

➛ A silent ‘hey, I’m here. You’ne not alone.’

➛ Because Lester might not always know the perfect thing to say, but he makes sure you never feel alone long enough for those words to stick.

Amanda Young

➛ Amanda knows the second she sees you. She’s so used to seeing people in despair, she can almost smell it now.

➛ She doesn’t ask right away, doesn’t rush you, she just watches.

➛ You walk in too quiet, shoulders tense, eyes avoiding hers, and she’s already putting the pieces together. By the time you try to pass her with a muttered ‘I’m fine’, she’s not buying it for a second.

➛ “Come here.” she calls, voice low, but you keep walking. Big mistake.

➛ Amanda stands up fast, crossing the space between you in a few steps. She doesn’t grab you hard, but her hand closes around your wrist just enough to stop you dead in your track.

➛ “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out.”

➛ You try again. “It’s nothing, I just—”

➛ Your voice cracks, making Amanda’s expression shift instantly.

➛ The tension in her shoulders drops, her grip loosens, and before you can turn away again, she pulls you into her.

➛ “I got you.” she murmurs, one hand coming up to the back of your head, pressing you into her shoulder. 

➛ That’s all it takes for you break completely.

➛ The words come out messy, telling her what they said, the way they looked at you, how it made something old and ugly crawl back under your skin. That feeling of being seen as wrong, of being reduced to something bad simply for being.

➛ Amanda goes very still as she listens. “I know that feeling.”

➛ She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to fix it right away. She just holds you while you cry, one hand rubbing slow circles against your back, grounding, steady. 

➛ Her chin rests lightly against your head, and you can feel the tension in her jaw.

➛ When you finally start to quiet down, she pulls back just enough to look at you.

➛ Her hands come up to your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes, wiping away the tears like it matters, because you matter.

➛ “Look at me.”

➛ You hesitate, but still, you do. There’s nothing but certainty in her expression.

“You’re my boyfriend.” she says. No hesitation and no doubt. “And there’s nothing wrong with you being my boyfriend. Not one thing.”

➛ Her voice is steady, but there’s something fierce underneath it.

➛ “If anyone’s got a problem with that, that’s on them.”

➛ She presses her forehead lightly against yours for a second, grounding both of you.

➛ Then she pulls you back into her arms again, slower this time, letting you settle into her instead of holding you too tight.

➛ “You don’t have to deal with that alone, not anymore.”

➛ She sits beside you, shoulder pressed against yours, one arm loosely draped around your waist. Every so often, her fingers trace small, absent patterns against your side, something grounding, repetitive.

➛ If you go quiet too long, she nudges you gently. “Stay with me.”

➛ And if your thoughts start slipping back to what happened, she’s right there to pull you out of it.

➛ Because Amanda doesn’t just comfort you, she understands, and she refuses to let anyone make you feel like that.

Jason Voorhees

➛ At first Jason thinks you’re just overwhelmed.

➛ You’d gone quiet in his arms, body slack against him, breathing uneven.

➛ He pauses immediately when really notices just how still you are, tilting his head. Something feels wrong.

➛ Then your head falls back slightly. And that makes Jason freezes.

➛ He gently shakes your shoulder once, then again, a little more urgently. 

➛ When you don’t respond, a low distressed sound leaves him. Panic floods through him in a way that feels overwhelming and he quickly ends up in a straight up panic.

➛ He lifts you instantly, getting out of you as he does, carefully laying you back on the bed as one of his huge hands cups your face while the other presses lightly against your chest, feeling your breathing and heartbeat.

➛ You’re still breathing. Relief hits him so hard his shoulders sag.

➛ Jason sits beside you, one hand holding yours the entire time, thumb rubbing slow circles against your skin as he waits for you to wake up. His face tilts down toward you constantly, watching every small movement.

➛ When your eyes finally flutter open, he leans in close immediately while whining, his way of asking you what happened and if you’re ok.

➛ His hand presses gently to your cheek, almost scolding but mostly relieved as you tell him it was just from pleasure, that you felt so good your brain just… stopped.

➛ It doesn’t make him proud at all. He feels HORRIFIED.

➛ After that night, Jason becomes much more careful, much slower and he never lets go of you for a long time afterward.

➛ With how big and strong he is, he always got scared during sex that he’ll accidentally hurt you, especially when he got a little careless with how good you made him feel. 

➛ This makes the fear even worse for a few months after this incident.

Brahms Heelshire

➛ Brahms panics instantly.

➛ One moment you’re in his arms, breath hitching, clinging to him, the next your body suddenly goes limp under him.

➛ He pulls back, eyes wide, shaking your shoulders lightly. 

➛ “Hey! hey, look at me.”

➛ Nothing.

➛ Fear grips him so tightly it almost feels like anger. His hands tremble as he pulls you closer, still inside you, pressing his ear near your mouth just to hear your breathing.

➛ When he hears it, shaky but steady, he exhales sharply.

➛ “You scared me!”

➛ Brahms pulls you against his chest and stays there, rocking you gently while waiting for you to come back to your senses. 

➛ His fingers stroke your hair over and over again, nervous, repetitive as he keeps telling you to wake up.

➛ When you finally stir, he grabs your face with both hands immediately.

➛ “Don’t do that again!” is the first thing he tells you as you come back to life, confused.

➛ Afterward he refuses to leave your side, hovering anxiously and checking on you constantly.

➛ But once you explain to him that you passed out from pleasure, he completely shifts and it’s now his life mission to make you faint again during sex.

Thomas Hewitt

➛ Thomas notices a few seconds after you've passed out, too taken by what's happening.

➛ He feels the moment your weight changes in his arms, your body suddenly going completely slack makes his entire body go rigid.

➛ He pulls back quickly, getting out of you without an ounce of hesitation, confused at first. 

➛ When you don’t respond to his grunts, a deep worried sound rumbles from his throat.

➛ Thomas gently lowers you onto the mattress, big hands hovering like he’s afraid to hurt you. He taps your cheek lightly.

➛ His breathing becomes heavy with worry as he presses his ear close to your chest, listening carefully. The moment he hears your heartbeat, he exhales sharply in relief.

➛ Thomas stays beside you the entire time, one hand gripping yours tightly, soft grunts coming out in hopes one of them will make you come back.

➛ When you finally wake up, the first thing you see is him leaning over you anxiously, fussing.

➛ He pulls you into a hug immediately, crushing but careful, burying his face in your shoulder like he needs to reassure himself that you’re okay.

➛ After that, Thomas becomes incredibly attentive, always watching you closely to make sure you’re alright.

➛ When you explain to him why you passed out, he’s shocked. It does stroke his ego a bit, but his lack of confidence convinces him that you’re lying and that he hurt you so badly, you passed out. He becomes sure of it, since he saw multiple people pass out from pain because of him.

➛ You have to remind him that he was making love to you, not scalping your skin off your body, so it isn’t a good argument, but he still won’t listen.

Bo Sinclair

➛ Bo notices something’s wrong fast.

➛ You’d been clinging to him, breath hitching, then suddenly your head rolls back and your grip loosens.

➛ “Already tired baby?

➛ He stops immediately when you let go of him completely, body limp. And when you don’t answer to him calling your name, his expression shifts from cocky confidence to full panic in seconds.

➛ “What the fuck you doin’?!”

➛ He shakes your shoulder once, then a second one after less than a second, sharper this time. When your head lolls, Bo swears under his breath and quickly lays you back on the bed, getting out of you.

➛ His hand presses to your neck to check your pulse. When he feels it, he exhales hard.

➛ “Jesus Christ, darlin’, don’t scare me like that…”

➛ Bo stays close, leaning over you with one hand resting firmly on your stomach as if grounding himself. 

➛ When you wake up, he looks more annoyed than worried, but the way he grabs your face and checks your eyes gives him away.

➛ “You passin’ out on me now?”

➛ But later that night he keeps a much closer eye on you than usual.

➛ When you laugh it off and he gets angry at your reaction, you quickly tell him you just fainted because of the overwhelming pleasure you were feeling.

➛ Of course, he does get extremely cocky about it, often bringing it up after that by saying stuff like “remember when I fucked you so good you passed out?”

➛ But! You can still see him get a little worried when you close your eyes or stop making sounds for too long during sex after that.

Vincent Sinclair

➛ Vincent immediately senses something’s off when he notices you going quieter as he slows down inside you. 

➛ He even notices you are about to pass out before you even do, his attention mostly only on your pleasure during sex rather than his own.

➛ When your body suddenly goes completely limp in his arms, his entire attitude shifts.

➛ He grunts, stopping almost the same second as you pass out. No answer.

➛ Vincent quickly helps you lie down properly, brushing hair away from your face with careful hands while he puts you under the covers. 

➛ His whimpers become soft and urgent.

➛ When you still don’t respond, he presses his fingers lightly to your wrist, then your neck while he puts his ear to your mouth, his other hand going above your heart.

➛ Everything’s working. Relief floods his entire body but the fear still doesn’t leave him completely.

➛ Vincent stays beside you, one hand resting gently over yours while the other strokes your hair soothingly. 

➛ When you finally wake up, he sits up, looking intensely at you as his hands gets surprisingly even softer while he touches you reassuringly. He waits for you to open your eyes fully, getting a hold of your surroundings before signing to you.

➛ “Do you feel ok? Need water?”

➛ He helps you sit up slowly, making sure you’re steady before letting you move. The rest of the night is spent quietly with him holding you close, refusing to rush anything. 

➛ You try to explain that you passed out from pleasure, but he acts as if he hears nothing, just telling you to rest.

➛ You think it’s because he doesn’t believe, or liked that explanation more than he would ever admit.

Lester Sinclair

➛ Lester is the most visibly panicked.

➛ You go limp suddenly and he immediately pulls back in confusion.

➛ “…uh, babe?”

➛ When you don’t respond he panics.

➛ “Whoa! Hey! You there?!”

➛ He quickly lays you down fully on your back and starts tapping your cheek nervously, and gently. Lester leans close to your face, checking your breathing with wide eyes.

➛ “Oh thank God…” he mutters when he realizes you’re still breathing, burying his face in his hand for a second.

➛ He sits beside you anxiously, rubbing your arm while waiting for you to wake up.

➛ The moment you stir he lets out a huge sigh of relief.

➛ “Thought I broke you or somethin’!” 

➛ He laughs nervously for a hot minute as you come back to your senses, his reaction making you even more confused on what happened before you realize.

➛ He spends the rest of the night hovering around you like an anxious puppy.

➛ When you later explain what actually happened and the cause for you fainting, Lester goes completely red like you’ve never seen him.

➛ He blinks at you like he’s trying to process the words and make them make sense.

➛ “You passed out ‘cause it felt too good?”

➛ He scratches the back of his neck, half embarrassed and half proud.

➛ “Well, uh, that’s a first.”

➛ He laughs awkwardly but keeps glancing at you to make sure you’re serious and not just trying to reassure him.

➛ After that, Lester becomes a lot more careful during intimacy. He constantly checks in verbally.

➛ “You good?” “You still with me?” “Don’t go faintin’ on me again now.”

➛ But secretly? The fact that you trusted him enough to be that vulnerable and confess this to him makes him softer with you than ever.

Amanda Young

➛ Amanda reacts fast. The moment she feels your body go slack, she stops everything.

➛ She catches you before you fall and gently lowers you down.

➛ Her voice is calm but her eyes are sharp with concern as she checks your breathing.

➛ When she realizes you’ve simply fainted, she sighs in relief.

➛ Amanda sits beside you, brushing your hair away from your face and waiting patiently, your back against her chest.

➛ When you wake up, she gives you a small smirk.

➛ “Guess I was doing something right.”

➛ But after that she makes sure you drink water and rest, staying close beside you with a protective arm around your shoulders.

➛ When you tell her later that you fainted because of pleasure, Amanda actually goes quiet for a moment.

➛ “…Seriously?”

➛ Her eyebrow raises slightly, half amused, half intrigued. Sure she joked about it once you woke up, so you assumed she guessed it herself, but you quickly realize she was only joking.

➛ Then a crooked grin slowly spreads across her face as you confess it, suddenly feeling shy while she starts to feel you up.

➛ After that incident Amanda becomes more attentive during intimacy despite the go boost it gave her. 

➛ She watches your reactions even more closely, making sure you’re still responsive and still conscious.

➛ But there’s also a spark of pride there.

➛ If you get close to that point again she’ll slow things down deliberately, whispering mocking reassurances while making sure you’re really okay the entire time.

Mark Hoffman

➛ Mark notices something is wrong almost instantly.

➛ Years of police work trained him to read bodies, breathing patterns and the subtle signs that something isn’t right.

➛ So when your body suddenly slackens against him and your head tips back, he stops immediately.

➛ “You good?”

➛ No response.

➛ His expression hardens in a split second. Not angry, focused. He moves fast, catching you before you slide too far and easing you down onto the mattress.

➛ “Hey. Look at me.”

➛ Still nothing.

➛ Mark’s hand goes to your throat automatically, fingers pressing lightly against your pulse point. His other hand taps your cheek once, firm but not rough.

➛ The moment he feels your pulse, his shoulders loosen just slightly. Still, his voice lowers when he calls your name again.

➛ When you finally stir, he exhales through his nose and leans back slightly, watching you carefully.

➛ “You just blacked out on me.”

➛ It’s said flatly, but the way he stays right there beside you, hands still holding you gently, eyes scanning your face for signs of dizziness, makes it clear he’s still assessing you and worried.

➛ After he’s made you drink a glass of water, sit down with two cushions and a little test to see if you really were good,  you sheepishly admit to him that you passed out from pleasure.

➛ After a very long minute in which Mark just stares at you, he finally responds.

➛ “…you’re kidding.”

➛ When you shake your head that no, you are in fact not kidding, he huffs out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

➛ “Well that's good news.”

➛ He shakes his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to process the information.

➛ But from then on, Hoffman becomes very deliberate during intimacy. 

➛ He keeps a close eye on your breathing and reactions, slowing down the second you start looking overwhelmed. If you start drifting too far again, he stops immediately.

➛ “Stay with me, I’m not done.” he mutters once, tapping your cheek lightly.

➛ It’s not teasing, it’s a quiet warning.

➛ Because the idea of you losing consciousness like that again, even if it wasn’t dangerous, clearly rattled him more than he wants to admit.

➛ Also got him hornier than he would like to admit.

Pinhead

➛ Pinhead notices a little late to be honest.

➛ But, once he does, he lowers you carefully, almost reverently, placing you down with a gentleness that contrasts his imposing presence.

➛ His large hand hovers over your face as he studies your breathing.

➛ When you wake up, his thumb brushes away the faint sweat on your temple.

➛ “You must not push yourself so far, beloved.” 

➛ He stays with you afterward, holding you close while your breathing steadies again.

➛ When you later confess the real reason you fainted, Pinhead studies you with a slow, thoughtful expression, as if he already knew but still needed to hear you say it.

➛ “Pleasure alone caused this?” His voice lowers slightly. “There is no shame in surrendering to such sensation.”

➛ Rather than embarrassment, he treats the moment almost reverently.

➛ Afterward, during intimacy, Pinhead becomes even more attentive and controlled.

➛ He constantly watches your face for signs of overwhelm.

➛ He won’t try to not make you faint, but he will be more cautious of it so that you won’t hurt yourself by falling or knocking your head against something.

➛ If you begin drifting too far again, he stops immediately, grounding you with his voice.

➛ “Stay with me.” 

➛ Your well being will always matter more than the moment.

Asa Emory

➛ Asa doesn’t react the way most people would.

➛ When your body suddenly goes limp, he pauses, not in panic, but in curiosity.

➛ He tilts his head slightly as he watches you slump against him, studying the sudden change in your breathing and muscle tension.

➛ Still, he carefully lowers you down onto the surface beneath you. His movements are calm and controlled, like he’s handling something delicate rather than fragile.

➛ Asa crouches beside you, adjusting his mask slightly as he observes.

➛ He checks your pulse with precise fingers. Steady. Your breathing remains consistent as well.

➛ So instead of alarm, what appears on his face is thoughtful fascination.

➛ “Your nervous system simply overloaded.” he murmurs to himself.

➛ When you wake up a minute later, blinking in confusion, Asa is sitting beside you with his arms loosely crossed, watching you like a scientist observing a rare reaction.

➛ When you quickly admit that it happened because it felt too good, Asa doesn’t react at all until he smiles faintly.

➛ He doesn’t tease you about it. Instead, he seems… intrigued.

➛ After that incident, Asa becomes very observant during intimacy. Not anxious, but analytical.

➛ He studies the changes in your breathing, the tension in your muscles, the way your pupils react. 

➛ If you begin getting close to that same point again, he slows down slightly, curious about how far your body can go before reaching that threshold.

➛ But unlike the others, his main focus isn’t pride or worry, it’s fascination.

➛ “You’re remarkably responsive.” he murmured once, almost thoughtfully.

➛ Still, despite that clinical interest, he never lets things go far enough to risk you fainting again. At least not that often.

You had loved Mark Hoffman long before Jigsaw had ever become the center of your life.

Long before blood and tapes and victims with hollow eyes had begun to haunt your every waking hours, before conference rooms filled with grief-stricken families and crime scene photos that never quite left your mind no matter how hard you tried to forget them. Back when your days had been simpler, when Mark had just been another detective working the same hours as you, sharing the same stale office air, existing quietly at the edge of your awareness until, somehow, he wasn’t at the edge anymore. He had never been the kind of man people gravitated toward easily. He wasn’t warm in the traditional sense, wasn’t the type to fill silence with easy laughter or meaningless small talk. He carried himself with something that could almost be mistaken for indifference, his expression often unreadable, his voice calm in a way that rarely betrayed what he was truly thinking or feeling. Most people kept their distance from him unless they really had to. But you hadn’t.

You remembered the exact moment you realized you were in love with him, though you had never admitted it out loud to anyone. It hadn’t been dramatic or obvious, there had been no grand gesture, no confession whispered after work. It had happened late one night at the station, when exhaustion hung heavy over everything and the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. You had been sitting beside him at his desk, both of you working through reports in tired silence, when suddenly, he had reached over without looking at you and placed a cup of coffee near your hand. You hadn’t asked for it and he hadn’t said anything when he gave it to you, but he had noticed you were tired, and you knew that was the reason for this sudden gesture. And that had been enough for you. Seeing this intimidating man who never showed interest in nothing but his work suddenly showing the littlest bit of care for you, with a simple cup of coffee, had been enough. You told yourself it was only that, and not your deep loneliness that crawled desperately at you for years who grasped at whatever it could to make its grip less heavy on you.

From that moment on, things had shifted in ways neither of you acknowledged at first. It became routine for him to walk you to your car after late shifts, his presence solid and quiet beside you in the darkness of the parking lot. He never touched you in any way then, never crossed any line that couldn’t be explained away, yet you felt safer with him there, felt the tension in your shoulders ease knowing he was close. When it finally happened, when he finally kissed you out of nowhere a year later, it had been in his apartment after the both of you had drank a little bit too much, the air thick with unspoken things that had been building for months and months. He had stood in front of you with that same unreadable expression, his eyes searching yours like he was looking for something he wasn’t sure he deserved to find. When his hand had reached up to cup your face, his touch had been hesitant, almost uncertain, as though he was giving you time to pull away. You hadn’t. The moment his lips met yours, everything else had fallen away.

From then on, your relationship existed in secrecy, tucked carefully into the spaces between your professional lives. You couldn’t be colleagues and lovers at the same time, not without risking everything you had both worked for, so you kept it hidden. In public, he was detective Hoffman, distant and professional, his voice flat and controlled whenever he addressed you. In private, he was simply Mark, the man who pulled you into his arms the moment the door closed behind you both, who held you with a quietness that spoke louder than words ever could. He wasn’t openly affectionate, not in the way other men might have been, but his love revealed itself in smaller, more intimate ways. In the way his hand would settle instinctively at your waist when he stood behind you by instinct,, making you have to shoo him away before someone looked at you. In the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking, his gaze lingering with something softer than he would ever allow anyone else to see. In the way he would wake in the middle of the night and pull you closer, pressing his face into your hair as though reassuring himself that you were still there.

There were moments, though, when he withdrew into himself completely, when a distance settled over him that you couldn’t bridge no matter how hard you tried. You had always attributed that distance to the loss of his little sister, Angelina. Her death had left wounds that never truly healed, and you understood, even when he refused to speak about it. You never pushed him, never demanded explanations he wasn’t ready to give, choosing instead to love him despite his sudden withdrawals and silence. That was why his reaction to your assignment on the Jigsaw case had unsettled you so deeply. You had expected concern, maybe even frustration, but not the cold anger that had flashed across his face when he realized you would be working alongside him. He had waited until you were alone before confronting you, his composure cracking just enough to reveal the tension beneath.

“You shouldn’t be on this case.” he had told you, his voice low and angry like you had never heard before.

You had frowned, confused by the intensity of his reaction. “Mark, it’s my job–”

“It’s not the same!” he replied immediately, his jaw tightening as he looked at you.

You had reached for him then, your fingers brushing his arm in an attempt to calm him, to reassure him that everything would be fine. He had closed his eyes briefly at your touch, his hand coming up to cover yours, holding it there like he needed the contact more than he was willing to admit.

“I don’t want you anywhere near… this.”

At the time, you had believed it was fear that drove him, fear of losing you the same way he had lost his sister. You had promised him you would be careful, had assured him that nothing would happen to you. He hadn’t argued further after that, but the worry never truly left his eyes, lingering there in the quiet moments when he thought you couldn’t see it.

Now, standing beside him in the sterile confines of the audio lab, you found yourself thinking back on that conversation again. The room was dimly lit, filled with the soft hum of electronic equipment and the faint smell of overheated circuits. Sachi sat at her workstation across from you, her posture tense with concentration as she worked to isolate and remove the distortion from the tape recovered at the latest crime scene. The warped, mechanical voice played intermittently through the speakers, each word stretched and twisted beyond immediate recognition. You stood close to Mark, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, though neither of you acknowledged the contact. From anyone else’s perspective, it meant nothing, just two colleagues standing beside each other as they waited for a breakthrough in the case. Only you knew how much restraint it took not to reach for him, not to close the small distance between you. You could feel the tension radiating from him, subtle yet unmistakable for someone who knew him as well as you did. His posture was rigid, his movements slightly too controlled, as though every action required effort. When he stepped away to pour himself a cup of coffee from the machine in the corner, his hand lingered on the handle longer than necessary, his fingers tightening briefly around the ceramic before he brought it to his lips. Perez noticed as she leaned casually against the edge of the desk, her expression thoughtful as she studied him before she started to speak.

“You know, I worked with Peter Strahm for five years.” Mark didn’t respond, he simply took another sip of his coffee, his gaze fixed ahead of him. “I never saw anything that suggested he was mentally unstable.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Erickson spoke next, his tone measured. 

“There’s also the matter of Seth Baxter.” You felt Mark stiffen beside you, the reaction so slight it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. “Strahm’s fingerprints were found at the scene, but the timing doesn’t make sense.”

You glanced at Mark, your stomach tightening at the unreadable expression on his face.

“Our analysis shows that Strahm was already dead when those prints were left.”

Silence settled over the room like a physical weight, pressing down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe. Across the room, Sachi leaned forward suddenly. 

“I almost have it.” she called, her fingers moving quickly over the keyboard.

Mark’s hand found yours then, the contact so sudden and unexpected that it stole the air from your lungs. His fingers wrapped tightly around yours, his grip firm enough to ground you, though you couldn’t understand why he felt the need to hold on so tightly. When you looked at him, his eyes met yours, and in them you saw something that made your heart falter. Not fear nor worry, something colder. Something final. His thumb brushed once against your knuckles before he leaned closer, his voice barely audible when he spoke.

“Whatever happens, don’t move.”

Before you could ask what he meant while you frowned, he released your hand, his movements quick as he reached down his pocket. The absence of its weight at your side sent a jolt of confusion through you, your mind struggling to process what he was doing. Across the room, Sachi’s voice broke the silence.

“I got it!”

The distortion disappeared. The voice on the tape filled the room, clear and unmistakable; Mark Hoffman’s voice. The realization hit you with devastating force, your heart lurching violently in your chest as the truth began to take shape in your mind. You turned toward him, your lips parting to speak, to ask, to demand an explanation, but you were too late. The knife appeared in his hand in a single fluid motion, its blade catching the dim light for only a fraction of a second before he drove it across Erickson’s throat. The sound was wet and immediate, Erickson’s breath leaving him in a choked gasp as blood spilled down the front of his shirt as you yelled in horror. His eyes widened in shock, his body collapsing as his hands instinctively moved to his neck, trying and failing to stop the inevitable. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. You couldn’t begin to understand how the man you loved could be the one standing there, holding the knife, his expression calm as Erickson fell to the ground. Before you could react, Mark took your gun from your holster and threw it across the room, the metal clattering loudly against the far wall as it slid out of reach. You stood frozen where he had left you, his words echoing endlessly in your mind.

‘Whatever happens, don’t move.’

And despite everything, despite the terror clawing its way through your chest, despite the desperate need to run, to scream, to do something, you obeyed him. For a moment that stretched far beyond its natural limits, the world ceased to make sense. Erickson’s body hit the floor with a heavy, final sound that seemed to reverberate through the room and into your bones, the impact sharp enough to snap something fragile inside you. The smell of blood reached you almost instantly, metallic and overwhelming, thickening the air until every breath felt like swallowing something solid and wrong. You stared at him as he laid there, his hands twitching weakly at his throat, his eyes wide and unseeing as the life drained out of him in violent, unstoppable waves. Your mind refused to accept what your eyes were showing you. This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. Mark stood only a few feet away from you, the knife still clenched in his hand, Erickson’s blood slick and dark against the blade. His chest rose and fell in steady, controlled breaths, his expression unchanged, almost eerily calm in the aftermath of what he had just done. He didn’t look like a man who had just murdered someone. He looked like himself, like Mark, like the man who held you at night, who kissed you slowly, who whispered your name into the quiet darkness of his apartment. 

Perez reacted first. Her hand moved instantly toward her gun, her training taking over where shock might have paralyzed someone else. But Mark was faster. With a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the contents of his burning hot coffee cup directly into her face. The liquid struck her with enough force to stagger her backward, the scalding heat forcing a cry of pain from her lips as she reflexively squeezed her eyes shut. The distraction was all he needed as he moved toward the wall and slammed a screw in the power switch, plunging the room into sudden darkness. You gasped involuntarily, the abrupt loss of light disorienting, your heart slamming violently against your ribs as panic began to take hold. The only illumination now came from the faint emergency lighting and the distant glow of equipment still struggling to function.

“Sachi, down!” Perez shouted hoarsely, her voice strained, desperate.

But Mark was already moving. He grabbed Sachi from behind, his arm locking tightly around her torso as he dragged her in front of him, positioning her body between himself and Perez with calculated precision. Sachi screamed, her hands clawing at his arm, her body trembling violently as she struggled against him.

“Don’t—” she cried, her voice breaking.

Perez fired. The gunshots exploded through the room with deafening force, each one tearing through the fragile silence like thunder. You flinched violently at the sound, your hands instinctively rising toward your ears even as you watched in horror. The bullets struck Sachi in the back. Her body jerked with each impact, her scream cutting off abruptly as the force drove her forward against Mark’s hold. Blood spread rapidly across her clothes, dark and spreading, her strength vanishing almost instantly as her weight collapsed against him. He didn’t hesitate as he let her fall, her body hit the ground heavily at his feet, lifeless. And then he moved toward Perez. She tried to fire again, but he was already too close, his hand closing around her wrist with crushing force as he drove the knife into her abdomen. The blade sank deep, the sound sickeningly intimate, her breath leaving her in a strangled gasp as pain overtook her. And that was when something inside you finally broke free. Until now, you had been frozen, trapped in a state of disbelief so profound it had rendered you useless, your body obedient to his last instruction even as your mind screamed at you to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there and watch him destroy everything you knew. But seeing the blade disappear into Perez, seeing her body fold under the violence of it, hearing the wet, choking sound that tore from her throat, that was what shattered the paralysis.

“Mark, stop!”

Your voice cracked violently, raw with panic and disbelief, the sound foreign even to your own ears. You didn’t remember deciding to move, didn’t remember your feet carrying you forward, but suddenly you were there, closing the distance between you and him with desperate urgency, your hands trembling as they reached for anything, anything, you could use.

“Drop her!” you shouted, your voice breaking as tears blurred your vision. “Mark, drop her!”

He turned his head sharply at the sound of your voice, his grip still tight on Perez as her body sagged against him. His eyes locked onto yours, and the look in them was enough to stop your heart entirely. It wasn’t guilt, it was anger. A terrifying anger.

“I told you not to move!”

His words were sharp, low with rage, each syllable laced with something that made your stomach drop. You shook your head absentmindlessly, your hands closing instinctively around the nearest object; a heavy metal instrument from Sachi’s workstation, its weight unfamiliar and clumsy in your trembling grip.

“I’m not letting you do this!” you yelled, though there was no strength in it, no real conviction, only desperation. “Mark, please! This isn’t you, it can’t be!”

Even as you said it, you knew how fragile it sounded, how meaningless it was in the face of what he had already done. His jaw tightened. And then he moved. He released Perez just long enough to shove you with one of his hands. Not gently nor hesitantly but violently, with a violence and anger you never thought he had in him. The force of it caught you completely off guard, your weakened footing offering no resistance as your body was thrown backward. The world tilted sharply, your balance lost instantly as you crashed hard against the edge of one of the desks behind you. The corner struck the back of your head with brutal precision, a burst of white-hot pain exploding through your skull as your vision went dark at the edges. You collapsed to the floor with a yelp, the impact knocking the air from your lungs in a choked gasp. Pain radiated outward from the point of contact, disorienting and overwhelming, your fingers instinctively rising to your head as you struggled to breathe, to think, to understand how the man who had once held you so carefully could hurt you like this.

Above you, he didn’t even hesitate. Perez tried to pull away from him, her body weakened and failing, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated as blood poured freely from her wound. She barely had time to react before he grabbed her again, his hand locking onto her with unyielding force. He stabbed her again. The blade plunged into her abdomen, in the exact same spot, deeper this time, the motion precise. Her body jerked violently, a broken cry forcing its way past her lips as her hands grasped weakly at his arm. He stabbed her again, and again, and again. Each strike was methodical and efficient. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, only purpose mixed with a twisted satisfaction. You watched from the floor, your entire body shaking, your vision blurred by tears and pain as the reality of him, of who he truly was, settled over you like a suffocating weight. This was Mark, your Mark. The man you loved, the man who had held you, kissed you, protected you for two years now. The same man who was now standing over another dying body of your colleagues, his hands steady as he tore the life from her. Perez’s strength gave out quickly, her weapon slipping from her grasp as her body sagged helplessly against him. Blood soaked through her clothes, her breathing shallow and uneven as she struggled to stay conscious. He leaned closer to her, his voice calm, terrifyingly composed.

“Who else knows about me?”

Her eyes flickered weakly, her lips trembling as she forced herself to answer. “Everyone…”

You felt your heart stop. He stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“That’s a lie.” he said quietly. “You’re fucking lying.”

And then he stabbed her one final time as her hands went up to his face in a desperate attempt to push him away before her body went still. He held her there for only a moment longer, just long enough to be certain. Perez’s body hung limply in his grasp, her weight fully surrendered, her head tilted at an unnatural angle as the last fragile threads of her life slipped quietly into nothing. The knife remained buried in her abdomen for a second longer before he withdrew it in a smooth, practiced motion, the blade slick with blood as it caught the dim emergency lighting. And then, without ceremony, without an ounce of hesitation, he let her fall. Her body collapsed heavily onto the floor beside Sachi, the sound final and hollow, swallowed quickly by the suffocating silence that followed. You stared at her, at all of them. Your colleagues, people you had spoken to only minutes ago, who had greeted you this morning, who joked with you only a few hours ago. People who had trusted him, trusted you. 

Your stomach twisted violently, bile rising in your throat as the full weight of what had just happened crashed down on you with unbearable force. Your entire body trembled uncontrollably, your hands shaking so badly you could barely hold yourself upright as you pushed weakly against the floor, your palms slipping slightly against the cold surface. And then he turned toward you. It was a slow movement, unhurried compared to how he had moved a few minutes ago, like he had all the time in the world. Your breath caught in your throat as his eyes found yours, and whatever fragile composure you had been clinging to shattered completely. You let out a broken sob. It tore its way out of you without permission, raw and helpless, your chest heaving as panic took hold with ruthless efficiency. Tears blurred your vision yet again, spilling freely down your face as you stared at him, searching desperately for something familiar in his expression, something that might tell you this wasn’t real, that the man standing in front of you wasn’t the same man who had kissed you with a soft good morning leaving his lips in his bed this very morning. But there was nothing there, nothing you recognized.

He took a step toward you and your entire body recoiled instinctively, your hands scrambling uselessly against the floor as you tried to push yourself backward, away from him. Your head throbbed violently from where it had struck the desk, each movement sending sharp waves of pain through your skull, but the physical pain barely registered beneath the overwhelming terror consuming you. Your gun. Where was your gun? Your gaze darted frantically across the floor, your breathing coming in short, panicked bursts as you searched desperately for it, your fingers clawing weakly at the ground as if you might somehow will it back into your hands.

“Mark!” Your voice broke completely, the sound barely more than a whisper. “Mark, please!”

He didn’t stop, he kept walking toward you. Your back hit the base of one of the desks, trapping you, leaving you nowhere else to go. Your hands slid helplessly against the cold floor as you continued to crawl backward anyway, your body acting on pure instinct, desperate to escape the inevitable.

“Please, you don’t have to do this!” you choked, shaking your head weakly, tears streaming down your face. “ You don’t have to—”

Your voice collapsed into a sob, your chest tightening painfully as you struggled to breathe. He said nothing. His expression remained calm, his breathing steady, his eyes fixed entirely on you as he closed the distance between you. This was the man you loved, the man you had trusted with everything, the man you had given your heart to without hesitation the moment he offered you that stupid cup of coffee. And now he stood over you, his hands stained with blood, his silence more terrifying than anything he could have said. You shook your head again, your fingers still searching blindly across the floor beside you, still hoping, still praying you might find your gun before he reached you. But you already knew you weren’t fast enough. You had never been fast enough. He stopped just in front of you, close enough that you could see everything, from the blood on his hands, dark and still wet, clinging to his skin and settling into the creases of his fingers to the faint rise and fall of his chest, steady and controlled, as though he had not just ended three lives within the span of seconds. The look in his eyes, focused entirely on you, unyielding, unreadable, and yet filled with something that made your chest ache in ways terror alone could not explain.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could hear your own breathing, ragged and uneven, could hear the faint hum of dying electronics somewhere behind you, could hear the quiet drip of blood hitting the floor in slow, sickening intervals.

“I told you not to move.”

His voice was calm. Not angry, simply stating a fact. The words seemed to hit you harder than anything else had. Your lips parted, your mind scrambling to make sense of them, your thoughts tripping over themselves as the memory resurfaced with horrifying clarity. His hand holding yours. His voice in your ear. Whatever happens, don’t move. Your chest tightened violently. You had trusted him, even then, even when every instinct should have told you to run.

“Mark—” Your voice failed you, collapsing under the weight of your confusion and heartbreak. 

