yelik

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You were a messenger.

Not by trade but by chance, fate perhaps. A courier for the things that went bump in the night, the job itself is simple enough; bestowed on you by forces your mind couldn’t comprehend. It was early fall, leaves crunching under your soles as you hauled boxes through the door. You had hopped from place to place, not because you were running. Quite the opposite, actually. You were searching.

Searching for excitement. Belonging, something new, with the comfort of a well-loved commodity. Nothing had tied you to any past homes. Friends came and went; the good ones just one call away, so really, what did you have to lose? The days passed slowly as you settled in. Mundane yet enjoyable, but sometimes, there would be… outliers.

Small happenings that made you pause, like how the townspeople close their blinds the minute dusk breaks. The warnings to never look past the fence, nearing the edge of the woods, faded, with missing posters stapled to light poles.

The diner always let you off a bit early to “make it home safe.” There was a heaviness that came with their words, like a teacher who knew all too well what would happen next. Leaning down to lecture a boy who eats too fast, his sandwich in hand.

Naturally, you were curious, but not enough to push beyond surface-level questions. Such as when the fence was even built, or thoughtless jokes. Poking fun at the unspoken curfew everyone seemed to follow. They would answer in that vague way folks do when they want to change the subject. Fast and unassuming. Nothing to worry about. You never pressed. So maybe it was your fault.

Your boots were heavy on your feet, the normally unbothersome leather now bearing the same weight as solid lead. You’d just dragged yourself from the closing shift. Except Lady Luck was not in your favour, as your normal route home had been blocked.

The entire street was closed up due to some big company that bought up a hole in the wall shop, said the people needed more reliable lender firms. A giant fat ass lie, you and everyone in a ten-mile radius knew they were just as sleazy as the last. Loan sharks looking for some sheltered, sad sack to buy in.

Therefore, the most logical solution? Cut through the forest they had warned you about, you had checked the map at least a dozen times now. A dingy, mediocrely printed little thing. Shoved it into your work bag on the first day and have used it ever since. It hadn’t gotten you lost before, so why start now, right?

The path looked clean cut, too, straight through the trees, no twists or turns in sight. You could even see the trail from where you stood.

The barred railing reached across the entire end of town, but not unblemished. Holes ripped through the wire by animals, metal kicked up by misbehaving teens; it was easy enough to just slip past. Hunched over in a half crawl, you stepped over the silent barrier, and when your foot hit soil— something in the static snapped.

You felt it, a shift in the air, like you had been transported somewhere else entirely. The other side of the fence suddenly seemed worlds away; your gut curled in defiance. Every fibre of you screaming to turn back, that being said, your tired arms and aching back won the argument.

Superstitions be damned, you wanted to sleep for the next month and then some. And you’d rather suffer the cold sweat of a creepy forest than the nearly forty-minute walk you’d have to make otherwise. Trudging against the worn-down gravel, the hairs on your neck stood straight up. Whatever caused the initial dread had only worsened as you went.

Your grip on the satchel thrown over your shoulder never wavers. The shadows moved around you, taunting like they were alive. Anxiety gnawing, more and more tense with each passing tree- then, the summit of it.

The first meeting.

The confrontation had stopped you in your tracks, literally. Along the old path, there was supposed to be a clearing. You were expecting it, ready for it. What you were not ready for was the inhuman mass standing dead centre of it. Limbs hanging limply, too long to fit right, adorned in a mock suit and tie. Its fingers were thin, almost needle-like in shape.

The entity’s face paper white, gaunt in some places, a hollow replication of facial features carved onto porcelain canvas. Stature stretching to the tree line and as tall as the sky was vast; it was terrifying. Fear, unlike anything you had ever experienced, had you frozen in sheer panic. You could feel your hands grow clammy. Staring up at something you thought only existed in storybooks or nightmares.

The two of you stood stock still. A staring competition, except your opponent lacked the needed facilities.

This was it.

This was the moment you had gone too far, went against your instincts, and ended up here. This creature, monster, or whatever it was, was going to eat you alive, and it was going to hurt. You had never been particularly religious, but at this exact moment, you were calling on anyone who would listen.

Pleading in your head that death would come swiftly, that the silhouette in front of you, spared you its more sadistic traits. Closing your eyes, you braced. A chase would guarantee nothing but a brutal and gory end, so what was there to do? Other than breathing through your nose and praying that there were good snacks in the afterlife.

There was a pause, nothing but the rapid thumps of your own heartbeat. You heard it before you saw it, a slight rustle of the leaves, the wind colder than it was, debating pros and cons, you blinked and looked up. It loomed over you, not exactly chest to chest, but closer, then it spoke.

Not traditionally, though, more like an echo in your ear. Understanding the words after they’ve been said, but skipping the first part. Hot-lined straight to your head.

It told you the rules, explained hierarchies, and how its workers couldn’t fill certain roles. Too complicated, the risk was higher than the reward. It needed a middleman. Someone neutral to all sides, someone to keep the balance. That someone was you.

A first of your kind, like a boss, trying a new, fun office strategy. If your boss were an omnipotent evil who hired serial killers for day jobs. You agreed with reluctance, shook hands, and sealed the deal. Its palm swallowed yours entirely, then it was gone. The forest felt lighter, just a tad.

You made it home in one piece that night, freshly employed to a second job you didn’t know you were qualified for.

ᯓ★

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You met someone new today.

Well, met is a strong word; you saw someone new today. Almost eight months have passed since the proposal, the spontaneous interview you had in the forest. Surprisingly enough, the whole ordeal you had going on wasn’t half bad.

Your tasks are blunt, unvarnished, a letter at your doorstep in the morning stating what needs to be restocked. Routine scheduled for the first Sunday of every month and the last. Packages with notes attached, written instructions, and an address. It was simple, but simple didn’t mean easy. Residents can get prickly, no trust in outsiders, so they lash out.

You’ve dropped off supplies and sprinted off the steps more times than you can count, lest you get caught by someone not partial to your work. Deliveries are swift and done without fuss or mess. A quick trip to the overpass abridging the highway, a march to the rocky skywalk in the dead of night.

You don’t ask questions, and you don’t poke and prod. It’s not all harsh, though. Some residents treat you with decent manners or politeness. A mutual understanding of just getting the job done. You’re even fond of a certain few. A boy with messy brunette hair and a fabric muzzle, goggles always sat loosely against his curls.

A little erratic at times, but well-meaning all the same. He waves at you if he sees you, and his eyes crinkle when you wave back. Little gestures here and there, never full conversations. Still, even then, they warned you of the woods.

They were all horrors in their own right, you’re sure, but they whispered about him like he was something of myth. Monsters that took on the shape of men.

He moved like smoke, leaving ash in his wake. A born hunter with claws made of black steel. Ink-toned keratin that he used like blades, and strength as they had never seen.

An ancient hunger only satisfied by blood and bone. They told you to never stray from the path. That he feeds under the moon, and amongst the other night crawlers; it was safer to stick to your route—

Snap.

A twig, somewhere past the dark borders of the trail. The sound pulling you out mid inner monologue, head whipping to the side as you stared, scanning between the trees- you caught it. Barely there, but a flicker amidst bark.

You couldn’t see the rest of him, body blending into shade flawlessly; the only thing standing out was his mask. Two voids for eyes, like they devoured any light that came near. Hung heavy over his face and painted matte sapphire. He was tall, nowhere near the entity who had recruited you, but even from where you were, his face was obscured by branches.

His head tilted to the side, observing you. You observed him back. You didn’t know what you were expecting, maybe the second you spotted him, he’d lunge at you; or maybe you wouldn’t see him at all. You’d feel the breeze of his movements, then it’d all go black; this was... not that.

Honestly, you were hoping you’d never face him at all. Now you’re here, separated by a couple of feet at most. Call it human reflex, subconscious courtesy, anything to rationalize the fact that you had picked up your hand and waved at him. No reaction. Dropping your arm back on the box, snuggly tucked against your jacket, you slowly turned and went on your way.

He was unnerving, off-putting in the way he stared you down like prey. It made the hairs on your neck stand up- he didn’t eat you, though, and that was a win in your book.

You thought he was interesting.

He didn’t think of you at all.

ᯓ★

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It had been a full month since you’d seen him last.

Today’s delivery instructions were different; it was a medical supply run. Which in and of itself wasn’t abnormal, what was new was the fact that you had to take it straight to the infirmary. Something about house residents liking to tamper, knowingly or not, with medication. Never going in depth, just enough for you to understand the importance of the task.

Padding your way across the large porch, package by your feet, you knocked. Once, twice, raising your fist yet again before the rickety door swings open. A man with a worn-down tan jacket fills the frame, gloved hand propped against the door like he’s ready to slam it shut.

He takes a second before recognition flickers in his gaze, voice muffled behind a mask, “Medical?” One word, and you nod, the look he gave you after almost looked like pity. You had been inside exactly one time. The mansion was empty, aside from your axe-wielding friend who was stuck on watch outside. You’d made it to the borderline rustic kitchen, placed the box on a table, and left.

This time around, you had to hand-deliver the resources directly to the basement. A makeshift lab under the house, where you assumed the reason they were still functional dwelt. He steps aside, letting you pass. Breeze whistling through the house as you trek down the hall.

The wooden floorboards creak when you pass. Turning the corner, you’re head-to-head with the basement stairs. The steps are decaying, the splint of it starting to moulder. Staves dented and sunken in from wear and tear, groaning from your weight. Your legs stretch with caution, nearing the cement floor- you pause.

Antiseptic, the smell floods your nostrils, so strong it’s nearly dizzying. Mind-numbing buzz of fluorescent lights fills the silence, and the air is stale with a hint of something metallic. There are tools and scribbled charts laid out against the counters lining the room.

An improvised examination table sat in the middle, next to a cart stacked with miscellaneous scalpels and muddy-looking jars.

Your uncertainty bounced off the walls in waves. Just drop the package on the spare table and leave. Swiftly, you set the parcel carefully on the ledge, cardboard slipping off your fingers by an inch before you shoot up. The sharp rustling of metal hooks- twisting around to the back of the lab, you see him.

Broad and towering, he ducks under the frame, frayed curtain pushed to the side. Only halfway through the opening, and it feels like the infirmary has somehow shrunk. His shoulders alone took up the width of the door before straightening. Zeroing in on you, jaw clicking once. His hood was up, in a black sweater on the verge of falling apart.

The sleeves and edges weathered down, his mask not any less uncanny in better lighting. “They told me- it was in the instructions, I-I had to hand deliver it here-“ tripping over your own words in an attempt to explain. Voice quieter than you’d like, shaky at best, while his eyes remain fixed.

He crosses the room in three strides, now a table's length away, head tilting down at the box, then you. “Alright.” The cadence vibrating through the ground, deep and visceral. You felt the base of it in your ribs.

The tone was completely and utterly— neutral?

A singular, honestly, quite flat syllable. No snarling in your face, sinking his allegedly razor-sharp teeth into your throat. You blinked up at him, clearing your throat; “ok, um, thank you. Bye.” Barely audible, but he nods nonetheless. His form was unnaturally still, and you noticed he truly only moved when he chose to. No shifting weight from foot to foot. He doesn’t really readjust either, like a frame taken out of a paused video.

The rest was a blur, basically scampering up the stairs like a fearful hamster and rushing past the doorman on the way out. Mask pushed up, a cigarette hanging loose out of his mouth. He probably assumed you were an inch away from losing your life, and maybe that would have been better. ‘Thank you?’ ‘Bye?’ Who says that?

Your head hits the pillow with a defeated thud, body overflowing with humiliation. This was the least of your problems, surely.

He could have eaten you, nothing more than a limp corpse on the frigid stone floor, so why was it so embarrassing? Perhaps it was because you had been expecting the cannibal equivalent of the boogeyman himself.

To be fair, he probably was, but no one told you how normal he was outside of that. From his perspective, you were a glorified mailman. Shaking like a leaf for no reason as you dropped off Band-Aids and alcohol wipes.

Why did this even matter to you? It was a miracle you’d even survived this long, frenzied psychopaths at every turn. It was morbid and scary- so why was this the thing that stuck? You sighed with aggression into your pillow.

He probably thought you were weird.

ᯓ★

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Jack had a predicament.

Recently, he ran into you again. The anxious courier pigeon. That’s what you reminded him of, at least. It had been over a year at this point, dating back to when the operator plucked you from the road like a stray. You made things smoother, and he respected you for that. A meek little thing, he’d seen you interact with the others, heard it through the walls.

You were quick when needed, not talkative but polite, efficient. However, you constantly seemed uneasy when delivering to the lab. The thing was, you did it in a way that came off like you were trying oh so hard not to hurt his feelings.

Small talk, where your hands would tremble passing him an envelope. Looking up to meet his eye (socket), then immediately darting your sight back to the floor.

He hadn’t planned on paying you any mind; you were just another cog in an overworked machine. Jack liked distance, isolation woven into his lifeline. How he lived, how he worked, attachment was fickle at best and dangerous at worst. With the people they were, what they represented, being best friends wasn’t exactly on the table.

Companionship was far and few in between. Indifference was easiest, intimacy out of the question, but you try. Greet him with a smile as if it meant anything, and ask if he was busy, like it mattered. Wished him a good lunch, like you didn’t know, like he wasn’t different. Wasn’t this. Like you weren’t aware of how much brutality it takes for him to have a full stomach.

He knew himself, always aware, even when he wished he wasn’t. He prayed to be numb, wished to be cruel, begged and pleaded to be mindless. He was used to it for the most part, and still. There are moments.

When the night grows cold and unforgiving, when the hunger has finally subsided, what does he have? The crushed remains of someone else’s memories? He resents it, the part of him that wants, and oh does he want. The part that remembers how to hold, remembers the warmth of it. It makes him ill, sick as a dog, while he can taste the bile at the back of his throat.

The transformation had branded him like cattle. A grotesque scar that welted. It was both bleak and rampant. The metallic scent that never seemed to leave his clothes. The guilt that festers in his gut, the wailing that rings in his ears when the sky is still.

Sometimes he feels nothing, sometimes he’s angry, sometimes he sits with the butchered limbs and stares. He’s freezing from the inside out, always cold. Hunger is parasitic, the need to consume, the desperation of it, the shame that follows. The grief that gnaws at him, walking past pictures hung on the wall after he’s done.

They were happy. Closer than close, really. It fractures him. Always an observer but never by choice, he is an outsider with the hands of someone who will know you like no one else. Breaking you open, palms sunk in past your lungs. They cradle your heart, consume you whole as the stars shine brighter than they ever have.

Jack is constantly bathed in carnage, with death painting his palette sweet and bourbon smooth. It coats his teeth like salvation and rots his blood like the plague. When he leans down for the first bite, when the flesh is unmarred. There’s a whisper in that dark that says this is the closest he’ll ever get.

You bid him goodnight on late-night deliveries.

He thinks you’re weird.

ᯓ★

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You arrived bright and early, the morning air crisp, new.

Today was going to be a good day; business always seemed to slow on Saturdays, and your shift ended at noon. “Just black coffee- and an orange juice for the lady, a number eight to go,” grunted out and half-heartedly, not even looking up from his menu.

His wife, you assumed, was sitting across from him, picking at her old manicure like she had nowhere to be. They came often, regulars in every sense of the word.

The ink was already staining your hand as you scribbled. Then a quick nod, and you’re sticking the order to the call rack. Shoes clicking against patterned tile, the diner glowed orange. Adorned with windows from wall to wall.

You didn’t hate waking up early, but you definitely didn’t love it either. The sights sure could be nice, though. The sun peaking over the horizon, casting a haze on all the clouds it reached, made you feel cinematic, like a movie star or something.

Armed with freshly brewed coffee in one hand and a juice pitcher in the other, you marched back to the awaiting table. The steam wafting up as you poured, a glass of OJ already sweating onto the napery, “Speedy start today?” Customary small talk, totally easy.

Smoothing hands down your apron, acutely aware of the ticking timer for the to-go order. Your eyes flicked to the old cat clock, hung near the door right above the booth, a rough voice breaking the repetition, “Yeah, I got—“

Ding!

There it was, “Oh my- I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back!” Saved by the bell yet again, when you said regulars, you meant regulars before you. In your humble opinion, talking to people came fairly naturally. It was just something about how stern his stare was, his wife’s judgmental scoff every time you spoke. How they literally never seemed to want to be anywhere near each other.

You had been working hard for a year now, and the couple tucked into the back table had been ordering black coffee and orange juice before college. According to the head waitress, the two started coming in after their first date, a drive-in screening near the big lot of RossWood Inn.

Stumbling through the door, giggling, vibrant turquoise dangling from her ears, the whole nine yards. He romanced her till her head was spinning, high-school sweethearts they called them. Inseparable, all the way up until graduation, that is. He moved away, a sports gig in the city, promised her he’d be home with a shiny ring in no time, and he came home alright.

With some chick on his arm, his girlfriend at the time. They were supposed to move in together- until she got bored. Then guess who came running back. They married, settled down, never had kids, though. They don’t laugh much nowadays. The only similarities were the diner breakfast and those rustic earrings; she still wore them.

They contrasted a bit with her outfit, you think, but it was probably the sentiment more than anything. The greasy combo sat heavy as you tied the bag, kitchen heat making your hair frizz. You looked over, and she sighed something fierce; his eyes never leaving the morning paper. You pray a love that barren would never reach you.

Plastic rustling in your hold, an order handed off, and the door swung shut with a breeze.

Totally easy. Right.

ᯓ★

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Pace brisk, you got off later than you initially planned to.

Not that you were mad about it, it just set your plans back a little. You were going to go home, order from the only asian food place in town, kick your feet up and watch TV, maybe pass out on the couch. Too full and super satisfied. An exquisite night.

Your movements were sluggish by the time you got to the steps, a letter sticking out of your rickety mailbox. A job for tomorrow, but that was tomorrow’s problem. The lock clicked shut, and you reached your room in record time. Clothes off, jammys on. Socks thumping against your stairs while you scanned the corridor, landing on the phone book folded neatly against the landline.

The silicone buttons are tacky under your fingers, dial tone crackling to life in your ear,

“This is the MayFlower Express; what are you craving tonight?’

And you ordered exactly what you ordered every other time, salivated just thinking about it. Maybe that was shameful to admit; however, it was you, and it was real. They probably recognized your voice at this point; none of it mattered, all background noise.

Your food would be arriving soon, and all would be right with the world. Time passed quickly as you made work of your chores list; sometimes your weekend job felt surreal. Everything was so mundane, then it just… wasn’t. Even the people you were fond of, you knew they would come home soaked head to toe in blood. The missing posters made you feel a certain way; you knew where they ended up and how they ended up there.

Meeting an untimely demise with the end of a dearest friend’s axe. The same guys who’d laugh at your stupid mail puns, the ones who made silly faces as you waved goodbye. What if you weren’t who you were? If it wasn’t the head of operations you’d run into that night, where would you be? The thought made you shudder; it was conflicting.

You had gotten somewhat close with a handful of them, at least it felt like it; they were kind to you. As kind as they could be anyway, it wasn’t up to them, not really. Bad situations, bad homes, bad people, and can you truthfully expect a wounded dog not to bite?

The devil’s mark seared onto gnarled skin, jaw clamped down before they could ever understand it was wrong. Their sorrow was devastating. They didn’t show it in the way most would, but you could still see it all the same. Perhaps that’s why you tried so hard to make it normal, to tell those same stupid jokes, they laugh like they don’t expect it.

Laugh like they haven’t in ages. Shoulders shaking with something akin to endearment, and all of a sudden, you were looking at someone who never got to grow up.

The doorbell interrupts your train of thought. Your food. Opening your door with the grace of a newborn giraffe, you sighed. Finally. Hands moving swiftly to pull out the array of containers, almost on autopilot, before a soft clatter sounds from your floor. A tiny sticker book.

You knew you ordered from this place too much. Picking it up with little ceremony, the note attached read ‘A gift for our favourite customer !!’ Both honoured and incredibly hurt at the same time, your thumb flicks open the first page. Most of them were mini versions of the dishes, and a flash of red stopped you mid-flip.

Taking up half the page was a medium-sized sticker of Vampified Lo Mein.

The noodles were replaced with a swirled intestine, and the veggies were chopped up  to resemble brain and liver. The light bulb that appeared over your head was comical.

Halloween was overlooked due to your job and responsibilities. Now standing alone in your kitchen, however, an idea sparked.

Was it stupid? Yes. Was it risky? Also yes. Did he scare you? Most definitely, but that’s not what you wanted to focus on. It was all too perfect. The problem? What if he gets offended and eats you as revenge?

You’d like to think you were a pretty self-aware person; on the other hand, did cannibals even get offended? Does he even count as a cannibal? He was technically a demon, and he ate humans, so. He started as a human, though— this was dumb. Your tendency to overthink would be your downfall.

You vaguely heard about what had happened, about the ritual, a sacrifice gone wrong. They told you about it along with another mumbled warning, horrific beyond what you could ever imagine, you’re sure. Either way, you didn’t want to come off as insensitive or way too into it.