You didn’t get to finish because he moved again, and your panic and fear took control of you again. He crouched down in front of you, the knife he plunged into Perez still in his hand. The motion was slow, his body lowering until he was at your level, his presence overwhelming in its closeness. You reacted immediately, your body recoiling instinctively, your hands pushing weakly against the floor as you tried to create distance between you and him. But there was nowhere left to go. Your back pressed harder against the desk behind you, trapping you completely.

“Please! “Mark, please! Don’t do this!” you sobbed, shaking your head frantically, your voice trembling uncontrollably. 

Your entire body was shaking now, your limbs weak and uncoordinated, your mind unable to reconcile the man in front of you with the man you loved. You stared at the knife in his hand, at the blood that coated it, and all you could think about was how easily it had slid into Perez, how effortlessly he had taken her life.

“I love you!” you choked out desperately, the words spilling from you without restraint, raw and broken and hopeless. “I loved you! I thought, you said you, I thought you loved me too…”

Your voice cracked violently, tears blurring your vision as you looked up at him. The words hung there, unspoken but deafening. ‘How could you do this? How could you kill me like this?’ He didn’t move for a moment, didn’t speak.He just watched you. And then, quietly, he answered.

“I do.”

You froze. The words didn’t make sense, they couldn’t. Your brows knit together in confusion, your breathing hitching painfully in your chest as you stared at him, trying to understand.

“I do love you.” he repeated, his voice steady, unwavering.

Your heart pounded violently, hope and terror colliding inside you in ways that made your head spin.

“Then why—”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

The world stopped. Your breath caught in your throat, your entire body going still as the meaning of his words slowly, agonizingly sank in. He wasn’t going to kill you… He wasn’t? What? Why? You stared at him, stunned beyond comprehension, your tears still falling freely down your face as your mind struggled desperately to catch up with the reality he had just handed you.

“You’re—” Your voice trembled violently. “You’re not?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You didn’t understand. Nothing made sense, you must be having a nightmare, this can’t be real. He shifted closer then, lowering himself fully onto his knees in front of you, his body moving into your space. You reacted instinctively, your back pressing harder against the desk, your hands pushing weakly against the floor as you tried to retreat even further, even though escape was impossible.

“Mark please!” you whispered, your voice fragile and broken. “Please don’t—”

He reached for you, his bloody hands closing around your face. You flinched violently at the contact, a sob catching in your throat as his bloodstained fingers cupped your cheeks, his grip firm but not painful, forcing you to look at him. His hands were warm, familiar yet terrifying. The blood was on your skin. His thumbs brushed faintly against your cheeks, smearing red into your tear-streaked skin as he held you there, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He pulled himself closer until there was no space left between you at all. His gaze bore into yours, unflinching and unrelenting, the blood on his hands smearing across your cheeks as if marking you as his own. The world seemed to shrink to the space between you, the thrum of your heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else, every sound in the room reduced to the rhythm of panic and shock pulsing through your chest. And then he spoke, the words, carrying the weight of a truth you had never even dared to imagine.

“I’m the new Jigsaw. I’ve been John Kramer’s apprentice for years.” he said, voice low but steady, each syllable precise, deliberate. “ John’s dead and Amanda, she’s gone too. So now it’s my responsibility to continue the work.”

You froze, your mouth opening slightly, and then closing again, your mind trying, and failing, to process what you were hearing. The air itself seemed to thicken, every syllable wrapping around you like chains, constricting, suffocating. Your stomach dropped as the reality sank in: the man you loved, the man whose hand had held yours in quiet moments, whose lips had brushed yours so softly and carefully in the darkness, had been orchestrating death all along.

“I had to kill them.” he continued, his voice almost gentle in its calmness, as his eyes darted to the bodies of your colleagues. “There was no other way.”

Your vision blurred, tears mixing freely with the blood smeared on your skin, your mind spinning with disbelief and horror. The first words you wanted to speak caught in your throat as the realization of everything came crashing through you. He had been lying. Every moment you had trusted him, every stolen night together, every quiet embrace… It had all been built on lies, on secrets deeper and darker than you could have ever imagined. And then, as the pieces clicked together, as your mind finally forced itself to confront the full magnitude of the betrayal, your horror mutated into something sharper, hotter and uncontrollable. Rage. Raw, scorching, overwhelming rage. Your heart hammered so violently you were sure it would shatter your chest. The love you had felt, the trust you had given, twisted into fury, and it broke through your frozen terror with the force of a physical blow.

“You’ve been putting people in traps this whole time!” you shouted, voice cracking and trembling while your hands lashed out instinctively, trying to push him back, to shake his hands from your face, but his grip was iron, unyielding, impossibly strong. “When you kissed me… when you held me… You did all of those things as a murderer ! A serial killer!”

Your voice rose, desperate, furious as you kept hitting him, clawing at his hands as hard as you could despite him keeping a firm grip on your face.

“All those times you were distant since I joined the Jigsaw case, all those nights when I thought you were scared for me… you were just scared I’d find out the truth! You—” Your sobs broke your voice, tears blinding you, anger pouring through every word. “All this time I’ve been having sex with a serial killer! I said I love you to fucking Jigsaw! ”

You struggled violently against him now, your legs kicking as you writhed beneath his hold, your hands trying to pry away the bloodied fingers that still gripped your face and shoulders. You clawed at his arms, at his chest, at anything to create space between you, your sobs filling the room with a raw, fractured sound. Every word that tore from your lips was a mix of horror and fury, disbelief and heartbreak.

“I loved you!” you screamed, your body shuddering violently under the weight of your own betrayal and terror. “And you! You… fucking Jigsaw!”

Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His expression softened just enough to remind you of the man you once knew, the one who had held you, who had kissed you, who had whispered promises in the dark, but that softness was laced with something darker now, a quiet, unyielding intensity that made your stomach twist sickeningly.

“I love you.” he murmured again, almost gently, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheekbones even as his fingers still gripped you firmly, unyielding.

Your hands shook violently against his arms as your knees scraped against the cold floor, your body recoiling instinctively even as he leaned closer. You continued to struggle, to yell, to fight, your mind unable to reconcile the man you had loved with the killer before you. Your chest heaved violently, every sob tearing at your throat, every tear burning against the blood on your skin, every word a knife slicing into the fragile remnants of the trust you had placed in him. And yet he didn’t let go. He lowered himself fully onto his knees between your legs, his presence impossible to escape, his bloody hands now cupping your face again with a terrifying intimacy. You shook violently, trying to back away, to create space, your body trembling from the mix of fear, rage, and disbelief. But he held you there, steady, unflinching, his eyes locking with yours in a gaze so intense it left your entire body quaking.

“I will never hurt you. You’re safe with me.” he whispered, his lips barely moving yet his words seared into your mind. “You’re mine.”

You couldn’t believe it. You wanted to hit him, to push him, to escape, to scream. And yet, even as your fury boiled over, even as your mind screamed in terror, a small, sick part of you, the part that had loved him, that had trusted him, that had clung to him in the darkness, couldn’t look away. Because the man you loved, the man who had killed, who had lied, who had orchestrated deaths in unimaginable ways, was holding you now as he said he loved you. And for a heartbeat, you almost believed him. He lingered between your legs, his bloody hands still cupping your face as your body shook violently beneath him. The combination of fear, fury, and disbelief left you raw and trembling, every instinct screaming at you to escape, yet he was impossibly close, unyielding and overwhelming. Then, with a slowness that made your chest seize, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

Your first reaction was instinctual. You bit down his lower lip hard. Teeth met flesh with a sickening snap, and blood immediately welled up along his lip and into your mouth. He flinched ever so slightly, and for a heartbeat you thought you’d hurt him enough to stop him. Yet he didn’t, not at all. Instead, he deepened the kiss, pressing harder, hands tightening on your face, asserting his control as though your bite had been nothing more than a challenge he was eager to meet. Panic and fury collided inside you even harder. You clawed at him, slamming your hands against his chest as hard as you could, finally finding a fraction of leverage to push him back. With a burst of adrenaline, you threw him away from you, stumbling backward just enough to create space, and then, fueled by rage and terror, you lashed out with everything you had. Slap. The sharp, stinging sound echoed through the lab as your hand collided with his cheek, leaving a bright red imprint against his skin. He recoiled slightly from the impact, yet the intensity in his eyes didn’t waver a bit.

“You killed them all!” you screamed, voice hoarse and desperate, tears streaming down your face. “Everyone! You—”

Your words caught as a strange, wet gurgling reached your ears. Your attention snapped downward to the sound. Erickson. He was still on the floor, clutching his throat, eyes wide in shock and fear, blood bubbling between his lips as he struggled to stay alive.

“Erickson!” you gasped, scrambling toward him, your hands reaching desperately to steady him. “Stay with me!”

But Hoffman’s hand shot up, gripping your shoulder with iron force. “Don’t move.”

“Fuck off, Mark!” you spat as your panic overrode caution, yanking your body away from his grip. “I don’t care about you, you sick fuck! He’s still alive!”

He didn’t flinch at your words. Instead, he grabbed your cheeks with one hand, fingers pressing into your skin harshly, while the other moved smoothly toward his back pocket. Your stomach dropped as realization hit; you were about to be restrained. You twisted, flailed, kicking at the floor, trying to break free from him yet again, your body trembling violently with fear and rage, but he was faster, stronger, impossibly stronger, and all your movements barely slowed him. The metal clicked sharply against both your wrists as he secured the handcuffs to the desk bars. You yelled, tried to pull free, your chest heaving violently, and he leaned in close, kissing your cheek with chilling intimacy, as if the act itself was meant to claim you even further.

“Don’t move.” he whispered again, calm and unflinching, as he stepped back and left the room, the door slamming shut behind him. 

The sound echoed like a death knell, leaving you trembling, chest heaving, tears streaming freely, and rage still burning hot inside you. You forced yourself to breathe, to focus. Your eyes immediately went to Erickson, still lying on the floor, blood pooling around him, one hand pressed desperately against his torn throat. His eyes met yours, wide with panic but alive.

“Stay with me, listen to my voice, okay?” you urged him, voice hoarse but steadying. “I’ve got you! Just stay put, okay? I’ll help you!”

You tried to shift as best you could, the cuffs rattling against the desk bars, your body pressed against cold metal and wood. Every second felt like eternity, every movement a battle against pain, fear, and the remnants of shock. You could feel the heat of his presence even in his absence, the lingering terror of knowing he had been there, had restrained you, had kissed you, and had left with terrifying certainty that he could return at any moment. Yet for now, the room was just you and Erickson, blood and chaos, a tenuous thread of survival, and the raw, ragged edges of your own determination.

“Stay with me, Erickson!” you whispered again, pressing your forehead lightly to his, hands shaking but trying to steady him. “I’m not letting you die, I promise. Just stay with me, okay?”

Your voice was soft, desperate, grounding you both as the seconds stretched into what felt like hours, every noise in the room amplified, every shadow a threat, but for now… for this moment, it was just you, him, and the fragile hope that you could make it through. Your body was a storm of panic and desperation. Every muscle in your arms burned from the effort of slamming your fists against the cold metal of the desk bars, every strike sending shooting pains through your thumbs as you tried to break them to free yourself from the handcuffs. The metal wouldn’t give, no matter how hard you slammed, how much you twisted, nothing loosened. Every second you stayed trapped, your mind screamed louder, a cacophony of terror and rage that threatened to shatter you completely. Then the unmistakable sound of the door opening made your blood run cold. You turned your head, heart hammering violently in your chest, and there he was again. Mark Hoffman, with, in his hand, the thing that made your stomach drop; a gallon of gasoline.

“No…” you whispered, voice cracking.

The acrid smell hit you almost immediately as he poured it across the floor, coating the edges of the desks, the blood, the tiles, everything in a slick, flammable sheen. You screamed at him, your voice raw and broken. 

“Mark! Stop! You’ve done enough! You don’t have to, please!”

He didn’t answer. His eyes flicked toward Erickson for just a moment, measuring him, calculating, cold and precise. Then he poured gasoline over him too, the man writhing slightly, blood bubbling from his torn throat as he tried desperately to survive. Your stomach lurched violently, and you began hyperventilating. For a second, you were certain he would pour the gasoline over you as well. Your limbs flailed, your mind caught between the instinct to flee and the terror of being at his mercy. But then you realized he didn’t pour it on you. Instead, he tossed the empty gallon to the ground, the clatter echoing violently in the room, and moved toward you. One of your wrists was suddenly freed from the desk bar, the metal clicking open. Your relief was short-lived as you lunged at him instinctively, trying to push him, to throw him off, to escape, but he was faster, like he always had been. He yanked your wrist free from the desk and handcuffed it again as his iron grip kept you pinned. 

Then, before you could react, he lifted you off the ground effortlessly, tossing you over his shoulder in a way that was terrifyingly familiar. Your chest heaved, your back pressing against his body, and panic set your mind spinning. This was exactly the way he had carried you before, those stolen nights when it had been intimate, erotic, and, in moments, almost tender. But now, this time, it was anything but. You thrashed violently, kicking, twisting, screaming, your hands striking him, trying to wrench free, but his grip was absolute. You shouted, each word raw with terror and fury. 

“Let me go you fucking asshole!”

He didn’t respond as his free hand got a match out of his pocket. The strike ignited instantly, the sulfury scent filling your nostrils as he dropped it to the gasoline-slick floor. Flames licked at the edges of the room, quickly catching hold, the acrid smoke burning your lungs and stinging your eyes. Your eyes locked onto Erickson’s across the room, and your blood ran cold. He was on fire, his body was wracked with panic and pain, screaming in a voice that tore at your soul, his blood mixing with the flames, a horrifying symphony of agony. Your own tears streamed freely, burning as they slid down your cheeks. 

You thrashed even harder against Mark, your body trembling violently with fear and rage, but he didn’t falter. The heat of the fire didn’t seem to touch him. He carried you with impossible strength, his hands ironclad around your body, unyielding, unrelenting. As the flames danced higher, consuming the room in chaos, he began ascending the stairs. Your screams and Erickson’s cries collided in the inferno, piercing your ears, overwhelming every shred of reason in your mind. And then, his voice cut through everything.

“You’re mine.” he said matter of factly, chillingly intimate. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Jason Voorhees

➛ Jason isn’t used to tears. Screaming, begging, yes. Crying like this? From pure sadness? No.

➛ The first time he sees you cry, it’s by accident. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking, face buried in your hands like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. 

➛ Jason freezes in the doorway as his chest tightens in a way he doesn’t understand.

➛ You aren’t frantic and you aren’t having a guttural scream coming out of you, you’re just… crying.

➛ Jason doesn’t know what to say, words aren’t his thing since he doesn’t talk, but he does moves.

➛ Slowly and carefully, in a way he only had with his mom, and now with you. He kneels in front of you, tilting his head like he’s trying to read you.

➛ When you flinch, surprised to see him there, the sound of his step muffled by your sobs, he immediately stills, afraid he’s done something wrong.

➛ Then he does the only thing he knows won’t hurt you for sure; he wraps his arms around you. Big, solid, grounding. One hand presses against your back, firm but gentle, like he’s anchoring you to the world.

➛ He lets you cry into his shoulder, mask resting against your hair.

➛ Inside, he’s furious. Not at you of course, never at you. He couldn’t even if he tried! He’s mad at whatever made you feel like this, and if it’s someone, whoever caused this is already dead in his mind. (and might be in real life too!)

➛ Jason stays like that for as long as it takes. He doesn’t rush you and doesn't pull away. 

➛ When your crying slows, he presses his forehead to yours as he rocks you gently, mimicking how his mother used to comfort him in the hopes it helps you like it did him.

➛ You will never cry alone again.

Brahms Heelshire

➛ Brahms panics.

➛ The moment he hears the soft, broken sound of you crying, his heart drops straight to his stomach. He appears in the doorway like a ghost, eyes wide, hands twitching nervously.

➛ “Why are you crying?” he asks, voice tight, almost afraid of the answer. “Did I—did I do something?”

➛ When you shake your head no but don’t stop crying, Brahms is already crossing the room with quick stride towards you. 

➛ He kneels in front of you, hands hovering in hesitation before finally settling on your wrists like he’s asking permission without words.

➛ He hates this. Not because you’re crying, but because he can’t fix it immediately and doesn’t know how to even fix it.

➛ Brahms pulls you into his chest nervously, rocking you gently, murmuring reassurances in a low, repetitive voice. 

➛ “It’s alrigh,  I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe.” He presses kisses into your hair, your temple, anywhere he can reach.

➛ Seeing you cry makes him feel helpless and terrified. What if you leave because of this? What if he’s not enough?

➛ He clings to you just as much as you cling to him, holding on like if he lets go for even a second, you’ll disappear.

Thomas Hewitt

➛ Thomas doesn’t understand tears, but he understands pain.

➛ When he finds you crying, his first reaction is confusion while he just stands there, head tilted, breathing heavy as he searches your body for any injuries.

➛ You look hurt, but not physically, and that scares him more than blood on you ever could.

➛ He approaches slowly, boots heavy on the floor. When you don’t look up, he lets out a distressed sound from his throat, hands clenching at his sides.

➛ Thomas crouches in front of you, big hands awkward as he gently touches your knee to make you look at him. 

➛ When you don’t pull away after a quick glance at him, he gathers you into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you’re made out of porcelain.

➛ He hums, low and shaky, a sound meant to soothe, learned from watching animals calm their young.

➛ Seeing you cry makes his chest ache uncomfortably. It makes him angry at the world, at himself for letting you hurt to the point of crying and at anything that dared hurt you. 

➛ He presses his masked face into your hair, holding you impossibly tighter, like he can physically keep the sadness from touching you again.

➛ You are his. And he will protect you from everything, including your own pain.

Bo Sinclair

➛ Bo tries to joke it away at first because, well, he’s Bo.

➛ “What’s wrong with ya?” he asks, voice light and teasing. 

➛ But then he sees your face as you look up at him. Red eyes, trembling lips and a lot of tears slipping down your cheeks, no matter how hard you try to stop them with short intakes of air.

➛ And suddenly, the smile dies.

➛ Bo goes quiet, staring at you like he’s been punched in the gut. He hates crying because he hates weakness, and for him, the two go hand in hand. But seeing you cry? It wrecks him.

➛ “Hey, hey, darlin’!” he whispers in surprise, stepping closer to you. 

➛ His hands hover, not knowing where to hold you, before finally cupping your face, thumbs wiping away tears like he’s frustrated with them. 

➛ “Don’t do that. Don’t cry.”

➛ He tries to sound as confident as he usually is yet, his voice cracks, just a little, enough to show how affected he really is by your crying.

➛ He pulls you into his chest, arms tight and protective around your shaking form. His jaw clenches as you sob against him, anger burning beneath the surface. Someone (because he can’t think that it’s something) made you feel like this and Bo will never let that go.

➛ He doesn’t say much after that. Just holds you, muttering curses under his breath as he keeps rocking you slightly.

➛ You crying makes something ugly and possessive bloom in his chest.

➛ He hates that he can’t fix it instantly and, let’s be honest, he’s really uncomfortable by someone he loves crying, but he’ll burn the world down if that’s what it takes to keep you smiling again.

Vincent Sinclair

➛ Vincent notices you will cry before you even do.

➛ He sees the way your hands shake, how your breathing stutters and your eyes starting to slightly shine as you blink more and more.

➛ When the first tear falls, his heart shatters.

➛ He whines quietly, standing up so fast his chair scrapes the floor. He approaches you carefully, like he’s afraid he might scare you away. 

➛ “Sweetheart, what happened?” He signs to you after gently making you look up at him by holding your chin with his fingers.

➛ When you start crying harder at the question, Vincent’s eye fill too, but he blinks it back. This isn’t about him. No matter how badly the sight of you crying makes him want to cry too, he has to control it, he tells himself.

➛ He pulls you into his arms, holding you gently, one hand cradling the back of your head. He murmurs soft hums.

➛ “It’s okay to cry.” he signs slowly, to make sure you can see every words through your tears. “I’ve got you.”

➛ Seeing you cry makes him feel deeply protective.

➛ It hurts, seeing you like this, but not in a way that scares him. It makes him want to shield you from every harsh thing in the world, to create something beautiful and safe just for you.

➛ He gently squeezes you, hoping some of your sadness will transfer into him so you’ll feel it less.

➛ He stays with you long after the tears stop, wiping your face with his sleeve, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Lester Sinclair

➛ Lester freaks out as he sees you.

➛ “Oh! Oh no!” he blurts out when he sees you crying. “Hey, hey, hey! What’s wrong? Did I mess up? I didn’t mean to, I swear—”

➛ He crouches in front of you immediately, hands fluttering as he rests them on your shoulders without an ounce of hesitation. His voice drops, softer now. 

➛ “Please don’t cry…” he begs, slapping himself for telling you something like that.

➛ Of course you can cry, it’s just he wishes you would never feel the need to cry out of sadness!

➛ He pulls you into a clumsy hug, rocking you gently, rubbing your back in big circles.

➛ He talks nonstop, trying to distract you, comfort you, anything to make it better.

➛ “You’re okay. I got you. You’re safe. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you, alright? Not even yourself.”

➛ Seeing you cry makes him anxious and sad, like he’s failed you somehow.

➛ He takes it very personally, even if it has nothing to do with him.

➛ He stays close for the rest of the day, checking on you constantly, making sure you’re smiling again as he jokes about everything he can once you start to get a little better.

Amanda Young

➛ Amanda understands crying and sadness more than anyone.

➛ When she sees you break down, she doesn’t panic and she doesn’t push.

➛ She simply sits beside you, close but not crowding, her presence grounding.

➛ “Yeah, I get it  darling.” she sighs softly.

➛ She lets you cry, lets you fall apart as much as you need to. 

➛ When you lean into her, she wraps her arms around you tightly in a second, chin resting on the top of your head while she draws small circles on your back.

➛ She doesn’t tell you it’ll be okay right away, she tells you it’s allowed.

➛ “Let it out.” she whispers. “You don’t have to hide it from me.”

➛ Seeing you cry makes her feel strangely good, not because you’re sad, but because you feel comfortable enough to be this vulnerable with her. 

➛ She knows what pain looks and feels like, and she knows how dangerous it is when people are left alone with it.

➛ And if it’s someone who made you cry? They’re on her list now. (except if it’s yourself, of course.)

➛ Once you've stopped, you apologize for crying and Amanda’s jaw tightens. She cups your face firmly, forcing you to look at her.

➛ “Don’t ever say sorry for that.” she warns you.

➛ She stays close the rest of the night, arm hooked around your waist, thumb tracing slow patterns against your skin.

➛ Anyone who hears about this later only knows one thing; you’re off limits.

Candyman

➛ Candyman hears you before he sees you. Your tears echo softly, and when he appears, it’s slow, with hesitation. 

➛ He doesn’t rush you. He kneels in front of you, golden eyes full of something ancient and gentle.

➛ “Why do you weep, beloved?” he asks, voice smooth and deep.

➛ When you just cry harder, unable to give him an answer, he reaches out, large hand lifting your chin so you don’t have to hide your face. 

➛ His thumb brushes away your tears with surprising tenderness while you mumble an apology.

➛ “Your tears are sacred, do not apologizes for them.”

➛ He pulls you into his embrace, warm and enveloping, voice murmuring praises and reassurances. 

➛ Seeing you cry stirs something protective and possessive in him, an ancient promise to guard what is precious.

➛ After your tears dry, Candyman doesn’t disappear, he stays right where he is, just moving slightly away from you to let you breath.

➛ He remains, looming but patient, presence warm and heavy like honey in the air. He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles—slow, reverent.

➛ “Even like this, you still are the most beautiful." he says softly.

➛ When you lean into him, he coils around you slightly, possessive but protective.

➛ Your pain will not be ignored, it will be answered.

➛ When it’s time for him to leave, he looks back before leaving and softly calls out to you, to make sure you’re watching, then taps two fingers against his chest where his heart is.

Harry Warden

➛ Harry doesn’t hear or sees your crying at first, he feels it.

➛ There’s a shift in the mines, something off, something wrong, and when he turns around the corner to your makeshift bed and sees you sitting there, hunched in on yourself, tears slipping down your face in silence, his entire body stills.

➛ Harry isn’t good with emotions,isn’t good with words either, so he doesn’t even try to speak to comfort you.

➛ Instead, he approaches slowly, boots heavy against the floor, pickaxe left behind because the moment he realizes you’re crying, he knows nothing sharp belongs near you right now.

➛ He stops in front of you, towering, breathing slowly. You look so small and fragile like this, hurt in a way he can’t kill or break or scare away.

➛ Harry crouches down in front of you. One gloved hand lifts hesitantly, hovering for a second before he gently taps your knee, asking, not demanding like he usually does. When you don’t pull away, his shoulders relax just a little.

➛ He pulls you into his chest. It’s firm, solid and safe. His arms wrap around you fully the moment your head touches his chest, blocking out the world, helmet resting lightly against the top of your head. 

➛ One of his hands presses between your shoulder blades, steady pressure meant to ground you, the other resting at your lower back firmly.

➛ Harry stays silent the entire time but his presence speaks.

➛ The way he holds you like you might shatter, the way his breathing slows to match yours, the way he doesn’t let go even when your crying fades into soft hiccups…

➛ Inside, there’s a cold, furious clarity. Someone may have caused this. How, he doesn’t know, but it’s still a possibility and Harry doesn’t need words to promise that it will never happen again.

➛ He stays with you until you’re calm, until your body stops shaking completely, until your cheeks are dry and until you tell him you feel better.

➛ And when you finally pull back, he rests his helmet against your forehead for just a moment, with a quiet, intimate and unspoken reassurance.

Bo Sinclair learned early how to live with things he couldn’t have. Ambrose, now full of hollow buildings and quiet streets, taught him that to survive it is to take what you can and bury what you can’t. He thought he was good at it, burying he means, thought he’d mastered the art of swallowing wants until they curdled into something manageable.

Then you arrived.

You weren’t supposed to stay, no one is supposed to. Travelers passed through like ghosts, leaving nothing behind but dust and tire marks. But you stayed for some reason. You unpacked. You asked questions no one had asked in years. And Bo watched you as you did. From the porch, behind shop windows, even the street corner where the sun burned his neck while he pretended he wasn’t waiting for you to come his way. He told himself it was curiosity or boredom, reminded himself it was his job to watch strangers in his town when he started to doubt why he was always looking for you. That lie lasted maybe a week.

The first time he realized it was already too late was when Vincent brought you home one evening. Vincent, with his quiet voice and careful hands. Vincent, who looked at you like you were something fragile and holy. Vincent who stood too close, whose shoulder you leaned into without thinking. Bo remembers a little too well the exact sound his teeth made when he clenched his jaw at the sight. You laughed at something Vincent said, head tipping back, eyes bright. Bo felt something animal wake up in his chest, hot and ugly and violent, just like he is, something that snarled mine even as logic screamed back that you weren’t. You were never his, that was the problem.

Years passed and yet, you didn’t leave. You settled into Vincent’s routines like you’d always belonged there. You learned the town’s rhythms just like you learned Vincent. You knew his silences and pauses perfectly while he hovered at your side like a shadow stitched to your feet. During this, Bo had learned how to watch. He watched Vincent brush past you in narrow hallways of the house, fingertips grazing your wrist to make sure you were near him. Watched you sit on the counter while Vincent worked, legs swinging, soft and careless. He even had to watch you fall asleep against his brother’s chest during late nights watching some movie on the TV, Vincent’s arm locked around you like it always belonged there. Bo learned every detail by heart, and it ate him alive.

Some days he felt sick with jealousy. Bile-burning, pulse-roaring that made his hands shake. Other days it was worse, he felt this twisted, shameful happiness that at least you were loved, that at least Vincent treated you with a gentleness that Bo didn’t have in him. At least it wasn’t some outsider touching you, kissing you, hearing you laugh in the dark. But God, some days he hated you for it. Hated the way you smiled at Vincent like the world hadn’t already rotted around the edges, hated how easily you fit into his twin’s arms, but what he hated more was how you never looked at him the way you looked at Vincent, never lingered, never wondered.

You didn’t even know, that was the cruelest part. You talked to Bo easily and comfortably, often asked him for help, teased him every time he didn’t look too angry and smiled at him like he was safe, like he was just your lover's twin, nothing more.

Every word you said was a knife he thanked you for. Sometimes, when he was alone, Bo imagined what it would feel like to touch you. Not always in ways he let himself linger on late at night, a hand down his boxers, but just small things. Your hand in his, your weight against his side or the way you might say his name if it meant something different. Then he’d hear Vincent quiet laugh followed by yours from the next room, and the fantasy would burn away.

Watching Vincent love you was torture refined into routine. Bo saw the things no one else did, things he thought he would never see in his brother. Like how Vincent softened around you, voice dropping, his shoulders loosening for once. The way he kissed your forehead when he thought no one was looking, lifting his mask the tiniest bit over his lips, which was such a rare sight. Those were things Bo had memorized in silence, and he never had liked silence.

There were a lot of nights like this one, where Bo sat on the porch, cigarette burning down to nothing, listening to the muffled sounds of life inside the house. Each sound you two made was proof that happiness existed and he was locked out of it. He hated himself for wanting you, he hated Vincent for having you and he hated you even more for staying only to torture him like this. Bo was hateful, he always knew that, and he often thought that this was probably why you never glanced his way like you did Vincent. Vincent was the good twin, always had been. And still, despite this burning hatred he felt, if you’d come to him, he knew it would quickly be put out just by the sound of your voice. That knowledge kept him frozen, trapped between desire and one-sided loyalty, between instinct and blood. He stayed back, stayed silent despite himself and stayed starving. Because Bo Sinclair loved you the only way he was allowed to; from afar. With clenched teeth, shaking hands that never touched what it wanted and a heart that burned itself hollow just by watching you be loved by someone who knew how to. And the worst part? You were happy, Vincent was happy, and Bo would bleed to death before he took that from both of you.

Suddenly, the front door creaked. It was faint, barely anything, just a soft, familiar sound, but Bo felt your presence in his spine before he heard it with his ears. His shoulders tensed immediately, instinctive, like a cornered animal. He didn’t turn your way, just stared out into the dark, cigarette long forgotten between his fingers, ash bending dangerously close to falling as you stepped outside into the cold late evening air. The screen door whispered shut behind you, cutting off the warm glow of the house and the muted sound of Vincent moving around inside. Night air wrapped around you, cooler, heavier. You hesitated for a second, like you weren’t sure if you were welcome here, and that hesitation hurt him more than if you’d come out boldly.

“Bo?” your voice said softly.

God. Just like that, the hatred dimmed. Not gone, never fully gone, but quieted, smothered under the weight of your voice calling his name. It wasn’t something sharp in your mouth like he was used to, and that alone made him shiver uncomfortably. He finally turned his head while you stood a few feet away, arms folded loosely around yourself, eyes searching his face with something careful. Concern, maybe. Or just politeness. You always did that, always looked at him like he was something to be handled gently, never realizing how much damage that does to him.

“You okay?” you asked.

A simple question, an innocent one, so much so that Bo almost laughed. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes narrowing just slightly as he looked back out into the dark. 

“What makes you think I ain’t?”

You shifted your weight. The porch light caught the edge of your face, softening it in a way that made his chest ache. 

“You’ve been out here a while, Vincent said—” You stopped yourself, biting your lower lip. “I just thought maybe you wanted company.”

Company. The word scraped against him. He wondered if you knew how dangerous it was to offer that to him so casually.

“You should be inside.” he muttered. “It’s late.”

Yet you didn’t move. Instead, you stepped closer, close enough that Bo could smell you over the cold tabac, something familiar and warm that had haunted him for years. His fingers twitched while his jaw locked so tight it hurt.

“I won’t stay long!” you promised with a small smile. “I just… you always look so angry out here, I wondered if you wanted to maybe talk.”

He swallowed harshly at the word. Angry. That’s all he ever was, and all he will ever be. If he talked, he’d say the wrong thing. If he looked at you too long, he’d give something away. If he breathed too deeply, he’d forget who you belonged to—

“People don’t talk me outta that. You especially shouldn’t try.”

That made you frown. Not offended, just… sad. Like you didn’t like the idea of him hurting, especially all alone.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Bo.” you told him, taking a step closer.

Something in him snapped at those words, not violently, just a fine, invisible thread pulled too tight.

“Ya don’t know me.” he said, sharper now, finally turning fully toward you. His eyes burned a hole through your surprised face. “You only know Vincent and the version of this place that’s been softened for ya.”

You stiffened, taken aback. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know!” he cut in immediately, regret biting down hard. He exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you. Heavy and fragile as you hugged yourself tighter. 

“You scare me sometimes.” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But still, I don’t want you to be alone.”

That did it. Bo laughed, a short humorless sound, and looked away before you could see the way his eyes shone. Alone. He’d been alone again the moment you chose Vincent, and you didn’t even know you’d made a choice.

“I ain’t alone.” he barked. “I got exactly what I deserve.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Of course you didn’t. You took another step closer, stopping just short of touching him yet close enough that Bo could feel the heat of you, the pull, that unbearable temptation of reaching out and finally proving to himself that you were real. For one awful, perfect second, he imagined it; you choosing him, just this once, just stepping into his space and saying his name like it meant when you said his. Instead of giving in into this deep desire, he stood up abruptly, forcing distance between you.

“You should go back inside.” he insisted, voice rough. “Vincent’ll be wonderin’ where you went.”

The mention of his brother landed like a blade between you both.

“Oh, yeah.” you said softly. “You’re right.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking over his face one last time, like you were trying to memorize something you didn’t understand. 

“Goodnight, Bo.”

“Night.” he answered.

You went back inside. The door closed and just like that, the house swallowed you whole again. Vincent’s life resumed its rhythm, untouched and unbroken. Bo sat back down slowly, cigarette finally dropping from his fingers to die on the porch boards as he let out a heavy sigh. Your voice still echoed in his ears and that night, for the first time in years, he didn’t hate you for staying.

Bo Sinclair

➛ Bo notices it immediately because of how unusual it is for him.

➛ He notices quickly the way you never sit down without a plush tucked under your arm, how your fingers absently knead the fabric when you’re thinking and when your eyes flick around a room before you relax, as you check that whichever plush you came in with is still there.

➛ At first, he pretends he doesn’t care.

➛ He’ll scoff, roll his eyes, mutter something about how you’re ‘too damn old for that’. Yet, he never actually tells you to put it away and never takes it away from you.

➛ He’s gruff, a bit (very) jealous, and protective, so the plushies quickly become a point of mild annoyance if he thinks they’re stealing your attention too much. 

➛ Bo often steals one of your plushies just to make you reach for it and cuddle him instead as you try to grab it, then smirks smugly you groan and demand it back while you finally hug him. 

➛ Sometimes he catches you talking to them, giving them pep talks about your day, and he’ll freeze, watching with this mix of suspicion and disbelief. 

➛ “You do realize I’m right here, right? Why aren't ya telling me this?” 

➛ The first time he 'accidentally' knocks one off the couch and sees you panic, like real panic; breath hitching, eyes wide and all that, something in him snaps straight into protect mode.

➛ From then on? Bo memorizes them so that he can know which one to look for.

➛ He knows their names, knows which one is ‘the brave one’ and which one is 'the almost as grumpy as him’ one.

➛ He also knows which plushie comes with you to sleep and which one you bring when you’re anxious. 