What if it was super traumatic to even acknowledge, and that’s why he’s so brooding all the time? Now you’re all in his face like ‘haha, I have a sticker of your most dark and shameful quality.’ Alas, it would be really funny, and there was a chance he’d actually like it.

The most you had ever “talked” was when you’d say goodnight, which he responded to by nodding once. Or the first time you’d met him, and he said, “Alright.” Or when you came to drop off supplies, and he wasn’t there. You’d stand and wait, then say, “Oh, hey. Were you busy? I have the restock.” Where he would promptly, once again, nod.

He never seemed unnecessarily violent or cruel; he didn’t quite come off that way. Not like that meant you were reckless. You knew he was dangerous. And you weren’t naive enough to believe you were special or invincible. At the end of the day, these were people you worked with.

Maybe to some it was pushing the line of too personal, but they had given their lives and arguably, their freedom. Just for a chance at survival. To breathe another day, no matter how gruelling. The least you could do was speak to them like they were still alive. People with birthdays and favourite foods. You’d bet it was lonely to live like that.

So you were going to try.

And if anyone attempted to stop you, they were severely underestimating your need to be liked.

ᯓ★

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You awoke before the sun.

The dawn peaked through your curtains, highlighting the swaying dust motes like snow. A slow dance that you watched in contentment, preparing yourself for the day ahead. Last night, you went back out to grab the letter, finding that the newest assignment lined up with your plans. Perfect.

The job stated that there was a shipment to be collected at the northern border. A trail that dragged along the train tracks. It was a bit of a trek, but not too bad in the grand scheme of things. Walking long distances had become the last of your worries, after all. With the whole, you know, crypted employer thing. So you slipped your big boy boots on and headed to work.

Trudging into the ivory, you sighed. While the task itself was simple enough, it was the trees that annoyed you. The pine always caught in your hair, no matter how low you duck. Snagging your sweater and fraying your sleeves, you hated this forest, truly. Nonetheless, you continued your hike, grumbling to yourself.

With the pine crunching softly under your soles, you ventured into a wide clearing. A train horn resonated through the trees, sending the birds scattering. The ambiance overlapped, and you arrived at your destination. The delivery.

In the centre, sat a small crate. There was twine tied over the sides, looping on the top in a misshapen bow. For carrying purposes, you assumed.

Hands resting in your pockets as you approached, you crouched down. Taking the saved sticker pack from your jacket and peeling one off the parchment. You applied the decal with care, smoothing the edges down onto the wood for good measure. If he ate you in anger after, at least the box would still look nice.  

You hauled the supplies over your back using the make-shift satchel you’d crafted. The splintered oak dug into your back slightly, but you guessed discomfort came with the occupation. Then, you began your journey back to the destination. Home base, if you will.

Technically, you didn’t have a spoken alliance with any of the houses. You were a true neutral to the climate, which is why you’ve made it so far. Some of the proxies were nicer than others, some of them sneered at you from the sidelines- and some of them despised you. Loathed you for tampering, in their words. You didn’t belong in this world, didn’t fit in with the murderers and misfits.

They thought of you as an intruder. Something to be rid of, to slaughter and be done with. To be honest, it kind of hurt your feelings. It’s not like you’ve done anything, and it was their boss who chose you. They act as if you applied for the job of your own free will. It irked you in a way.

You were thrown into this without a choice- like, what were you supposed to do? Say no? Let the all-seeing forest creature absorb you when it gives you an obvious way out? You understood why some of them hated you, but you weren’t immune to the harshness. The clear disdain in their expressions at the mention of you. Still, it was better than being dead, you huffed.

Making peace with your internal monologue, you nudged past the shrubbery. The bundle was neatly packed onto your frame while you marched, before a condescending laugh halted you. Stopped dead in your tracks, you swivelled to find the source. Eyes scanning the bark aimlessly- until you spotted a figure.

A man with glowing yellow sockets, dressed in a dark, long coat. He contrasted with the lively evergreen, sticking out like a sore thumb and radiating malice.

The Puppeteer.

You’d only ever run into him once, and it nearly ended with you losing your life. Out of everyone, he seemed to despise you the most. He couldn’t stand your view on things. Your optimism, your tendency to try and befriend the worst of the worst. You were a pest in his eyes, a bug that didn’t know its place. An unkillable roach.

“Long time no see, courier.”

He spat out each word with venom, wrath already bubbling to the surface while he stepped closer. “This isn’t your neck of the woods, is it? Care to explain why you’re trespassing?” His verbal interrogation had you backing up. Swallowing dryly, you licked your lips. “I was just picking up a package- it was in my instructions.”

Though you knew well enough your answer wouldn’t satisfy him. It didn’t matter what you said; this wasn’t about you.

Scoffing, he cocked his head to the side, gaze boring into you. “Is that right?-” He chuckled humourlessly, speaking through gritted teeth. “You know, you always did get on my nerves. Pretending like this is normal, like you can just squeeze past with a please and thank you-” The disgust in his voice grew, and he closed in on your space.

“It’d be a mercy to kill you now- that dense little brain of yours wouldn’t be able to handle reality. You think this is a game? Some stupid part-time? Walking around like any of your ‘friends’ wouldn’t slit your throat in a fucking heartbeat-”

The pain sears through your arm before you can blink. A hot, prickling agony that spread from your bicep to your throat. His web of strings stretched from his fingertips, the glowing wires piercing your flesh through the sweater.

You choked on the feeling, knees threatening to buckle. This was not how you wanted to spend your shift.

Stumbling forward, you barely caught yourself when you collapsed. The crate slipped off your back, clattering to the dirt with a thud. He jeered violently. “Pathetic. You play pretend as if you fit amongst us, yet you can’t even take a hit? How weak are you? Honestly, you should thank me for ending it so early.” The blood soaked through your sleeve, and tears blurred your vision.

Could you ever catch a break? All you did was follow rules, do your job as you’re told. Your efforts in being cordial were for naught because he seemed set on wiping you clean off the face of the earth. Like seriously? The literal Operator himself was nicer to you; he even had employee benefits and decent pay. This was bullshit.

Your arm jerked up, the limb tugged roughly by Puppeteer’s strings. The cord sank further into your skin, and you muffled a sob. It hurt, it hurt so bad. He was going to rip off your arm, the fear of death making your throat taut.

With scarlet dripping onto the soil, you desperately clawed at the ground. A pitiful attempt in steeling your nerves. A last-ditch effort in calming yourself, even if it proved fruitless. Shutting your lids tight, you braced yourself and when you thought all hope was lost—

A familiar, sharp clink of an axe whizzed through the air.

The hatchet embedded itself into the man's shoulder with a grotesque thunk. Sending him tumbling away from you, his feet tripping as he gathered his bearings. The commotion caused you to jerk back, whipping to the side just in time to see Toby.

In all his double axed, goggle-wearing glory, had come to your aid.

You could cry.

Lunging in front of you, he yanked the weapon from Puppeteer’s body. Your attacker cussed loudly, scrambling off the floor. “This isn’t your fight, Tobias-” And Toby sneered. Hostile as he replied. “That’s f-fucking hilarious coming f-from you, Johnathan.” Readjusting his grip on the handle, he rolled his shoulders back. Standing tall.

“Fuck off, twitch. She doesn’t belong here, and you know it-”

“Yeah? Tell that t-to stickman then. You know what he’ll do to y-you if he finds out you’re f-fucking with orders.”

That seemed to be a threat in itself. The mention of their boss quieted the other man in a flash, and he stuttered mutely for a moment before huffing. “She’s not gonna’ fuck you, twitch.” His comment made the brunette's lip curl into a snarl, his head jolting lightly.

“You’re f-fucking disgusting. J-just because you died a miserable piece of shit, with no one mourning you, doesn’t mean we all have to s-suh-suffer. You know that, r-right?”

People can say what they want about Toby, but when he’s provoked, he knows how to cut and make it sting.

His remark had Puppeteer scowling, and he spun to leave, more irritated than he came. Barking over his shoulder one last time. “She’s not gonna’ last out here.” Though Toby didn’t dignify him with a response.

With the man's shape disappearing into the distance, he finally faced you. Dropping his hatchets to the dirt, he kneeled. “Hey, pidgy- s-sorry I came so late. I didn’t even know you were here.”

The worry- the fondness in his gaze made the dam crumble, and you hiccuped. Pidgy, a stupid nickname he came up with a while ago. It stemmed from messenger pigeon, and right now, it was your lifeline. Something about the endearment in it sliced through the stress, the violence of everything that’d unfolded. You reached for him, and he embraced you without hesitation.

“Man- what the fuck is his problem, Tobes?” Sobbing into his shoulders, he laughed softly at your wording. “No idea, but we g-gotta’ get your shoulder looked at, okay? C’mon, I’ll carry you.” Helping you up, he motioned for you to get onto his back.

“Toby, I still have to bring the supplies-”

“I’ll get the supplies- y-you’re literally bleeding out. P-please just get on.”

His clear exasperation made you grin a little. In a world of people like Puppeteer, there would always be people like Toby. And you thanked the heavens for that.

Awkwardly clutching your wound, you climbed onto him. Letting him hoist you up, snagging the crate by the twine on the way. You breathed out in relief as he started walking, yet concern flooded your mind. “Are you sure I’m not too heavy? The box isn’t that light either-” He cut you off with a snort. “I go out of my way to s-save you, and you’re calling me w-weak? That is s-so low-brow, even for you, pidgy.”

You puffed, of course that’s how he took it.

“That’s not what I meant, dweeb-”

“Dweeb? Wow, maybe I s-should drop you. Make you walk back yourself, since you wanna’ be mean a-about it.”

A beat, then you both burst out giggling. Your friendship with him was born of proximity, but you liked to think that even if you weren’t estranged co-workers, you’d still be close. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for months, though that didn’t mean anything would change. Two peas in a pod, that was you and him. You just clicked.

He was easy to talk to, as surprising as that may be. You looked forward to your job half the time because you’d inevitably run into him. You’d yap and yap, going back and forth about the dumbest things. When you pictured the words “Best friend,” you pictured Toby.

Sinking into his hold, you sighed. The sound came out sappy, and he already knew what mood you were in. “I know, I k-know, I’m great. A t-total knight in shining armour.” You snickered, “Bro, whatever... thanks for like- not letting me die, though. It would’ve sucked to bleed out in front of an emo with side bangs.” Now that got you a full laugh.

“I’d never let y-you bleed out in front of an emo with side bangs. Unless that emo with front bangs w-was me.”

The silence that followed his joke was stale, and he coughed.

“... Kidding- I’m kidding. I w-wouldn’t, you know that, right? You’re my best friend, I’d never- like, y’know-”

“I know, you loser. You love me too much- besides, who else are you gonna’ gossip with in between being a crazy axe murderer?”

“Ha ha, y-you’re so original, and sooo funny.”

The roll in his eyes told you he was annoyed, but his stupid smile said otherwise. Crooked, it made the gash in his cheek quirk up. And he didn’t deny that he loved you, because the truth was? He did. Loved you lots, actually.

You were one of the only people who treated him like he was normal. Toby couldn’t exactly just go out and make friends, so your presence was always a pleasant one.

Even when he was younger, he was always somewhat isolated. By his family, his peers and seniors. Yet you never acknowledged any of the things he deemed to be flaws as such. They were just a part of him in your eyes, and he could see that every time he talked to you.

It’s a sensitive subject, something he doesn’t bring up often, if at all- but deep down, he thinks Lyra would’ve really liked you.

Somewhere along the way, you began snoring on his shoulder. Drooling a little, though you were almost killed, he couldn’t complain too much. Toby nudged you gently when you arrived at the porch, giving you a slight jostle. “Up and a-adams, we’re here.” Chuckling a little when you stirred, blinking at him like he was an alien.

Your wound wasn’t terribly deep; most of the blood had clotted. However, it was bad enough for your sleeve to be soaked through, and he was not taking any chances. He’d lost too many people to bad accidents for that. You groaned.

“Ugh, my arm hurts.”

“Yeah, well, you did kind of get mauled, so...”

Cringing while he set you down, you stiffly clutched at the gash. When all of a sudden, you remembered your stickers- your plans. “Oh god- oh my fuck.” The outburst had Toby quickly turning to you, already inspecting your arm. Worry staining his features, “What? What’s w-wrong-”

His expression swiftly faded into a deadpan once you floundered. “I put a cannibal sticker thing on the crate- I don’t know- it seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m bleeding everywhere. Do you think he’ll be mad?”

“You c-cannot be serious.”

“Tobes, I have never been more serious in my life.”

The look he gave you had you shrinking into your jacket. Okay, maybe it was a stupid idea. Jack was an enigma even amongst the proxies; you genuinely don’t know where you got the audacity to try and pull this off.

“... You don’t think he’ll eat me, do you?”

“Just g-get in the house.”

With that, the two of you crossed the patio. He opened the door on autopilot, ushering you into the foyer and locking the entry behind him. And the second you rounded the corner, you were face-to-face with another resident. The masked man who had let you in last time, this time with less mask. His face was bare, scarred and stern; he reminded you of those outlaws you’d see on comic book covers.

It also looked like he’d kill you for telling him that, and your mouth remained shut.

“Do I even wanna’ ask?” A thick southern drawl coated his almost fatherly disappointment. Toby chimed up from beside you, shrugging. “Puppeteer was lurking like a f-fucking freak near the drop off, got her right in the arm.” The older man’s eyes flickered down to the wound, then to the brunette. Clicking his tongue when he focused back on you.

“That boy ain’t nothin’ but trouble. Next time you go North, take one of us with you. Those bastards won’t quit if it’s just you, understand?” His tone was harsh, yet the offer of a guide warmed you.

It made sense; you were their singular source of outside materials. Still, a part of you chose to believe it was because he cared. Glass half-full and whatnot.

Nodding, you watched as he strode past. Indifferent to the blood. The hand on your non-injured wrist snapped you out of your thoughts, and Toby tugged you down the hall. Package by his side while you walk.

You reached the basement entrance after a short minute, the rickety staircase framed by the doorway. Your companion had lived here for years, and even he seemed tense. While Jack was the main medic of the group, he was never the most approachable. The eyeless man was a step above the rest, a fact that everyone knew by this point.

He was half reaper, half salvation. Playing both roles seamlessly, it’s what gave him his edge. The care he gave wasn’t out of heart, but necessity instead. An obligation, a binding contract.

It’s why they only came to him if absolutely needed. And now, you were going to bother him with a dumb sticker and a wound you’d gotten because you were too friendly. Allegedly.

Toby nudged you ahead, gesturing you down the steps. The worn planks creaking as you descended, and you reached the concrete quickly. There, in the corner, stationed on a desk chair, was Jack. Absently flipping through a scruffy anatomy book, his head tilted up upon your arrival.

The brunette spoke first, clearing his throat. “Got your s-supplies- her arms fucked up, though. We need to p-patch it up.” The “We need you, specifically, to patch it up” went unsaid, but he got the memo.

Rising from his spot, he towered over you as he encroached. Motioning for you to take a seat on the metal table. The surface was cool beneath you, and Toby leaned on the counter across the room. He gave you a subtle thumbs up, cracking a grin to soothe your nerves. The luminescent glare bathed the space beakly, constantly humming like static. It made the lab more eerie than it had to be, but at least you had a friend.

Unfortunately for you, that comfort did not last.

From upstairs, an accented voice yelled for Toby. Informing him that he was required for some task. Something about a new assignment, and he gave you an apologetic shrug. Rushing up the steps and leaving you alone.

With no one to distract you, you were forced to pretend you weren’t aware of every shift Jack made. He moved briskly, exact. Making his way to you stiffly, the cannibal rumbled low in his chest. “You need to remove your coat. I can’t operate like this.” His instructions were easy enough, and you shook off your jacket. The outer layer now removed, he halted. Contemplating before he mumbled.

“I have to cut off the sleeve.”

Well, this sweater had seen better days, you supposed. After you nodded, he got to work. Snipping along the seam at your shoulder, his hands were swift yet careful. He held your arm with a shocking amount of tenderness, as if he didn’t want to hurt you further. The strong alcohol scent made you sniffle, and your gaze drifted to the crate. Your sticker.

Would this be a bad time to bring it up? He didn’t feel that agitated currently, though it was still a risk. A risk that you were willing to take, that is.

You swung your feet lightly while he cleaned the gash, mentally preparing yourself for the conversation. A beat passes, and you craned your neck to him. From this distance, you could observe him up close. And upon doing so, an alarming thought crossed your consciousness.

Jack was kind of... attractive. In a veiled, magnetic way. His presence came off sedative, lulling you into a fuzzier headspace.

He was still intimidating, but watching him be so meticulous about the process was oddly calming. Perhaps it was foolish, yet you couldn’t help placing trust in him. A whisper in the back of your mind that told you that you were in safe hands.

Breaking the silence, you hummed, staring at your shoes. “I found a sticker the other day, it reminded me of you.” Though your comment was lighthearted, he paused as if you’d just delivered grave news. Jack was stunned for a moment; his fingers hovering over the displayed tools. Then he grunted quietly, resuming his objective.

Okay, not a bad reaction. He wasn’t mad, that you could tell.

So you continued, having a one-sided talk with the mysterious medic. “It’s vampified Lo-mein, y’know... ‘cause you eat organs and stuff.” This time, his head lolled a fraction to the side, and you felt his eyes on you. “... I see.” Barely audible, his acknowledgment sparked a reasurrence in you.

“I got it from my take-out order, I actually totally forgot about Halloween- but I thought it was fitting.”

“Mm.”

“The boxes are usually so sad looking- not that I think you’re sad looking. I just wanted to spruce up the packaging a little.”

“Mm.”

The conversation flowed with a shocking amount of ease. It was mostly just you speaking, yet Jack appeared content, indulging in your mindless remarks. His responses were short, small hums and grunts here and there. However, they were existent, and that was enough.

Then he said something that threw you off. In the middle of inspecting the area, he nudged his mask at your other hand. “Your finger.” A plain statement that made you look down.

There, on your ring finger, sat a shallow cut. Scabbed over and barely noticeable, yet he saw it anyway. You tittered dumbly, unsure of what to make of his admission.

“Ah, I guess I scraped it when I fell or something.” Simply put, he took your words as confirmation. Turning to rifle through his tools placed on the cart, he pulled out a small cliche-esk medical-box. A red cross was painted on the lid, and he opened it, picking up a Band-Aid.

You held out your hand mutely, to which he responded by grasping the limb softly. Steadying your wrist as he smoothed the wrapping over your knuckle. Finishing the job, you couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at your lips. The bandage itself was colourful enough, but the part that made you laugh was the design.

A cat with rounded ears and a fluffy tail. Cartoonishly bright.

The quiet giggle halted him, the man going to complete the prior task. However, he seemed almost bashful, answering your unspoken question with a hushed, “I thought you’d rather that one over the others.” Turning your attention to the box’s contents- jumbled adhesives with only a few vivid amongst the beige. Jack had linked your personality to vibrancy.

It was endearing.

Cleaning the damaged skin, he swiped the deep cut with an antiseptic pad. It was cold, then it began to sting. Your reaction was involuntary, a little squeak when you jolted. It had him hesitating for a second, then he muttered. “Apologies, I’ll warn you next time.” And that statement changed your perception of him by a mile.

Again, maybe it was stupid- but perhaps he really was just a guy. Cooped up in his little basement med-bay and introverted. You understood why people were scared of him; it was obvious, logical even. Still, he seemed genuinely thoughtful, not sadistic in the slightest, like you were made to believe. You knew if he wanted to be harsher, he could’ve been. Knew if he was irritated, he would’ve made it clear.

The thing was, he hadn’t, and he wasn’t. The people you’d run into on the clock were way more violent and volatile than Jack. You’d would’ve picked interacting with the cannibal over someone like Puppeteer any day.

He finished tying the bandage over your bicep with little ceremony. Stepping away from you with a slight nod, you hopped off the table. Facing him with a grin, now on your feet. “Thank you, doctor.” You held your hand in the air, pushing your closed knuckles towards him.

A fist bump.

His mask dips down a tad, then back up. For a moment, you thought you blew it- until his knuckles knocked into yours. Lightly, and a little awkwardly, if you had to admit. Jack’s skin was chilled to the touch before he rigidly dropped the contact. It was evident that he hadn’t done anything of the sort in a long while. And you laughed, giving him a mock salute. Grabbing your coat, you spun to leave. Looking at him a final time, cheerful when you exited.

Back upstairs, you felt a sense of accomplishment. That definitely could’ve gone worse, and you gave yourself a pat on the back. Your boots thudded against the floorboards as you entered the foyer- just to immediately slam into another body. The two of you stumble back, unbalanced from the collision.

Blinking as you steady your footing, you looked up to find a man with shaggy, dark hair and a striped nose. Well, he was more clown than man, but same difference. A monochrome colour palette, adorned with layered feathers at his neck.

You don’t know how you missed him; the guy was massive. Tall enough to reach the ceiling, he stared at you in surprise. The paint on his face cracked a tad when his lips quirked up.

“A human..? Oh! I know, I know! You’re the little messenger bird, aren't you?”

Clapping his hands (claws?) manically at his own realization, he hunched over to your level. Cocking his head to the side, “Oh, my. What on earth happened to you, little birdy?” He prodded, glancing at your bandaged shoulder. You gave an unsure chuckle in return.