➛ He won’t admit it out loud, but he keeps mental track like he does with tools or car parts in his garage.

➛ If you lose one? All hell breaks loose as Bo turns the house upside down, the panic on your face making him tense immediately.

➛ Drawers slammed open, cushions ripped off couches, furniture being moved around… 

➛ Once he calls you over when he finally found it, you always find him sitting on the floor holding it like it’s a small hostage, glaring at it for making you panic. 

➛ “Don’t ya ever disappear again, ya piece of shit.”

➛ You can’t help but laugh at how relieved he looks as he hands it back to you with a dramatic groan.

➛ At night, he pretends not to notice that you need a plush in your arms. 

➛ He sometimes (often) grumbles about you hugging a stuffed plushie while he’s right there, rolling his eyes dramatically. 

➛ Secretly, in the depths of his angry heart, he likes that little window into your soft side, and sometimes he even lets himself hold one when you fall asleep. (it just so happens to be the 'almost as grumpy as him' one each times.)

➛ Occasionally, you wake up to find him spooning a plushie next to you like he’s protecting it as much as he’s protecting you.

➛ But if you fall asleep without a plushie, he’ll quietly grab the closest and tuck it against your chest, muttering something about you “sleepin’ like shit without it.”

➛ And God help anyone who disrespects your plushies. Bo considers them yours, which means they’re under his protection too.

Vincent Sinclair

➛ Vincent accepts it immediately.

➛ He doesn’t ask why, he just accepts it as part of you.

➛ Vincent is a lot less gruff than Bo but still territorial. 

➛ He teases you gently about your plushies, calling them your ‘tiny army’ or making little jokes about them having a ‘better treatment than him.’ 

➛ Sometimes, when he’s in a really good mood, he mimics their personalities just to tease you. 

➛ “Oh, your plushie says she’s offended that you spent more time with me than her today.” He signs as you groan, shoving him gently.

➛ You tell him to stop but yet, it’s impossible to stay mad at him when he’s so invested.

➛ Despite his teasing, he has a soft spot for them too, he knows they’re important to you, and he secretly enjoys the way you light up when you talk about each one.

➛ You told him their names once. After that, he remembers them all.

➛ He treats your plushies like little companions, arranging them neatly when you’re not looking. 

➛ If one gets dirty, he carefully cleans it himself, hands trembling slightly as if he’s afraid of hurting it.

➛ He fixes loose seams with careful stitches, eyes focused, movements slow and reverent.

➛ He once spent a good ten minutes arguing with a plushie in sign language since you told hill this one could understand it.

➛ The argument was about which side of the pillow he belonged on, only for you to burst out laughing at the sight. He smirks, clearly enjoying making you laugh.

➛ Vincent is also surprisingly good at giving them little gifts and attentions, like tucking a tiny blanket that he sewed himself around them, or drawing little smiley faces on post-its and sticking them to their faces.

➛ You can’t help but giggle every time you find one of these surprises.

➛ If you’re overwhelmed, Vincent will quietly bring one to you without a word. He just sets it in your lap, fingers brushing yours briefly before pulling away. He seems to always know which one you need before you even do.

➛ When you sleep, he makes sure every plush is accounted for.

➛ He lines them up where you can see them and makes sure the one you cuddle is positioned just right, tucked under your chin or between your arms. 

➛ Sometimes, if you stir in your sleep, he gently presses it back against you. He would never, ever let one get lost.

➛ But if one did? He gets a little flustered when you panic, but unlike Bo, he’s calmer. 

➛ Vincent would be searching every inch of the house with a methodical intensity that’s honestly terrifying.

➛ And when he finally finds it, he cradles it like it’s been hurt, as if it survived something terrible.

➛ He likes watching you sleep with them, noticing the way your lips press gently against their fabric, or how your fingers fidget with their tiny arms. 

➛ It’s strangely endearing to him, and he occasionally curls up against the side of the bed with his own arm draped loosely over a plushie you left out, just so it’s close to you and isn't left out.

Lester Sinclair

➛ Lester is OBSESSED. From the moment you tell him their names, he’s in.

➛ He gives them his own voices, personalities and backstories.

➛ He asks you questions about them constantly, like which one’s the oldest? Which one’s the grumpiest? Which one needs to be hugged right now?

➛ He gets emotionally attached FAST.

➛ He doesn’t really get jealous in general, let alone of cute plushies that he also loves dearly!

➛ He’s quiet, careful, and more thoughtful than his two older brothers, especially since he’s fascinated by your connection to your plushies. 

➛ He notices the care you put into naming them, making sure each one has its spot, and he treats them with surprising gentleness. 

➛ If you forget one somewhere, Lester is already panicking before you even realize it’s gone.

➛ He’s pacing, hands flapping, muttering about how they’re probably scared and alone and wondering where you are.

➛ When you panic over a missing plushie, Lester doesn’t panic himself. Instead, he kneels beside you, gently holding your hands and whispering calm directions. 

➛ He’ll check under beds, in laundry baskets, even in the weirdest corners of his cabin with painstaking care. 

➛ When he finds it, he hands it back with a soft kiss to your temple. “There you go. Safe and sound!” and you melt into him with relief.

➛ He carries them for you… Even if you don’t want him to. Like, proudly. Tucked under his arm, perched on his shoulder, buckled into the passenger seat. 

➛ He talks to them while he does stuff too, tells them what’s going on, reassures them that you’ll be back soon and all that sweet stuff.

➛ Sometimes he hugs one himself when you’re not around.

➛ He cries if one gets damaged. Actually cries. Still cries as he repairs it while you have to calm him down once you calmed down yourself.

➛ But he’s also the best at cheering you up.

➛ He’ll make your plushies comfort you by pressing them against your cheeks and making silly voices until you’re laughing through tears.

➛ At night, Lester often participates in your little plushie rituals. He’ll tuck them in with you, arrange them around your pillow, or place one gently on your shoulder if you’re sleeping. 

➛ He makes sure you have one in your arms before you fall asleep. If you don’t, he gently nudges you awake just enough to fix it, whispering “you forgot one, honey.”

➛ Sometimes he’ll stay awakebeside you, tracing the outline of a plushie’s ear with his fingers, a quiet, almost meditative habit he picked up from watching you so lovingly care for them.

Thomas Hewitt

➛ Thomas learns your limits by watching.

➛ He sees how you try so hard to keep up. How your hands move a little too fast for your thoughts, how your eyes seem to unfocus when too many instructions are thrown at you, or when Hoyt rattles off chores.

➛ That results in him always staying near you whenever you do something after he was one of those signs, not wanting you to make a mistake only because he doesn’t want you to believe that you’re dumb and for Hoyt to scold you.

➛ You hate feeling like a burden so you tell him you can do things on your own without him there. And you can, he knows it, you just need time. 

➛ Thomas nods seriously, taking you at your word, but he still stays nearby, just a little more hidden (at least he believes so.)

➛ Thomas notices it first when you freeze in the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon, staring at the stove like it directly attacked you.

➛ You forgot it was hot while you were cooking, again. And he's gentle about it, always is. 

➛ He takes your wrist carefully, checks your fingers, blows on them even though he knows it won’t do much. 

➛ He doesn’t scold you, he never does. Just hums softly, worried eyes flicking between your hand and your face.

➛ You’re not useless, you help him of course. 

➛ You clean, you cook with Luda, fold laundry sitting on the floor (because standing too long makes you forget what you’re doing.) 

➛You just… stop sometimes. Like your brain stalls.

➛ Thomas understands that feeling more than anyone.

➛ When Hoyt barks orders and you’re given three things to do at once, you panic. You stand there, nodding, trying to hold onto the instructions like water in your hands. 

➛ Thomas steps in front of you without even realizing it, shielding you from the very frustrated and barking self proclaimed sheriff until he leaves you alone, mumbling in his beard.

➛ He gives you one thing. One task. Always.

➛ When you ask him something like, “Wait… cows give milk even if they don’t have babies?” he pauses, then explains it slowly and carefully, noticing your genuine surprise with this information.

➛ Feels kind of good when you seek him for things like these. People always thought he was dumb, even calling him a “dumb animal”, so hearing you call him smart for facts like those just rubs him the right way.

➛ And when you forget what you were saying mid-sentence, he waits until it finally comes back to you, even if it’s 3 days later in the middle of the night. 

➛ He also loves feeling useful, so helping you with whatever you need makes him feel worthy no matter what it is.

➛ He never rushes you or makes you feel stupid, he just looks at you like you’re the best thing in the world.

Bubba Sawyer

➛ You and Bubba exist in your own rhythm.

➛ You forget what you’re holding constantly so, Bubba has learned to gently take things from your hands when your attention drifts. No judgment, just quiet prevention.

➛ You once walked straight into a doorframe because you were wondering if cows realized they were cows (what you confessed to him later when he asked). 

➛ Bubba gasps like he personally felt it, pulling you into his arms, rocking slightly while whining under his breath as you groan in pain.

➛ When you freeze up, he mirrors you, slowing everything down for you. 

➛ Sits on the floor with you until your thoughts untangle themselves as he gently holds your hand in his.

➛ You try to help him cook every chance you get and somehow manage to burn the food and yourself at the same time. 

➛ Bubba doesn’t care about the food, he only cares about you. He’ll eat it anyway, even if it’s awful, just to make you smile and feel better about it.

➛ Bubba finds your clumsiness comforting.

➛ You drop things, you trip over nothing, you walk into a room looking for something and leave holding something completely unrelated, confused but determined.

➛ He does the same, so it feels nice to have someone act the same.

➛ You burn yourself on a hot piece of metal outside (thanks to the Texas heat) and cry more from surprise than pain. 

➛ Bubba panics immediately. Like, full panic. Mask off, hands flapping, whining softly as he pulls you toward the sink. 

➛ He kisses your fingers through the mask later, apologizing as if he was the one you burnt you himself.

➛ You ask him questions that make his head tilt. “Horses are mammals, right? Or is that… only cows?”

➛ He thinks about it very hard, not sure himself. You both decide after long minutes looking at each other dead in the eyes, deep in thought, to go and ask Drayton.

➛ When you freeze up if too much is happening, Bubba automatically becomes your anchor. 

➛ He puts himself between you and the noise, presses his forehead to yours and breathes with you until your brain starts working again.

➛ You’re not stupid, you just move slow. Bubba moves slow too and he’s not stupid, you keep telling him that he isn’t. So together, it works.

➛ At night, you fall asleep mid-sentence. Bubba stays awake, listening, hand heavy on your waist, waiting for the end of your sentence knowing you could wake up any second to tell him.

➛ He feels so proud that you chose him and that you trust him even when your thoughts get tangled.

Bo Sinclair

➛ Bo pretends he’s patient for your sake. In reality, you force him to learn it.

➛ He swears you’re doing it on purpose at first.

➛ You forget what you’re holding, you ask questions that make him stop dead and worst of all, you nod confidently and then do the exact wrong thing.

➛ But you’re independent, you don’t need him, you both know it. And that both infuriates and softens him.

➛ You try to help him with something mechanical and end up holding the wrench upside down, completely serious as you try to use it. 

➛ He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, then takes your hands and shows you. Slowly and surprisingly patiently… Against his will, yes, but he still does!

➛ Sometimes, you try to help him organize supplies and end up making it worse, completely unintentionally. He sighs, dramatic, but pulls you close anyway.

➛ “Don’t worry about it.” he mutters. “I got it.”

➛ When you freeze up because he asked you to do too many things at once, he notices. He stops talking mid-rant.

➛ Bo gets possessive of everything that he sees as his, yes, but with you it’s different. 

➛ He’s protective in a quieter way with small things like making sure you don’t get overwhelmed, snapping at anyone who laughs when you say something dense or trying to hide his frustration when you take too long to understand something.

➛ Anyone who dares mock you doesn’t get a warning, telling you they were the dumb one if they thought they could say something like that to you. 

➛ Bo is viciously protective, even if he pretends he’s not.

➛ Everytime you hurt yourself by accident, Bo reacts before you even finish hissing.

➛ He's swearing under his breath as he grabs you by the wrist to stop you from moving, eyes scanning the injury like he can undo it by glaring hard enough.

➛ He’s angry, but not at you. At the stove, the floor, the table... Whatever dared hurting you.

➛ He keeps lecturing, but his thumb rubs soothing circles into your skin the entire time.

➛ When you say something especially dense, he laughs first, then kisses you, like he can’t help himself.

➛ You once asked if the town has a mayor… Like, not if the town had a mayor, if it has, as in currently has, a mayor. 

➛ He stares at you for a long second, then laughs so hard he has to sit down while you pout, yelling at him to stop making fun of you.

➛ He loves you, even if you make his brain hurt sometimes.

Vincent Sinclair

➛ Vincent notices patterns.

➛ He notices that when too many sounds overlap, you stop moving. That when someone talks too fast, you nod even if you don’t understand. That when you’re holding something hot, you forget it’s hot the second something else catches your attention.

➛ You’re not careless. Your brain just… slips.

➛ The first time you burn yourself, it’s small. A stupid thing. You touch a metal surface in his workshop you forgot was heated and hiss, startled more than hurt. 

➛ Vincent is already there before it even starts to hurt. 

➛ He doesn’t joke like Lester, and doesn’t lecture like Bo. He simply takes your hand, examines it, and pulls you closer to the sink with a quiet whine.

➛ You apologize, you always do. And Vincent shakes his head with a firm no as you do, he always does.

➛ You tried to help him with sculpting once. You’re serious about it, tongue poking out slightly as you concentrate. He asks you to grab three different tools and you freeze. Like, completely. Your eyes dart, hands hover uselessly, and your chest tightens.

➛ Vincent immediately realizes his mistake. He steps closer, lowers his voice, touches your wrist to make you look back at him as he signs for only one tool and waits for you to hand it to him before asking for the next one.

➛ You’re independent so, you insist on doing chores yourself. 

➛ You clean, you organize, you try everything until you feel comfortable enough to do it without the fear of making a mistake. 

➛ But sadly, you just forget steps. You’ll wash dishes and leave the water running, you’ll fold laundry and wander off halfway through because you saw Jonesy running around outside and thought that this looked fun.

➛ Vincent never scolds you, he simply finishes what you forget so you don’t feel stupid for it.

➛ Sometimes you ask questions that make his pen stop mid-sketch. “Wait, bees are insects, right? Or are they like… animals?”

➛ He pauses and thinks about it. Then carefully explains, even drawing a little bee with labels. You nod like it’s the most important information you’ve ever received.

➛ When you get overwhelmed, you go quiet. And that scares him more than your clumsiness ever could.

➛ He positions himself in your line of sight, making sure you’re looking at him as he grounds you with a hand on your elbow.

➛ You forget dates, forget numbers and forget names. But you remember small details. 

➛ You remember the way his shoulders tense when he’s anxious, you remember exactly how he likes his tea, you remember to kiss his cheek when he’s focused too hard which is his personal favourite.

➛ Vincent loves you with an intensity that never feels heavy. To him, your slowness isn’t a flaw, it’s something that deserves all of his patience and time.

Lester Sinclair

➛ Lester thinks you’re PERFECT. You ask the strangest questions and he lights up every time you do. Someone finally asking things without fear of sounding dumb! 

➛ He answers enthusiastically, sometimes wrong himself, both of you figuring it out together.

➛ He just loves how your mind works.

➛ You get distracted mid-task and wander off, leaving half-finished projects everywhere. Lester finishes them for you, humming to himself, feeling useful.

➛ You ask questions that make him feel smart for once, even if neither of you are completely sure of the answer.

➛ You’re clumsy together, you both trip, you both forget most things and you both burn yourselves on stupid stuff way too often.

➛ You trip? He trips too. You drop something? He laughs and drops his too. You forget what you’re holding the second you see something interesting? He gently takes it from you before you hurt yourself or break it.

➛ He worries he’s not smart enough for you, even though you struggle too. You reassure each other constantly.

➛ When you freeze up, Lester talks. Constantly. Not to overwhelm you, but to keep you present. He’ll tell you about bugs, cars, clouds, anything that comes to his mind.

➛ He thinks you’re soft and sweet and tries his hardest to make life easier for you without ever making you feel small.

➛ You also feel safe to him, like you won’t judge him for being slow either or weird and unsettling, like most people in his life did.

You had learned every sounds of the house. The groan of old wood when the wind pressed too hard against the manor’s bones, the whisper of air sliding through passages that were not supposed to exist, the faint, careful shifting inside the walls that no one else ever noticed, yet you did. You knew Brahms was there even when you couldn’t see him and that was the problem. 

The fight had been stupid, you knew that and he also knew that. It had started with something insignificant, something that should have been laughed off, but Brahms didn’t laugh. He bristled instead, voice sharp through the walls, defensive in that wounded, childlike way he had when he felt cornered. You had snapped back for the first time, tired of walking on eggshells, tired of measuring every word so he wouldn’t take it as abandonment and most of all, tired of apologizing first. You told him he couldn’t control everything to which he told you you didn’t understand anything. The silence after that had been deafening. Usually, even when Brahms was sulking, he never stayed away for long. He would pace inside the walls, restless, his presence heavy and obvious. He would knock once, maybe twice, just to let you know he was still there. Sometimes he would speak your name softly, like he was testing whether it still belonged to him. 

Yet today, there was nothing. No shifting, no knocking and no low, familiar voice following you from room to room. The house felt empty in a way it never had before, like the old manor was angry at you too. You tried to distract yourself as you cleaned, even though the manor didn’t really get dirty, you also reorganized shelves that didn’t need reorganizing. You even put the kettle on and forgot about it until the water went cold again. By late afternoon, frustration had settled in your chest like a weight. By evening, it had twisted into something worse. You sat on the edge of your bed, fingers clenched in the fabric of your sweater, staring at the wall where you knew he usually lingered. This was where he always came when you were upset, where he would lean close from the other side, voice low and almost shy, asking what was wrong even when he already knew. Your throat tightened. When the first tear slipped down your cheek, you waited. You waited for the familiar sound of movement, the hurried shift of someone who couldn’t stand your crying for long. You waited for his voice, rough and uneven, telling you not to cry, telling you he didn’t like it when you cried. Yet, nothing happened. Another tear followed, then another, until your chest hurt as your breathing went uneven. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stay quiet, even though you had never needed to hide this from him before. He didn’t come, that was what broke you. The thought slid in quietly, cruel and persistent. Maybe he didn’t care as much as you thought, maybe you were just something familiar, something convenient, someone to talk to when he felt lonely, but not someone he actually wanted. You had always known your feelings were one-sided. You never said it out loud, never dared to, but you felt it in the way your stomach fluttered when he said your name, in the way you lingered near the walls even when there was nothing to hear, just in case he might speak. Maybe you had imagined all of it, maybe you really just were the “nanny” and that was it. 

Your phone buzzed in your hand before you realized you had picked it up. The grocery boy’s name sat there in your contacts, painfully normal as he just told you what time he’ll be coming tomorrow for the delivery. He smiled too much, lingered too long when you paid and always found excuses to ask how you were doing here, all alone in this big scary house. You had brushed it off before, loyal in a way that felt ridiculous now. Your thumb hovered over the screen. You told yourself you just needed a distraction. Someone real and visible. Someone who could walk beside you without hiding in the walls, leaving you completely alone simply because you talked back. You typed quickly before you could overthink it. ‘Are you busy tonight?’ The reply came almost instantly, the words ‘Not at all. Why?’ appearing underneath your text. Your chest tightened, not with excitement, but with something sharp and reckless. ‘Do you want to hang out? Get a drink or something?’ Another buzz. ‘Yeah! I’d really like that ;)’ 

You stared at the screen, your lips pulling into a small, bitter smile. It felt too easy. Fine, then. You stood up abruptly, swiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. You didn’t bother changing, didn’t even bother fixing your hair or checking your reflection. If Brahms didn’t care, why should you? You grabbed your coat and headed for the door, steps quick and purposeful. The manor loomed around you, tall and watchful, as if it already knew what you were about to do.

“I’m going out to get groceries!” you called aloud, voice tight and sharp as you descended the stairs.

The words had barely left your mouth when the house answered. A sudden rush of movement tore through the walls, loud and unmistakable. Footsteps, hurried and uneven, chasing you from behind the plaster. The sound of someone moving too fast in a space that barely contained him. Your heart skipped, anger flaring hotter than relief. Now he moves, suddenly he's there. You didn’t stop and you certainly didn’t slow down as you wrenched the front door open and stepped out into the cold air, slamming it shut behind you without looking back. As you ran toward your car, keys clenched in your hand, you let the words spill out, breathless and bitter.

“So now he cares about me.”

You didn’t see him, but inside the walls, something hit hard against the wood, once, like a fist, like a warning.

——

By the time you remembered the bar clearly, it felt like it had happened to someone else. Two hours bled together in warm light and loud music, the air thick with alcohol and laughter that wasn’t quite yours. Mark talked a lot. About work mostly, about how quiet the village was, about how he always thought it must be lonely living in that manor by yourself like he always told you. You nodded, smiled when expected to and drank until your glass was empty as you let the noise swallow the thoughts you didn’t want to have. You didn’t think about Brahms… Well, you tried not to at least. When you stood up to leave, the bar tilted unpleasantly, the floor shifting under your feet. You laughed it off, but it was cut short as Mark’s hand was suddenly on your arm, steadying you.

“You’re not driving.” he said, firm but still smiling. “No way.”

You started to argue out of habit, but the words tangled in your mouth, your thoughts slow and fuzzy. He offered an easy solution; said he’d drive you home, that he’d bring the groceries by tomorrow and drive you back here so you could get your car back. It sounded reasonable in your drunken state so, you agreed before you really understood what you were agreeing to.

And that's how you ended up standing in front of the door of the manor, keys trembling in your hand while you frowned at them like they were written in another language. Your fingers wouldn’t cooperate, like, at all. Mark stood just behind you, close enough that you could feel his breath when he laughed softly.

“Want some help?”

“I’m okay.” you muttered, stubborn even now. “You can go home, thanks.”

He didn’t move. You shifted, trying again, and that was when the keys slipped from your hand, clattering loudly against the stone. He laughed as you groaned loudly.

“Really?”

Before you could bend down to pick them up, he did it for you, straightening with the keys already in hand as you extended your palm to him. Yet he didn’t give them back. Instead, he stepped closer, too close, his chest brushing your back as he reached around you to slide the key into the lock. You froze, breath hitching, suddenly very aware of how little space there was between you. The door opened. Inside, the house greeted you with its familiar cold, the air heavy and still. Mark stepped in after you, locking the door behind him and setting the keys down on the small table by the entrance like he lived here. You exhaled shakily when you bent to take your shoes off, the world tilting again. Your knee buckled, and before you could even gasp, his hands were on you, catching you easily.

“Whoa there!” he snickered, steering you to the chair near the door. “Sit. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you…” you mumbled, embarrassed, heart thudding too fast.

You reached down again to take your shoes off, but he was already kneeling in front of you.

“Relax would you.” he teased lightly, fingers already at your ankle as he slipped your shoe off. 

The intimacy of it made heat rush to your face, your stomach twisting uncomfortably. He didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care, humming to himself as he took off the other one and set them aside. That’s when the wall behind you shuddered. A loud, violent bang that echoed through the entryway, sharp enough to make you flinch. Mark jumped too, eyes wide for a split second before he laughed it off.

“Damn! This place really does make noise.”

“It’s old.” you said quickly. “It’s normal.”

You knew exactly what that sound was, who made it. Anger flared inside you, hot and reckless. If Brahms cared, he had plenty of chances to show it. He hadn’t. This was just proof of what you’d already told yourself. Fine. You let out a low groan, exaggerating it just enough. Mark turned immediately. 

“You okay?”

“My feet hurt.” you whispered, voice slurred but convincing enough.

He chuckled. “Want help upstairs?”

You nodded. When he reached for your arm to help you stand, you caught his wrist instead, fingers curling weakly around it.

“Could you… carry me?” you asked, half hoping for him to say no.

He blinked, surprised, then grinned, the alcohol making him bold. 

“Yeah! Yeah, I can do that, of course.”

He scooped you up before you could second-guess yourself, holding you bridal-style like it was nothing. Another violent bang thundered through the house, followed by a sound that wasn’t quite a crash, neither quite a word, but you knew it better than anything else. A strained, furious noise that made your pulse spike. Your cheeks burned. He’s just angry because you're supposed to be taking care of him right now, you told yourself. Nothing else. Mark glanced down at you as he started walking up the stairs, noticing the color in your face. 

“You’re cute when you blush.”

His hand shifted as he climbed, sliding higher along your side. It made your skin crawl, realisation of the situation you just put yourself in hitting down on you, the discomfort of it cutting through the haze just enough for you to tense. You forced a polite laugh, answering his flirting without really meaning any of it. When he finally reached the top of the stairs, he asked where your room was, you pointed down the hall and tried to slide out of his arms once he reached the landing.

“I’m okay now.” you said with a polite smile. “Really, thank you. I’m just going to sleep.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he tightened his grip, smile fading into something sharper. 

“No you’re not.”

Your brow furrowed as he suddenly walked faster, footsteps heavy against the wooden floor. Inside the walls, something moved quickly, violently, the sound of someone running parallel to you, trapped and furious. Before you could protest again, the bedroom door opened and the world spun as he tossed you onto your bed. Before you had time to sit, the mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed on top of you, arms bracketing your head, blocking the light.

“Get off!” you yelped, panic finally slicing clean through the alcohol. 

You tried to push him, but he was stronger, heavier. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t want this.” He scoffed, his then soft gaze suddenly harshly. “You’ve been leading me on all night–”

“No I haven't ! Get off me!”

His hands moved, roaming where they shouldn’t, and fear flooded your chest, cold and sharp. The house groaned around you, walls creaking violently now, the air vibrating with something dark and furious drawing closer. Thankfully, Mark doesn’t get the opportunity to finish whatever disgusting act he was trying to start. One second his weight is pinning you to the mattress, his voice loud and ugly in your ears, and the next he’s gone. Not pushed nor pulled gently off you, but ripped. Mark’s body is yanked backward so violently, you barely register what’s happening until there’s a sickening thud at the foot of the bed. The impact rattles the floor, the walls and even the air itself. You blink, stunned, lungs burning as you scramble upright, heart slamming against your ribs.

“What the f—” Mark shouts, scrambling on the ground, panic bleeding into his voice. “Who the fuck are you?!”

You sit up just in time to see who he’s talking to. Brahms. He’s standing over Mark, shoulders heaving, chest rising and falling like he’s just run for miles. His mask is on, stark and pale in the low light, cracked porcelain hiding everything except the fury pouring out of him. His hands are clenched so tight they’re shaking, his knuckles turning almost as white as his mask. Mark tries to get up, swearing, fear finally settling into his cocky expression, but he doesn’t make it far as Brahms throws himself on him with a guttural animalistic groan, all restraint gone. His weight crashes down hard, and then again, and again, slamming Mark’s body into the floor with brutal force. The sound is awful, dull and heavy, echoing through the room. Mark’s curses dissolve into cries, then into desperate, panicked noises that make your stomach churn. Brahms whines as he does it, the sound raw, like anger and grief tangled together with no way out. He hits him against the floor again, harder this time, movements wild and uncoordinated, as if he’s past thinking, past control.

“Stop!” you scream, scrambling off the bed.

You grab Brahms shoulders from behind, pulling with everything you have, nails digging into the fabric of his clothes. He doesn’t even flinch. It’s like trying to move a wall, like trying to stop someone that’s already decided how this ends.

“Brahms, stop!” you shout again, voice cracking.

He doesn’t hear you. So, you drop to your knees beside him, hands grabbing at his arms now, trying to hold them back as he slams Mark down again and again. Your hands suddenly slip as you pull, slick with something warm. Your breath hitches as you realize there’s blood now, splattering across the floor, staining Brahms’s sleeves and now your own shaking fingers.

“Please stop!” you cry, tears blurring your vision. 

Brahms snarls, voice tearing out of him as he shakes Mark again, face inches from his.

“Mine!” he yells, the word ripping through the room. “Mine! Mine! Mine!”

The word hits you harder than the violence.

“Brahms!” you scream, louder than him, the sound raw and desperate. “Stop this right now!”

Everything freezes. Brahms’s body goes rigid beneath your hands as you grab hold of them, arm raised mid-motion. Slowly, like he’s waking up from a dream, he lowers Mark, head lifting. He looks at you. The mask is still there, hiding his face, but his eyes are visible through the dark hollows, red and wet, glossy with tears that cling to his lashes. He looks shattered, lost even, as if he’s just realized where he is and what he’s done. His breathing stutters, uneven and broken, chest hitching painfully. You’re gasping too, shaking from head to toe, forcing yourself not to look down at Mark’s crumpled body beneath him, not to think about the blood on your hands. 

For a moment, the only sound in the room is both of you trying to breathe. Brahms doesn’t move until he finally lets go, making Mark’s body slump heavily to the floor, unmoving now, a dead weight that makes your stomach twist when you finally register the stillness of it. You don’t look for long, you can’t. Your eyes barely have time to look back before Brahms moves. He turns towards you suddenly, collapsing into you with a broken sound, his masked face pressing into the crook of your neck like he needs your scent to breathe again. His shoulders shake violently, sobs tearing out of him in harsh, uneven gasps. His voice is muffled against his mask and your skin, words tumbling over each other in a rush.

“I thought you left!” he chokes. “You were gone! I called and you didn’t answer! I thought you didn’t want me anymore—”

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it almost hurts. For a split second, you don’t move. Shock pins you in place, your hands hovering uselessly in the air as his weight leans into you, desperate and clinging. Then something strange settles in your chest, warm and dizzying and wrong in a way that almost makes you nauseous. He was scared. Not angry, not possessive just to be, simply scared you had abandoned him. And the realization makes something inside you soften, even as blood stains the floor beneath you and both your bodies. 

Slowly, you wrap one arm around his broad shoulders while your other hand comes up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his dark, tangled curls without thinking. Your hand is still slick and red, yet you don’t pull it away. The moment you touch him, Brahms snap. His arms wrap around you with startling force, crushing you against him like he’s afraid you might disappear again if he loosens his grip even a little. He drags you down with him until you’re fully sitting on the floor, your knees folding awkwardly beneath you. One of his legs slides between yours, anchoring you there, body pressed close, enclosing you completely.

“Don’t—” he sobs, voice cracking. “Don’t ever do that again! Don’t go away, don’t leave me alone!”

His grip tightens as he speaks, hands trembling as they clutch at your back, your coat, your shirt, anywhere he can hold. He rocks slightly, forehead pressing harder into your neck, like he’s trying to burrow into you, to hide inside you.

“I waited.” he whispers hoarsely. “I waited for you to come back to me.”

His breathing is uneven against your skin, hot and shaky, every word spilling out like he’s been holding it in for too long. He sounds small despite his size, undone despite the violence that came before, desperation bleeding through every movement.

“Please…Please don’t leave me like that again…”

He begs again and again, the word barely more than a breath. He clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. You’re the only thing he has. He’s shaking so hard you can feel it through your whole body. Brahms clings to you like he’s afraid the moment he loosens his grip you’ll vanish, arms locked tight around your waist, fingers digging in as if to anchor himself. His forehead presses into your neck harder, breath hitching, every inhale uneven and desperate.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” he mumbles, words tumbling over each other, voice small now, stripped raw of the rage that came before. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You swallow, heart pounding, the weight of him heavy but grounding. Carefully, you shift your arms more securely around him, one hand rubbing slow circles into his back.

“I didn’t leave forever.” you murmur, voice low, steady despite the tremor in your chest. “I’m here now.”

His breath stutters at that.

“You are?” he whispers, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.

“Yes, I’m here.”

His grip tightens painfully for a second, then eases just enough to pull his head back. He looks up at you, eyes glassy behind the mask, red-rimmed and searching your face like he’s waiting for you to take the words back.

“You won’t leave again?” he asks, barely audible.

The need in his voice twists something deep in your chest. You bring your hand up to cradle the side of his head, thumb brushing along the edge of the mask, grounding him. 

“I won’t disappear like that again. But you can’t shut me out like you did either, you scared me.”

“I’ll be good, I’ll listen! I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t leave me!”

The words spill out fast, panicked, like he’s afraid if he stops talking you’ll suddenly change your mind. He leans forward again, pressing himself closer, head bowing submissively toward your chest, posture folding inward.

“I need you.” he admits, voice cracking. “I don’t like when you’re mad at me, I don’t like when you don’t talk to me or when I'm not near you.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers tightening slightly in his hair, holding him there. 

“Then don’t run away when we fight.” you say gently. “Stay. Talk to me.”

He nods against you immediately, too fast, his desperation evident. 

“I will, I promise! I won’t hide, I won’t go back in the walls—” He pauses, then adds quietly, “Unless you tell me to.”

You tilt his head up just enough so he has to look at you. 

“You don’t have to disappear to make me stay, I don’t want you gone.”

His breath catches, a soft, broken sound tearing out of him. “You want me?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you pull him closer, forehead resting gently against his mask, grounding both of you in the moment.

“I’m here.” you repeat. “That should tell you enough.”

That’s all it takes. Brahms melts into you completely, tension draining out of his body as if he’s finally allowed to stop holding himself together. His arms wrap around you again, this time less frantic, more reverent, like he’s afraid to squeeze too hard and break the moment. He stays there, breathing you in, clinging quietly, submissive in the way he leans into your touch, waiting for reassurance, for permission to stay. His breathing suddenly changes. You feel it before you hear it, the way his chest presses closer, his body shifting against yours, unconsciously seeking more contact, more reassurance than words can give him. His grip tightens again.

“Mine…” he whispers. The word slips out broken, almost embarrassed, like he didn’t mean to say it aloud. But then it comes again, louder this time. “Mine... Mine...”

Each repetition vibrates against you, sending a shiver through your spine. His leg shifts slightly, grounding him closer, anchoring himself there as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away if there’s even an inch of space left between you. You inhale sharply. His head lowers, pressing into your chest now, mask brushing against you as he bows forward, posture folding in on itself again. The sound he makes is quiet, almost involuntary, a low, needy noise that he seems unaware of, like it’s pulled straight from his chest.

“I’m yours.” he murmurs, words tangled, desperate. “I stayed and I waited. I didn’t want anyone else.”

His hands move only to hold you tighter, fingers curling into your clothes, his whole body leaning into yours like he needs your warmth to steady himself. He trembles again, restrained only by the way he hesitates, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, to push him away, to say no. Instead, you stay still, heart racing, the weight of him overwhelming and intoxicating all at once. The house creaks softly around you, settling back into silence. Brahms doesn’t lift his head, he just stays there, murmuring the word like a prayer, like a promise, like something he’s been afraid to claim until now.

“Mine.” he says again, harsher this time.

You feel the warmth of his breath seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt, his mask cool and unyielding against your skin. The blood on his arms has smeared slightly onto your sleeves where he holds you, a sticky reminder of the violence that brought you here. It's not revulsion that stirs in you, it's something deeper, a twisted pull toward the raw protectiveness he unleashed for you. Your fingers, still stained with flecks of red from trying to pull him off Mark, trace lightly along the edge of his mask, careful not to dislodge it, but enough to let him know you're not pulling away. Brahms shudders at the touch, his body going pliant under your hand like he's been waiting lifetimes for this permission. He nuzzles closer, the porcelain pressing into the swell of your breasts, his shaking hands sliding down to your hips, gripping just firmly enough to anchor himself without demanding. The tremor in his frame isn't from fear anymore; it's hunger, barely leashed, as if every inch of him aches to press further, to dissolve the barriers between you.