While he seemed friendly, you could never be too careful around here. “I was grabbing the supplies- um, I don’t know if you know him, but Puppeteer said I was in his territory. He tried to kill me; it was a whole thing.” Explaining your situation defeatedly, he hummed. Theatrically tapping his chin with a pointed nail.

“Puppeteer... Puppeteer- yes! He is such a drag, no? Always down in the dumps, he never laughs, even though I’m so funny. I really should just tear that spine of his out- save us all the trouble.”

Sometimes you forget they’re all psychopaths to a certain degree, and that irony was not lost on you.

You shrugged, nodding. You hoped he saved that murderous intent for people who deserved it, and not for poor mailmen. The clown notices your discomfort after a second, leaning down closer to your face. “Don’t worry, I pinky promise not to shred you to bits. Between us, I think you and your little packages are quite quaint.” The razor-sharp grin he gave you after did not help his statement, but you digress.

Humming while you side-stepped. You were squeezing past him with a tight smile when he stopped you, gasping loudly. “Where are my manners?! Jack, pleased to make your acquaintance.” Bowing dramatically, your eyebrows raised at how much space he truly took up. His shoulders were so broad they nearly blocked the hall, and you stuttered. Wait, Jack?

The obvious confusion in your features made him giggle. Shrill as he straightened up. “There are two Jacks in this house, my dear. The scary one downstairs is eyeless. I come from a music box-” Pushing into your space once more, his tone dropped to a whisper. “It’s where the ‘Laughing’ part of my name comes from, a literal Jack in the Box. Isn’t that fun?” His eyes swirled, sparkling brightly.

LJ’s enthusiasm was appreciated, but you were still slightly fearful when you agreed. Your gaze followed him up when he bounced, excited to have made a new companion, it seemed. The clown waved you off, and you made a very perplexed trek to the front door. How many people even lived here?

Finally, you stepped outside, inhaling deeply. Though your solace was short-lived because a sharp clang sounded from your left. Jumping almost a foot into the air, you whipped to the source- Toby.

Standing to the side of the manor, his hatchet was raised above his head, and he brought it down swiftly. The iron blade connects with a chopped stump, the force shuddering through the patio. Too focused on the task at hand, he failed to notice you. Huffing to himself.

You clutch your jacket closed over your chest as you approach. With the leaves bristling, you call for him when you’re about an arm's length away. “Toby, what are you doing?” Your voice made his head shoot up, and he rubbed his neck, sighing. “G-getting firewood, if I don’t, we’ll freeze later- how’s your arm?” Always a worrywart.

Stretching, you circled his workspace. Sitting on the rusted bench that was off-centre to the porch. “As good as it can be- also, how many roommates do you have, man?” You snickered, reclining while he threw his axe to the dirt. The question had him running a tired palm down his face.

“Way too many, y-you have no idea. Why?”

“Because you never told me there were two Jacks, I got cornered by a clown on the way out- I think he was nice, though. Sorta.”

Toby’s body language shifted at the mention of the other proxy. Suddenly grimmer than you expected, he narrowed his eyes. “Did he s-suh-say something to you? Did h-he try shit?” The concern flooded off of him, and he walked in front of you.

Though you were quick to pacify him. “No, nothing like that, he just asked what happened to my arm. He wasn’t like super weird about it or anything- is he bad?” Mumbling, your answer made his shoulders less tense, and he plopped next to you.

Resting his weight on his knees, he exhaled heavily. “LJ’s u-unpredictable. Sometimes he’s fine, and t-then he’ll flip over the most random s-shit. I- just be careful, okay? I’m not t-trying to bury you, too.” Said with a rawness that fell over you like a blanket. There was a fear there, a grief that drowned his words.

He’d told you about his past a bit ago. Telling you how he grew up, about his mom and his dad. How terrible it was to live in that house, and how much he missed his sister. Under all his aggression, his hostility and humour- there is a boy who is constantly afraid of losing.

The vulnerability had your heart aching, and you scooted closer. Hugging his arm to your chest with your chin on his shoulder. “I’m fine, Tobes. I swear I’m not gonna’ evaporate out of nowhere.” You felt him lean into you, grunting mutely. “I know, it’s just like- y-you shouldn’t even be here. Not s-saying I don’t want you here, it’s just dangerous. We’re not... we’re not good people, pidgy.” His confession was agonizingly soft.

You think the guilt Toby carried must be devastating.

Smushing your cheek into his sweater, you drew in a slow breath. “It wasn’t your fault, and you are good-” He scoffed, yet you continued anyway. “You are. You don’t do this because you like it, or because you want to see people suffer- it’s because you have to. I would know, you’re my best friend. And you tell me everything.” Ending it on a sappy note, it made his lips twitch up despite himself.

“Yeah, I do. Probably w-way too much, actually.”

“Definitely too much, you’re not even cool and mysterious anymore. You spilled all your secrets, negative points to your brooding persona for sure.”

“I am not brooding- and if I was, I’d be s-super cool about it.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Y-yuh huh.”

A moment of nothing but the wind and the faint chirp of sparrows- before you both giggled. Toby appreciated you more than you’d ever know. Always by his side, no matter what, an anchor when he was straying from shore. You made things lighter, easier to bring up. It was nice.

His shoulder was comfortable, and he was warm. Taking a break to rest your eyes when something hard stabbed you in the ass. Jerking in place, Toby looked at you, confused.

You had completely forgotten about your other plan.

Earlier that week, you’d stopped by a pawn shop to pick up some flip phones. While he did have something to contact the other proxies on, he didn’t have a personal device. Something that was simply meant for reaching him. You had taken the initiative, buying one for him and one for you.

As much as you loved the guy, he was still a serial killer. It would not be smart to just have his contact on your work phone. So this was your solution. It’d mean you wouldn’t have to wait months to see him, and you could bother him when you were bored. Like normal folk do.

Sticking your tongue between your teeth in focus, you reached into your back pocket. Digging out the mobile caller and holding it out to him with a grin. Snorting when he squinted at your gift.

“Surprise!”

“Is that a flip phone?”

“No, it’s a sandwich- yes, you loser, it’s a flip phone. So I don’t have to see you bi-monthly like we’re soldiers at war.”

His face was unreadable, then he puffed. Ruffling your hair with a snigger. “Y-you’re an idiot. You didn’t have to spend money; I could’ve figured it out.” You shook your head, disagreeing with fervour. “You know I love you, but you’re super broke, and I don’t need you getting arrested for petty theft.” And his jaw dropped.

“First off, I would not g-get caught-”

“Crazy idea, bring back being grateful.”

Toby’s mouth clamped shut at that, and he pouted. “... Thank you.” Rolling his eyes playfully while you smiled in triumph. “You’re welcome.” Both of you shoved at each other, laughing over the stupid argument.

He walked you home after, making sure you locked the door before he left. Even though you technically came close to dying, it was an overall pretty good day.

Sighing as you sank into the comfort of your own bed, you went over your mental checklist. Give Jack the supplies with the sticker? Success. Give Toby the phone so you could harass him when he worked? Success. It’d been a productive shift, if you do say so yourself.

All you had to worry about now was how to get an over seven-feet-tall cannibal to fall for you.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Humans were strange.

Maybe not all, but you definitely were. An outlier on Jack’s scale of interactions. You didn’t fit, not really. He struggled to categorize you, struggled to shove you into a box with the rest.

At the beginning, he’d brushed you off. You were simply another worker, another body to carry the burden. And you still were, it’s just that you confused him from time to time. The things you did, the choices you made, were never logical. Your ambition was unfounded, your common sense flawed. He had never entertained the conversations thoroughly, or with unwavering attention-

Yet you seemed unfazed.

It bothered him more than it should have. The cannibal didn’t particularly hate you or anything like that; it was the aftermath that he disliked. For whatever reason, your departures that followed the scheduled drop-offs always left him oddly... empty. An out-of-place ache in his chest that refused to budge. And that feeling only worsened over the months, incessant in staying, no matter how hard he ignored it.

Additionally, your scent was also becoming a problem.

See, Jack’s nose was very, very sensitive. Precise and capable of breaking down smells to each individual note. Which was helpful when he was deciphering how far along a cadaver was in the decomposition process. Useful when he needed to discern what stage an infection had reached- yet currently, it was nothing more than an irritation.

The problem began prior to your most recent visit. Last month, on a Sunday, was the first occurrence. It happened once you’d vacated his lab, and he was alone. Fixed in the spot you stood moments before, he inhaled deeply. Letting the lingering fragrance fill his lungs. Your aroma was unique to you; everyone’s was. A distinct balm that stuck to your skin.

He remained unmoving for at least five minutes straight, and the shameful part was that he wasn’t even aware of it until far too late.

You’d think a being so old would be past embarrassment, but the blue tinge in his ears proved otherwise. Unaccompanied in his med-bay, he chuffed quietly to himself. His claws flexed stiffly as he pretended that it hadn’t occurred.

It was probably because he was hungry, that’s all.

Chalking it up to an unfed stomach, he went hunting. And when he returned, your scent was long gone. So he moved on, not persisting in the thought more than necessary. Returning to his solitary routine, he found peace. (For the most part)

Then you came back.

Injured, you had walked up to him timidly. With Toby at your side, the brunette explained the events that caused your wound. Of course, Jack wasn’t squeamish; he’d seen all there was to see of the mortal vessel. It was the overwhelming amount of your scent that had him reeling. Your flesh and bone, the deep-seated sweetness of it. It made him salivate the second you entered his space.

The odium buried itself in his gut the second after. You’d come to him with trust, with the belief that he was good. That he would help- and he did. Jack helped you with drool collecting on his tongue. Aided you with an appetite behind his molars. Bandaged your wound with starvation gnawing at every fibre in his body. You’d be disgusted if you knew, and you’d be right to.

It’s the reason he failed to understand you. Your motives and goals were a grey area, a desolate patch in his mental diagram. You talked just to talk, brought him stickers as if you were friends. It was strange, and he thought about your perception of the proxies often.

Jack was aware of your relationship with Tobias and the comfort that you brought the boy. He talked about you, brought you up sporadically. Said that you were kind, that you cared more than you should, that he was fond of you. It was clear to him why Toby liked you so much- what puzzled him was why you stuck around.

Everyone in this forsaken mansion was condemned to hell and back. Their hands were stained with more blood than you could possibly imagine. So why?

Why did you stay? Why did you patch up the axe wielder's scrapes when you’d witnessed firsthand what he was capable of? Putting colourful band-aids on the smallest cuts, even when he’d told you himself that he couldn’t feel pain.

You both fascinated and unnerved him. It’s not like you were dim-witted; he knew that you knew what they did. Who they’d become when the static of an order came through. Who they were when dusk settled over the trees.

Such a peculiar creature, he thought.

Organizing the scalpels laid out before him, he arranged them in order of size. Sharpness and use came first, then wear and tear followed. Jack lined up the new shipment you’d delivered, discarding the blunt ones to make room.

All on schedule, he diligently kept at the task until everything was in place. And when his workspace was finally initialized, the cannibal stretched his neck from side to side.

He was hungry again, and his stomach acid demanded something solid. A feeling he’d unfortunately grown used to, he straightened his spine. It was late, and he’d been working down here since early morning. So with his to-do list finished, he decided it was time to feed. But not before noting the date on the calendar.

Jack’s rut was arriving soon.

ᯓ★

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A hitchhiker, from the looks of it.

Dragging duffel bags along the gravel, the man had gotten lost on the trail. Aimlessly finding his way through with a flashlight, he stopped to tie his shoe. Crouching down, he was distracted by the rope, and Jack thought he was broad enough for a full stomach.

Stalking near, his claws flexed, preparing to strike. He lunged from the darkness, piercing his talons into yielding skin. The victim didn’t even have time to scream, his windpipe swiftly bitten off by Jack’s unhinged maw. A clean sever, the tendons and muscles crunched under his canines, and he swallowed. Yet when he was hunched over the corpse, ripping cartilage from bone- he froze.

There, in the centre of the man's chest, was a pendant. A symbol he had fought tooth and nail to forget. It was the crest of an old testament, meant to represent worshippers of death and avarice.

Flashes of the ritual took hold of his mind. The fear of it, the black tar that filled his veins like lava. The agony of being changed.

He was stretched and gutted, mutated into something wrong that night. The transformation had left him in an irreversible state, and when the followers had believed they’d won, he stole their valour in a blink. Blinded by the excruciating hunger, he sank his teeth into every body he could get a hold of. It was nothing short of a massacre. Annihilation at its finest.

When he’d reached the last one standing, the man wailed like a wounded animal. Cursed him, damned him by their god's law. Spoke an incantation that would bring rot to Jack’s malice if he ever consumed devoted flesh.

The memory is as vivid as it is violating.

There were only a select few, a small community of unwell folk. Deranged into believing that greed and carnage would gift them something grand. A purpose larger than life and a way into the heavens. As if worshipping a mortal-consuming demon would ever get them anywhere close. Obviously, they hadn’t done their research- because the ritual had gone to shit.

Jack was supposed to be a vessel, not a host. Yet instead of corrupting his soul and assailing, the entity bound itself.

The black magic had woven into his DNA, making it inseparable from his form. It ruined him, turned him into this. And in return, he had devoured them eyes first. Taking his time to ensure the pain lasted, hunting them down until their temple was barren. He was sure he’d slaughtered them all- so what the fuck was this?

Digging through the body’s pockets, he snagged out an ID. Useless. He moved onto the luggage, and inside, he discovered paperwork. Apparently, the guy wasn’t doing well. Never married, with no kids and no surviving family. Jack worked through the pile with haste, searching to identify whether the cult was an active threat or not. He knew they stuck together in packs, always needing enablers to survive.

No friends either, no contacts or connections. The deceased had gone bankrupt trying to start another commune. Selling pamphlets with a lacklustre regimen, it seemed that the twenty-first century wasn’t a fan of sacrifices. Not outwardly, anyway.

He reclined onto his haunches, sighing. A straggler. While the sight of the emblem had him uneasy, at least the worst of it was over.

Though his relief quickly fled when nausea began punching up his throat.

The gravel trail beneath scraped into his knees through the denim, grating the skin. He could taste the bile, a pungent regurgitation of raw meat and blood. The usual pleasant metallic tang had turned putrid, and he gagged violently. Undeniably sick from the bites he took.

It came in waves, making him sway on the spot. Collapsing forward, his claws dug into silt. Dry heaving as he retched. Jack clumsily stumbled off the half-eaten corpse, dragging himself to rest against a tree nearby. He slumped onto the trunk, gasping weakly while he fought to stay upright.

The bark was abrasive, only worsening his condition. Everything was suddenly too much, and it overwhelmed his senses. The crickets were too loud, the wind too sharp. It hurt.

He shuddered; he hadn’t been ill in decades. His body had become used to the lack of mortal ailments, so the foreign seediness was amplified tenfold. It rattled him from the inside out, blurring his vision and impairing his judgment. He could barely even see in front of him.

With his eyes failing to focus, he swallowed a mouthful of vomit. It was disgusting, and the worst of it had yet to come. Seemingly out of nowhere, despite his unsettled stomach, his mouth had started watering. The drool slipped past his teeth, dripping from his snarl. Jack needed to get rid of the taste, or he’d fucking die here.

The cannibal tried everything he could think of. After crawling up, he supported his weight on the oak. Staggering a bit when he reached blindly for some fruit hanging off the shrubbery. The berries crushed in his hand, and he forced them down.

However, the produce did little to help, not soothing his revulsion in the slightest. Then, he tried shovelling the stained dirt and sand into his gullet. Though that hadn’t worked either. The craving for blood only amplified the longer he went, and his gut felt like it was consuming itself. He was so hungry.

So hungry he couldn’t think. Starved enough to devour anything in his path. And his forehead was damp with cold sweat when he heard it. Heard you.

Stepping out from the greenery, you were none the wiser to your impending doom. The cruel fate that awaited you for simply being in the wrong place at the right time. Your scent called to him like a siren's song, sweet and tempting. It curled into the wind, beckoning him. Acting as a noose around your neck while he closed in.

You held a package under your arm, another delivery to a separate house, he assumed. With your back to him, you readjusted your grip. Whipping around when a deep growl resounded throughout the forest. It tore through the silence. Interrupting the chirp of evening birds and the whistling breeze. It took a moment, but you spotted the disturbance as you glanced up.

Enveloped in shadows, stood Jack. His shoulders were beyond tense, jolting with narrowly contained strength. You could feel his gaze, even blocked by the darkness; it had weight. He surveyed you like prey, his mask sitting limply against his hair. From your spot, you could make out the shape of his jaw. The red that smeared his skin, and the mangled remains behind him. You were no longer staring at a medic.

In that moment, you realized why they’d warned you. Why they drilled the stories and myths into your head, why they were so desperate for you to understand. He wasn’t dangerous because he chose to enact, chose consume and desecrate.

Jack was dangerous because he didn’t.

He wasn’t human, and his harm lay in the lack of decision in that. His appetite wasn’t controllable, a carnal need not even he could govern. It accursed him the same way it accursed you. And now you were stuck in a cage with a beast that hadn’t been fed. The key was out of reach, existing in theory and never in practice.

Sure, you could try to run, but would that really do anything except prolong the chase? Stretch the dread that would cease solely when your rib cage was ripped open. Death had come for you in the shape of talons and grief. Taken form in an amalgamation of empty sockets and puppeted limbs. Driven by hunger and hunger alone. There was no way out.

Face to face with the man, you inhaled shakily. Dropping the box to the ground before relaxing your posture. There was no point in being defensive; he could overpower you in a second. The best bet you had was asking him to be swift, and you went to speak- only to be cut off by a strained rasp.  

“Suh- s-sorry.”

His voice crackled like an old radio. The pitch warbly, baritone so low it sounded as if he was choking on the syllables. It rumbled through the roots. Reverberating up your spine to the base of your skull, along with crystalline fear. You were terrified. Frozen in place, his word was the singular notice you got- and he advanced in a blink.

Lurching over you, your back collided harshly with the uneven soil. The rock was sharp against your skin, piercing your jacket while you trembled. Letting out a stifled sob, you gaped at him wide-eyed. A mute plea for him to end it quickly. Then, his claws sank into your arms, and the pain erupted, burning hot.

Your chest caved up and down in repetition. Hyperventilating as Jack waged war with himself above you. He didn’t want to, god knows he didn’t- but you smelled so good. The wound you’d acquired had yet to heal, and the blood wafting up made him salivate. Acid pooled at the back of his throat, nudging him to lean down.

He buried his nose into your collar, breathing in deeply before licking a stripe up your neck. And when his canines broke flesh, you screeched.

Your hands flew to his sides, desperately clawing at the fabric. It was nothing short of excruciating, the sensation blistering you like frostbite. Your muscles were spasming, contracting viciously from the tear. The grasp on his sweater tightened, and water filled your eyes. Streaking down your cheeks while he groaned.

Lapping at the gash, he gulped down mouthfuls of the thick liquid. You tasted utterly fucking divine. Sugary and euphoric on his palette. He prodded his tongue deeper into the laceration, slurping messily at the sinew. Your blood felt like an elixir, a cure packaged in cords and ligaments- he couldn’t stop. The shame in himself wracked his frame, his gut wrought into shape by disgust, yet he continued anyway.

Black tar poured from under his lids, dripping onto your face, and Jack wailed. Akin to a wounded animal, his anguish seeped into your lungs.

Perhaps it was the blood loss, the pain making your head foggy, but a part of you ached for him. Execrated by a malignity that was never his own, it’d be unfair to loathe him for it. Despise him for a fate that you wouldn’t wish on the already damned.

You think if you’d met under different circumstances, when the air around him had yet to be tainted, he would’ve been kind.

The crescent hung bright over the tree's edge, the glow mingling with the clouds in wisps. It was pretty. An enjoyable view to gaze at in your final hour.

Raising your hand, you cupped his nape. Running your thumb against the edge of his hair. By this point, you’d lost feeling in your neck, your brain failing to send signals to your nerves. The sharp pangs had dulled to a spark that flickered here and there. Your head was pounding when your arm fell to the dirt. Lying limp as he feasted.

Jack hadn’t fully torn off the chunk he’d bitten into. Chewing the frayed muscle that came loose and drinking the blood that spilled instead. Yet the damage had been done, and when he pulled back, it was too late.

It took at least half of your body’s plasma to ease the manifested hunger. Draining almost all your life source to give him clarity. With his voracity finally satiated, he slouched onto his knees, looking down.

Beneath him, you lie pale. Blinking slowly, once, twice, like it took all your strength. His eyes drifted to the injury, the gaping hole left by his teeth. A gnarled thing, the flesh was nearly torn to shreds. It made him sick.

Adrenaline kicking into overdrive, he moved with urgency. Hooking one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back, he hoisted you up. Carrying you, he pushed off his heel. Bolting through the timber faster than he ever had. You were not dying tonight. Not when he could save you, not when he would’ve done anything to go back in time.