“Please, I need you.” he whines, the word muffled against you, raw and pleading. 

His fingers dig in a fraction more, thumbs brushing the curve of your waist, testing how far he can go before you push him off. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the way his thighs shift restlessly, brushing against yours in the dim light of the room. The air hangs heavy with the metallic tang of blood mixed with the faint musty scent of the old house, but it's his need that fills the space, thick and undeniable. 

You tilt your head down, your lips grazing the top of his mask in a feather-light kiss, and he whimpers at the contact, a low, broken sound that vibrates through his chest into yours. It's the first crack in his restraint, and you see it then, truly see it, how he's unraveling for you, how every fiber of him is wired to submit, to beg with his body because words fail him. Your heart pounds, a rush of realization hitting you. He doesn't just want you, he has been starving for this in the walls of the manor. Slowly, you slide your hand from the mask to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the wild curls peeking out. He arches into it instinctively, a soft gasp escaping him as you tug gently, guiding his head back just enough to meet his eyes through the dark slits.

“Show me.” you whisper, your voice steady despite the fire building low in your belly. "Show me how much you need me."

His response is immediate due to his desperation. He completely drops to his knees before you, hands trailing down your sides, palms pressing flat against your thighs as if to memorize every curve. Bloodied fingers leave faint streaks on your pants, and he pauses, eyes flicking up through the mask, waiting for rejection. When none comes, he exhales shakily and leans in, forehead resting against your abdomen, lips parting behind the porcelain to murmur against the fabric.

“All for you.” he says, voice cracking. “Everything... for you.”

His hands slide upward, thumbs circling the insides of your thighs, inching higher with agonizing slowness, each movement a question you answer by not stopping him. You feel the tremor in his touch, the way he fights to keep it gentle, even as his breathing grows ragged, hips shifting subtly on the floor like he can't help grinding against the air for friction. The room feels smaller now, the creaks of the house fading as his world narrows to you. You reach down, cupping his jaw through the mask, tilting it up so he has to look at you fully. The blood on your fingers smudges against the porcelain, mixing with the splatters already there, and something possessive flares in you at the sight, marking him back, claiming the monster who claimed you first.

“Good boy.”

He moans at the words, a high, needy sound that makes your core clench. His hands freeze on your thighs, then resume, bolder now, fingers hooking into your waistband, waiting, always waiting, for your order. The desperation in him is palpable, a live wire humming under his skin, and you realize with a thrill that you hold all the power here. He'd let you do anything, take anything, as long as you don't leave. You step back just enough to shrug off your coat then your shirt, letting it fall to the floor beside the remnants of the chaos. The cool air hits your skin, but his gaze, hot and intent through the mask, warms you instantly. He rises slightly on his knees, hands reaching out to trace the newly exposed skin of your stomach, palms rough and blood-streaked, leaving warm trails that make you shiver. He doesn't rush, instead, he explores with reverent touches, fingers splaying wide, as if he's afraid you'll vanish if he doesn't map you out.

“Beautiful.” he whispers, the word choked, and leans forward to press open-mouthed kisses along your navel through the mask's edge, the porcelain cool against your heated flesh. 

His tongue darts out briefly against the interior of his mask, imagining the taste of the salt of your skin mixed with the faint iron of blood, and he groans, low and guttural, body rocking forward in supplication. Your fingers tangle deeper in his hair, pulling him closer, and he obeys instantly, nuzzling into your chest now, mask bumping against your breasts as his hands cup them tentatively, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden under his touch. The sensation shoots straight to your core, a wet ache building as you watch him submit completely so eagerly. He wants you more than you ever imagined, enough to kill apparently, to kneel and beg with every fiber of his being.

“More.” you breathe, guiding his hand lower, and he whimpers again, fingers trembling as they dip beneath your waistband, brushing the edge of your panties. 

The blood on his skin slicks against you, warm and slick, heightening every nerve, and you gasp at the erotic smear of it, the forbidden intimacy of sharing his violence. He pauses there, eyes pleading through the mask, and you nod, heart racing with the depth of his devotion.

“Please, let me taste you…” he begs, voice muffled, hands hovering, desperate to please. 

His body quivers, cock straining visibly against his pants, untouched and aching, yet he doesn't touch himself, doesn't dare to, waiting for your command, utterly yours in this moment of surrender. You watch him kneel there, his masked face tilted up in utter supplication, the porcelain streaked with drying blood that mirrors the faint smears on your own skin. Your nod is all it takes, a silent command that unleashes him. His fingers hook into your waistband with a reverence that borders on worship, tugging your pants down inch by inch, exposing the damp lace of your panties clinging to your folds. He inhales sharply, the sound ragged through the mask, the scent of your arousal hitting him like a drug. Bloodied hands slide the fabric lower, palms dragging over your hips then your thighs, leaving warm, sticky trails that make your skin tingle with the illicit mix of violence and desire. 

Your pants pool at your ankles as you step out of them, kicking them aside quickly, standing bare before him in just your panties and the vulnerability of your exposed body. Brahms doesn't hesitate now, his devotion overriding any lingering restraint. He presses his face forward, the cool edge of the mask grazing the inside of your thigh, nuzzling upward with a low, keening whine. His hands grip your ass, fingers digging in just enough to spread you open slightly, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he buries his nose against the damp crotch of your panties. One of his hands lets go of you, going to the bottom of his mask to lift it up, revealing his mouth, before going back to gripping at your flesh. You feel the heat of his breath seeping through the cotton, his tongue flicking out to lap at the fabric, tasting the wet heat of your pussy through it. The sensation is electric; rough, insistent, his muffled groans vibrating against your clit as he sucks gently, soaking the material further with his saliva mixed with your slick.

“So good…You taste like heaven—” he murmurs, voice breaking, muffled. “You're mine.”

His words are laced with that raw hunger as his tongue presses harder, circling your clit through the barrier, making your hips buck involuntarily. The blood on his fingers slicks against your skin as he kneads your ass, pulling you closer, his body rocking forward on his knees, grinding his hard cock against your calf for any scrap of friction. He's unraveling, breaths coming in harsh pants, but he focuses entirely on you, on pleasuring you with the single-minded intensity of someone who's starved for this contact. You thread your fingers back into the wild curls at his nape, tugging to guide him, and he obeys with a shudder, his free hand sliding up to hook a finger into your panties, pulling them aside. The cool air hits your exposed pussy, but it's quickly replaced by the press of his mask, cold porcelain against your inner thigh as he angles his head. His tongue darts out from behind the edge, flat and hot, licking a slow, broad stripe up your slit, from your entrance to your clit. 

The taste of you floods his senses as he moans deeply, the sound vibrating straight into your core, making your walls clench around nothing. He laps at you like a man possessed, tongue delving into your folds, circling your entrance before sucking your clit between his lips, or as close as the mask allows, his mouth working feverishly against the barrier of porcelain. It's messy, intimate, the faint metallic tang of blood from his skin mixing with your sweetness on his tongue. His fingers join in, one thick digit pressing against your hole, sliding in slowly, knuckle by knuckle, coated in your arousal and the remnants of his bloodied touch. He curls it inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with deliberate pressure, while his thumb rubs slick circles over your clit. Your legs tremble, the slow build of pleasure coiling tight in your belly, heightened by the vulnerability in his every movement with the way his shoulders hunch in submission, his body yours to command. He looks up through the slits of the mask, eyes dark and pleading, as if begging for your approval even as he devours you. 

“More?” he whispers against your pussy, voice hoarse, tongue flicking out to catch a drip of your slick. “Tell me, please, let me make you cum.”

The emotional rawness hits you then, his devotion laid bare in the tremor of his hand inside you, the way he fucks you with his finger slow and deep, suddenly adding a second to stretch you, scissoring gently while his mouth worships your clit. He's not just eating you out; he's surrendering, offering his hunger as tribute, his blood-streaked hands claiming you even as he yields completely. The manor's shadows seem to close in, the scent of iron and arousal thick, but it's his vulnerability that undoes you. The killer on his knees, reduced to this quivering need, utterly devoted to your pleasure. You grip his hair tighter, hips rolling against his face, chasing the edge he's building so reverently. 

“Yes! More, Brahms, give me more!” you gasp, voice thick with command and desire.

His response is a broken sob of gratitude, his tongue thrusting deeper, fingers pumping faster now, slick sounds filling the room as he drives you toward release, his own cock leaking pre-cum into his pants, ignored in his desperation to please. Your command unleashes something primal in him, a floodgate of desperate need that turns his worship into frenzy. Brahms's fingers plunge deeper into your pussy, the two digits stretching you wide as they thrust in rhythmic, insistent strokes, curling against that spongy wall inside you with every push. The slick squelch of your arousal mixes with the faint, coppery hint from his bloodied skin, the warmth of it seeping into your core as he scissors them apart, opening you up for more of his touch. His mouth seals over your clit, lips sucking hard now, tongue flicking in rapid, teasing laps that send jolts of fire racing up your spine. 

The porcelain mask presses firm against your thigh, a stark contrast to the wet heat of his tongue delving into your folds, lapping at your entrance around his knuckles, drinking down every drop of your wetness like it's the only sustenance he'll ever crave. Your thighs wrap around his head, muscles tensing as the coil in your belly gets tighter, the pressure building to an unbearable peak. He senses it, feels the way your walls flutter and clench around his fingers, and it spurs him on as his free hand digs harder into your ass cheek, nails scraping lightly over the smeared blood trails, pulling you flush against his face so he can bury himself deeper. A low, guttural moan rumbles from his throat, vibrating straight through your clit, pushing you closer to the brink. His cock throbs against your calf, the fabric of his pants damp with his own leaking pre-cum, yet he still doesn't seek relief for himself. Every rock of his hips against the floor is just friction born of agony.

“Yes! Yes, like that…” you breathe, your voice a husky demand that makes his body shudder. 

Your fingers twist in his curly hair, yanking his head exactly where you want it, grinding your pussy against his eager mouth. The raw vulnerability in his barely visible eyes, peering up through the mask's slits, hits you like a wave. This towering, bloodied killer reduced to a trembling mess, his entire world narrowed to the taste of you and the feel of your pleasure under his tongue. It's intoxicating, you think, as your orgasm crashes over the edge. Your release hits hard, walls spasming around his fingers as you cry out, hips bucking wildly against his face. Hot waves of ecstasy pulse through you, your slick gushing over his hand and chin, coating his lips as he laps it up greedily, tongue thrusting shallowly into your clenching hole alongside his digits. 

He doesn't stop to your surprise, sucking your clit through the aftershocks, fingers slowing to a gentle pump that milks every last tremor from your body. Your legs nearly give out, but his grip on your ass holds you steady, his blood-streaked palms a possessive anchor in the haze of bliss. When the waves finally slow, you sag slightly, chest heaving, but Brahms pulls back just enough to gaze up at you, mask askew, mouth glistening with your cum and traces of blood. His fingers slip free from your pussy with a wet pop as he brings them to his lips, sucking them clean with a low hum, eyes locked on yours in silent plea for praise. 

“Did I... please you?” he rasps, voice thick and broken, his body still kneeling, cock straining painfully, untouched and begging for your next whim. 

The manor's dim light casts long shadows over his form, the iron scent lingering like a reminder of the violence that brought you here, now twisted into this profound, aching devotion. You look down at him, this bloodied giant on his knees, his masked face tilted up in desperate hope, lips still shiny from your release. The vulnerability in his eyes pierces through the porcelain slits, and a rush of possessive warmth floods you. He's been perfect, utterly obedient, his every lick and thrust a testament to his surrender. The dead body of Mark lies slumped nearby, a stark reminder of the violence that led to this, blood pooling dark on the manor's worn floorboards, the iron tang heavy in the air. But right now, it's Brahms who commands your focus, his body trembling with unspent need.

“You were such a good boy, Brahms.” you murmur in response, voice low and approving, reaching down to cup his jaw through the mask, thumb tracing the edge where porcelain meets skin.

His breath hitches at the praise, a full-body shudder rippling through him, his broad shoulders hunching as if the words alone could unravel him. 

“You pleased me so much... now it's my turn to take care of you.”

Your words alone make him whimper, a soft, broken sound that vibrates against your palm. You step back just enough to let him rise, yet  he doesn't, he stays kneeling, waiting for your lead, cock bulging obscenely against his pants, a wet spot darkening the fabric. Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under the blood-streaked shirt, then lower, brushing over the hard line of his hairy abdomen. He gasps when you suddenly palm his erection through the cloth, the heat of him searing your hand, his hips jerking forward instinctively into your touch.

“Please…” he breathes, voice cracking, hands fisting at his sides to keep from grabbing you. 

But you can see how easily he's fraying from the way his thighs tense, muscles quivering under your gaze, the mask hiding most of his face but not the flush creeping up his neck. You squeeze him gently, stroking the length of his cock in his pants with your palm. He breaks with a choked sob, head falling forward as his body sags against your leg, grinding into your hand like he can't help it. It's effortless, the way he yields. One firm press of your fingers has him panting, pre-cum soaking through to slick your skin, his massive frame reduced to desperate bucks and pleas. You tug at his belt with your free hand, unbuckling it swiftly, the metallic clink echoing in the shadowed room. His pants slide down his hips under your guidance, freeing his thick cock as it springs out heavy and throbbing, veins pulsing along the shaft, the tip flushed dark and leaking steadily. Blood from his hands smears onto the base as he shifts, but he doesn't care, wet eyes locked on you through the mask, wide and pleading. You wrap your fingers around him fully now, skin on skin, and he shatters, a raw moan tearing from his throat as his knees nearly buckle, hips thrusting into your fist with uncontrolled need. 

“Oh God... yes, touch me... yours–” 

His voice hoarse, body arching into every stroke you give, the submission so complete it's almost pitiful how quickly he crumbles. But you're not done teasing. You guide him to stand on shaky legs, pushing him back toward the wall near Mark's lifeless form, the proximity a deliberate reminder. His back hits the cold stone, and you press against him, your bare pussy grinding along his thigh as you pump his cock harder, thumb circling the sensitive head to spread his pre-cum. He breaks further under the dual assault, whines turning to sobs, his bloodied hands hovering uncertainly before you nod permission, and they settle on your hips, gripping lightly as if afraid to hold on too tight. Every twist of your wrist draws out another tremor, his cock twitching in your grasp, balls drawing up tight as he teeters on the edge already, so responsive, so easily undone by your command.

“Not yet.” you warn against his ear, slowing your strokes to a torturous drag, and he whines in protest, body slumping against the wall, utterly pliant. 

You sink to your knees now, mirroring his earlier position, and his breath stutters when your mouth hovers near his tip. But as quickly as you went down, you rise again, making Brahms groan in frustration while you push him down to the floor beside Mark's body, close enough that the metallic scent clings to you both until it’s the only thing you can both smell. He lands on his back with a thud, cock jutting up rigid and desperate as you straddle his hips, positioning yourself over him. The heat of his shaft presses against your bare slick folds while you lower slowly, teasing the head along your entrance. Brahms's hands clutch at your thighs, blood leaving fresh streaks over the dried ones, his eyes glazing over with raw need. 

"Please, inside you! Need to be inside.” he begs, voice fracturing. 

“Since you’ve been a good boy…”

You sink down then, taking him inch by thick inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that makes you gasp. He breaks completely as you bottom out, a guttural cry escaping him, hips bucking up weakly, body convulsing under you like he's been electrocuted by the pleasure. You start to ride him, slow at first, rolling your hips to feel every ridge and vein drag against your walls. His cock throbs deep inside you, filling you completely while he unravels with each thrust, moans spilling out from his mouth with no restraint, hands sliding up to knead your breasts as his thumbs flicker your nipples, tears streak from under the mask. The vulnerability is intoxicating; Brahms, so violent moments ago, now a quivering mess beneath you, breaking apart with every clench of your pussy around him. As you pick up pace, bouncing harder, the slap of skin on skin fills the room, your arousal coating his balls. Brahms turns his head toward Mark's body, voice ragged between gasps. 

“She's mine, you see? Shouldn't have tried... deserved it, you bastard.” 

He thrusts up to meet you, the words a possessive growl laced with delirium, his cock pulsing as he claims you aloud to the corpse. 

‘Ah, fuck, Brahms!”

“All mine... Feel her, so… So tight around me... you never had a chance.” 

Each declaration makes him thrust deeper, breaking further under the intensity, his body arching off the floor, sobs mixing with grunts as your pussy milks him relentlessly. The sight of Mark's slack face so close heightens it all; the blood, the moans and wet sounds, Brahms's fractured devotion… You grind down, clit rubbing against his pubic bone, chasing your own building heat while he shatters beneath you, cock swelling as his orgasm nears. 

“Mine… She's everything.” he rasps to the body as a loud moan escapes his lips.

His fingers dig deeper into your ass to pull you harder onto him, his massive form trembling violently now, on the verge of spilling inside you from the sheer overwhelm of your touch. You lean forward, pressing your palms to his blood-smeared chest for leverage, nails digging into the fabric as you slam down harder and harder onto his cock. The stretch burns deliciously with every descent, your walls clenching around his thick length, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses that make his entire body jerk. Brahms's hips snap up to meet you, driving impossibly deeper, the wet sounds of your pussy taking him echoing off the manor walls, mingling with the drip of blood from Mark's corpse nearby. His bloodied fingers bruise your hips, pulling you flush against him, but it's your control that keeps him pinned, his massive frame bucking helplessly under your weight.

“Fuck... I'm a good boy?”

“Yes, ah, you're such a good boy Brahms!”

He groans in response, voice splintering into a whine as you grind your clit against his base, sparks of pleasure shooting through you. But his eyes, those wild, desperate slits in the mask, flick to Mark's lifeless form again, the obsession fueling his thrusts. 

“Look at her on me... taking my cock so deep. You thought you could have this? Pathetic... deserved what you got.” 

The words come out in ragged bursts, timed with his upward plunges, his shaft swelling thicker inside you, veins dragging against your sensitive spots. He breaks more with each taunt, body convulsing, sweat mixing with the drying blood on his skin, making him slick and feverish beneath you. You quicken your pace, bouncing with forceful drops that slap your ass against his thighs, his balls tightening as they slap up against you. The friction builds a coil in your core, but it's his unraveling that pushes you higher, how he fractures so completely, sobs choking out between possessive snarls. 

“She's clenching around me… You never touched her like this. Dead and gone because you tried!”

His cock throbs violently, the head nudging your cervix with every brutal thrust, pre-cum leaking to ease the glide, but he's teetering, breaths coming in shattered gasps, muscles locking as you ride him mercilessly. One hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, trembling fingers tracing your pulse as if anchoring himself to you. You capture his wrist, guiding it to your breast instead, and he kneads roughly, pinching your nipple until you moan, the sound ripping another cry from him. 

“Please, gonna cum... inside you... mark you as mine.” he begs, head thrashing against the floorboards, the mask's porcelain cracking faintly under the strain of his expressions.

He turns his face toward the corpse the moment you nod yes in answer to him, lips curling in a feral snarl. 

“See this? Fuck, she feels so good!”

You feel him fracture fully then, his cock pulsing erratically, hips stuttering as you clench down hard, twisting your hips to grind him deeper. 

“Cum for me, Brahms.” you command, voice husky with your own rising peak, and that's all it takes. 

Brahms arches off the floor with a guttural roar, body seizing as ropes of hot cum erupt from his tip, flooding your pussy in thick spurts. He pumps into you erratically, each jet accompanied by a broken sob, his hands clamping onto your ass to hold you seated while he empties himself, over and over, the excess leaking out around his base to drip onto his balls. Through it all, he doesn't stop the litany, voice hoarse and delirious as waves crash over him. 

“Mine... you could've never... deserved to bleed out.”

His thrusts weaken to shallow jerks, milking every drop into you, body quaking with aftershocks, tears streaming from the mask's edges. You ride out his orgasm, chasing your own, your clit grinding against him until the pressure snaps, your walls fluttering around his spent cock, a fresh gush of your arousal mixing with his cum and the faint blood traces. Finally, you still, collapsing onto his chest, both of you panting in the heavy air, the scent of sex and iron thick around you. Brahms's arms wrap around you weakly, holding you close as if you'll vanish, his cock softening inside but not slipping out, keeping you joined. He nuzzles his masked face into your hair, murmuring brokenly. 

“Did I please you?” 

The vulnerability lingers, his body limp and sated, utterly broken and remade by your touch, while Mark's body cools silently beside you, a forgotten shadow in the dim light.

“Yes, you did so good Brahms—”

“So you'll never leave me again?”

➛ Dating Lester Sinclair as a cane user would feel slow in the best way possible, like life finally decided to stop rushing you for once.

➛ He notices the cane before he notices anything else about you, but only because of how you two met.

➛ You somehow stumbled into the town with your car without him even bringing you here, which resulted in him quickly getting into the town before you.

➛ First time he meets you, you’re trying to push open the gas station door and it swings back too fast, knocking your cane sideways.

➛Before you can even get annoyed at the situation, there’s a hand catching the door, so it doesn't knocks you next, and another hovering near your elbow. Not grabbing it, just there in case you need it.

➛ “That thing’s got a mind of its own!” he jokes in a groan, voice low and a little shy.

➛ And the first time you see him, you realize immedietaly that that’s Lester, he helps without making it feel like it.

➛ He learns your pace instead of expecting you to match his. When you walk beside him down the dirty road, his steps slow automatically, boots crunching in time with the soft tap of your cane. 

➛ He never rushes you, and he also never does that awkward hovering thing people do when they don’t know whether to offer an arm or pretend they don’t see.

➛ He just walks with you and makes a joke everytime he can.

➛ Some days are harder than others and he can always tell without you saying a word.

➛ You’ll shift your weight a little more, your grip on the cane a little tighter, and suddenly he’s finding excuses to stop as often as he can. 

➛ “Hold on, lemme check somethin’ on the truck.”, “Think i saw a turtle back there., can we please go look at it?", “You wanna sit a minute? I’m exhausted!”

➛ On days where it really is just too much for you, he kneels in front of you without hesitation as you sit down, big warm hands resting over your knee.

➛ “Scale of one to ten?” You answer something like six even if it’s an eight and he always gives you the same look followed by a comforting “Don’t lie to me now.”

➛ He'll always be carrying you back to his truck if you can't walk anymore and if you're ok with it. If you just need time, he'll sit there and hold you.

➛ He’ll wrap your legs in that ugly quilt from his couch and put on some old radio station if you let him carry you tho, sitting close enough that your shoulder touches his.

➛ “You don’t gotta be brave all the time, I can borrow some of it for you.”

➛ He keeps a beat-up folding chair in the back of his truck just for you. Doesn’t make a big announcement about it either.

➛ One day you open the back of his beat-up truck and there’s a folding chair in there that definitely wasn’t before. You raise an eyebrow at him while he suddenly gets real interested in checking his tires.

➛ “Sometimes you look like you need a place to land, so might as well make it comfortable…” he mutters.

➛ You don’t tell him you almost cried over a ten-dollar lawn chair while he acts as if he didn’t think about you when he found it at a yard sale and got all happy about his find. 

➛ If your hand gets sore from gripping the cane too long, he’ll take it from you without asking, spinning it in his fingers like he’s inspecting it.

➛ “Grip’s wearin’ down…” he mutters.

➛ Next day there’s a new one on it!

➛ He’s gentle in the most lester way possible, not overbearing nor pitying, just careful because he loves you. 

➛ His hand finds your lower back when you’re going up steps, thumb rubbing lazy circles through your shirt.

➛ If you wince, he notices in a second. And if you try to hide it, he notices even more. Being the invisble child growing up made him him observe a lot of things around him which, obviously, resulted noticing everything.

➛ “Don’t gotta act tough with me, darlin’.” he’ll say, crouched in front of you, big hands warm around your knee or ankle. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

➛ He builds little things for you without telling you. A smoother path by the porch, a makeshift rail near the chicken coop…

➛ You’ll call him out on it and he’ll just shrug, cheeks going pink.

➛ “Just makes sense, don’t it?”

➛ He likes the sound of your cane in the house, reminds him that you really are here with him, something that's hard for him to realise.

➛ Early mornings, it’s tap tap tap across the kitchen floor while he’s making coffee too sweet and too strong, and he’ll grin over his mug like it’s his favorite song.

➛ “Like hearin’ that thing, y’know." he admits with a shy shrug. You ask why. “Means you’re here with me.”

➛ And if someone ever stared too long or said something stupid? Lester doesn’t get loud or violent like Bo, but he gets real still, jaw tight, stepping just a little closer to you.

➛ “They botherin’ you, sweetheart?” The person usually finds somewhere else to look real fast.

➛ Later, he’ll try to make you laugh about it.

➛ “Folks forget their manners. Good thing I remembered mine!”

➛ Quickly, you also notice he keeps painkillers in the glove box next to the loose change.

➛ You also notice the fact that he moves things around his house without telling you, which you quickly realise is that so there’s more room to walk.

➛ “Lester, did you move the whole damn couch?” 

➛ “Maybe it walked off on its own!”

➛ Most nights end the same way, with you sitting on the hood of his truck, cane resting beside you, his shoulder pressed to yours while the sky turns that sticky purple color only Ambrose seems to get.

➛ He’ll bump you gently with his arm as he gently rubs your tight.

➛ “Reckon I got real lucky with you, y’know that?”

Jason Voorhees

➛ Sleeping in the same bed as Jason is something that happens without discussion. There’s no suggestion and no awkward buildup. 

➛ Night falls, you’re tired, the cabin only has one bed, and Jason simply stands there waiting to see what you’ll do. He doesn’t look at the bed, he looks at you.

➛ When you lie down, he stays standing for a long moment, mask tilted slightly like he’s listening to something you can’t hear. 

➛ Only after the room is completely quiet does he sit, the mattress dipping under his weight. He doesn’t rush, Jason never rushes when it comes to things that matter.

➛ He lies down fully clothed, positioning himself between you and the rest of the room without saying a word. It’s instinctive, protective in a way that feels ancient, like this is how he’s always slept when someone mattered enough to guard.

➛ He doesn’t touch you, not because he’s hesitant, but because he’s controlled. 

➛ Jason is very aware of his strength, so he keeps his hands folded near his chest, still as stone, even when you shift in your sleep and end up closer to him than you meant to. 

➛ He allows it, that’s the difference.

➛ The room feels different with him there. Quieter, heavier and safer, even if that doesn’t make sense since he kind of off's people but still, that's how you feel. 

➛ You fall asleep faster than you expect to, giving you barely any time time to act like a teenager sleeping with a boy for the first time since you’re already deep asleep after a few minutes.

➛ Jason doesn’t really sleep at first, not that he really needs to anyway. 

➛ He listens. Every creak of the cabin, every change in your breathing, every sound outside… 

➛ When you move, he tenses, ready. Ready for what? He doesn’t know but still, he is ready.

➛ When you settle again, he relaxes just enough to stop listening for every sound around the both of you for a second.

➛ At some point during the night, you roll too close, your shoulder pressing into his side. 

➛ He stiffens for half a second, then slowly exhales. He adjusts just enough to give you space without pushing you away, one arm bending slightly so you’re tucked closer to his chest. 

➛ It’s not affectionate in the traditional sense, it’s containment, as if he’s making sure you stay exactly where he can protect you.

➛ If you wake up in the middle of the night, you’ll find his head tilted down toward you, mask close enough that you can feel his breath through it. He doesn’t move when he realizes you’re awake, he just stays there, watching, until you settle again. Only then does he relax.

➛ Jason sleeps in intervals. Short, light rests broken by long stretches of awareness. 

➛ When he does drift off, it’s with his body angled toward you, one knee bent, blocking you in without trapping you. You’re not restrained, you’re shielded.

➛ In the morning, he’s already awake. He moves away before you can really process how close he was, standing and turning his back like nothing happened. 

➛ The next night, when you hesitate by the bed, he waits. When you lie down again, he takes the same position as the night before without question.

➛ Sleeping in the same bed with Jason isn’t tender or romantic on the surface. Yet once it starts, it becomes routine in the way only lovers do.

Brahms Heelshire

➛ Sleeping in the same bed as Brahms is something that happens slowly, over time, even if you don’t realize it at first. 

➛ It starts with him sitting at the edge of the bed while you lie down, watching you carefully like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away. 

➛ He doesn’t like the idea of being too far from you, even at night.

➛ He says it’s because the house gets loud and he also says it’s because he sleeps better when he knows you’re there, by that he means seeing you there.

➛ He doesn’t say what he’s really afraid of tho.

➛ The first time you actually share the bed is after you’ve kind of had it of him hovering over you while you sleep.

➛ It’s really easy to get him in the bed with you, you barely finish the sentence that he’s already under the covers.

➛ You suspect him of having already gone in your bed while you slept but you just can’t prove it.

➛ It’s how he acts once he’s in it that’s more…interesting.

➛ Because if he really did go in your bed with you before, you were sleeping and unaware of it. But right now? You’re awake and very aware of him which seems to make him fidgety.

➛ He fidgets, adjusts the blankets over and over again, glancing at you like he’s waiting for permission, even if he doesn’t ask for it out loud. 

➛ You can tell he wants to be close but doesn’t know how much is too much. He’s learned that touching people too much can make them leave thanks to his past nannies.

➛ When he finally lies down, he stays on his side, facing you, knees pulled in slightly, hands tucked close to his chest.

➛ He watches you like he’s memorizing the way you breathe and you can feel his eyes on you even when the room is dark.

➛ Brahms asks quiet questions before he falls asleep. If you’re comfortable, what you’ll make for breakfast, if he’s too close, if he’ll have to take a bath tomorrow, if he can stay… 

➛ His voice is soft and uncertain, and every answer you give seems to relax him just a little more. Well, except for the shower question since you said that yes, he does.

➛ He doesn’t touch you at first, not really. 

➛ His hand might brush against yours under the blankets, fingers twitching like he wants to hold on but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. 

➛ When you reach out and lace your fingers with his, he stiffens in surprise before squeezing back like he’s afraid to let go.

➛ Once he realizes you’re really not going anywhere or going to throw him off the bed, he inches closer. Slowly and carefully, which is surprising coming from him. 

➛ He presses his forehead against your shoulder or your arm, breathing you in like grounding himself.

➛ His hands grip your shirt, bunching the fabric between his trembling fingers. It’s not aggressive, it’s desperate, like he needs to know you’re real.

➛ Brahms sleeps lighter than you do. He wakes up if you move, no matter how small the movement is. 

➛ If you roll over, he follows, wrapping himself around you from behind, clinging to you like a baby koala.

➛ He whispers your name in his sleep sometimes, like he’s checking that you’re still there.

➛ If you wake up in the middle of the night, you’ll find his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, porcelain face pressed into the back of your neck, breath warm and steady. 

➛ He relaxes completely when you shift closer instead of pulling away. His grip tightens just a little, possessive but fragile, like he’s afraid someone might take you from him any second.

➛ In the morning, he doesn’t let go right away. He nuzzles into your shoulder, mumbling that he slept better than he usually does. 

➛ He looks almost embarrassed when he realizes how close he is, yet he doesn’t move unless you do.

➛ After that night, sleeping apart isn’t really an option anymore. 

➛ Brahms doesn’t ask, he just expects it, as if it’s now part of his routine. 

➛ If you try to sleep somewhere else, he gets quiet and withdrawn, eyes following you with that familiar anxious expression. 

➛ He needs you there, needs your warmth, your closeness and the reassurance that he isn’t alone.

Thomas Hewitt

➛ Thomas gets the idea first but he doesn’t suggest it outright. 

➛ In fact, the idea alone makes him nervous. He paces, rubs his hands together, glances between you and the bed like he’s trying to figure out what the ‘right’ thing to do is.

➛ Mama would probably have opinions, saying that he shouldn’t sleep in the same bed as her before marriage, and that alone makes him hesitate.

➛ With that in mind, after thinking about it all day, he offers his bed to you, pointing at himself than the floor to tell you that’s where he’ll sleep. 

➛ He genuinely believes that’s what he’s supposed to do. 

➛ When you insist that there’s enough room for both of you and that it's ok to sleep in the same bed, he looks confused, like the thought never even crossed his mind.

➛ When he finally agrees, which was after long minutes convincing him that you really are ok with it and God probably is too, he takes his time getting in. 

➛ He sits on the edge of the mattress for a while, hunched over, shoulders rounded and damp hands clasped together tightly. 

➛ You can hear his breathing speed up with every passing second and you can also tell he’s trying very hard not to make a mistake, even if you don’t really know what mistake he could possibly make but, well, it’s Tommy.

➛ Thomas lies down stiffly, keeping as much space between you as possible. He faces the opposite direction at first, back tense, like he’s afraid to move even an inch. 

➛ He’s huge, he knows it. He’s constantly aware of how much space he takes up, how easy it would be to scare or hurt you without meaning to.

➛ You’re the one who breaks the tension as you shift closer, not touching yet, just enough that he can feel your warmth. 

➛ He sucks in a quiet breath and freezes, heart pounding so loudly you’re pretty sure you can feel it through the mattress.

➛ Thomas doesn’t touch you first, he just waits. For what? He doesn't really know, but still, he waits.

➛ His hand twitches at his side, fingers curling and uncurling like he wants to reach out.

➛ When you gently place your hand over his, he flinches for half a second before relaxing into it, squeezing your hand like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held.

➛ Once he realizes you’re okay, that you’re not scared or bothered by his presence, something in him softens. 

➛ He inches closer, movements slow and careful. His arm eventually slides around you, heavy but warm, resting against your back. 

➛ He’s constantly checking your reaction, pulling back slightly if you tense, relaxing again when you don’t.

➛ Thomas sleeps lighter than you expect. Which isn’t that much of a surprise, with him being called every second by the Hewitt's no matter the time.

➛ He wakes up if you move too much, lifting his head to make sure you’re ok. 

➛ If you wake up during the night, you might find him half-awake, watching you with that quiet, worried expression. He relaxes instantly when you mumble his name or reach for him.

➛ He’s a protective sleeper, surprisingly even more than when he’s awake. 

➛ Once he fully settles, he curls around you, shielding you from the room like his body alone can keep you safe. His breathing evens out slowly, deep and steady, and you realize he hasn’t slept this peacefully in a long time.

➛ In the morning, he’s embarrassed. 

➛ He pulls back quickly, apologizing in his own way with grunts, worried he got too close or held you too tightly.

➛ When you reassure him, his shoulders loosen and a shy, relieved smile flickers across his face.

➛ After that, sleeping apart feels wrong to him. He won’t ask to share the bed again, but he lingers nearby at night, waiting to see what you’ll do. 

➛ If you lie down without him, he looks genuinely disappointed but, if you pat the mattress beside you, he brightens instantly, climbing in with quiet excitement he tries very hard to hide.

➛ Sleeping in the same bed with Thomas makes him feel safe in a way he’s never really known. And once he knows that feeling, he doesn’t want to lose it.

Bo Sinclair

➛ The proposition came from you but the idea from him.

➛ The suggestion alone makes him tense up, jaw tightening like he’s annoyed you even brought it up, even though it wasn’t really your idea in the first place. 

➛ There’s only one bed, the couch is uncomfortable, and he’s already decided the conversation is over before it really starts.

➛ Bo pretends this isn’t a big deal, but acts like it absolutely is. 

➛ He tells you it’s just sleeping, then he tells you to quit overthinking it to then tell you he’s not gonna hurt you in an annoyed groan. 

➛ None of that makes the situation less nerve-wracking but you appreciate his effort to try and reassure you, or he’s trying to reassure himself, you’re not really sure.

➛ He insists you get in first, standing there with his arms crossed while you awkwardly sit down on the edge of the mattress, debating every life choice that led you here.

➛ The bed dips when you lie down and you stay stiff, keeping to your side like there’s an invisible boundary between you. 

➛ When he finally gets in, the mattress shifts again and suddenly he’s right there. Too close, too warm and way too real.

➛ Bo lies on his back, staring at the ceiling like it’s its fault that he’s in this situation. 

➛ He doesn’t touch you at first, doesn’t even look at you.

➛ You can tell he’s aware of every single movement you make though, because the second you adjust the blanket, his shoulders tense.

➛ You can’t sleep. You’re painfully aware that Bo Sinclair is inches away from you and that this is the quietest you’ve ever seen him, which is somehow even worse than him yelling. No sarcastic remarks, no threats, no barking orders… Just the sound of his breathing and the weight of his presence next to you.

➛ When you shift for the third time, he lets out an annoyed sigh and mutters something about you being restless and stopping him from falling asleep. You mumble an apology without thinking and he scoffs, telling you not to apologize like that.

➛ His tone softens immediately after, like he regrets snapping but he would never admit it.

➛ At some point, you finally do magically fall asleep and you roll slightly onto your side in your sleep, making your back press against his arm. 

➛ It’s barely anything, but it’s enough for him to freeze completely, breath hitching before he forces himself to relax. 

➛ He doesn’t pull away. Instead, after a long moment of hesitation, his  arm slowly slides around your waist. Not possessive nor tight like he usually holds you, but softly, like he’s testing whether this is allowed.

➛ You wake up enough to notice it and your heart starts racing immediately as you realize, yet he doesn’t say anything.

➛ His grip stays gentle, thumb resting against your side, absentmindedly drawing circles on your skin. 

➛ When you don’t pull away and just settle back with a soft smile, he exhales quietly, like he didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

➛ Bo is not a cuddler, at least he will never call himself that. If you asked him in the morning, he’d deny it completely. 

➛ But as the night goes on, his hold becomes more secure. If you move, he adjusts automatically, half-asleep, but still aware of where you are, protective without meaning to be.

➛ You feel safer than you should and that realization alone makes your chest ache a little. It’s confusing and unsettling and warm all at once.

➛ If you wake up in the middle of the night, he’s awake too, pretending he isn’t. 

➛ He murmurs for you to go back to sleep once he sees you still awake after a few minutes, voice low and rough, his thumb still rubbing small, absent circles into your side like it’s muscle memory. 

➛ You fall asleep faster after that, simply humming to him in response as his hold around you gets a little tighter.

➛ In the morning, he’s already awake and the second he realizes you are too, he pulls his arm away like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing. 

➛ He avoids your eyes, tells you not to read into it, mutters something about it just being easier to sleep that way.

➛ But the next time you ask to sleep with him again, he doesn’t argue at all.

Vincent Sinclair

➛ Just like Jason, nobody suggest it, Vincent only has one bed and it’s kind of obvious to him that you will be sleeping in it, which you understand quickly.

➛ He doesn’t object when the situation comes up, just tilts his head and watches you carefully, eyes flicking from you to the bed and back again like he’s studying the scene before it happens. You can almost see him planning where to place himself.

➛ Sleeping in the same bed as Vincent feels strangely intimate right away, even though he barely makes a sound. 

➛ He turns the lamp off before either of you lies down. The room sinks into darkness immediately, he prefers it that way, especially since he prefers to sleep without his mask on. 

➛ When he gets into bed, he does it quietly, careful not to jostle you.

➛ He positions himself on his side, facing you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting against the mattress between your body and his.

➛ Vincent watches, that’s the first thing you notice. Not in a threatening way, not even in a creepy way, just… attentive. Like he’s sketching you in his mind.

➛ He doesn’t touch you at first. Instead, he mirrors you. 

➛ If you lie on your side, he does the same. If you pull the blanket higher, he adjusts it on himself too. There’s something oddly comforting about it, like he’s syncing himself to you.

➛ At some point, he reaches out, not to you, but to the blanket again. He gently tugs it over your shoulder when it slips down, fingers brushing your arm in the process. He pauses, watching for your reaction with the little light available in the room. 

➛ When you don’t pull away, his hand lingers just a second longer than necessary before retreating.

➛ Vincent sleeps lightly, even if he can sleep really heavily when he hasn’t slept in too long. But when he does drift off, which takes time, he moves closer without fully waking. 

➛ He ends up near enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, the slow rise and fall of his breathing.

➛ One of his hands rests near your wrist, not holding it, just there, like he wants to know you’re close.

➛ If you wake up and look at him, you’ll find him already awake sometimes, eyes open, studying your face. 

➛ He doesn’t look away when you catch him. Instead, he reaches up and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, the motion careful and reverent.

➛ He doesn’t smile, but there’s something soft in his expression that feels like one.

➛ Vincent communicates in small gestures. If you’re cold, he shifts closer. If you tense, he stills. If you relax, he relaxes too. 

➛ He learns your sleeping habits quickly, adjusting himself to fit into your space without overtaking it.

➛ In the morning, he’s still there, watching the light creep into the room.

➛ He doesn’t get up right away, he takes a moment to simply watch you sleep before putting his mask back on his face. 

➛ Instead of then getting out of the bed, he reaches for a scrap of paper and a pencil from the nightstand. He sketches quietly while you’re asleep, glancing at you between strokes. 

➛ When you finally wake up fully, he pushes the paper toward you. It’s a simple drawing. You, asleep, looking more peaceful than you’ve ever felt.

➛ Sleeping in the same bed with Vincent isn’t loud or a dramatic act. It’s gentle, observant and deeply personal. 

➛ Once he lets you into that space, you become part of his routine, his art and his of calm and Vincent doesn’t let go of things that inspire him.

Lester Sinclair

➛ Sleeping in the same bed as Lester happens in a way that feels almost accidental.

➛ He talks about it first, joking about what if you did? But you don’t joke about that. And he realizes it when you accept with a seriousness he rarely sees in you.

➛ He laughs it off at first, scratching the back of his neck, making some dumb joke about how he snores or how he’s ‘not exactly prime cuddle material.’ 

➛ He fully expects you to back out, he’s already halfway convinced you’re going to.

➛ When you don’t, he blinks at you like he misheard.

➛ He insists on changing the sheets. Like, immediately. Says something about them being dusty and not great for guests, even though you know he just wants to make it nice for you. 

➛ He fusses around the room longer than necessary, talking the whole time, filling the silence so neither of you has to acknowledge how big this feels for him.

➛ When you finally get into bed, Lester stays perched on the edge for a moment, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

➛ He mutters another joke, something about rolling over and crushing you by accident. He's clearly not trying to be funny, he's just too nervous.

➛ He lies down carefully after you tell him to, stiff at first, like he’s afraid the bed might collapse under the weight of the situation. 

➛ He gives you plenty of space, more than you actually need, and keeps his hands folded awkwardly over his stomach, fingers tapping on it nervously. You can tell he doesn’t know what to do with them.

➛ Lester talks himself to sleep. Not loudly, just murmuring little comments about the day, about dumb things he noticed and about the animals outside. 

➛ It’s rambling and unfocused, but there’s something soothing about it, like he’s letting you into his head without realizing it.

➛ At some point, he shifts closer, making it look like he does it without meaning to. Not dramatically, just inch by inch, until your shoulders brush.

➛ He freezes when he feels your skin, breath hitching, waiting for you to react. 

➛ When you don’t pull away, he lets out a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving.

➛ He doesn’t wrap an arm around you. Instead, he bumps his knee against yours lightly, like a question.

➛ When you respond by nudging back, he relaxes completely, tension draining out of him in a way that’s painfully obvious.

➛ Lester sleeps deeper than you expect. Once he’s out, he’s out. 

➛ He mumbles in his sleep sometimes, nonsense words, half-formed thoughts.

➛ If you move too much, he instinctively shifts to make room, always accommodating you even when he’s not conscious.

➛ If you wake up during the night, you’ll find him turned toward you, face soft, completely unguarded.

➛ One hand might be resting near you, not touching, just close enough that you could reach for it if you wanted. 

➛ There’s something achingly lonely about the way he sleeps, like he’s not used to sharing space with anyone who actually wants to be there.

➛ In the morning, he wakes up red in the face. 

➛ Laughs it off immediately, making jokes about drooling or stealing the blankets. But there’s a quiet happiness under it all, something he doesn’t try to hide very hard. 

➛ He lingers longer than necessary next to you before getting up, stretching, moving slowly like he doesn’t want the moment to end.

➛ After that, Lester starts finding excuses. The couch being uncomfortable, this room being warmer…

➛ He still jokes about it every time, still acts surprised when you don’t leave, but he always makes sure there’s room for you.

➛ Sleeping in the same bed with Lester feels easy andamiliar, like something he’s wanted for a long time but never thought he deserved. And once he realizes you’re choosing to be there, it means more to him than he’ll ever say out loud… For now, at least.

Lester and Vincent knew. They knew the way Bo’s hand always lingered too long on your hip when he walked past you, they knew you disappeared into his room late at night and came back out with bite marks blooming along your throat by morning and they knew you weren’t dating, because Bo Sinclair didn’t date, but still, they knew you loved him anyway. And God help you, they knew he loved you too, he just didn’t know how to be gentle with it since he wasn’t gentle with anything. But right now, you were sure that he really didn’t love you. 

The kitchen was already tense before the first plate shattered. Bo was pacing, boots heavy against the floorboards, cigarette clenched between his teeth while he cursed under his breath about something stupid, something small. You couldn’t even remember how it started. A comment? Or a look he didn’t like? Maybe you’d questioned him? And Bo Sinclair hated being questioned, especially by you.

“You always gotta push!” he snapped, spinning on you. “Always gotta run your damn mouth…”

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “I asked one question, Bo! One!”

That was when he grabbed the plate from the counter and hurled it against the wall. Porcelain exploded, white shards raining down across the floor. You flinched despite yourself, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“For fuck’s sake.” you hissed. “Are you serious right now?”

“Don’t start with me again!” Bo yelled, fist clenched so hard his veins started to show.

A mug shattered near your feet, hot coffee splashing your ankle. You sucked in a breath, shock and anger tangling in your chest.

“You’re acting like a damn child!” you yelled back, voice shaking now. “You don’t get to treat me like this every time you’re pissed off!”

Bo’s eyes darkened. That was always the moment when you knew he’d crossed the line in his own head. He stepped closer, looming. 

“You know what?” he snarled. “I should’ve just killed you when you first rolled into Ambrose. Would’ve saved me a whole lotta fuckin’ headaches!”

The words hit harder than any thrown plate ever could. Your breath caught painfully in your throat. For a second, everything went quiet, too quiet in Bo’s fury. Tears burned instantly, blurring your vision as you stared at him, searching his face for even a flicker of regret… There was none.

“Fuck you, Bo!” you whispered, voice breaking.

Your face crumpled before you could stop it, tears spilling freely as you turned away from him, hands shaking as you wiped uselessly at your cheeks.

“Fuckin’ dramatic…” he muttered, turning his back too, lighting another cigarette. “Jesus.”

That was it. You walked out. The door slammed behind you, the sound echoing through the empty street as the cold night air wrapped around your body. The chill cut straight through your clothes yet you barely noticed. You were too busy crying, shoulders shaking as you walked aimlessly down the street, breath coming out in shaky clouds. ‘Garage couch again’ you thought bitterly. That lumpy, oil-smelling couch you always ended up on whenever Bo’s anger got the better of him. Your chest ached with every step until something bumped into your leg. You startled, blinking rapidly as you wiped your tears away. When you looked down, you let out a shaky breath of relief.

“Oh, hey buddy.” you sniffled.

Jonesy stood there, tail wagging hesitantly, whining as he nudged his head against your knee like he always did when he sensed something was wrong. You crouched down immediately, fingers sinking into his fur as another sob escaped you.

“I’m okay.” you murmured softly, more for him than yourself. “I promise, I’m okay.”

A pair of worn, dirty boots came into view. Your heart skipped at the familiarity of them then settled. Slowly, you looked up. Vincent stood there, mask hanging slightly crooked, eye dark and searching you. He held Jonesy’s leash loosely in one hand, the other already lifting as he began to sign.

‘Are you okay?’

You forced a small smile, even as your eyes burned. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Vincent didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head, hands moving again.

‘Bo again?’

“Yeah.” 

You let out a long, tired sigh and nodded as you looked down. Silence settled between the three of you. The night hummed softly, crickets, distant wind, the creak of the wax house settling… You kept petting Jonesy, grounding yourself in the steady warmth of him. Vincent crouched down in front of you then, close but not crowding. Gently, carefully, he tapped the back of your hand until you looked up at him again. His hands moved slower this time.

‘What happened?’

Your throat tightened, but you told him anyway about the stupid argument. The dishes, the way Bo’s voice had gone cold, about the words ‘I should’ve killed you’. As you spoke, Vincent’s hands curled into fists. You noticed the way they trembled, knuckles whitening as his jaw clenched beneath the mask. He took a steadying breath, clearly forcing himself to stay calm, for you.

“I’m tired.” you said softly when you finished telling your story, standing up. “I’m just… gonna sleep on the garage couch.”

You turned to leave, embarrassed to have been seen by him in this state again. Vincent stood immediately as you did, stepping into your path. His hand shot out, catching your arm, not rough, just firm enough to stop you. You looked at him, surprised. He shook his head, signing quickly now.

‘No, you can sleep in my studio.’

Your eyes widened slightly. 

“Vincent, I really don’t want to bother you again.” you said, voice gentle but firm. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

He frowned behind the mask and grabbed your arm again, tugging insistently so you’d follow. You hesitated, looking up into his eye, and there it was. Concern, protectiveness and something warm and unwavering that Bo never gave you when it mattered most.

“I don’t want to—” you started.

Vincent interrupted, hands moving with exaggerated seriousness. 

‘Jonesy sleeps better when you’re there.’

You blinked. Then you laughed, soft and watery, as you looked down at Jonesy, who had perfected the art of the saddest puppy expression known to man.

“Wow.” you murmured. “Using emotional manipulation now?”

Jonesy wagged his tail at the sound of your laugh. You sighed, shoulders finally relaxing just a little while Vincent shrugged in response to your accusation, his way of saying ‘I guess’ you assumed.

“I can’t let Jonesy down.”

Vincent’s eye softened immediately. He turned, leading the way back toward his studio, Jonesy trotting happily between you both. As you followed, the ache in your chest eased just a bit. The cold night air clung to your skin as you walked with Vincent along the gravel path leading back to the house of wax, each step crunching lightly beneath your boots, the sound of gravel and the distant hum of the town creating a strange sort of calm in the chaos that had just erupted inside the house. Jonesy padded between you, occasionally brushing against your leg, his little body vibrating with worry and excitement all at once. Vincent walked slightly ahead, leash in one hand, the other swinging loosely at his side. His movements were measured and calm, like he was deliberately trying to absorb your tension so you didn’t have to carry it all by yourself. When he noticed you lingering next to him, he slowed, and you fell into step beside him. He glanced down at you, his single eye sharp and intense beneath the dark fringe of his hair. Then, with slow, careful movements, he began to sign. You looked up immediately as his hands moved fluidly, deliberate, a rhythm that matched the quiet hum of the night.

‘Next time Bo gets angry, you come get me. You don’t handle it alone. You shouldn’t get hurt.’

You smiled softly, the words easing some of the tight coil in your chest. You could feel his worry radiating off him like heat, a physical pressure you could almost touch.

‘You know, I, I’ll probably get all worked up.’ he continued, signing faster now, his gestures animated and somehow, he managed to stutter with sign language. ‘Will, I will be fuming, I will, damn, I just don’t like seeing you like this. I don’t know, I will probably—’

You stifled a laugh, the first real one of the night, a soft, breathless thing that seemed too small for the weight in your chest. Jonesy barked once in agreement, nudging your leg as if he, too, was saying, ‘See? He worries too much.’

Vincent didn’t notice the soft laugh at first; he was lost in his own rambling, desperate to explain, to vent, to make sure you knew he cared. But when your hand slipped forward without thought, resting gently over his as if to physically slow him down, he froze mid-sign. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you. His blue eye met yours, and for a long moment, he simply stared at the warm contact, your hand over his. Then, as if confirming it was real, he shifted his gaze back and forth between your eyes and your hand, the one that now rested on his in a quiet, grounding grip.

“You don’t have to worry.” you whispered softly, voice low and tender, “I can handle Bo. I told you, I’m fine.”

The words seemed to settle him slightly, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t fully melt. His free hand lifted slowly to rub at his forehead, a slow, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him. You saw the slight tremor in his movements, the way he tried to contain his worry. Without thinking, you took the free hand and pressed it gently over the one you were already holding, intertwining your fingers, grounding him.

“You’re sweet, way too sweet to worry this much about me.” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. 

Vincent’s single eye widened for a fraction of a second, the gesture catching him off guard. His ears flushed pink beneath the hair that brushed them, the faintest heat crawling up his jawline. His head dipped slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he looked away, hiding the flush from you, but you could feel the trembling of the hand you were holding. Damp, just slightly, betraying how close he was to letting his emotions spill over. You couldn’t help but smile softly, squeezing his hand in reassurance, letting him know that it was okay to feel so much, to care so deeply. The tension in him seemed to ease fractionally, though you knew it would linger, like a shadow in his chest. Jonesy barked, nudging both of you forward as if he were taking over the role of the impatient guardian.

“Come on.” you said after a moment, letting go of his hand to reach down and scratch behind Jonesy’s ears, earning a delighted bark, louder this time, and a wag. “Let’s hurry before it gets too late.”

The three of you started moving again, Vincent falling in step beside you, hand brushing yours lightly every few steps, a silent promise that he was there. The night stretched before you, dark but safe, the gravel crunching beneath your boots like a heartbeat keeping time with yours. You glanced up at Vincent, catching the faint blush still lingering on his ear. You felt a wave of warmth bloom in your chest. His presence alone was more comfort than anything Bo had ever given you. As you neared the house of wax, you grabbed his hand again, tightening your fingers around Vincent’s hand, just enough to let him know, wordlessly, that you weren’t going anywhere. He exhaled a long, soft sigh, the tension in his jaw easing ever so slightly before you let it go. The door creaked softly as you and Vincent stepped into the House of Wax. The cold night air trailed in briefly, a reminder of the chaos you’d just escaped. The hallway was dimly lit, shadows stretching along the peeling wallpaper, but it felt quieter and somehow safer. You followed Vincent through the museum until you were down the narrow staircase, each step hard underfoot. Jonesy padded beside you, alert and watchful, his nails clicking softly against the worn waxed steps. Vincent stayed close, hands brushing along the railing, his presence steady, grounding. When you reached the bottom, the familiar scent of wax and old paint hung in the air. The faint warmth of Vincent’s studio beckoned, a quiet sanctuary in the middle of Ambrose’s madness. Without hesitation, you walked straight to the now familiar couch, dropping onto it with a long, exhausted sigh. Your body melted into the cushions, finally giving in to the tension that had gripped your shoulders all night. Jonesy, as if reading your mood perfectly, leapt up beside you and curled into your side, warm and solid. You wrapped an arm around him instinctively, patting the soft fur along his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Vincent lingered at the edge of the room, leaning against the doorway for a moment, watching you. You didn’t look up at him immediately, too tired and in your head, but Jonesy nudged your side, putting you back on earth. When your eyes finally lifted, Vincent’s single eye met yours for only a heartbeat before he turned his head quickly, embarrassed at being caught staring. You noticed the faint flush along his neck, even in the dim light. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and hung it carefully over a nearby chair, moving with precise care. Then, he sank into his own chair across the room, giving you space but keeping you in view. You let the silence settle for a moment, the quiet punctuated only by Jonesy’s soft whine and the gentle thump of his tail against the couch.

“You have work to do?” you asked softly, not wanting to intrude.

Vincent inclined his head once, a small nod. His eye flicked toward the scattered tools and sketches near his desk. You hummed in response, a soft, contented sound, as if telling him it was okay and you weren’t going anywhere. You sank a little further into the couch, letting your body relax for the first time that night, patting Jonesy gently as he nuzzled closer into you. The warmth of the dog against your side, the quiet presence of Vincent across the room, and the safety of being away from Bo’s fury, all of it combined into a fragile sense of peace. You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself breathe. Vincent adjusted slightly in his chair, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, his posture stiff but careful, protective. He didn’t move closer, he didn’t need to. Just being there, silent and steady, was enough and deep down he knew that. You let out another long sigh, relaxing against the couch cushions as Jonesy curled fully against you, paws tucked beneath him. The studio smelled faintly of wax and old paint, but it felt like the first safe place you’d been all night. You hummed again softly, more to yourself than anyone, as your fingers continued to pat Jonesy in gentle, soothing circles. The quiet stretched, comforting, almost cocoon-like. The night outside the walls of Ambrose seemed to fall away entirely, leaving only the three of you in your small bubble of warmth and fragile safety.

—

When you slowly opened your eyes, the dim light of Vincent’s studio greeted you. Everything looked the same, the sketches on the desk, the faint waxy smell in the air, but Jonesy was no longer nudging you awake. He was curled into a perfect little ball, sleeping soundly, chest rising and falling with tiny, even breaths. The warmth of the couch, the steady weight of Jonesy pressed against you, and the soft scent of his fur had lulled you into a deep, unplanned sleep. You blinked slowly, stretching slightly without disturbing him, savoring the quiet stillness. Then your gaze shifted instinctively toward Vincent’s desk, only to find it empty. Your brows furrowed. Careful not to move too much and risk waking Jonesy, you straightened your back and began scanning the room, the soft fabric of the couch pressing against your legs. Your heart leapt as a shadow moved next to you. You jumped, eyes widening, until you realized Vincent was standing right beside the couch, blanket in hand. He jumped too, clearly startled by your sudden movement.

‘Sorry!’ he signed quickly, hands moving in a blur, face flushed.

You couldn’t help it as you laughed, a soft, breathless sound that was part relief, part amusement. You rubbed your eyes, letting out a long, sleepy yawn. 

“It’s okay.” you murmured. “How long have you been, uh, standing there?”

‘Thirty minutes.’

You let out a low, incredulous sigh, not realizing just how tired you truly were. Thirty minutes? That was barely enough time for him to sit back down, and yet… here he was, waiting. You reached for the blanket, stretching your hand toward it, only for Vincent to pull it out of reach effortlessly. Your frown deepened as you looked up at him, and his eye met yours with a teasing, almost stubborn glint.

‘You can take my bed.’

“No, I can’t take your bed!” You blinked, incredulous. “If I do, what are you going to sleep on?”

He shook his head, signing again, calm but firm. 

‘I won’t sleep, I have work. I’ll be fine.’

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh at his stubbornness. 

“Vincent, you have to sleep and you have to do that in your bed.” He shook his head again, refusing, but you didn’t back down. “Nope, I’m sleeping here. You go sleep in your bed. You need it, seriously.”

Vincent’s hands hovered for a moment, clearly weighing his options. Then, ever so gently, he reached out and grabbed your sleeve, attempting to coax you up, his single eye narrowing with quiet determination. 

“I’m staying here.” You pulled back just slightly, voice soft but firm. “You can’t make me get up.”

He sighed, a slow, deep exhale that carried both frustration and something softer, warmer. A quiet, resigned affection. And then, carefully, he did something unexpected; he draped the blanket over your shoulders, tucking it around you like he was shielding you from the cold. You smiled softly, feeling victorious. Thoughtfully, you adjusted yourself on the couch, curling slightly, settling into the comforting folds of the blanket. Yes! He had finally accepted, you are victorious. But before you could relax fully again, Vincent’s arms shot around you suddenly. You let out a startled yelp, heart jumping. And then, almost impossibly, he lifted you effortlessly over his shoulder.

“Vincent!” you squeaked again, cheeks heating in embarrassment and surprise, your arms instinctively wrapping around him loosely. “I, hey! Put me down!”

His stride was steady yet somehow impossibly light. You blinked, utterly astonished at how easily he carried you, how your weight seemed nonexistent to him, as though he’d been made to hold you like this. Each step he took sent your hair brushing against his shoulder, the faint scent of his jacket and the warmth radiating from his body making your heart thrum unpredictably.

“I said; let me sleep on the couch!” you protested again, gently kicking against him in mock resistance. 

The sound was muffled against the blanket, and Jonesy’s little bark from the studio below broke into a soft whine, perhaps in solidarity or confusion. Vincent didn’t slow nor did he falter. One hand supported your legs and the other your back, holding you close with careful precision. Every movement was precise, but there was an undeniable tenderness in the way he carried you, the gentle tilt of his head to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable. You yelped once more, a mix of shock and blush burning through your chest. 

“Seriously, Vincent, how strong are you?! You make me feel like I weigh nothing!”

He signed quickly, the hand that was holding your hands moving with a humor-laced calmness as you looked over your shoulder. 

‘You almost do. Not enough to drop you, though.’

Your laughter, soft and breathless, mixed with a nervous squeak as he carried you down the hallway. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots, Jonesy padding after him with a curious whine, following the pair of you up the steps to Vincent’s bedroom. You kicked lightly, half in protest, half in disbelief. 

“I just—hey! I’ll sleep on the couch! The couch is fine! Let me go!”

He paused only slightly at the door, tilting his head to glance at you, the single eye glinting with amused determination. His hands didn’t waver, the blanket still draped around you, his stride steady. 

‘You’re sleeping here tonight. I’m not letting you stay on that couch.’

You groaned dramatically, burying your face in the crook of your arm as he set you down on the edge of the bed, his bed. Warmth spread through you instantly from the blanket and the proximity of his body. Jonesy jumped onto the bed next to you, curling tightly into your side as if approving the new arrangement. Vincent hung back just slightly, one hand brushing the top of the desk as if he had to pretend he wasn’t faintly embarrassed by the sight of you sitting on his bed. His eye flicked to you, to Jonesy, and then to the bed, the tiniest hint of a blush creeping across his ear and neck. You exhaled, soft and tired, curling further into the warmth of the blanket and Jonesy, and for the first time all night, you felt truly safe. Not just safe from Bo, but safe here, with Vincent, with someone who carried both your weight and the burden of your worry so effortlessly. You shifted again, frowning as you tried to sit up. 

“No, really, Vincent. I can sleep on the couch!” you insisted, tugging the blanket closer around your shoulders. “It’s fine, really, don’t worry about it!”

Vincent didn’t respond. He simply stepped closer, his presence calm but unyielding as his warm hands rested gently on your shoulders. You felt the weight of his gaze even before he moved, that single piercing eye soft but firm. Then, almost impossibly gently, he guided you back, softly pressing you down onto the bed. You sighed, long and reluctant, as your body sank into the mattress. The softness, the warmth, the comforting hug of the blanket, and Jonesy curled up beside you, it all worked together to make you relent. 

“Ugh, fine.” you murmured, giving in despite yourself. “This is comfy…”

The words barely left your lips when a sound reached your ears, unexpected and faint. A soft laugh. You froze, eyes wide, turning to look at him in surprise. 

“Wait, did you just… laugh?”

Vincent’s single eye flicked to you quickly, a faint blush brushing his ears yet again. Then, with a wave of one hand, he dismissed it like it didn’t matter, and, before you could respond further, he started to walk away. You blinked, shocked, and instinctively sat up, moving faster than you’d intended. Your hand shot out, catching his wrist before he could get too far. He froze instantly, glancing down at you, the flush on his skin now deeper, tinged with that rare, soft vulnerability you knew he rarely let anyone see.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you asked, voice firm but playful, thumb brushing over his wrist in a gentle hold.

He hesitated, then signed simply; ‘Work.’

You frowned, tugging gently at his hand to stop him from moving. 

“No you’re not.” you said, voice low and certain. “You are sleeping tonight, no excuses, and if you want me in your bed so badly…” you continued, shifting slightly to make the point. “Then you’re sleeping in it too. You don’t get to ditch me after making me come here!”

For a moment, he looked at you, that single eye dark and calculating, as though weighing every option. Then, slowly, his lips twitched at the corners, betraying the faintest smirk. He shook his head, not yet conceding, but the tension in his shoulders softened just a fraction. You gave him a pointed look, one eyebrow arched, fingers still lightly pressing against his wrist. 

“Vincent.” you called, quieter now, more coaxing than commanding. “This isn’t optional.”

His gaze dropped to your eyes, then to your hand on his wrist, then back up at you. The blush deepened, spreading slightly into his ear. He exhaled, that slow sigh that always carried both frustration and reluctant affection. Then, carefully, you released his wrist, letting it fall back onto his side. And just like that, he didn’t move away. He just stood there, silent for a heartbeat, letting you process the small victory you knew was coming. Then, finally, he signed again, slower, gentler this time. 

‘Fine.’

A soft grin tugged at your lips as you let your body sink further into the bed, laying back down while Jonesy shifted slightly in approval. Vincent’s eyes flicked down, lingering on the curve of your shoulder, the way you settled into the mattress. For a long moment, he simply watched, silent, still refusing to approach fully, but also not moving away. It was a quiet truce, a delicate acknowledgment that for tonight, at least, the two of you were safe here together. You closed your eyes again, letting the warmth of the bed, the blanket, and Jonesy’s soft weight lull you further into comfort. But inside, you couldn’t help the small, triumphant smile that tugged at your lips.  You shifted slightly on the bed, Jonesy tucked against your side, and let out a soft, contented sigh. The warmth of the blanket, the softness of the mattress, the quiet weight of the little dog against you, it all felt impossibly comforting after the chaos of the night. Your gaze flicked toward Vincent, who was still standing at the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly against the desk for balance, his eye watching you with something unreadable.

“Vincent, lay down.” you ordered softly, almost teasing.

The words were gentle, casual, but you saw it immediately, how his body stiffened just slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his eye though he tried, half-heartedly, to mask it with a neutral expression. But the faint pink creeping up his ear, and the subtle heat along his neck, betrayed him completely. He swallowed audibly, gaze darting away from you, and for a moment, you thought he might actually try to pretend he hadn’t heard you. His hands twitched slightly at his sides as if unsure what to do with them.

‘You–’ 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to collect himself. The way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other made it painfully obvious he was embarrassed, completely and utterly self-conscious.

“Vincent?” you prompted gently, lifting one hand to rest lightly on the blanket near him, a silent encouragement.

He finally glanced at you, that single piercing eye wide, uncertain, and then dropped his gaze to the floor again. The blush was unmistakable now, spreading up his temple, along the edge of his jaw, even catching the tips of his ears. He shifted slightly again, the subtle tremor in his hands betraying how much he was holding back.

“Just lay down.” you repeated softly, your voice tender, coaxing, letting him know you weren’t teasing, that you weren’t pushing him, that it was okay.

His exhale came out ragged, a small, almost inaudible sound escaping him, though it was tinged with embarrassment. 

He signed so quickly that you couldn’t catch it, but it was something along the lines of ‘this is ridiculous.’ You smiled softly, moving just a fraction closer to him, enough that your fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve. 

“Vincent, it’s okay.” you whispered again, careful not to disturb Jonesy. “Really, you can lie down. I—” you paused, looking at him seriously, letting the quiet weight of your presence sink in, “I want you here, with me. It’s okay.”

He froze at your words, eyes widening for a brief second, then glanced at you again, struggling to keep his composure. The blush deepened, his jaw tightened, but the tension in his shoulders eased fractionally. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head just slightly, muttering under his breath again. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips under his mask, though he tried so very hard to make it subtle, afraid you would somehow see it. After a long pause, he finally lowered himself to the bed carefully, maintaining some semblance of indifference that his twin would have, though every movement betrayed his nervousness. His eye flicked to yours just before he settled, and you caught the faintest tremble in his hand as it brushed the blanket near you. He shifted carefully, sitting beside you rather than lying all the way down, one hand resting tentatively near yours. His eye met yours again, glimmering with vulnerability, embarrassment, and something else, something soft and unguarded that he rarely showed anyone. You reached out, letting your fingers brush his gently. 

“See?” you murmured, smiling softly. “You’re still alive.”

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally, though the flush on his neck remained. He shifted slightly, curling one leg under him as if anchoring himself, careful to stay close but not crowd you. The bed creaked softly beneath him, and you felt a thrill at how light and careful his movements were. Jonesy stirred, nuzzling between you, and Vincent’s gaze softened immediately, watching the little dog for a moment before finally letting his single eye meet yours again. There was a quiet intimacy in that look, a silent acknowledgment that he was here, present, and that despite the embarrassment and nervousness, he wanted to be with you. You exhaled softly, curling into the blanket with Jonesy against your side, and whispered, 

“Good. Now, just relax.”

He let out another small sigh, this one quieter, more resigned, but it carried a hint of relief, as though he’d finally accepted the truce, and allowed himself to be vulnerable, if only a little. His hand inched slightly closer to yours, brushing against it, but not yet intertwining, tentative, testing and more than anything, cautious. Vincent sat beside you on the bed, still not quite lying down, his posture careful, like he was afraid that if he moved too much, the moment might shatter and you’ll disappear. The blanket pooled around your waist and legs, Jonesy still curled snugly against your side, his warmth steady and reassuring. Vincent’s hands moved slowly as he signed, far more gently than before.

‘You shouldn’t have to get used to that.’

“What do mean?” You asked, looking at the roof with a yawn.

‘The yelling. The throwing things. None of that.’

You turned your head slightly to look at him, watching the way his hands moved with precision and controlled, but not rigid. There was emotion there, even if he tried to keep it contained.

“I know, but it’s been like that for a while. ” you replied quietly. “You learn how to brace for it.”

His fingers paused mid-sign which you immediately noticed. His single eye flicked up to your face, sharp and searching. Slowly, he signed again.

‘You shouldn’t have to brace.’

Something in your chest tightened at that. You swallowed, looking away for a second, staring at the faint crack in the wall across from the bed.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

Vincent didn’t argue, but he didn’t look convinced either. He shifted slightly closer, just enough that the warmth of his arm brushed against the blanket near you. His hands lifted again.

‘You don’t deserve to be talked to like that, not by anyone.’

“You’re very serious tonight.” you teased gently as you smiled faintly, the kind of smile that was more tired than happy. 

His eye crinkled just slightly at the corner, almost a smile you thought, hidden beneath the mask.

‘Someone has to be.’  He signed back.

You let out a soft breath, shoulders relaxing just a little. Your fingers absentmindedly stroked Jonesy’s back, following the familiar pattern of his fur. That was when Jonesy sighed. It was a long, dramatic sigh, the kind that made it sound like he was deeply inconvenienced by existence itself. His body shifted, then stretched, and before either of you could react, he carefully climbed over your legs. Vincent froze mid-sign. Jonesy hopped down from the bed, tail wagging lazily as he padded back over to the couch. He circled twice before curling up again, letting out another satisfied huff as he settled in. You stared after him for a moment. Then you laughed, soft, quiet and almost embarrassed. 