He should’ve been stronger, tried harder. Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve- but he hadn’t, and now you were paying the price. Not only were you undeserving, but you were also pertinent to your role. A necessity, one that would not be easily replaced. The system was complicated, tricky to maneuver, and the true neutrality you offered was rare. Jack could not afford to lose you.

His feet struck the earth in desperation, steps thundering and rapid while he rushed to the manor. Luckily, his superhuman strength hastened his journey, and he reached the courtyard before your pulse withered completely. Rushing up the stairs, he slammed open the door. Darting down the hall and passing the living room. Toby saw you first.

The commotion had caused a ruckus, and he’d turned the corner just to witness your body in Jack’s arms. You looked like you were dead. Lips tinted with blue, your arms slack while the cannibal sped into the basement. The second thing he noticed was the clear bite taken out of your throat. The dried salt on your cheeks and blood under your nails. As if you had fought.

He wanted to vomit.

Sprinting after the other man, he borderline crashed into the cellar door. Jack had locked it behind him, and Toby roared. Screaming at the top of his lungs as he pounded his fist against the barrier. “W-WHAT THE FUCK DID Y-YOU DO, EJ?” He rammed his shoulder into the frame, throwing his weight against the wood. It shook the walls, and he grit his teeth.

“Open t-the door— OPEN THE F-FUCKING DOOR.”

The entry creaked loudly with every collision, finally giving way with a resounding final crash. The lock splintered, and he jumped down the staircase two steps at a time, filled with panic. The brunette charged into the lab, skidding to a halt when he spotted you.

Sprawled across the padded metal table, your chest didn’t even appear as if it was moving. He scrambled near, interrupted by Jack’s bark. “Do not move her. She’s lost too much blood- I have to focus-” Toby scoffed, hostile. “A-and who’s fucking fault is that? All s-she ever did was fucking talk to you. S-suh-sick fucking freak.”

“I wasn’t- she ran into me when I was hunting-”

“So you couldn’t hold back? J-just had to eat, right? It just h-had to be her? Out of everyone, it had to be f-fucking her?”

“If I don’t operate now, she will die, Tobias.”

The gravity of the situation shoots him through the chest. His feet were unsteady under him, his hands shaking when he slumped against the counter. Biting his nails until the skin is raw, bleeding while he watched the medic work. This wasn’t happening, it wasn’t.

You were fine. You were fine yesterday. You were fine when you gave him the phone, grinning brighter than the sun.

You were good, wholeheartedly good. So why were you here? In this decrepit basement, bleeding out with your throat shredded. It wasn’t fair. He had so little, wanted so little. You were his best friend, the only person he felt at home with. The only person who didn’t deserve to be on that table.

His head jerked aggressively to the side, teeth grinding so hard they could shatter. In front of him, Jack hurriedly prepared the surgical bed.

Dashing back and forth through the room, his hands flew to the tools. He needed to close the wound and close it fast, hook you up to fluids before you were gone for good. Pressing gauze to the opening, he held it firm, ripping open a sterile needle with his canines.

When the fabric soaked through, it was thrown onto the cement. Landing with a wet smack. And the action was followed by him splashing saline solution haphazardly on the puncture.

The bite hadn’t gone deep enough to pierce your carotid artery. It did, however, cut through the initial layer of muscle. Damage to the STA. He cursed, huffing. While not life-threatening in its current state, you were still at risk for hemorrhaging if not treated correctly.

Your pulse causes the laceration to sputter. Heartbeat pushing the plasma non-stop, and flicking scarlet up his forearms. The skin on your neck had been torn, not sliced. Therefore, he needed to rid the wound of non-viable tissue. Jagged flesh that lacked blood flow would most definitely rot if left alone.

Jack stabilized his grip, focusing on the incision. He glided the scalpel along the tears, cleaning the teeth marks into something neater. Tidier and easier to stitch. Isolating the segment, he switches instruments. Silver nitrate sticks were always stocked due to the proxy's constant recklessness- and they were needed now more than ever.

A pin drop could be heard in that moment. Toby couldn’t move, and his foot tapped rapidly. You needed to live, you had to.

Prepping the area, Jack noted your bleeding had clotted enough to apply petroleum jelly. The moisture from the wound would work as an activator, mixing the chemicals upon impact. After spreading the salve, the caustic pencil hovered over the abrasion. By heaven's name, this was going to work; there was no other option.

The lights buzzed to the thrum of your heart, and he lined up to cauterize the vessel. It sizzled atop the artery, only in contact with your capillary for a few seconds. Then, it was quickly removed when Jack deemed the slit closed. Every muscle in his body pulled tight, his back screaming from being hunched over your form.

Casting the thing aside, he moved on to the external mutilation. A thin needle was pinched between his fingers, the steel cold and sharp. This was going to work.

You weren’t conscious enough to struggle, and he began suturing the gash shut. The non-absorbable thread wove in and out of the wound's edge. A ladder-like pattern, before he snagged the stitching taut. Shutting the gaping brawn in one pull.

Still, he held his breath.

Not progressing with any less urgency, he connected you to the standby cardiac monitor once he’d bandaged your throat. With you attached to an IV drip, his attention strayed to the telemetry. The screen beeped to life, displaying your vitals. The notches dip, rising with your respiratory rate until they read stable, and he collapsed into a chair near your bedside.

A successful hemostasis.

Toby shoved off the counter, approaching the operating table. His trembling hand found yours, and he laced your fingers together. “She’s f-fine, isn’t she?” Muttering, he turned to Jack, the man nodding in response. “She’s stable, she just needs to rest. The parenteral nutrition will keep her levelled for now, but she’ll need food when she wakes up.” Gesturing to the bags hanging next to the monitor as he spoke.

The brunette shifted where he stood, glancing back at your connected palms. He wished you never met any of them. Wished that you could’ve stayed far away from this mess. A victim of circumstance, you didn’t deserve to be hooked up to all these machines. Stuck in a blood-stained basement because you wanted to help, because you were doing your job the way you were supposed to- it wasn’t fair.

You looked so weak, fragile, while you lay unmoving on the cot. The question of ‘what if’ plagued his mind over and over again. What if you hadn’t made it back in time? What if the bite had gone just a little deeper- then what? Would he have to bury you with the rest?

Mourn an unmarked grave, walking past missing posters of you stapled to trees. Fidgeting with the phone you gave him in his pocket when things got hard. Bringing it with him everywhere, knowing there would never be someone on the line.

Pretending you were only a call away, sending voicemails to an unmanned inbox. Always hoping that wherever you were, they laughed at your jokes and let you lean on them the way he did. The way he would.

The idea made his stomach churn, and he exhaled heavily. Shaking his head to rid the thoughts, he gave your hand a squeeze. “I’ll bring y-you the soup you like in the m-morning, pidgy.” Leaning down to press his lips to your damp forehead.

On the sidelines, Jack sat rigidly. The guilt and shame in himself were consuming, gnawing at every fibre of his being. He could still feel your touch on his nape, the aching tenderness in your acceptance. How you embraced him as he stole your youth. Thieving your innocence, your years, and soul under the stars. The forgiveness in how you held him, as if you understood.

As if you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him, not even then.

It drowned him in disgust. In himself, in his lack of control, in the still present hunger that simmered beneath the surface. What a terrible fate you suffered, he thought. Enslaved like them when you had no place amongst sinners. Whatever chivalry between him and Toby was long gone. The bridge burned to ash, a point of no return. It’s not like he could blame the boy, either.

Imprisoned in a cell with too many scratches on the wall to count. Forced to slaughter, to labour, and punish. The role of executioner was played to a T, a script he’d never chosen for himself. You were a window to the outside, the only speck of normalcy he could afford.

Jack had nearly ripped that from him. He could only imagine the fear and grief Tobias felt upon seeing you in that state. The change in his personality, in how he carried himself, was stark when you’d gotten closer. And he’d almost lost it all tonight.

The air was pungent with antiseptic and metal, the stale quiet interrupted by creaks from upstairs here and there. Their shared stillness lasted for another beat before Toby straightened up. Placing your hand down, his back was towards the cannibal, and he stepped to the staircase. Mumbling over his shoulder. “Tell me w-when she’s up.” With that, he trudged up the railing.

In the silence of the lab, Jack stared at your frame. The muted alerts of your vitals rang in his ears, and he ran a claw down his face. Exhausted and numb.

He should have died the night they bound him to the devil.

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Everything hurt.

The analgesic currently flowing through your veins helped, but it hadn’t numbed you completely. Sharp spikes of pain sparked every time you moved, and you sighed. Blinking to life slowly as you propped up onto your elbows. Apparently, you had made it after all.

You sniffled, wincing at the strain on your neck. The cotton sheets under you were scratchy, worn down with use. Rustling while you pushed the blanket off.

Overhead, the constant buzzing lights were nowhere to be found, and the room was lit by a single lamp in the corner. This place was even creepier in the dark. With your vision struggling to adjust, the shadows on the walls moved in your periphery. Swaying in the glow cast by the cool-hued bulb.

Swing your legs over, you paused, feeling a tug on your inner arm. A needle that connected you to the beeping screen. At least you’d been well taken care of. Thinking it over, you were in the middle of deciding whether to pull the thing out yourself or wait for someone to arrive, when a curtain swished behind you.

Emerging from the small room attached to the med-bay, Jack froze upon seeing you. Your eyes met for a moment, and you coughed awkwardly. “... Hi.” Watching him, your gaze followed as he walked to the monitor. Standing at your bedside, he didn’t respond, simply checking the information displayed.

Wow, you’d think for a guy that almost ate you, he’d be a little more talkative. Still, you chose not to prod, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket instead.

Your problem was that you hated silence- well, not hated. It’s just that, right now, it felt like a ton of bricks in your gut. Clearing your throat, you wet your lips. “Did you like my stickers?” That had him stuttering. His movements wavered, and a muted clicking emanated from his chest. He gave you a stiff nod before resuming his focus elsewhere.

It was evident that the whole almost killing you thing got to him. Probably fuelled the never-ending guilt-complex that he definitely had. Which was... not great, for what you were going for. You were supposed to smooth-talk the guy, not activate his hunter instincts and have him avoid you. Call you delusional, but you know what? This was just a hiccup. I mean, who hasn’t been mauled by a love interest, right?

Glancing down, he began peeling off the medical tape at the crook of your arm. The glue left a sticky residue on your skin, and you mumbled. “Are you okay?” Your comment was quiet, almost fond when it left your mouth.

Jack flicked the used bandage into the trash nearby, puffing through his nose. “Yes.” Though it wasn’t as convincing as he’d intended. His voice sounded strained.

The atmosphere was thorny, a tad too bleak for your liking. So, against your better judgment, you shrugged in his direction. “Are you sure? You’re not hungry, are you?” Joking, his head whipped up. Gaze boring into you. Okay, too soon.