“I guess we were talking too much for him, well I was at least.” you whispered. “Sorry, buddy!”

Vincent glanced between you and the couch, then back at you. His shoulders relaxed a fraction, though his eye lingered on the now-empty space between you. That’s when it hit you; there was nothing between you now. No small, warm dog acting as a buffer. No excuse for space. Just you and Vincent. The realization made your breath hitch ever so slightly. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes. He was very still, hands resting on his thighs, his posture rigid again, but not closed, almost waiting. Slowly and carefully, you reached for the edge of the blanket. Your movements were unhurried, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to. When you lifted the blanket, it brushed lightly against his arm, and you felt him inhale sharply beneath the mask. You draped the blanket over his shoulders, adjusting it gently so it rested comfortably, careful not to tug or crowd him.

“I don’t want you to be cold.” you murmured.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his eye softened. You could see the faint pink blooming along the edge of his exposed ear, creeping down his neck beneath the collar of his sweater. He turned his head slightly away, embarrassed, but he didn’t shrug the blanket off. He let it stay. Slowly, he signed again, hands smaller now, closer to his body.

‘Thank you.’

Your smile was quiet, warm. “Of course.”

The bed felt different now, smaller somehow. You shifted just slightly under the blanket, settling in more comfortably, your shoulder brushing his arm again by accident. He stiffened for half a second, then relaxed. The studio was completely silent now. No arguing nor shouting, just the faint hum of the building, the soft rise and fall of breathing, Jonesy’s quiet snore from the couch. You leaned back against the pillow, eyes heavy but open, watching the shadows on the ceiling.

“You can lie down too, you know.” you said gently. “You don’t have to sit there all night, it’ll be hard to sleep like that.”

Vincent hesitated. You could see the conflict play across his expression even behind the mask; uncertainty, shyness and the instinct to retreat fighting against the desire to stay. Carefully, he shifted, easing himself down onto the bed beside you. Not touching you, just close enough that the warmth of him seeped through the blanket. His hands folded together awkwardly over his chest, like he didn’t know what to do with them. You turned your head slightly toward him. 

“Good.” you whispered with a smile. “That’s better.”

His breathing was shallow at first, controlled. Then, gradually, it evened out. The bed creaked softly as the two of you settled. Vincent lay stiffly on his back at first, arms folded awkwardly over his chest, mask tilted slightly toward the ceiling. You could tell immediately that he was trying so hard not to move, as if even breathing too loudly might disturb you. The blanket rose and fell gently with each careful breath he took. You shifted slightly onto your side, adjusting the pillow beneath your head. It was an unconscious movement, small and natural. Your shoulder brushed his as you did, barely, but enough for Vincent to feel it like a jolt of electricity. His entire body stiffened again for half a second, breath catching sharply beneath the mask before he forced himself to inhale slowly again. You didn’t pull away, you didn’t even move. You simply stayed there, shoulder resting lightly against his arm, warm and real. Vincent swallowed harshly. You could see the faint tremor in his chest now, the way his fingers flexed and curled against the blanket, unsure what to do with themselves. His single eye darted toward you, then away again, his ears turning a deeper shade of pink than before.

“You okay?” you whispered softly, voice barely more than a breath.

He hesitated, then lifted one hand slowly to sign, movements smaller than usual.

‘Yes. Just—’ He paused, fingers hovering. ‘Not used to this.’

Your lips curved into a soft, fond smile. “Me neither.” 

That seemed to ease him, just a little. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was full. Heavy in a way that felt safe, like the softest and warmest blanket pulled up around your chest. Outside, the House of Wax creaked softly as it settled, the distant hum of the night threading through the walls. You shifted again, just a fraction closer, your shoulder now fully resting against his upper arm. Vincent froze. Then, slowly, he relaxed into it. His arm didn’t move, but it softened beneath you, tension melting away second by second. The warmth of him seeped through the blanket, grounding and steady. You let out a quiet sigh without realizing it, exhaustion finally catching up to you now that you were safe. Vincent noticed as his hand lifted hesitantly, hovering in the air between you for several seconds like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you at all. Finally, he let it rest on top of the blanket near your shoulder carefully, close enough to feel protective, far enough not to overwhelm. He signed softly, making sure you could see.

‘You can sleep, I’ll stay awake.’

You frowned slightly, turning your head just enough to look at him. 

“No, that’s not fair. You need rest too!”

He shook his head gently, stubborn even now. ‘I don’t mind.’

You considered him for a moment, then did something bold, something gentle. You reached back and took his hand. The reaction was immediate. Vincent’s breath hitched sharply, fingers stiffening in yours before hesitantly curling back. His hand was warm, slightly calloused and trembling just a little. You squeezed once, reassuring.

“You don’t have to guard me all the time.” you whispered. “You can rest, I’m right here.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. His single eye softened, shining faintly in the low light, emotion heavy behind it. He signed with his free hand, slower than ever.

‘I know.’ Pause. ‘I just want to.’

Your chest tightened. You didn’t respond with words as you simply shifted closer, your shoulder pressing more firmly into his arm, forehead nearly brushing his shoulder. Vincent inhaled deeply, then exhaled, finally allowing himself to lean, just slightly, into you. It was tentative and careful. Minutes passed, maybe more. Time felt strange here, stretched thin by warmth and quiet. Vincent’s breathing gradually evened out, the tension in his body loosening. His hand remained in yours, grip gentle but sure. You could feel the quick rhythm of his heartbeat through the blanket, grounding you in a way nothing else had that night. Your eyes fluttered closed.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

Vincent didn’t sign this time. Instead, he squeezed your hand once, firm, protective, and let his forehead tilt just enough to rest lightly against the side of your head. The gesture was intimate in the quietest way possible.  Your eyes stayed half-lidded, unfocused, staring at the dark shape of the ceiling while Vincent’s steady breathing brushed against your ear. The room was quiet enough that you could hear every small sound from the faint rustle of the blanket when one of you shifted to Jonesy’s distant breathing from the couch. Vincent must have realized it too. His breathing never slipped into the deep, even rhythm of sleep, it stayed careful. After a long while, his fingers twitched lightly against yours, a tiny movement like he was checking whether you were still there, still conscious. You responded without thinking, squeezing his hand back just a little. His breath caught. Slowly, so slowly you could feel the decision happening, he turned his head toward you. You didn’t look at him right away as you let the moment stretch, let him have the choice without pressure. Then you turned your head. You were closer than you realized, not close enough to touch faces, but close enough that you could feel his warmth even more, see the faint shine of his single eye in the low light, the edge of his mask catching a sliver of shadow. His gaze was fixed on you, intense but not overwhelming, more curious, uncertain, and painfully gentle. Neither of you spoke. Vincent lifted his free hand hesitantly, fingers hovering in the air between you like before. This time, he didn’t pull it back. He signed carefully, movements small so he wouldn’t disturb the quiet.

‘Can’t sleep?’

You shook your head slightly. “Too much on my mind.”

His brow furrowed beneath the mask. He hesitated, then signed again.

‘Because of him?’

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “And everything else.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened, a familiar flash of anger passing through him, but it was quickly swallowed by something softer. He adjusted slightly on the bed, just enough that his shoulder pressed more firmly into yours. The contact was deliberate this time. He signed again.

‘You don’t have to go back tonight, or tomorrow. You can stay here.’

Your chest tightened at that. “Bo won’t like that.”

‘I don’t care.’

Vincent’s eye hardened, just a little as the simplicity of it stole your breath. You laughed quietly under your breath, not because it was funny, but because it was overwhelming. 

“You’re very brave when it comes to me.”

That made him flustered again immediately. His ears flushed pink, the color creeping down his neck as he turned his face slightly away from you. He lifted one shoulder in a small, dismissive shrug, but his hand tightened around yours.

‘Someone has to be.’ he signed, a little clumsier now.

You shifted without thinking, rolling slightly more onto your side. The movement brought you closer, so close that your knees brushed his through the blanket. Vincent went completely still and you noticed instantly. 

“I’m not trying to crowd you, tell me if you want to back up.”

He shook his head quickly.

‘No, it’s okay. I just—’ He stopped, fingers curling inward. ‘I’m not good at… this.’

“You’re doing fine!” you giggled. “Really. Better than you think.”

You lifted your free hand, hesitating just a second before resting it lightly against his chest, over the blanket. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your palm. Vincent’s breath stuttered but he didn’t pull away. Instead, after a moment, his hand came up and rested over yours. Not gripping, just holding it there, anchoring you both. The intimacy of it settled deep into your bones. Neither of you moved for a long time until, eventually, Vincent signed again, slower, more vulnerable than before.

‘When you cry it makes me feel like I failed.’

Your throat tightened. “Vincent…”

‘I should’ve stopped him sooner.’ he continued. ‘I should’ve said something.’ His hand trembled slightly over yours before lifting back up. ‘I don’t like seeing you hurt.’

You shifted closer again, this time pressing your forehead gently against his shoulder. It was instinctive. Comfort seeking comfort.

“You didn’t fail!” you whispered. “You’re the reason I’m okay right now.”

His breath left him in a shaky exhale. Carefully, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile, Vincent lifted his arm and wrapped it around your shoulders. Not tight nor possessive like his twin was, simply protective. You relaxed into it immediately, your body fitting against his like it had always known how. The blanket shifted around you both, cocooning you together in warmth. Vincent’s forehead lowered until it rested lightly against the side of your head again, mask cool against your hair. His arm stayed steady around you, hand resting securely at your upper arm. Vincent’s arm stayed around you. You became acutely aware of every place your bodies touched. Your shoulder pressed into his chest, your hip angled toward his thigh beneath the blanket and the warmth of him seeped through layers of fabric until it felt like it was under your skin. You shifted slightly, not away, just… closer. The movement was subtle, but Vincent felt it immediately. His breath hitched beneath the mask, a soft, uneven inhale that he didn’t quite manage to hide. His hand at your upper arm flexed instinctively, fingers pressing just a little more firmly, like he was steadying himself. You lifted your head slowly, careful, giving him time to pull back if he wanted to, yet, he didn’t. Your eyes met his. That single eye of his was dark in the low light, reflective, fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse stutter. The mask hid most of his face, but it couldn’t hide the way his breathing had changed, or the faint flush creeping along the edge of his ear. You raised your hand, hesitating only a second before resting it against his chest again. This time, you didn’t pull it away, you let your palm stay there, feeling the quick and heavy beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

“You’re nervous.” 

You smiled softly as Vincent huffed out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so shaky. His free hand lifted to sign, movements smaller than ever.

‘A little.’

Your thumb brushed gently against the fabric over his chest, a soothing, absent-minded motion. The reaction was immediate. His shoulders tensed, then slowly relaxed, like he was giving himself permission to feel it.

“You don’t have to be.” you murmured. “We can stop anytime.”

His eye softened at that. He nodded once, slow and deliberate.

‘I know.’ Then, after a pause, he signed again. ‘I don’t want to.’

Something warm unfurled in your chest. You shifted closer again, closing the last small gap between you. Your legs tangled lightly beneath the blanket, your knee brushing his thigh more firmly. This time, Vincent’s arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders, drawing you in without force, without urgency. You rested your forehead against his shoulder, breathing him in. He smelled faintly of wax, fabric, and something unmistakably him. His other hand came up slowly, hesitating before resting at your waist through the blanket. The contact was careful. You felt his fingers curl just slightly, like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on.

“Vincent…”

He leaned down just a fraction, mask brushing your hair, his forehead resting against the side of your head. The closeness made your breath catch. You could feel the vibration of his exhale against your scalp. His hand at your waist shifted, thumb brushing a small, tentative arc. You tilted your head up without thinking. Your face was inches from his mask now. Close enough that you could feel his breath ghosting over your cheek. Vincent froze. His eye flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, uncertainty flickering there for a brief, vulnerable moment. His hand stilled completely at your waist, waiting. You made the choice. Slowly, you leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the edge of his mask, just below his cheekbone. It was soft, and brief, but it shattered something in him. Vincent’s breath broke completely, a shaky exhale escaping him as his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer without thinking. His forehead dropped fully against yours, mask touching your skin as he signed hurriedly, hands clumsy with emotion.

‘Is this okay?’

Your heart swelled. “Yes, it is.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. Carefully, he tilted his head and pressed a kiss through the mask against your temple. Then another, just above your cheek. Each one slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the act. You melted into him, arms sliding around his torso beneath the blanket, holding him the way he’d been holding you all night. Vincent let out a soft, broken sound at that, something between a sigh and a breath he’d been holding in for far too long. His arms wrapped fully around you now, drawing you flush against his chest. You stayed like that, pressed together, breathing in sync, letting the intimacy settle into your bones. No anger and no shouting or simply lust like Bo had always given you, just warmth and closeness. The closeness changed something. It was subtle at first, the way Vincent’s arm stayed around your shoulders a second longer than necessary, the way his hand rested more firmly against you now, thumb pressing lightly through the blanket as if grounding himself. His breathing was no longer steady. It was shallow, controlled, like he was afraid of what might happen if he let himself breathe too deeply. You felt every tiny shift of his body registered in your chest. You moved first, not away, never away, but closer. Your forehead slid from his shoulder to the side of his neck, resting just beneath his jaw. The mask brushed your hair faintly, cool against your skin, and you felt him inhale sharply at the contact. Vincent froze. Then he relaxed again, allowing the contact to stay. Your hand, still resting over his chest, shifted slightly. You could feel the steady, rapid thump of his heart beneath your palm now, impossibly loud in the quiet room.

“You’re shaking.”

His fingers flexed against your arm. After a moment, he lifted his free hand and signed, movements small and hesitant, right in front of you so you wouldn’t miss them.

‘I’m not used to being wanted like this.’

The words landed heavy. You lifted your head just enough to look at him, eyes tracing the line of his mask, the exposed curve of his cheek, the way his single eye searched your face anxiously, like he was bracing for rejection.

“I want you here.” you admitted quietly.

Something in Vincent broke open at that. His arm tightened around you, not suddenly, nor forcefully, but enough to pull you closer, enough that your bodies fit together more naturally. Your legs brushed fully now, knees touching beneath the blanket, heat blooming where you met. His forehead lowered again, this time deliberately, resting against your temple. You didn’t pull away. You tilted your face slightly instead, turning toward him. Your noses nearly brushed, just barely separated by the edge of his mask. The proximity made your breath hitch, made your pulse race in your ears. Vincent noticed. He hesitated, then lifted his hand again, signing slowly, shakily.

‘Is this okay?’

Your answer wasn’t words as you shifted closer until there was no space left to close. Your hand slid up his chest to his shoulder, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his shirt like an anchor. Vincent’s breath stuttered. Carefully, so carefully, he tilted his head, the mask brushing your cheek as he leaned in. You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in. The tension was thick now, charged and aching, humming in the space between every breath. Vincent signed again, fingers trembling slightly.

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Your voice was barely a whisper. “You won’t.”

It had been a week. Seven long days since I’d straddled Chibs in the clubhouse bathroom, half-naked and drunk on heat and heartache, only to be interrupted by Jax with the timing of a nuclear bomb. We hadn’t talked about it, not really. I went back to work the next morning like nothing had happened, like I hadn’t almost let years of quiet longing turn into something I couldn’t take back. I kept my hands busy, wrenching my frustration out on a Dyna frame, avoiding the clubhouse, avoiding Rafe… and Chibs. The guys picked up on it, Tig especially. He’d smirk at me every time I walked past, always right on the edge of asking something smart. Bobby gave me a knowing little look when I passed him coffee while Juice couldn’t make eye contact for more than two seconds without a smug grin appearing on his stupid face. And Chibs? He was always around but never close. He'd linger just long enough for our eyes to meet before turning back to whatever job he was pretending needed his full attention. He didn’t push, didn't ask for more. Just watched like he always did, as if he was waiting for me. That pissed me off more than it should have.

“Need help with that?” Chibs voice drawled behind me.

I wiped grease off my fingers before turning around, and there he was. Laid-back lean, smirk half-cocked, hands in his cut pockets. His hair was pushed back from his face, a little windblown and a little too good-looking for someone who looked like he'd rolled straight out of bed. My pulse jumped, fast and annoying.

“I’m fine.” I answered flatly, reaching back down into the engine like it was the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. “I’ve got a wrench and a bad attitude. What else do I need?”

He chuckled under his breath but didn’t walk away. Instead, I heard the creak of boots on concrete, felt him step up close behind me. Not too close, just enough for my back to go stiff.

“You’ve been avoidin’ me.” Chibs said slowly, almost hesitant.

“I’ve been working.”

“Mm.” He didn’t believe it for a second. “You always work with that look on your face?”

“What look?”

“Like you’re ready to break something.”

I stood up straight, slowly wiping my hands on the rag tucked in my back pocket before turning to face him.

“And what if I am?” I asked.

“Then you should probably talk to me before you blow a gasket.”

That slow familiar pull in my stomach started again, the one I’d been trying to smother since that moment in the bathroom last week. I hated how easily he saw through me, how much he knew without me having to say a word.

“Nothing to talk about.” I muttered, turning away again.

I barely made it two steps before his voice followed, quieter this time. Rougher.

“I miss you, y’know.”

My breath caught as I turned around, slowly. Chibs was standing in the same spot, arms crossed, brows drawn low over his scarred, beautiful face. He looked tired and tense, like he’d been holding something back for far too long.

“I miss jokin’ with you in the garage. I miss the way you roll your eyes when Tig says somethin’ filthy…” His jaw tensed. “I miss you bein’ you.”

His words knocked the wind right out of me. I didn’t know what to say so, of course, I said the wrong thing.

“Maybe this is just easier.” I murmured, looking away. “Before things get more complicated.”

“What’s complicated about wantin’ you?”

I blinked, closing my eyes for a second as my brows furrowed in frustration, a sigh escaping my lips.

“Jesus, Chibs—”

“No, listen to me.” His voice sharpened, but not cruel, never cruel. Just desperate and aching. “You think I don’t know you’ve been hurt? That I haven’t seen what that bastard’s done to you? I wanted to kill him that night, you know that?”

I swallowed harshly. “Yeah, I know.”

He stepped forward now, no more pretending, no more space between us.

“You can’t scare me away.” he said, eyes locked on mine. “You think this thing between us is dangerous, but it’s the only fuckin’ thing that feels right. You can push it away, pretend it didn’t happen, but I felt you that night and you were right there with me.”

I hated that he was right. Hated that my hands were already shaking, clenched around the rag like it was the only thing tethering me to the ground.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I admitted in a soft whisper.

“I do.” he said, voice soft again. “I’m fallin’. And I think you are too.”

I looked at him then, not the patch, not the scars, not the outlaw, but him. I felt it; the fall. The sharp edge of something deeper than lust, hotter than comfort, bigger than either of us had planned for and suddenly, the garage didn’t feel so safe anymore. I looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, I wasn’t standing in the garage, he wasn’t Chibs and this wasn’t now. I was the new mechanic at the garage, covered in grease and baby-faced, sitting on the hood of a broken-down Chevy in this same spot, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe as Rafe made stupid jokes and wiped a streak of oil off my cheek with his thumb. He’d looked at me like I was his whole damn world back then. Called me ‘his girl’ before I’d even agreed to dinner with him, spent every day at the shop even when he didn’t need to be there, just to sit with me, to help, to smile and talk and make me feel like I wasn’t just some random mechanic, but his mechanic. I blinked, and I saw that version of Rafe again. The one I’d fallen for so easily, the one who told me I was the only woman he’d ever want, the one who held me in the dark and whispered beautiful promises. Then I blinked again… and I saw the brass knuckles. The bruises on Chibs. The cheating. The lies. The years I’d wasted waiting for Rafe to remember who he used to be. And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe as my chest closed up like a vice, heat crawling up my neck and into my ears. Chibs was still looking at me with those eyes, that face, saying things that made my heart ache, but all I could hear was Rafe’s voice from years ago saying; “I’d never hurt you, baby. Not ever, I swear.”

And look how that promise turned out.

“No.”

Chibs froze.

“No what?” 

His voice was quiet and careful, like he already knew what I was about to do. 

“This…” I stepped back, pointing at me then at him. “This is a mistake.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“You’re just saying what I want to hear!” I snapped, heart pounding. “You’re saying it because you think you want me right now, but that fades. It always fades.”

His expression shifted, surprise first, then something that looked like hurt he tried hard to swallow.

“I’m not Rafe.”

“No, you’re not, but you’re still a Son.” My voice cracked a little, but I ignored it and pushed through. “And he wasn’t always like that, Chibs. He used to be good, kind, then he changed the more he got involved with the club. You’re all charming and sweet until the blood, the booze, the power and the pretty girls turn you into someone else.”

“Hey, hey. Stop.” He stepped forward like he wanted to grab me, to stop the spiral. “That’s not fair–”

“I can’t go through that again!” I cut him off, voice louder now. “I can’t let myself fall for another guy in a kutte just to watch it all burn down while I pretend I’m not being crushed!”

Chibs’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t say anything.

“I know what this is.” I whispered, gesturing between us again. “It’s heat, it’s adrenaline, it’s convenient–”

“Don’t.”

“It’s nothing, Chibs.”

That one landed like a blow. He stood there, breathing hard, looking at me like I’d slapped him. And maybe I had. Maybe I wanted to hurt him before he could ever hurt me, before I handed my heart over to someone who might one day forget how to hold it. I turned away before he could say anything else, grabbing my jacket off the hook.

“I’m taking the rest of the day off.” I muttered.

“Right.” he said behind me. “Sure.”

I didn’t look back as I left but God, I felt it. The weight of his stare like it was carved into my skin while I stepped out of the garage, jacket half-zipped and throat burning. I told myself I’d done the right thing, even if it felt like ripping open a wound I didn’t even know I had. I stormed across the lot with my heart in my throat and my hands clenched so tight, the grease-stained rag in my palm nearly tore in two. I didn’t cry, I wouldn’t cry. Not for Chibs, not for anyone. I reached the clubhouse and pushed through the doors with more force than necessary, walking straight toward the hallway leading to Gemma’s office. My boots thudded heavy against the wood floors, each step echoing louder in my head than the last. I rounded the corner and of course, Gemma was already standing in her doorway, arms crossed, cigarette perched between two fingers like she’d been expecting me all day as I walked in like a maniac.

“Where’s the fire?” she asked, raising a perfectly shaped brow.

“I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

She narrowed her eyes immediately. “Why?”

I hesitated. My jaw locked tight as I looked anywhere but at her. She didn’t need me to say a word and I knew that. Her gaze slid past me, through the window that overlooked the garage. I didn’t have to turn around to know what she was seeing, more like who. Standing by the workbench, his shoulders sagged with one hand rubbing down his face like he was trying to scrub the regret out of his skin. Gemma’s mouth drew into a thin line as she took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling smoke like steam from a pressure valve, then stepped back into her office and motioned with her chin.

“Inside. Shut the door.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Now, babe.”

I knew better than to argue with Gemma Teller when she used that tone… Or ever, actually. So I followed her in and closed the door, arms crossed tightly over my chest. She leaned against the desk, eyes scanning me like she was looking for bruises under the surface, like she already knew the shape of the wound and was just waiting for me to admit where it hurt.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” I said after a moment, staring at the floor.

Gemma blew out another puff of smoke and tilted her head. 

“Too bad.”

I gave a short humorless laugh.

“I knew you were gonna say that…”

“You and Chibs.” She tapped some ash into a tray as my throat tightened. “That’s been a long time comin’.”

“It was nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

I looked at her then. “Gem—”

“No. Listen to me.” Her voice dropped, low and even. “You’ve been holdin’ on to Rafe like he’s some Holy ghost of a man but that loving man doesn’t exist anymore. Everyone sees it. Hell, he sees it. That’s why he keeps doin’ what he does, ‘cause he knows you’ll keep hopin’ he’ll come back around.”

I looked away again, feeling my hands shake. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it’s not. Nothin’ about this life ever is.” She stepped closer, her tone softening just slightly. “But don’t punish Chibs for things Rafe did. That man has been in love with you for so long, I’m surprised his patch hasn’t started spellin’ your name.”

A dry laugh escaped me, bitter and hollow. 

“He’s a Son, Gemma.”

“Yeah, and?”

“They all start out sweet, you know how this goes. You’ve seen it, fuck, you’ve lived it! I don’t want that, I don’t want to get torn up and forgotten again.”

Gemma’s gaze softened, but her words stayed sharp.

“Don’t you dare compare him to Rafe.”

I blinked.

“That man would take a bullet for you!” she continued. “He almost did, he received a nasty punch for you. And you think he only wants your ass? Fighting your boyfriend just to get in your pants? No, baby. That man sees you and not just the pretty parts, all of it.”

Her words hit too close to where I was trying to keep locked down. I folded my arms tighter across my chest and tried to look unfazed as my jaw clenched so hard, I could feel the muscles twitch.

“No! Don’t.” I snapped, stepping out of her reach. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Gemma asked, brows lifted as if she was already bracing for the storm.

“Don’t act like you know what’s best for me! Like this is some fairy tale shit where the guy punches the bad boyfriend and suddenly we ride off into the goddamn sunset!” My voice was sharp, rising. “You don’t know what I’ve been through–”

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to get broken by a man in a kutte?”

Gemma’s eyes didn’t flinch while I ignored her, chest tight, hands flexing at my sides.

“You think one punch and a couple soft words from Chibs fixes the years I spent waiting for Rafe to stop treating me like shit? You think it erases the cheating, the yelling, the humiliation of being the only one in the whole goddamn bar pretending I didn’t see him, tongue down some croweater’s throat?”

Gemma stayed quiet, simply watching me, letting me spin out and did, I kept going.

“I was stupid enough once, I let myself believe I was different. That maybe Rafe would remember the girl he chased back then like his life depended on it. And now, I’m just supposed to what, fall into Chibs’s lap because he knows how to look at me like he means it?” I let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t care what he sees, he can see other girls for all I care!”

“You don’t mean that.” Gemma said carefully.

“I do!” I lied, exhaling harshly. “Because it’s not about Chibs, it’s about me! And I’m not stupid enough to let myself fall for someone just because I’m lonely and he’s convenient.”

“He’s not convenient, he’s constant.” Gemma’s stare hardened. “Big fucking difference.”

I stopped. The words rang like a slap yet I shoved them away, shoved everything away.

“No, because it always starts like this. Always.” I said, quieter now but no less angry. “Then it changes, I wake up one day realizing I don’t recognize the man in front of me. And by then it’s too late.”

“You think keeping him at arm’s length is gonna stop it from hurtin’?” she asked, folding her arms now, calm but unrelenting. “It’ll still hurt, It’ll just hurt alone.”

I looked at her, jaw tight, eyes burning. “Then maybe that’s better.”

For a long second, neither of us said a word as Gemma’s eyes softened, just a little. I stared at her, my heart pounding, my jaw clenched.

“I’d rather hurt alone.” I muttered, more to myself than to her.

And with that, I turned on my heel, fury in my blood like fire licking at my ribs. I stormed out of her office before she could say another word, the heat in my cheeks starting to sting. I didn’t know where I was going, just that I needed out. Away from her, away from Chibs, away from everything inside me that felt like it was coming unglued. I rounded the corner of the hallway with so much force I barely saw the figure in front of me until my body collided with his chest, hard. I stumbled back a step, breath caught in my throat, and looked up. Rafe. He was just back from a run, jacket unzipped, kutte hanging off his tall frame, eyes sharp and cold under the buzz of the overhead lights. His jaw was tight, stubbled, angry, and the minute he recognized me, his hand snapped out and grabbed my upper arm.

“C’mere.”

His grip was bruising, it always was recently.

“Let go of me!” I yelped, trying to twist free, my voice low but sharp with panic. 

I looked around. No one in sight yet.

“I said c’mere!” he hissed, yanking me closer, his fingers digging in. “We’re gonna talk.”

I pushed against him, panic starting to rise. “Rafe, stop it!”

“You wanna disrespect me again in front of the boys again, you cunt?” he sneered into my ear. “Go ahead, see how that ends for you.”

The ice in his voice made my blood run cold as I froze. My heart was hammering in my chest, hands trembling before I even realized they were. He started to pull me down the hallway toward the back exit when the heavy front door suddenly burst open. The Sons were back from their run, that must be why Rafe was there too. Loud voices filled the air, Jax, Happy, Juice, and Chibs walking in, laughing about something from the run while Clay and Tig trailing behind. I could feel Chibs’s eyes scan the room before the rest of him even registered, and then everything stopped. Rafe’s hand was still clamped tight around my arm when they saw us. Jax slowed first, his eyes narrowing. 

“Yo, everything good?” He asked, brows furrowed.

Rafe’s hand loosened, just a little, but not enough. He forced a smile, it was cold and tight.

“Yeah!” he answered. “Just gonna talk to my girl for a minute.”

No one spoke. The shift in energy was immediate, I could feel it through the floor. I forced a weak, tight smile, just like I’d done so many times before when I noticed Chibs stiffen at the words ‘my girl”.

“It’s fine.” I said, my voice barely above a breath.

He grabbed my hand this time, not my already red arm, but the grip was still controlling, still typically his as we started to walk past them. I felt Chibs turn toward us immediately, he was going to speak but, I cut him off before he could get a sound out.

“It’s fine.” I repeated, voice sharper this time. 

My eyes didn’t meet his, I couldn’t look at him, not right now. Not when I knew that he’d see a mix of pain, fear and worst of all; longing for him. We passed them, Rafe dragging me toward the exit and I didn’t dare look back. The heavy door creaked shut behind us, and just before it did, I heard Clay’s voice rumble from inside.

“Let’s go to the meeting then!”

Silence swallowed us. The sound of boots scuffing pavement, distant hum of traffic accompanied by the faint metallic scent of oil and smoke from the garage nearby. But between Rafe and me, it was thick, still, like the air just before a storm hits. He didn’t say a word as he led me around the side of the clubhouse, hand still gripping mine too tight to be tender but too controlled to leave marks this time. Not yet. We stopped between two of the parked bikes, his and someone else’s. The shadows from the building cast everything in a cool, blue haze, sun starting to dip past the edge of the warehouse roof. I yanked my hand back once we were out of sight.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I snapped, my voice cracking. “You wanna talk? Then fucking talk, but don’t grab me like you own me–”

He turned on me so fast I barely flinched in time.

“You think you can embarrass me again like that?” he spat, eyes wild. “In front of them?”

“This isn’t about them.” I stepped back, voice firm. “This is about you treating me like garbage for months, years, and thinking I’d just lie down and take it!”

“You’re mine.” he growled. “Don’t forget that–”

“No, I’m not.” I said sharply, jaw clenched. “Not anymore.”

That hit something in him, I saw it by the way his eyes darkened with pure rage. He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the road on him; dust, sweat, gas and that damn cheap whiskey he seemed to love those days. Familiar, once comforting, now clinging to the stench of something rotten.

“You think I don’t see you whoring around the garage with Chibs?” he sneered, shaking his head in disbelief. “You think the boys don’t notice the way you look at him now? The way he’s been sniffing around you for years, like a stray dog?”

“You don’t get to talk about him!” I stiffened, teeth gritting. “Not after what you did to me and him.”

Rafe’s laugh was cold. Ugly.

“What I did to you?!” he repeated, incredulous. “Please. You were bored, so I let you have your fun with the club, let you play mechanic in our world, let you pretend like you belonged–”

“I do belong.” I hissed, stepping up into his space, not wanting to hear the hand of his sentence. “More than you do lately.”

His jaw twitched. Wrong move. He reached up so fast I barely had time to dodge, fingers curling hard around my upper arm again, dragging me in. I shoved him back with both palms, my breath coming fast.

“Get your hands off me!”

“You think Chibs is gonna save you?!” he growled. “You think that old bastard’s gonna make you feel any less used when he’s done? You think he’s different?”

I flinched, even as I tried not to. Rafe saw it, and that made him smile.

“Yeah…” he snickered, leaning in, voice low. “That’s what I thought.”

I was breathing too hard as my back hit the cold siding of the building, the ridges biting through my jacket. My throat was dry, but I forced my voice to come out steady.

“I’m not afraid of you anymore!”

“You should be.”

His words were a whisper but they landed like a punch. And in that moment, my stomach twisted, because I believed him. I felt small. Smaller than I had in a long time, like my spine had been pulled out of me and I was standing on legs that didn't know how to hold me anymore. Still, I forced myself to stand tall, to meet his gaze with all the defiance I could scrape from the hollowed out pit in my chest.

“I’m not afraid of you.” I repeated. 

My voice wasn’t loud, it didn’t waver either until I saw it, the flicker in his eye, that momentary break in his mask. Not fear nor shame. Rage. The kind of rage that doesn’t boil, it snaps. His hand came up before I could brace for it. The slap rang out so loud, it bounced off the side of the garage wall. My head jerked violently to the side, neck twisting with the force. For a second, everything blurred; my vision spotting, my hearing muffled, the air itself pulling out of my lungs like I’d been punched in the chest. Pain exploded across my cheek, bright and stinging, the burn deepening with every heartbeat as the taste of copper bloomed in my mouth. I staggered back a half step, but his hand tightened around my upper arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“You think you're better than me now?!” he growled through gritted teeth, breath hot and sour against my face. “Because you got the Son’s pity party looking at you like you're some helpless little thing? You’re mine, and you’ll always be mine!”

“I’m not…” I choked, trying to wrestle out of his grip. “I’m not yours—”

That only made it worse and I earned myself another sharp slap on my other cheek.

“You were lucky I kept you around this long! You think you meant anything?” he spat, the smell of cheap whiskey in his breath making me nauseous. “You were just warm when I needed it, just a convenience. The others, the girls from Louanne’s, from the bar, all of them, they’re better, easier! They don’t talk back, don’t try to act like they're owed something!”

He sneered, breathing hard as I finally looked him in the eyes.

“You really think Chibs wants you as his girl? His regular? You think he’d want the shit I left behind?”

He shook me, hard, and I couldn’t stop the gasp that ripped out of my throat. My knees started to buckle, the pavement seeming farther and farther away. My arm screamed with pressure. Still, I fought it, fought him, pushing against his chest with the palm of my hand.

“Rafe, stop it!” I rasped, my voice cracking. “Just let me go—”

He hit me again. This time it was worse. My head snapped back with the impact, I didn’t even have time to flinch. My ears rang like someone had set off a flashbang while my vision went white for a second, the pain flaring out in jagged lines across my skull. My legs gave out completely yet he didn’t let go. His grip just tightened, arm like a vice clamped around mine, and I hung there, half-kneeling, half-collapsed, unable to catch my breath, blinking hard against the tears that spilled without permission. I could barely stand, but he didn’t care.

“You gonna cry now?” he snarled, dragging me closer like I was nothing. “That's all you got left? Fucking tears? Pathetic.”

“Please…” I sobbed, trying to twist away again. “Please stop!”

Another hit and this one stole everything. My breath, my voice, my strength. It felt like my face cracked open beneath it.

“Shut your fucking mouth!” he snapped, shaking me so hard I thought my shoulder would dislocate. My arm burned and my head spun even more. “You don't speak unless I tell you to, you useless bitch!”

The tears poured down now, hot and fast. My body was screaming, begging for it to stop, for someone, anyone, to pull me out of this. I was too dizzy to scream again, too lost in the pain. I closed my eyes, tried to disappear. But then, movement, a shadow in the corner of my vision. I looked past him, past his shoulder, and through the haze of pain and tears I saw her. Tara. She’d just stepped out the clubhouse door, a coffee in hand, her hair loose, keys still dangling from her wrist. Her expression froze and horrified. Mouth parting in stunned silence. Her eyes locked onto mine. The raw, bruised mess I must’ve looked like, dangling from Rafe’s grip, cheeks swollen, blood at the corner of my mouth. Her eyes widened, the coffee cup slipped from her hand and shattered on the pavement and then, as quickly as she appeared, she was gone, turning on her heel, bolting back into the clubhouse. Rafe didn’t notice, still gripping me, still drunk on control and violence and whatever pride he had left. Rafe didn’t notice, still gripping me, still drunk on control and violence and whatever pride he had left.

“I should break your jaw right here!” he hissed, low and venomous, his face inches from mine. “Make sure the only thing coming out of your mouth from now on is silence.”

My lip trembled as my whole body shook with it.

“You already did.” I whispered, voice barely there.

“If you can answer me, no I didn’t.”

“Please…”

He started to say something else but he didn’t realize what was coming. He didn’t hear the footsteps. He didn’t hear the door swing back open. That was when the door behind us burst open. Boots pounded against the pavement. The unmistakable thunder of a dozen Sons spilling out, voices raised, Chibs’ the loudest.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!”

Rafe flinched, turning just enough to see the club closing in fast, Clay and Jax at his flank, Juice, Opie, Bobby and Happy, all of them charging out like a tidal wave of fury. Clay was right behind, barking orders, and Tig’s eyes were already wild with bloodlust. Behind them, Tara stood near the door, breathless, pale. She must’ve sprinted to get them, to tell them what she just saw. But Rafe didn’t let go. Instead, he jerked me tighter against him, one arm banded across my chest now, the other moving low, toward his belt. I felt it immediately, the cold metal, pressed to my side. A knife.

“Back the fuck off!” he shouted, eyes darting like a cornered animal. “All of you!”

Everyone froze. The Sons stopped just short, spreading out but not advancing. Chibs took half a step forward, and Rafe yanked me tighter again, causing a startled whimper to escape my throat.

“She’s mine!” Rafe growled, panting, sweat shining on his brow. “She came with me–”

Jax’s voice cut in, sharp and calm like a blade. 

“Let her go, Rafe! This isn’t how you wanna play this.”

“You think I don’t know what’s been going on? You think I don’t see the looks? The whispers?” His eyes landed squarely on Chibs. “You think you can take her from me, you disrespectful Scottish piece of shit?!”

“Let. Her. Go.” Chibs’ voice was rough gravel, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. There was no mask on him now, just pure, unfiltered anger. “This is your last fuckin’ warnin’.”

“I swear to God—”

“She’s not yours!” Chibs cut in, low and deadly. “She hasn’t been for years!”

Rafe twitched like he might strike again, the blade biting harder against my ribs. I couldn’t breathe. My cheek throbbed, my legs trembled, but I didn’t cry out, not when they were all watching, not when Chibs was looking at me like I was the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

“Rafe.” I whispered, barely audible. “Please…”

He hesitated but no one moved. The air was electric, every man frozen in a perfect storm of tension and instinct, waiting for the signal that hadn’t come. One twitch, one step, and it could all end in blood.

“Brother, you wanna talk about disrespect?” Clay’s voice rang out across the lot like a loaded shotgun, heavy and final. “Fine. What you’re doing right now? This is disrespectful coward shit.”

“You don’t know what she’s done—” Rafe started, his voice cracking under pressure.

“She’s not the one with a knife to someone’s ribs.” Jax interrupted coldly. “You’ve already crossed the line but you take one more step, and you’re done. No talking. No patch. You’ll be scraping blood off your own teeth by the end of it.”

Rafe’s arm trembled against my chest. Gemma appeared at the side door like a storm herself, her heels clacking sharp against the pavement as she approached. She wasn’t afraid, she never was. Her eyes locked straight onto Rafe, voice sharp enough to draw blood.

“You lay one more fuckin’ hand on her, and I swear to God I’ll be the first to rip your dick off with a wrench!”

“She made me do this!” Rafe’s lip curled in disgust as he held me closer. “You all think she’s so fucking sweet but she’s been playing me!”

“She didn’t do a fuckin’ thing!” Chibs growled as he stepped forward again, not fast, just steady, deliberate. “That’s what’s got you so scared, isn’t it? That she finally saw what you are and that the rest of us saw it too.”

Rafe’s grip faltered just slightly. I felt it, the tremor in his fingers, the way the hand around my waist didn’t hold like iron anymore.

“She’s not scared of you anymore.” Chibs added, voice low, devastating. “And we never were.”

Silence. For a beat, no one spoke until I felt Rafe’s breath hitch, his panic blooming into something more desperate, more unhinged.

“I’ll fucking end you!” he snarled, shaking me slightly. “All of you—”

“Rafe!” Clay’s voice snapped like a bullwhip. “You’re gonna stand down right now. Put the damn knife away. Let her go or I swear to God himself, we’ll tear you apart before you can blink!”

Gemma moved to my right, eyes never leaving him as she sneered.

“This is your last shot to walk away with something left of you.” She warned.

Rafe looked around at the Sons, all watching, all ready to pounce, but he stopped longer at Chibs, eyes blazing, jaw tight, murder in every breath he drew then, at me. He hesitated again. Fingers twitched as the knife dipped an inch. And that moment, that sliver of indecision, was all it took. In the space of a single heartbeat, the world exploded. Chibs was the first to lunge. Like a switch flipped in his brain, he launched at Rafe from the side with a guttural snarl, catching him by the wrist and twisting it violently until the blade clattered to the pavement. Rafe screamed, jerking back, but it was too late as Jax and Opie surged in next, grabbing him from either side while Juice swept me back out of the way, pulling me gently but firmly behind the wall of bodies forming between me and my now ex.

“Don’t you fuckin’ touch her again!” Chibs roared, fists flying before Rafe could even react.

The first punch cracked across Rafe’s jaw. The second one was a brutal uppercut that snapped his head back like a ragdoll. And the third made me flinch because of how violent it was. Blood sprayed from his mouth as his knees buckled yet, Chibs didn’t stop. He shoved Jax aside as he tried to get him off him to grab Rafe by the collar, dragging him upright again with terrifying strength.

“You lay a fuckin’ hand on her again, and I will bury you.” His voice was a rasped growl, accent thick and dangerous, his knuckles already split and bleeding. “You hear me, ya little bastard?!”

Rafe tried to mumble something, but another fist cut it off, a gut-punch that left him gagging.

“Enough!” Clay finally barked, stepping in and grabbing Chibs by the shoulder, pulling him back before he finished the job. “Not here.”

Chibs resisted barely, chest heaving, eyes locked on Rafe like he was seconds from putting him in the ground.

“Get him the fuck outta here!” Clay ordered, and Happy and Opie didn’t need to be told twice.

They hauled Rafe up by both arms. He was barely conscious, head lolling, spitting blood and curses while trying to fight their grip, even as he was dragged across the lot toward the gate. Chibs turned to look at me, still held behind Juice and Bobby. His eyes locked on mine, fire fading into something raw and broken. I was shaking, knees weak, lip bleeding, but I was safe. Because they came for me, because he came for me.

“C’mere...” Chibs murmured, stepping forward slowly as he opened his arms.

I didn’t hesitate. I broke through the line of leather and muscle and went straight to him, burying myself in his chest as his arms closed around me tight. He smelled like sweat, blood and somehow safety. He whispered something in my hair, too quiet to catch, but I felt it in the way he held me like the whole world might try and take me again, and he’d never let it happen. Not ever.

—

The sun was setting by the time the chaos quieted. The clubhouse felt heavier than usual, the air thick with tension and adrenaline that hadn’t quite drained away. Rafe was gone, Clay had sent him packing with two black eyes and a warning that if he ever stepped foot near the lot again, it’d be his last. No one questioned it. They all saw, they all heard and they all voted yes for it. I was curled up on one of the worn leather couches in the corner, wrapped in one of Gemma’s old flannel blankets. My cheek throbbed, my ribs were sore, and I felt… hollow. Stripped raw, like the entire day had peeled off every defense I had left and left me wide open. Chibs hadn’t left my side. He sat next to me, elbows on his knees, fingers bloodied and stiff but still twitching with leftover rage. Every so often, his eyes would flick over to me like he needed to keep checking I was still breathing.

“Got ya somethin’.” he said after a moment, reaching into the ice bucket beside the couch and handing me a cold bottle of water.

“Thanks.” 

My voice was hoarse, wrecked from screaming and crying, but I managed to take it, my fingers brushing his. He flinched as if I’d burned him, not because of me, but because I was hurt, afraid of hurting me. Maybe because he felt guilty for not stopping it sooner. I could see the guilt in his face, deep in the lines around his eyes.

“You should sleep.” he murmured.

“I don’t want to.” I said truthfully, curling the blanket tighter around me. “If I close my eyes, I’ll see him slapping me again.”

Chibs went quiet. Then he leaned back, resting against the couch, eyes on the ceiling as his jaw clenched tightly for a second. 

“You won’t have to worry about that anymore, he won’t come back. And if he tries…” His voice dropped. “I’ll end him.”

I looked over at him, studying the curve of his jaw, the bruises darkening under his eye, the way his chest still rose and fell like he hadn’t let himself relax.

“I thought I was crazy.” I said, barely above a whisper. “For holding on, for thinking maybe Rafe would… change back.”

“You’re not crazy.” Chibs glanced at me now, his eyes softer than I’d ever seen them. “You’re kind. You saw what he used to be. That’s not crazy, that’s human.”

A long silence stretched between us.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” I finally whispered.

“I’m not. If I hadn’t…” He turned to me slowly. “I wouldn’t have known how close I was to losin’ you.”

That ache in my chest cracked deeper. I reached for his hand, not thinking, just needing. And he let me, our fingers laced together like they were made to.

“I don’t know what’s next.” I sighed, voice shaking. “But I know I can’t go back to what I was before.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing over mine.

“Then don’t. Start new, with whoever makes you feel safe.”

I looked into his eyes and maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the silence, the safety, or the way his hand held mine so carefully, like I was something precious instead of something broken. But I leaned in and he didn’t stop me, slowly closing my eyes as I got closer to his lips, his breath hitching at the sudden approach. The door creaked open, making us jump like we’d been caught at a crime scene. I pulled back quickly, releasing his hand like it had burned me, scooting to the edge of the couch with my heart in my throat. Chibs shifted too, straightening up with a quiet grunt, jaw locking tight. Whatever had been forming between us shattered under the fluorescent lights and the arrival of reality as Tara and Gemma stepped into the room. Tara had a small first aid kit in her hands, her brows furrowed in concern, her eyes immediately sweeping over me with a practiced kind of worry. Gemma looked between us quickly, and I saw her take it in. Chibs’ bruised face, my wrapped blanket and swollen cheek, the electricity still crackling faintly in the space between us like a storm that had just passed through. She didn’t say anything. Tara walked straight to me, setting the kit on the coffee table.

“You shouldn’t have followed him…” she murmured, kneeling in front of me, soft hands already reaching gently for my chin to examine the damage.

“I didn’t want to—” I winced as she turned my face. “Make it worse.”

Gemma huffed from where she leaned against the wall. “Honey, worse already happened.”

Chibs sat quiet beside me, rubbing his jaw. I could feel his eyes on me, even as he kept them mostly down, respectfully giving me space but not going far.  Tara dabbed antiseptic on the cut at my lip and gave a small apologetic smile when I flinched.

“Sorry, almost done. You’ll need to ice your ribs too, I’ll wrap them if you want.”

“I’m okay.” I muttered.

“No, you’re not!” Gemma said firmly, “And don’t give me that shit about being tough. You don’t gotta prove anything to us, especially not now.”

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat while Tara looked over at Chibs. 

“What about you? Your eye looks like hell.”

“I’ll live.” he said, voice low, rough but when Tara raised a brow at him, he added. “Let her go first.”

“Jesus.” Gemma exhaled, folded her arms. “Men and their damn ego…”

The room fell quiet again, save for the soft noises of Tara working and Chibs shifting every now and then. Eventually, Tara finished cleaning the blood from my lip and handed me a couple pills and a bottle of water.

“Take these, and then go lie down. I mean it.”

I nodded, taking the pills, though my fingers trembled slightly.

“Come on.” Gemma said, pushing off the wall. “Let’s get you into one of the back rooms where it’s quiet. You’ll stay here tonight, it’s safer than sleeping at your house. Club’s on lockdown anyway after that stunt so don’t even argue.”

I didn’t argue. As I stood, I cast a glance at Chibs. His eyes met mine. I followed Gemma and Tara, but I felt his gaze burning into my back until I turned the corner and in the quiet of the hall, I wondered if I’d ever feel safe again… Or if I’d just found the only man who could give that back to me. Gemma guided me down the quiet hallways of the clubhouse, her steps steady and sure, while Tara walked beside her, still holding the first aid kit. The rooms were small but clean, a stark contrast to the gritty world just beyond the walls. They helped me settle onto a battered, creaky bed in one of the back rooms, soft blankets already folded at the foot. Tara pulled a chair close and sat, gently checking over the bruises on my face one last time.

“You’re lucky, you know.” Gemma said, her voice softer now, almost motherly. “Could’ve been a hell of a lot worse.”

I shrugged, trying to sound stronger than I felt. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been through a lot.” Tara shook her head. “You need to rest, and you need to let people take care of you.”

“I’m not used to that…” I admitted, swallowing hard.

“You’re gonna get used to it. Around here, people look out for each other.” Gemma gave me a sharp look. “You included.”

Tara stood, folding her hands. 

“We’ll be around if you need anything, pain meds, ice, water, you just call. Don’t tough it out alone!”

“Thanks, really.” I nodded, forcing a small smile. “But I’m good. I’ll call if I need anything, promise.”

Gemma exchanged a glance with Tara but didn’t argue. Instead, she crossed her arms.

“Alright then, rest up. We’ll check on you later.”

Tara gave my hand a quick squeeze before she and Gemma turned to leave. The door clicked softly behind them and suddenly, the quiet felt vast. I lay back against the pillows, fingers still tingling from their touch. I hadn’t even closed my eyes when the sharp knock at the door jolted me awake. A sigh escaped me, tired, frustrated, and a little irritated. Dragging myself up from the bed, I wrapped the blanket tighter around me and shuffled over to the door, feet heavy like they were filled with lead. As I cracked the door open, I braced myself to tell the girls that I really didn’t need anything, that I was fine, that they could just go. But it wasn’t Gemma or Tara standing there, it was Chibs. His face was bruised and swollen, the rough edges of the fight last week still visible, but his eyes were sharp and steady, focused entirely on me.

“I’m gonna sleep on the couch near the bar tonight.” he said quietly, voice low but firm.

I blinked, caught off guard.

“There’s no need!” I started but my words caught in my throat. “I mean really, you don’t have to—”

He cut me off with a quiet shake of his head.

“Nah. Can’t have ya here alone after what happened, no way.”

His voice held that familiar Scots grit, but there was an undercurrent of something softer, something I’d been craving without even realizing it. I looked up at him, searching his face for signs that maybe he was just being protective. Maybe he was being stubborn or maybe he was… caring.

“I’m not some kid, Chibs.” I sighed, trying to keep my voice steady. “I can take care of myself.”

He smirked, yet it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t doubt that but this isn’t just about you. It’s about me making sure you’re safe and, if I’m honest…” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “I don’t reckon I could sleep well if I left ya here by yourself tonight.”

My heart thumped painfully in my chest as I swallowed, suddenly feeling raw, vulnerable.

“You don’t have to.” I whispered, but I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

We stood there, just inches apart at my door, the faint hum of the outside world drifting through the walls around us. His eyes searched mine, steady and unyielding, as if he was looking for some unspoken answer. Suddenly, as I looked into his eyes, Gemma’s words echoed in my mind, fresh from earlier in the day, her voice, steady and sure in her office. 

‘But don’t punish Chibs for things Rafe did. That man has been in love with you so long, I’m surprised his patch hasn’t started spellin’ your name.’

I swallowed, the weight of that sinking in deeper than I wanted to admit. Maybe I was scared, scared to give in, scared to believe anyone could really care the way I needed.

“I’m not letting you the couch.” I said softly, trying to break the tension. “You don’t have to sleep out there.”

He shook his head slowly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips

“I’d never take the bed while you’re stuck on the couch.”

A quiet laugh escaped me, light, surprised, and just a little nervous. 

“Well, I’m not letting you take the bed for yourself either!” His eyes flicked down to my lips for a heartbeat. “I’m offering to share it.”

The air shifted between us. The teasing in my voice was genuine, but beneath it was something raw and unguarded, an invitation, fragile and trembling. Chibs’ breath hitched just slightly, the usual stoic edge softened into something more vulnerable.

“Is that so?” he murmured, voice low and rough.

I nodded, heart pounding, his eyes didn’t leave mine as I stepped aside, opening the door wider for him to enter. The dim light from the hallway spilled into the room, casting soft shadows across his weathered face, the faint scars and bruises only adding to the raw honesty shining in his gaze. He moved inside slowly, like stepping into a delicate space that held more weight than just a room and a bed. The quiet hum of the clubhouse seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of our breaths mingling in the small space between us. I closed the door behind him, and for a moment, neither of us spoke as Chibs took a careful step forward, his hand brushing lightly against the doorframe, grounding himself, before shifting his weight and dropping down onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under him, creaking softly. I stood frozen for a moment, the warmth radiating from his body sending a shiver through me. Slowly, I let the blanket fall from my shoulders, feeling suddenly bare in the quiet room. He shifted again, eyes tracing the line of my jaw, the gentle curve of my neck. There was an intensity there, like he was memorizing every inch of me without needing words.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and rough, a note of something like disbelief threading through the question.

I nodded, my throat tight with the weight of it all. “Yeah.”

The bed was narrow, the sheets worn thin from years of use, but it was the closest thing I had to a refuge right now. And now, it would be shared. I moved closer, the gap between us shrinking until it was nothing but a breath. Chibs’ hand reached out hesitantly, fingertips ghosting over my cheek. The rough skin was warm and grounding, a stark contrast to the ache simmering inside me.

“Feels like I’ve been wanting this for years.” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

My heart hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

“I never wanted to be the one you settle for.” I whispered back. “Not after everything…”

He shook his head, eyes darkening with fierce resolve. 

“You’re no consolation prize, you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted for years now.”

That confession sent a rush of heat through me, and I found myself leaning into his touch, the roughness of his palm against my skin sparking a longing I’d tried to bury. We sat there, inches apart, breathing each other in, the quiet stretching long and full of everything we hadn’t said. My fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to close the space, to feel him against me. Chibs leaned forward slowly, his breath mingling with mine while his eyes holding a storm of emotions, desire, fear, hope. When his lips brushed softly against mine, it was like the first spark of a wildfire, gentle, teasing, but promising everything. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the bed creaked beneath us. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the heat between us, the desperate need to connect, to heal, to finally be truly seen by the other. His hands moved to my waist, strong and sure, as my fingers tangled in his messy hair, the rough strands slipping through my fingers like silk. We moved slow, savoring every touch, every whispered breath and every trembling moment. There was no rush, only the aching, burning need to hold on, to never let go of each other ever again as our breaths mingled, hot and uneven. Chibs’ hands traced the curve of my back, grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. Every touch was a silent promise, a tether pulling me closer to something real, something steady. His fingers pressed gently, memorizing the small scars and softness beneath my skin, like he was trying to commit me to memory, afraid he’d lose me if he didn’t. My heart hammered fiercely, pounding louder than the chaos I’d been running from for so long. It wasn’t just desire, it was something deeper, a desperate yearning for belonging, for safety, for a home in somebody I thought I’d lost forever. And there, in the dim light of the small room, with Chibs’ lips grazing my skin, I tasted the possibility of that home. His mouth traveled from my lips down to the sensitive spot just beneath my jaw, his breath warm and rough. I tilted my head, offering more, needing more, craving every piece of him like I was starving. The heat between us curled and twisted, slow and intoxicating, the kind that made the world dissolve into nothing but whispered touches and racing pulses. His hands slid lower, resting firmly at my hips, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the steady beat of his heart, strong and sure beneath my chest, and it anchored me like nothing else ever had.

“Jesus, you’re…” his voice broke, husky with emotion, “You’re everythin’ I never dared to hope for.”

I swallowed hard, fingers trembling as I brushed the rough stubble on his cheek. 

“Don’t say that.” I whispered, voice raw with longing. “Not yet.”

He didn’t need words. His eyes, dark and shining, said it all, the longing, the fear, the hope, burning brighter than any patch he wore. Slowly, he leaned down again, capturing my lips with his in a kiss that was soft and filled with the kind of promise that made me want to believe in forever. But then, I pulled back just a fraction, searching his eyes in the dim light, heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

“Before we go any further…” I whispered, voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope. “What do you want with me, Filip?”

His gaze didn’t waver, steady and fierce, full of a quiet determination that made my breath hitch.

“I want everythin’ you’ve got to give. If it’s just friendship you’re givin’, I’ll take it. Just sex, I’ll take that too. If it’s love…” He swallowed hard, the edge of vulnerability breaking through his usual calm. “If it’s love you want, then I’ll give you every ounce of it I have.”

I felt something inside me soften, a smile curling at my lips despite the knot of uncertainty still twisting in my chest. Without a word, I leaned in, pressing my lips to his with a fierce, urgent passion, an ardent kiss that spoke of all the longing and trust I was ready to give. My hands tangled in his hair as the world around us fell away, leaving only the heat between us and the unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, we could finally have it all as our kiss deepened, a slow-burning fire that spread through every nerve ending. His hands moved to my waist again, pulling me closer until I could feel the thumbing beat of his heart against mine. The world outside that little room faded completely, leaving only this moment, this connection, raw and fierce and tender all at once. I slid my hands down his chest, feeling the lean muscle beneath his shirt, the steady warmth that promised safety and something more. His breath hitched as I traced the lines of his collarbone, and I saw the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes, a crack in the armor he always wore. Chibs lowered his mouth to my neck, placing soft, lingering kisses that made my skin flush and my breath catch. Every touch was deliberate, like he was learning my body for the first time and promising to never forget a single inch. The way his fingers tangled in my hair slowly, the roughness of his palms against my back… It was grounding and electrifying all at once. We moved together slowly, savoring each whispered breath and shuddering sigh, each stolen touch. There was no rush, only the aching, desperate need to be close, to share something real after all the broken promises and heartache. His voice was rough when he finally spoke, low and filled with a longing that matched my own. 

“You’re the only one I want to hold like this.” He whispered in a shaky breath. “The only one I want to come home to.”

I rested my forehead against his, breath mingling with his as the tension between us softened into something like hope. I nestled in his arms as I could feel his warmth enveloping me, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as he tried to catch his breath. We were both exhausted yet, I couldn't bring myself to move apart after everything that had happened.

"I'm sorry." he murmured suddenly into my hair, his fingers running soothingly over my skin. "I shouldn't have let things get so out of hand."

I didn't answer, unsure of what to say, surprised. Our eyes met, and all the tension between us melted away. There was no rush, only the aching, desperate need to be close, to share something real after all the fights and heartache. I leaned in, my lips brushing against his in a tender kiss, making him understand that it was ok. He deepened the kiss with a sigh of relief, his tongue dancing with mine in a slow, sensual rhythm. I felt his hands roam over my body, tracing every curve and valley with a gentle touch that sent shivers down my spine as he trailed his fingers along the hem of my shirt. He paused, looking into my eyes with such softness, I felt my heart jump against my ribcage. 

“May I?” 

His voice was low, almost a whisper, but charged with something deep and urgent. I nodded, breath hitching as he slowly lifted the shirt over my head. The cool air kissed my bare skin as he drank me in with those intense, hungry eyes while his hands traced a slow, reverent path up my arms, fingertips barely grazing over the soft curve of my shoulders, lingering at my collarbone before cupping my naked breasts. His large, callused hands were gentle but certain, thumbs circling my hardened nipples until I shivered beneath his touch. He lowered his mouth to my neck, lips warm and teasing, teeth nibbling softly and sucking tender marks into my skin. His fingers teased and flicked at my nipples, coaxing moans from deep in my throat, making me arch my back, trying to get closer, craving more of that touch. He chuckled at that, a low knowing sound, and pulled back, eyes dark and smoldering with desire. 

“I’ve missed this…” he murmured, voice thick with need. “The way you react to me.”

My hands fumbled, fingers trembling as I unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them and his boxer down his hips. The heat of his bare skin hit me as he kicked them off, freeing his hard cock from its confines. I gasped as the head pressed against my walls, the tension between us thick and electric. Leaning in, he kissed me deeply, slow and claiming, as he pressed inside with deliberate care after I nodded to him to go. I bit my lip, holding back a cry as he stretched me, filling me completely with his warmth. His pace was slow at first, almost reverent, hips rolling against mine in a rhythm that made me shiver with anticipation. Then, with a growl, he picked up speed. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper. His voice dropped low, a rumble in his chest. 

“Tell me what you want, baby. Use your words–”

“I want you to fuck me!” I gasped, breathless, “I want to feel you inside me as deep as possible!”

His hips slammed harder, faster, like it was all he needed to hear. The bed creaked beneath us as he claimed me fully, his every thrust setting my body aflame. His eyes locked on mine, burning with desire and something softer, something almost like worship.

“Oh, God, Chibs!” I cried, my nails digging into his shoulders, needing more.

“That’s it, baby…” His voice was rough, guttural. “Take it all.”

Our bodies moved together in perfect harmony, his strength driving me closer to the edge. I could feel the pressure building inside me, heat radiating out from my core. He slowed, his thrusts deliberate and deep. My muscles tensed as waves of pleasure crashed over me, making me cry out his name, voice raw and urgent. He followed, a shuddering groan escaping his lips as he released inside me. He collapsed on top of me, our sweat-slicked bodies sticking together, his arms wrapping tight around me. We laid there, breathless, hearts pounding in unison. For once, we were both satisfied, content and lost in the warmth of the moment. He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead before he sighed, a small smile dancing on his wet lips.

“I don’t want to lose you baby.”

My fingers traced the rough lines of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath my touch. I leaned in, kissing him softly, promising him with my lips. 

“I won’t let you.”

He smiled, pulling me close again, rolling onto his side to spoon me from behind.

“I love how you fit me.” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Like you were made just for me.”

I rested my head on his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear. “I was.”

He chuckled softly, fingers threading through my hair, his touch feather-light.

“Maybe you were…” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But don’t jinx it, aye?”

I turned to face him, my hands trailing over his chest, memorizing every line.

“I won’t.” I promised, my voice steady. “I just want to be with you, so I never would.”

He kissed me again, slow and lingering, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me.

“Me too.”

We stayed like that, tangled together, bodies warm and hearts quieting. The moonlight filtered softly through the curtains, bathing us in a gentle silver glow. I nudged him playfully with my elbow, making his head turn back to me. 

“What are we gonna do tomorrow?”

“How about we take it easy?” He smiled, eyes shining with a rare softness. “Spend the day in bed, order some food, maybe go for a ride on my bike?”

I always hated how quiet the garage got after sundown.

During the day, there was the hum of engines, steel clanging, music bleeding from old speakers in the corner and the constant chatter of the guys drifting in and out. It was comforting, like noise could somehow hold me together. Now, standing alone with grease-stained hands and a half-drained coffee on the workbench, it felt like the silence said too much. I was just finishing up a tune-up on some random guy’s Softail when I heard the familiar grumble of a Dyna pulling in, I didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

Rafe, my boyfriend. Well, if you could even still call him that… We’d been together five years, but the last two had felt like I was clinging to a ghost in a kutte. Before he patched in with SAMCRO, he was different, kind, attentive and loving. He used to wait up for me after long shifts, bring me flowers from that corner shop I liked, and trace his fingers over the grease on my cheeks while looking at me as if I was all dolled up. Now? Now he always smelled like bad whiskey, cheap smoke, and woman’s perfume I didn’t wear. I knew, I always knew. I could smell her on him before he even kissed my cheek when he bothered to do it. Still, I stayed. Pathetic, right? I’d tell myself I was giving him time, maybe the club life had just pulled him too deep. I was hoping he’d find his way back eventually, that maybe he still loved me underneath it all… Or maybe I was just scared of what it would feel like to finally be alone after five years. Suddenly, a voice broke into my thoughts, Scottish, rough but warm, like gravel under velvet; Chibs.

“You still here?”

I turned, brushing hair back from my face. 

“Yeah, just wrapping up!”

He nodded, leaning against the tool cart, arms crossed, that easy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was always around, like a quiet kind of shadow. Helpful, observant, somehow safe. If Rafe was a wildfire, Chibs was the steady flame next to it.

“You don’t have to wait on Rafe, y’know.” he said, eyes scanning me in that way he always did, subtle, like he was trying not to get caught looking.

“I’m not.” I lied, holding back a sigh. “Just needed to finish up on this bike.”

Chibs arched a brow, unconvinced. “Right.”

The thing about Chibs was he never pushed. He never called me out, never asked the questions hovering in the air between us. But I saw it in the way he looked at me, like he wanted to say something, yet wouldn’t out of some misplaced loyalty to his brother. He walked over, grabbing a rag off the bench and handing it to me as our fingers brushed.

“S’late, ain’t safe out here alone.”

“I’ve got a wrench and a bad attitude.” I smirked, trying to lighten the moment. “I’ll be fine, Chibs”

He didn’t smile back, not really. His lips twitched, but his eyes stayed steady, watching me closely, reading me too well. I turned back to the engine on the lift, half-hoping he’d walk away before I cracked under the weight of his gaze. Instead, he stepped a little closer. 

“Alright grease monkey, that’s enough for tonight.”

I blinked, turning to look at him again. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice was firm, but the corners of his mouth lifted now. “You’ve been at it for hours. C’mon, come inside, party’s goin’ ! The guys’ll wanna see you.”

I exhaled a quiet laugh, wiping my hands on a rag. 

“You know I don’t go to those.”

“Aye, I do know that.” He tilted his head slightly. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna ask.”

I looked at the clock, just past nine. I could already hear the faint thump of music bleeding from the clubhouse, smell beer and something being grilled, maybe weed, followed by laughter and voices I knew like my own heartbeat.

“I’m not really in the mood, Chibs.” I said back, softer now. “You know why I don’t…”

He didn’t interrupt. He just watched me patiently, arms folded, waiting me out as I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. 

“It’s just not my scene. Not when I’ve gotta watch him... Do what he does.”

Chibs didn’t look away, but he didn’t press either. He let the silence sit between us for a beat before gently nudging my arm with his gloved hand.

“You’re one of us, you always fix our bikes, keep us rollin’.” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know more about what goes on around here than half the crow-eaters who do show up at the runs, you’ve earned the right to take a break and knock back a beer with your friends. That’s all it is, nothin’ more.”

I hesitated. I did love the guys, all of them, they treated me like family. Tig called me ‘wrench princess’, Bobby brought me coffee when he did early runs, and Juice once tried to show me how to use Bitcoin… Poorly. Even Clay, for all his gruffness, respected what I did and made sure I was safe. And Jax? He always made it a point to call me ‘part of the machine’, always reassuring me when I felt like I didn't do enough for the club. I wasn’t patched in, I wasn’t dirty and I wasn’t stupid. I knew about the guns, the runs, the blood and the deals. But they never dragged me into it, never used me, and maybe that’s why I stayed as long as I had, why I hadn’t walked away from all of it or from Rafe. Because they made it feel like home. Chibs caught the flicker in my eyes and grinned, just a little.

“C’mon, just for a while!” he coaxed, voice lower now. “If it’s shite, you can go. I’ll even walk you out myself.”

That last part, quiet, unassuming, hit a little harder than I expected. My stomach twisted again. I threw the rag down and sighed. 

“You’re annoying, you know that?”

He chuckled lowly. “Takes one to know one.”

—

The second I pushed through the doors of the clubhouse, the noise hit me like a wave; rock music pounding low and steady, the smell of sweat, smoke, and booze heavy in the air with voices rising over it all like some chaotic symphony only the Sons could compose. It was alive in here. Chibs gave me a small nudge as we stepped in, reminding me I wasn’t just passing through, I belonged here. I tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ears and scanned the room. Juice spotted me first and his face lit up the moment he did. 

“Yo! Look who finally crawled out of the garage!”

Tig turned around in his chair, eyes going wide and dramatic. 

“The wrench goddess graces us with her presence! Quick, someone pour a shot before she disappears like a ghost!”

I laughed in spite of myself. “You’re all such idiots.”

“That’s why you love us sweetie.” Bobby called from the pool table.

I gave him a mock salute and walked over as Juice handed me a beer, cold and already opened. He bumped my shoulder with his own, grinning like a kid.

“We thought you were gonna spend your whole life under someone’s carburetor.”

“I might prefer the carburetors.” I responded dryly. “They don’t talk back.”

Tig raised his drink at my words, bumping it with mine.

“Cheers to that.”

For a few minutes, it felt good, normal even. I joked with them, let them tease me about the grease still smudged on my temple, let myself laugh and not think too hard about the man who hadn’t even noticed I was still working at the garage late at night… Or so I thought. Because just as I turned toward the bar, I felt it, his sharp, angry eyes. Rafe was standing near the back corner, half-leaning against the edge of the bar, a drink in one hand and his other dangerously low on the hip of some bleach-blonde from Luann’s studio. She was giggling at something he said, her long nails tracing lazy circles into his leather cut. He hadn’t noticed me at first but now, his gaze was locked on mine, unreadable. He didn’t move, didn’t smile, just watched like I was the one out of line for showing up, for daring breathing in his world. Chibs stepped subtly closer beside me, like he’d felt the shift in the air too. He didn’t say anything, just handed me another napkin and nodded toward the couch.

“C’mon darlin’, you deserve to sit somewhere that doesn’t smell like axle grease.”

I hesitated, my stomach tight, throat dry but I still nodded, keeping my chin up as I walked right past Rafe. Right past the girl with the too-short skirt and the fake laugh, toward the leather couch where the guys were gathered. He didn’t stop me, he never did, yet his eyes stayed on me the whole way. The leather couch was cracked and worn, but it felt like the most comfortable thing in the world once I sank into it. Bobby handed me a fresh beer without even asking the moment he noticed my already empty one, while Tig had started telling some half-true story about a bar fight in Reno that ended with him singing karaoke in a stolen wedding dress. I laughed so hard my ribs ached as Juice nearly choked on his drink.

“You guys are fucking idiots!” I said again, but it came out softer this time, affectionate.

“At least we know how to have fun.” Tig shot back, raising his glass yet again. “To our girl, finally joining the damn party!”

Chibs sat beside me as we all cheered, close but not too close to me, his arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers brushing the edge behind my shoulders. I could feel the heat from his thigh against mine, even through the layers of denim. And as the night wore on, the space between us slowly started to disappear. Not on purpose and not all at once but in those small, accidental ways, like his leg pressed against mine for just a second longer than it needed to or, my shoulder brushing his when I leaned in to hear something Bobby said. My second beer turned into a third, then someone shoved a shot of Jameson into my hand, and everything got a little fuzzier at the edges after that, it got warmer even. Like I’d finally stepped out of a cold shower I hadn’t realized I’d been standing in.

“You remember the time Juice tried to wax his eyebrows?” I giggled, covering my mouth.

Juice groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. 

“Why is that the memory you go for?!”

“Because you looked like a surprised lizard for three weeks, you moron!” Bobby howled, shaking with laughter.

“Babe, you’re heartless for bringing that up…”

“Did you see it?” I turned to Chibs, eyes half-lidded from the alcohol and the heat of the room. “His face was like–" 

I widened my eyes comically, mouth open in mock horror. 

“Aye, I saw it.” Chibs laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Almost crashed my bloody bike when I did.”

We were laughing again, and I leaned against him without even thinking, just a small tilt, a shift in weight. His body was solid and warm next to mine, and he didn’t move away. I don’t know if it was the whiskey, the steady rumble of his voice, or the way his fingers brushed the back of my neck when he leaned in to tell me something about the band playing on the jukebox. But suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so careful.

“You’re not so bad for a grumpy old Scot!” I teased, smirking as I turned my head to look up at him.

His eyes were dark in the low light, smile slow and sincere. 

“I’ve been called worse.”

We were close now, closer than we’d ever been. I could feel his breath on my skin, feel the electricity in the air like the seconds before a summer storm. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rafe still watching with that girl hanging on him. Yet, I didn’t care. Not right now at least, not when I was laughing like I hadn’t in months, not while Chibs was looking at me like I was worth more than 5 years of broken promises and late night lies.

“D’you want another drink?” he asked, voice rough but gentle.

“I’m good! I think if I have another one, I’ll end up singing with Tig.”

“Oh please, do.” Tig said immediately. “You owe me a duet!”

“You wish.”

I leaned my head back against the couch, letting my hand rest on the cushion between us. Chibs didn’t say anything, but a moment later, his pinky gently brushed against mine. It was such a small thing yet my heart flipped anyway as I looked at him, surprised to see that he was already looking at me. There was something in his eyes I hadn’t seen in a long time, want, yes, but also care. That quiet fire he always carried, just waiting to be seen. Rafe could burn everything down around me, but Chibs... Chibs was the warmth I’d forgotten I deserved and I was starting to wonder if I wanted to stop pretending I didn’t feel it, too. The laughter started to fade as the room shifted around us with the drinks flowing, voices rising, bodies starting to drift like gravity had changed. Bobby was mid-story when two girls sauntered over from the bar, all legs and lip gloss, giggling as they leaned in a little too close. One had her hand already on Bobby’s arm before he even noticed. Tig’s eyes lit up like Christmas. 

“Well, hello, trouble.”

“And make it double.” Bobby added, looking at them up and down.

The girl beside him twirled a strand of platinum hair and smiled. 

“You boys look like you need a little company…”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tig purred, hand already on her hip. “I always need a little company.”

And just like that, they were gone, Tig and Bobby disappearing into the din with their new toys, trailing tequila and cackles behind them. Suddenly, Juice stood up, phone to his ear, catching my eye briefly.

“Jax needs me.” he said, already heading toward the hallway. “Don’t drink all the good stuff without me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I murmured back, snickering.

And just like that... it was just me and Chibs. The music seemed louder now that we were alone. A slow, pulsing beat vibrating through the floorboards, some heavy blues track, the singer’s voice gravelly and low, remonding me of the smoke curling around the walls. I shifted on the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me, boot toe grazing his. He didn’t move, didn’t speak as he just sipped his drink while he looked at me with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes that had started to feel too intimate. Too dangerous.

“You always watch people like that?” I asked, lips curling slightly around the rim of my bottle as I took another sip.

“Only when I want to.”

The way he said it wasn’t flirty, well not really. It wasn’t playful either, it was a quiet punch to the ribs, a statement laced with something rougher. He didn’t lean closer, didn’t touch me, he just looked, like he was trying to memorize every angle of me under this low yellow light. I set my drink down slowly, pulse quickening. My leg was still brushing his, that tiny point of contact sparking like live wire. The air between us had shifted completely, thick with unsaid things and bad ideas that suddenly didn’t feel so bad.

“You know…” I started, voice a little husky now. “You’ve got a habit of looking at me like that.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to say... Something.”

His jaw flexed, just a little. 

“Maybe I am.”

I leaned in slightly, slowly, until the scent of him was all around me, a mix of leather, soap, whiskey and the faint smoke from the joint someone had passed around earlier. I didn’t touch him, but I was close enough that I felt his exhale ghost over my cheek.

“You never say anything.” I said quietly.

“Would it matter if I did?” he asked, voice deep, as if the words were being pulled from somewhere he didn’t want to open.

I swallowed hard, heart pounding like a drum behind my ribs. I didn’t answer because I didn’t have one. Instead, I let the silence stretch again, the weight of it settling between us like gravity. His hand was still resting along the back of the couch, fingers just inches from my bare shoulder. I didn’t move away, I didn’t want to. His gaze dropped to my mouth and lingered there for a second too long, making my breath hitched just a little, just enough for him to notice. Everything about this moment was unsaid, and yet so loud. My skin felt too tight, like my body was suddenly aware of itself in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. I wasn’t even sure whose move it was, maybe neither of us would make it.

But god, did we want to.

The tension didn’t feel like air anymore, it felt like heat, the crackling of something that could burn the whole damn room down if either of us dared to light the match. He leaned in, slowly, deliberately, just enough to bring his lips close to my ear.

“You smell like motor oil and sin, darlin’.”

A laugh escaped me, breathless and shaky, even though I didn’t feel like laughing. I turned my head slightly, and we were too close, lips only inches apart. One shift and we’d be done pretending.

“Maybe I am.” I whispered back.

His eyes flicked to mine, and there it was; want. Clear and dark and unfiltered. His fingers twitched against the back of the couch, as if he wanted to reach for me but was holding himself back with the thinnest thread of control. He tilted his head slightly, voice thick. 

“You’re playin’ with fire, love.”

“I don’t care to be burned.”

He didn’t move, he just stared and for one unbearable, electric second, I was sure he was going to kiss me. But then, the door to the clubhouse creaked open again, laughter, footsteps and fresh air spilling in behind it. I jerked away instinctively, breath catching in my throat, heart slamming into my ribs like it wanted out. The moment broke. Chibs leaned back slightly, his hand slipping away from the back of the couch like it had never been there. Yet his eyes stayed locked on mine, still dark, still burning and still wanting. And mine? Mine were doing the same damn thing. Chibs shifted like he was about to speak, his lips parting, brows tightening just slightly. Something unreadable moved across his face but I didn’t let him finish as I picked up my bottle, still cool but slick with condensation, and took a long, slow pull. My throat burned from the heat of it, or maybe from the heat of him. I didn’t know and I really didn’t want to know.

“I’m getting another one.” I said flatly, setting the bottle down harder than I meant to. “Bar’s calling.”

He didn’t stop me, yet his eyes followed every single step I took. I moved fast, like the bar was some kind of safety, as if the burn of liquor could wash away whatever the hell had just passed between us on that couch. It had happened. That thick, charged air, the way my skin was still buzzing, his breath on my cheek and the gravel in his voice when he said I was playing with fire… I didn’t want to admit how much I liked it, how much I wanted more and how starved I felt by it. No one had looked at me like that in years, with such need and respect, like I was more than something to use and discard the moment something younger and easier came along. But it wasn’t just about how he looked at me, it was how I felt when he did. 

I made it halfway to the bar, heart thudding against my ribs like I was still back on that couch with his thigh pressed to mine and his gaze hot enough to melt steel. And then, a hand. A large, rough, too-familiar hand clamped hard around my upper arm that yanked me, the sudden force jerking me backward. The voice hit me like a sharp slap.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Rafe hissed, face twisted into a snarl like I’d just betrayed some sacred rule I hadn’t agreed to.

I jerked my arm, but he didn’t let go.

“I work here, remember?” I said coldly, yanking harder. “You know, the job I show up for everyday?”

His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tight, and I could smell the cheap beer mixed with even cheaper whiskey on his breath even through the haze of the room. 

“I meant in here, in the goddamn clubhouse! You know you’re not supposed to be—”

“Not supposed to be where?” I cut in, voice rising. “Around the people I’ve known longer than you’ve been loyal to anything? Around the only ones who actually treat me like I exist?”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, and his grip on my arm tightened.

“You’re my regular!” he spat, leaning in close. “You don’t parade around here like some thirsty little—”

“Finish that sentence.” I snapped, heart slamming in my chest. “I dare you.”

For a second, we just stood there, locked in this battle of stares, breath, heat, and rage. His jaw twitched again. He didn’t finish it.

“You think I didn’t see you? Sitting there all cozy with Chibs like a fucking biker groupie?” he spat again, lower now, more venom than volume.

My laugh was sharp and bitter as my heart skipped a beat.

“Oh, now you care? What happened, did the porn star’s mouth get tired?”

His face shifted, something ugly behind his eyes while his body tensed like a coil pulled too tight.

“You don’t talk to me like that!” he growled, and his hand moved from my arm to my wrist, gripping it hard enough to make my fingers tingle. “Not in front of them.”

I tried to yank away again, harder this time, but he wouldn’t budge. His body was pressed too close, voice too low, and every alarm in me was going off now.

“They’re not watching, they’re too busy to glance your way.” I responded through clenched teeth, trying to twist free. “And you don’t scare me, Rafe–”

“You should be fucking scared of me!” he shot back, face inches from mine now. “Because you don’t walk into this room, make me look like a fool and get away with it, you bitch.”

My heart thundered, but I didn’t let it show. I glared at him, breath fast, anger burning like acid in my throat.

“Let. Me. Go.”

He didn’t and his grip tightened as an anwser. Not just in his fingers, but in his whole body, like something in him was about to snap. Even though I’d stood up to him before, this was different. He was losing control and right know, I didn’t know if he cared who saw it. Rafe’s grip kept tightening, his thumb pressing into the inside of my wrist so hard I felt the pulse there stutter. His face was flushed, jaw locked, the tendons in his neck straining.

“I said, what the fuck are you doing in here?!” he barked, voice loud enough to cut through the music, heads starting to turn.

The room didn’t go silent, not yet, but it shifted, the kind of shift that happens before a fight. That low crackle of tension rolling through the air like a warning siren. I saw Bobby’s head turn from where he sat at the bar while Tig froze mid-laugh, hand still on that girl’s hip. Even Jax, halfway across the room near the pool table with Juice, looked up with a slight furrow in his brow. I tried to pull my arm back again, twisting hard this time as I tried to keep calm. 

“You’re hurting me, asshole!”

“Then maybe listen for once!” Rafe snapped, voice rising to a full-on shout. “Instead of crawling around this place like some clubhouse slut—”

“Let her go.”

The words cut through everything, low and deadly. Rafe froze. I didn’t even have to look, I felt him and recognized that voice a little too well, the sound of it making me shiver slightly. Chibs. He was standing behind Rafe, weirdly calm. The calm that meant danger with that heavy stillness. Rafe turned, still gripping me, still full of that shitty, drunken pride.

“Back off, old man.” he groaned, sneering. “This doesn’t concern—”

Chibs took a step forward, voice dropping an octave. 

“I said, let her go.”

There was no arguing with it. The command in his tone, the weight behind every syllable and something in Rafe knew it, too as his jaw twitched, eyes darting around like he was suddenly aware of the eyes now on him. Tig had stepped away from the blonde while Bobby was half-risen from his stool. Juice was at the edge of the room, watching like he’d only need one word to come here, even Jax was moving in slowly now, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Rafe looked back at me then at Chibs and finally, with a muttered curse and a shove of my arm, he let go. I stumbled slightly but didn’t fall, my skin throbbing where his fingers had dug in, but I straightened fast, chest heaving. Chibs didn’t look away from him, not once. Rafe squared up like he wanted to push back, like that dumb, drunk part of him still thought he could win. Chibs just took one more step, voice still eerily calm.

“You touch her like that again…” he started, his accent thickening, rough like gravel. “And it won’t be words I use next time.”

Rafe flinched and he didn’t respond, not verbally at least, his eyes did all the talking. Just gave Chibs one last, filthy look, then turned and stormed out of the room, shoving past Jax on his way out the door. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him as silence hovered, thick and electric. Then Chibs finally looked at me, eyes scanning my face, then dropping to my wrist and upper arm. His jaw clenched when he saw the red marks.

“You alright?” he asked, voice still low but gentler now.

I nodded quickly, too quickly.

“I’m fine.”

The truth was, I didn’t know what I felt. Anger? Shame? Relief? A mix of those three. And under all of that... the way I was still shaking inside. The way Chibs had stepped in without hesitation, like it wasn’t even a question, like I mattered to him. The silence hadn’t lasted long. The door banged open again, harder this time, the metal rattling in its frame. Rafe stormed back in, rage written all over his face but now, his right hand gleamed with brass knuckles, clenched tight at his side like he’d been waiting his whole life to use them.

“You think you can humiliate me?!” he yelled, voice cracking, pointing straight at me as he stalked forward. “You think you can disrespect me in front of the Sons and walk out like it’s nothing you ugly bitch?!”

Shouts erupted instantly. Bobby stood so fast his stool clattered to the floor as Juice stepped forward, hands already raised. Jax moved from the pool table in long strides, voice sharp and warning. 

“Rafe don't!”

But Rafe wasn’t listening. He was zeroed in on me, like nothing else in the room existed. His lip curled, his fist raising, brass catching the light, as he shouted. 

“You think you can make me look weak?" He screamed, eyes bloodshot from rage. "You wanna act like one of the guys? Then take it like one!”

He raised his fist. I didn’t even have time to move as Chibs did it before me. He was a blur as he shoved Rafe back hard enough to send him stumbling a step, and in the same breath, his fist connected clean with Rafe’s jaw, the crack of bone-on-bone echoing through the clubhouse. Rafe reeled then roared as quickly as he received the punch. Before anyone could stop him, he twisted around fast and swung. The brass knuckles connected with Chibs’s cheek with a sickening crack.

“No, stop it!” I shouted as I watched Chibs go down, the force of the blow knocking him to the floor. “You piece of shit—” 

He hit hard, rolling onto his side with a groan, blood already trailing from his temple. Tig snarled, grabbing me and dragging me back behind him with one strong arm, shielding me as chaos erupted. Rafe didn’t hesitate. He charged straight at me the moment our eyes locked again. But this time, he didn’t get far; Jax slammed into him from the side, tackling him with a grunt while Juice grabbed his other arm. Happy, silent as a shadow, appeared from nowhere and landed a hard elbow to Rafe’s ribs that made him stagger.

“Enough!”

The voice was gravel and command. Clay. He stepped into the center of it all, the room seeming to still the second he did, like the walls themselves respected the weight in his voice.

“Everybody fucking STOP!”

Breathless silence. Rafe writhed, still trying to break free, blood on his lip now, eyes wild. Chibs groaned on the floor, pushing himself up slowly, blood dripping down the side of his face, the bruise on his cheek already swelling. I was frozen behind Tig, every nerve in my body firing. I could still feel the phantom heat of Rafe’s fist in the air, like he’d almost reached me, like I’d come that close to… I swallowed hard, shaking. Tig turned slightly, eyes scanning my face.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly, voice low and tight.

I nodded at him in response but my eyes were locked on Chibs still on the floor, still bleeding and trying to get back up. In this state, because of me. He stepped in when no one else had moved fast enoug because he didn’t even hesitate for a second. At that thought, something in my chest clenched so hard it almost hurt. 

—

The harsh fluorescent light buzzed faintly above as I slammed the bathroom cabinet open, rifling through the clutter inside like it was the damn thing’s fault Chibs was bleeding. Gauze, alcohol wipes, a half-used tube of antibiotic cream… I grabbed them all with shaking hands. Behind me, the toilet lid creaked under his weight as he sat, elbows braced on his knees, blood trailing from his temple, staining the collar of his shirt. His face was already swelling, red, purple, angry and I hated it.

“I told you not to get involved when he gets angry like that!” I snapped, not turning to look at him yet, focusing instead on tearing open a pack of sterile gauze like it’d personally offended me. “I told you I could handle it–”

“Didn’t look like handling from where I was standin’, lass.”

Chibs let out a soft grunt that might’ve been a laugh or a wince, probably both. I finally turned, brows furrowed, jaw clenched. He looked like hell; blood drying in streaks, one eye already darkening around the edge and even like that, my stomach twisted when I looked at him.

“You didn’t have to get hurt.” 

I stepped between his knees and dabbed at the gash above his temple with a soaked cotton pad, maybe a little harder than I needed to. He flinched slightly but didn’t stop me.

“Didn’t exactly plan it…” he muttered, the thick rasp of his accent curling around the edges of his voice. “Wasn’t gonna stand there and let the bastard swing at you.”

 “Well, now you’ve got a busted face.” I pressed the gauze harder. “So congratulations!”

“Always wanted a shiner.” he said dryly, lips twitching at the corners. “Girls love ‘em, yeah?”

I scowled, glaring down at him. “You think this is funny?”

His smile faded, noticing how serious I was.

“No, I think it’s fucked.”

I slowed, hand hovering for a second before gently dabbing again. This time, more carefully.

“I’m serious, Filip. He could’ve really hurt you.”

“He did hurt me but I’ve had worse.” he responded with a flash of teeth. “And if it meant keeping him off you… Worth it.”

I froze for just a second, heart thudding hard in my chest, fingers tightening slightly on the alcohol pad. I stared down at the gash, at the soft stubble along his jaw to the blood I was wiping off like it was mine to take care of. The silence stretched.

“You didn’t need to protect me.” I said finally, voice lower now. “Not like that.”

He looked up at me, just one eye clearly focused, and it burned through me more than I wanted to admit.

“Yeah, I did.”

Something in the air shifted. I turned back quickly to grab more gauze, something, anything to keep my hands busy. But my pulse was sprinting now, my face was hot and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his body had moved in front of mine like it was instinct to the way he hadn’t even blinked before stepping in.

“You’re stubborn.” I muttered, voice tight.

“You’re worse!” he shot back. “Tryin’ to tell me not to get involved when some arsehole’s about to knock your teeth in...”

I swiped ointment across the gash and tried to ignore the way his breath hitched when my fingers brushed too close to his damp skin.

“You’re lucky he didn’t crack your skull.”

He tilted his head slightly, smirking, even though it pulled at the swelling. 

“Skull’s tougher than it looks.”

I met his eyes again and this time, I didn’t look away. Neither did he. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too full of everything I hadn’t let myself feel all night.

“Idiot.” I whispered, not moving.

His grin faded, but that heat in his eyes didn’t.

“No, just not willin’ to watch someone treat you like trash.”

The words settled into the air like smoke; heavy, lingering and clinging to my skin. My heart thudded so loud I could feel it in my ears, pulsing in time with the silence that stretched out between us. I was still standing between his knees, his breath brushing the fabric of my shirt. Close but not close enough to push past the ache that had been building in me for what felt like months, years… Forever. I stared down at him, chest tight, jaw clenched, my hands still smeared with blood that wasn’t mine but somehow was. His blood. Because of me. He was looking at me like he was holding himself back with both hands and a locked jaw, like he was fighting something bigger than pride or timing. Something deeper, and I hated how much I wanted him to lose that fight.

“You shouldn’t say shit like that…” I sighed, shaking my head, voice tired.

He tilted his head slightly, a lazy flicker of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Why not?”

“Because you say it like it means something.” I whispered, barely able to breathe.

His smirk faded, and his gaze locked with mine, so sharp and so bare that I could hardly stand to look at it. That heat that was always there under the surface was fully alive now, crackling between us like a live wire. His eyes dropped for a second, slow, dragging down my face to my lips, then back up as my whole body tensed under it, like he’d just touched me without laying a hand on me.

“It does mean something.” he responded, softer now. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

God, I did know. I felt it every time our hands brushed over a socket wrench, every time his voice dipped low near my ear when he asked for a part, every time I caught him watching me like I was something he wanted to memorize. I swallowed hard, heart threatening to crack open right there in that bathroom.

“You don’t get to say that. Not when I’m still with him.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he took a deep breath, trying to hold something back in before he exhaled, words spilling out from his lips the moment he did.

“You think I don’t hate that?” he rasped, finally breaking. “You think I don’t lie awake at night, knowing he’s next to you? Knowing he’s got what he doesn’t deserve, while I’m out here pretendin’ I don’t want to rip his fuckin’ throat out for touchin’ you?!”

The breath caught in my lungs. I couldn’t move.

“I see how he looks at you.” Chibs went on, voice thick with barely held control. “Like you’re a thing he owns, like he can break you down until you’re too tired to walk away.”

He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, until his face was just inches from mine. I could smell the blood and whiskey and the heat of his skin.

“But I see you, lass. I see you. And you’re not nothing. You’re not small. You’re… fuckin’ brilliant. You shine, even when he’s trying to snuff it out.”

My fingers curled at my sides as my whole body trembled.

“You need to stop.” I breathed, even though I didn’t mean it. “Please.”

His voice dropped to a near-growl, deep and soft like a warning and a confession all at once. 

“Tell me to stop lookin’ at you like this, and I will.”

I stopped for a moment, trying to get the words out but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because he was still staring up at me like I was the first calm after a storm he asked for. His hands stayed by his sides, fists clenched like if he let go, they’d end up on me while mine twitched toward him, just a little, like instinct. The silence was a held breath between us, thick with all the words we weren’t allowed to say. Longing was a living thing in that room and it was devouring us both.  I forced myself to look down, to focus on what I was supposed to be doing; cleaning the blood, keeping my hands busy and pretending like I could control the way my pulse was thrumming in every inch of me. I dipped another pad in antiseptic and pressed it gently to the cut on his cheekbone, even though my hands were trembling. He didn’t flinch this time, he just watched me, eyes burning into my skin like fire. I grabbed the gauze and tore it open, the sound loud in the thick quiet between us. My breath hitched as I pressed it against his skin, gently taping it down, pretending I didn’t feel the way his thigh brushed my knee, acting like my fingertips weren’t shaking from being this close to him. But then, he spoke, desperate.

“Tell me to stop.”

My hands paused. His voice wavered, like it hurt to say it.

“Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you don’t feel it. Tell me to fuck off, and I’ll walk out that door and never bring it up again. I swear to Christ, lass!”

His accent was thick, every word soaked in restraint and hunger and something rawer than I could handle. It felt like it was tearing him open just to ask. I looked at him, really looked this time. His bruised face, his split lip, the blood I’d cleaned and those eyes, pleading with me now. Like he was begging me to rip his heart out, or save it. He didn’t care which as long as I did something to it.. I opened my mouth to lie, to keep pretending. But for the first time, my mouth didn’t obey.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

His breath hitched, sharp and shaky, like a man resurfacing after being held underwater for far too long. A sound caught in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, as his eyes closed for half a second like he needed to feel that moment sink in, as if my words hit somewhere he hadn’t let himself hope existed. Then his hands were on me. One slid around my waist, warm, rough and claiming, the other gripping my hip like he’d been waiting years to touch me. I didn’t move, I couldn’t. My heart was too loud. He pulled me in slow, tugging me closer between his knees until the heat of him pressed against me and I felt every inch of what he’d been holding back. His voice was low when he spoke again, barely there, more breath than sound.

“Say it again.”

I swallowed, my hands still hovering uselessly with the roll of gauze.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

His forehead dropped forward, resting against my stomach for a second, the weight of it all finally catching up to him. His hands tightened on me, possessive and reverent all at once, and I felt something deep in me splinter under the force of it. His lips brushed the fabric of my shirt as he spoke, breath hot and ragged.

“Christ, you don’t know what you do to me…”

And God help me, I wanted to know, every inch of it. His forehead stayed against my stomach, the air between us thick and barely breathable while one of his hands slid from my hip to my lower back, pressing me in just that little bit closer. My hands had fallen to his shoulders, half-forgotten bandages still dangling from my fingers, and I could feel the tension in him, coiled and hot beneath his skin. When he lifted his head, it was slow, as if he didn’t want to miss a second of me. His eyes roamed up my body, dragging heat with them, until they landed on my face again and this time, he didn’t try to hide what was there; want, hunger, need… Underneath all of it, something deeper. Something that made my chest ache just looking at him. His hands moved again, both sliding up to my waist now, fingers digging in like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold me like this but couldn’t stop himself. I could feel the warmth of him through my jeans, the flex of his thighs against mine, the bruised, bloody heat of his breath ghosting just below my lips. He didn’t move fast, he didn’t need to. The space between us was already burning.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough and low like smoke curling up from something on fire.

“Yeah.” I nodded, breath hitching. “I’m sure.”

His eyes locked on mine for a heartbeat longer, like he needed to feel the truth of it, then he leaned in, so slow it made my stomach twist in anticipation. He kissed me just once, soft and careful, like it was the first time he’d ever kissed anyone in his life. But then he pulled back a breath’s width and looked at me like that wasn’t nearly enough and it wasn’t. The next kiss was deeper, his mouth opening against mine as he tugged me down toward him, hands gripping my hips tighter, like he was finally letting himself feel. My fingers slipped up into his hair, careful of the cuts, but hungry for him all the same. He groaned softly against my lips as I pressed closer, knees brushing the outside of his thighs, the warmth of him pulling me under. His hands slid up my sides, dragging under my shirt just enough to make my breath catch, palms rough and warm against my already burning skin. My hips rocked into his, instinctive, and the way he gasped into my mouth made my knees go weak.

“Fuck.” he murmured, lips barely leaving mine. “I’ve wanted this for so long…”

I kissed him again, deeper, slower, our breaths tangling as I straddled his thighs right there on the closed toilet lid, his hands sliding up to my back like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go. Our bodies pressed flush together now, hot and desperate, like we were trying to make up for every second we’d spent pretending we didn’t want this.

“Filip…” 

I breathed his name into his mouth, and something in him snapped just slightly, his hands gripped me tighter, mouth kissing mine with more heat now, more need, tongue sweeping against mine as his fingers slid under the hem of my shirt, gripping bare skin and pulling me impossibly closer. The kiss deepened, stealing breath and thought until there was nothing left but the sound of our panting, the scrape of denim against denim, and the way his hands felt like they’d been made to hold me. He broke the kiss first, just barely, lips brushing against mine as he looked at me, eyes wild and wanting.

“We should stop here.” he murmured, voice ragged and full of fire. “Unless you tell me otherwise.”

I stared at him, from his swollen lip, bruised cheek, the way he was still bleeding just a little from under the bandage I’d pressed on too hard. I ran my fingers over the line of his jaw, heart thudding.

“I’m not ready to stop.”

His mouth curved, slow and dark, eyes gleaming with something raw and real.

“Then I won’t.”

He didn’t wait for another word. His mouth crashed into mine like he’d been starving for it, like the dam had finally broken and everything he’d kept inside was pouring out all at once. His hands gripped my hips hard, dragging me down against him so I could feel every inch of the tension he’d been holding back, every ragged breath and barely restrained groan. I gasped into his mouth as he ground against me, slow but heavy, making it impossible to think. My fingers twisted in his shirt, fisting the fabric tight like it was the only thing keeping me upright, and I rocked down in time with him, chasing that pressure like I couldn’t breathe without it.

“You feel that?” he growled against my lips. “That’s what you do to me, every time you look at me like you don’t even know you’re killin’ me.”

My head tipped back as he kissed down my jaw, rough stubble dragging over my skin in the most delicious way. His lips found the hollow of my throat, slow and warm and open-mouthed, and I whimpered, actually whimpered, when he sucked gently at the skin there like he wanted to leave a mark just for him. One hand slid up under my shirt, spreading wide against my bare back, heat blazing from his palm as he traced the line of my spine with his fingers. The other hand stayed firm on my hip, holding me in place as he rocked me into him, again and again, every movement feeding that slow, desperate burn that had been building for far too long. I felt drunk on him, on the way he touched me like he couldn’t believe he was, on the way he looked at me like he’d dreamed of this and didn’t know if it was real. His lips found mine again, hungry and hot, kissing me deeper now, tongue brushing mine in slow, languid strokes that made my toes curl. I could feel him, hard and wanting through his jeans, and when I shifted just right, the groan that tore from his chest nearly undid me.

“Tell me what you want, love.” he breathed, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot and desperate. “Because I swear to God, I’ll give you everything. Just say the word.”

I looked at him, bruised, panting, flushed, and felt something deep in me crack open, raw and wanting.

“I want you.” The words came out like a confession. “I need you.”

He kissed me again, hard and deep and aching, and it felt like everything I’d ever kept locked away was finally being answered in the heat of his mouth, the grip of his hands, the fire burning between us. But even as his hands roamed and my shirt lifted slowly over my hips, there was a reverence to it, like he wasn’t just undressing me, he was unraveling me piece by piece. He pulled back for half a second, his gaze dropping down the curve of my body as if he was memorizing it, hands trailing after the fabric while he peeled my shirt off and tossed it to the side.

“Jesus Christ.” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You’re beautiful.”

And when his hands came back to me, rough and reverent, it wasn’t just heat that flooded my veins, it was everything. Every moment we’d ignored, every touch we’d denied, every time we’d looked away. Now, we weren’t looking away anymore. His hands returned to my skin like he was learning me by feel alone, palms trailing up my ribs, fingers splaying wide as if he needed to cover every inch. He looked up at me, still seated between my thighs, and his eyes… God, those eyes. Dark and fierce and starving as if he couldn’t believe I was really here, acting like if he blinked, I’d vanish. His hands slid to my back again, pulling me closer so our chests brushed, the friction unbearable in the best way. I felt every shift of muscle beneath his grip, every breath stutter through him as I rocked down again, my thighs bracketing his.

“For fuck sake, lass…” he groaned, his lips brushing against the swell of my chest, “I’ve dreamed about this more times than I care to admit.”

“You could’ve fooled me.” I murmured, breathless.

“I didn’t think I deserved to touch you like this.” His grin was crooked, a little dangerous, but softened by the flush of heat in his cheeks. “Didn’t think I had the right.”

“And now?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His fingers dug into my hips, dragging me in again, somehow closer.

“Now I’m past givin’ a damn.”

His mouth was back on me before I could breathe, fevered and hot, his lips trailing from my collarbone to the edge of my bra, tongue teasing just enough to make my fingers knot in his hair. I arched into him, a gasp escaping before I could catch it. The sound made him growl low, the vibration thrumming through my chest as he kissed me again, deeper, slower, like he needed every second of it burned into his skin.

“I could stay here forever…” he sighed against my throat. “You feel like home.”

The words hit something in me so deep it ached and I knew he meant it. This wasn’t just lust or adrenaline, this was years of stolen glances, swallowed feelings, biting down on want and pretending it wasn’t there. But it was, it always had been. I reached down, my hand slipping under his shirt this time, feeling the ripple of muscle and some old scars. He hissed softly at the contact but didn’t stop me, instead, he leaned into it, like the pain meant something if it was from me. Our foreheads touched again, breathing each other in.

“I don’t want to stop.” I whispered, voice trembling as my thumbs swept over the planes of his chest. “But I’m scared.”

He nodded once, his fingers brushing the side of my face, thumb gently tracing my cheekbone.

“So am I.”

Somehow, that made it better. Because this wasn’t something we were rushing into. It wasn’t reckless. It was a slow burn that had finally reached its flame, and we were both standing in the fire, choosing to stay.

“I’ll wait as long as you need. ” he said quickly, looking me straight in the eyes. “But I’m not walkin’ away again, love. Not unless you tell me to.”

I pressed my lips to his, soft this time, just a slow, searing kiss that said all the things I couldn’t speak yet. When I didn’t pull away, when I let my fingers trail down the curve of his ribs and he let out that broken, needy sigh against my mouth, we both knew; there was no going back.

“For now, all I know for sure is that I need you.”

His hands trembled as they moved to the button of his jeans, the soft click of it opening louder than it should’ve been in the quiet heat between us. I didn’t stop him. My breath hitched, but my hands were already working at the hem of my own jeans, fingers brushing his as we fumbled together, too caught in the burn to care.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he muttered, eyes locked on mine like even now, he needed permission.

I gave it without words, just a slow lean in, my lips brushing his again as I rolled my hips down against the hardness pressing up through his jeans. His breath stuttered, one hand gripping my thigh like he was holding back a quake. Every part of me felt alive under his touch while his rough palms smoothed up my sides, one slipping around to cup the back of my neck as he pulled me into another kiss, deeper now, more urgent. It wasn’t gentle anymore. The kiss turned hungry, almost wild, lips colliding like we couldn’t get close enough as I moaned into his mouth, his other hand sliding down, fingers curling into the waistband of my jeans, tugging me closer until I was pressed flush against him. My pulse thundered, there was no space left between us, no hesitation, no shame. Just heat, needy hands, shaky breaths and desperate need. I started to unbutton my jeans, working them down inch by inch as our mouths refused to part. I could feel the heat of his skin where my shirt had ridden up, his fingertips trailing lower, feather-light but burning all the same. He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes glazed, jaw tight. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower while his chest rose and fell like he’d just run five miles.

“Tell me if this isn’t what you want.” he insisted, voice hoarse, wrecked. “Tell me now. I swear to God I’ll stop.”

But I didn’t want him to stop. I didn’t ever want him to stop. I answered by sliding my jeans down another inch, watching the way his pupils blew wide. He sucked in a breath like I’d knocked the wind out of him, head tilting back slightly as if the sight alone was enough to undo him. I leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. 

“I want this.”

His whole body shuddered under me, that was all he needed. He pushed his jeans lower, finally freeing himself from the tight denim, groaning as the cool air hit him and I was right there, knees bracketing his thighs, the heat between us unbearable. He gripped my hips again, guiding me slowly toward him, his mouth trailing fire down my neck as I rocked forward, both of us chasing that tension, finally giving in. It was slow, fevered. A push and pull of restraint and raw need. And then—

Knock knock.

“Hey, everything okay in he—”

Jax’s voice froze mid-sentence as Chibs and I froze with it. It was like the whole goddamn world screeched to a halt. Jax stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, eyebrows slowly shooting to his hairline as he took in the sight of me straddling Chibs shirtless, jeans half-down while Chibs sat there, lips kiss-bruised, shirt pulled up, hand still clutching the waistband of his own pants.

“Jesus Christ.! Jax yelped, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the situation. “Well, that answers that.”

“Get out Teller!” Chibs growled, voice rough and tight with tension.

“Hey, I knocked!” Jax raised both hands, still smirking. “I was checking on the bruised-up Scotsman you dragged into the bathroom, not looking to catch a porno.”

My face burned so hot it could’ve lit a match. I reached for my shirt blindly, barely able to breathe through the shock and mortification, while Chibs let out a long, slow sigh through his nose, clearly trying not to explode. Jax started to back out, chuckling under his breath. 

“You two can go back to pretending you’re ‘just friends’ later. Clay wants a word when you’re, y’know, done.” He winked, laughing. “Try locking the door next time.”

Then it finally clicked shut.

Dead silence. I stared at the door like it had personally betrayed me. Chibs groaned, head falling back against the wall behind the toilet. 

“Fuckin’ hell.”

I let out a breath that turned into a laugh, my forehead falling to his shoulder as my whole body shook with it. 

“That was so bad.”

His hand ran down my back, a warm, heavy glide that still held heat despite the absolute disaster that just occurred.

“Still worth it.” he sighed, voice low and honest.