He went back to removing the liquid IV, only to hesitate once it was out. The to-be-discarded needle in his hand, and he huffed. Exasperated when he stood to full height. “Why are you doing this?” Accusatory, his mask tilted to the side. And while you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was most likely scowling.

“Doing what-”

“This.”

Frustratedly throwing his claw into the air, he snapped. “You- I nearly ripped out your throat, I almost killed you. You must understand at least that, don’t you?” Tone shaky, clearly vexed by your refusal to acknowledge the fear you should be feeling. “Yeah, but- I don’t know. They... told me about your hunting. I know you get weird if you don’t eat. It’s not that big of a deal-” However, your retort riled him further, and he pinched his nose bridge through the mask.

“Not that big of a deal? Do you even hear yourself?” Laughing humouressly, he continued, snarling. “If I had gotten back even a minute later, you would’ve been a corpse. Food for the maggots outside, nothing but another body to bury- you wouldn’t be here, messenger.” Chest heaving after he finished his tangent, you rose to your feet- tried to, anyway.

Because as you nudged off the mattress, your legs gave out. Sending you straight into the cement, you braced, yet the harsh floor never came. Instead, you were engulfed by something solid. It held you steady, and you opened your eyes.

Jack had caught you, tugging you to his chest to keep you from falling. One hand splayed between your shoulders, the other on your lower back. He felt warm, carefully reclining when he deemed you stable. Palms on either side of you, while he looked you over. “Don’t rush if you wish to move. If you need anything, ask me for it, understood?” The switch in tone made your head spin.

Going from irritated and loud to awfully tender in a second. You supposed that’s why he was the medic, always prioritizing patients and whatnot.

With his arms around you, you became overtly aware of how close he was. Feeling everything there was to feel. The plush of his muscle against your front, the roughness of his calloused skin on yours.

Your panicked inner monologue was cut off by a grunt. “The sutures will rip if you’re reckless, but it shouldn’t scar. I’ll check in a week. I... I hope the pain isn’t unbearable. If it is, I have something you can take to sleep.”

Not quite an apology, yet the care in his words was undeniable. The previous heat of your one-sided argument had faded, and you hummed. “’Kay, thanks for patching me up, doc.” Teasing him, he appeared to have given up in refuting your humour. Not pointing out the fact that you wouldn’t even need to be patched up if it weren’t for him.

Towering over you, his eyes flickered across your face, then to your neck. The edge of his talon grazed the bandage as he leaned in. Observing the gauze, making sure it hadn’t soaked through yet. “Tell me if it hurts, I’ll fix it.” Hushed, the baritone rumbled deep behind his ribs.

He didn’t know why he was holding you. The overwhelming urge to ease your tension was lost on him. An itch he couldn’t scratch. Your scent, combined with your pliancy, had him giving in before he could stop himself.

The change was noticeable, and your cheeks felt hot. “Yeah- okay, um...” Stuttering, Jack was simply examining his work. Looking over the injury just in case. The issue was that you were aggressively attracted to him, and this was not helping. His hand was still resting on the arch of your spine, thumb absently smoothing up and down.

The claw near your collar then strayed upward, tracing along your jaw. Abruptly intimate, it was as if the air around you had shifted. Tightening a fraction and filling your lungs like smoke. The cannibal tilted your chin higher, your gazes locking. “What do you need from me, courier?” His face was inches from yours, and you squirmed slightly. Lids growing heavier by the second—

BEEP BEEP BEEP-

Unfortunately for you, you were very much attached to the monitor. The machine ratted you out and  borderline screeched. Your heart rate was too high, sending the thing into disarray. Alerting everyone in a five-mile radius that you had a case of the butterflies, bad.

You scrambled apart, with Jack rushing to turn off the telemetry. It shut down with a muted click, and he disconnected you soon after, leaving you to stand in silence.

That was... new. Perhaps you were hallucinating, but that felt just a bit too close for professionalism. Opening your mouth, you went to step towards Jack. However, before you could speak, Toby sprinted down the stairs.

His eyes darted between you two, clearly under the assumption that something had gone wrong. He was frantic as he approached you. “Are you- are y-you okay? Does it h-hurt?” Quickly pulling you into his arms, he cradled the back of your head. “Jesus fuck- I thought- I thought you were-” The last part was left unspoken, the fear in his pupils more than enough for you to understand.

Breathing in deep, you relaxed in his hold. While you didn’t hate or blame Jack, it was still scary. It still shook you up, and your body yearned for someone familiar. You didn’t even realize how much it’d affected you until tears began to dot his sweater. Burrowing your face into his shoulder, he gave you a squeeze in response.

“I-I’m here, I’m here. I p-promise.” Toby whispered into your hair. Rocking you lightly back and forth, he glared at Jack over your crown. A sign for the other man to leave, and he followed it swiftly. Striding past the curtain at the back of the room, the drape swung shut behind him.

Jack slumped onto his old cot. Sprawling on his back, he threw an arm over his eyes.

What the actual fuck was wrong with him?

Wires were crossed in his head, corrupting his agency and everything else up there. You were pliant because you were fucking terrified- and he couldn’t even give you that. He took advantage of you in the woods, forcing you to submit with your life on the line. Then, when you woke up, he’d lost himself again. Coercing you into just going along with it when he trapped you in place.

Your heart rate was so high it sent out a goddamn alert. You were so scared, you couldn’t even speak. The way you collapsed into Toby’s arms had him sick. Trembling like a leaf, you clutched onto the poor boy as if you were dying. And he supposed that you were, in a way.

Being stuck down here with him must have been hell for you.

It’d been obvious you were on edge since you woke up. Making jokes to soothe your anxiety, to try and placate him so he wouldn’t hurt you. So he wouldn’t hold you down and do awful things. Tear you limb from limb while you begged for it to end. All because you’d brought him a sticker. He’d witnessed that hesitance and held you anyway.

Caressing your face like some kind of degenerate. Violating you with the same claws that had nearly stopped your heart. You’d gone into shock, not able to express emotion at all until someone else entered. Someone who wasn’t an active trigger, who hadn’t given you trauma beyond repair.

You were the singular person who’d ever gone out of your way to talk to him- and he’d given you fucking PTSD.

His ears picked up the voices rising out of the basement. You and Tobias had left, which meant he could fall apart in peace. Sitting up, he tore off his mask, flinging it to the wall. His claws dragged down his face harshly as he screamed into his palms. Dry heaving while his teeth grind.

The inky tar seeped out in pulses. Dripping between his fingers and onto the concrete. It’d been so long, he should’ve been used to it. Should’ve trained himself well enough not to feel it the way he did. And yet, the question of why wracked him to the marrow.

Why had he been cursed with this fate? Why did he have to live in isolation? Why couldn’t he control himself even if he desperately tried to? Why did he have to want so deeply? It wasn’t fair.

When he’d adjusted the wrapping on your neck, for a godforsaken moment, he had felt less lonely. Your warmth, your closeness felt so tangible. Just out of reach, something he could grab if he tried hard enough. Like if he stretched far enough- it would’ve been his.

But that wasn’t reality, now was it?

Jack hated how badly he’d enjoyed it. How much he’d savoured it as if you weren’t horrified by his touch. He hated how agonizingly he longed for you to search for him, too. For you to look at him the same way you looked at Toby.

Reaching for him because he was safe, because you trusted him. Because, despite all that he had done, he was still someone you loved. Someone you’d fall into blindly because you knew he’d never hurt you.

A wretched envy shrieked from inside his chest. Scratching at his lungs, decaying his heart and rotting him whole. He would’ve given all his prowess, all his strength and agility just for someone to talk to. Bearing the weight of the job, risking death because he was human in exchange for a companion. That’s all he needed, all he asked for. Just one.

Lunging onto his feet, he sank his talons into the wooden desk. Launching it to the floor with an echoing crash. The oak splintered, and he threw a fit like a child. Ransacking his room, he hurled furniture, shouting until his throat was raw. Crying nothing but oil until his face burned and his hands bled. He hated it, despised it. This everlasting solitude that would plague him till the earth spun anew.

He sagged onto the cold floor after his surroundings resembled a war front more than a room. Choking on grief and disgust, Jack curled into himself. Hyperventilating while he wondered what it’d be like to be held dear.

What it’d be like to be loved at all.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

That did not go well.

Toby, being the concerned friend he was, checked you over for a solid twenty minutes. Interrogating you on whether or not Jack had done anything to harm you when you awoke. When you’d said he hadn’t, the boy barely believed you. To which you smacked him on the chest for. Telling him you wouldn’t lie just to save face.

This led to him walking you home like always, dropping you off at your door, and waving you off. However, you didn’t leave the manor until at least an hour after you’d gone upstairs. So, on your way to the bathroom, you walked past the basement. Now, you wouldn’t say you were a psychic or a therapist- but you’d bet it had something to do with the events prior.

Pressing your ear to the locked door, you heard him throwing things around. Utter chaos from the sounds of it, and you sighed. When he had stepped away, he seemed so disgusted. Even with his face covered, his body language was loud and clear. On top of that, you remembered his exasperation from earlier. How aghast he was when you hadn’t screamed in terror.

Jack probably thought you were a hazard.

Someone who didn’t know their place. Poking and prodding where you didn’t belong. You were reckless, causing him problems just because you stupidly assumed it’d be fine. A walking risk.

You collapsed onto your pillows, wiggling your feet to get comfortable. Mumbling to yourself. “This minor setback might be a major setback, guys.” And just as you were about to roll over and call it a day, your phone pinged. With the screen lit up, you craned your neck carefully to skim the notification. The number was unknown, reading-

[ Unknown: Shit is getting crazy icl. Feels like I’m watching Love Island. ]

Assuming it was a wrong number, you decided to reply. Your boredom would be the death of you. You swiped your thumb across the glass, clicking on the message.

[ ⭑.ᐟ : LMFAO I wish. My love life is lowk in shambles bro. Also, this is def not who ur looking for :p” ]

[ Unknown: Nahhh, it for sure is. ]

The second that text loaded, your screen began glitching. Colourful bars filled your tab, and an image popped up. An off-toned character from a video game, with buzzing letters overlayed on top.

<<YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE THAT>>10101010101

Then, a voice resonated out of the speaker- though it wasn’t nearly as creepy as you predicted. Instead of an eerie, ghoulish rasp, he greeted you like a YouTuber. “What’s up, mailman?” Okay, you guessed this wasn’t the weirdest thing you’ve been through. “... Hello?”

“Dude, shit hasn’t been this interesting since Toby got wasted and totally pissed in the sink.”

At the mention of Toby, you immediately knew it was someone from the mansion. Leaning back onto the cushions, you answered leisurely. Out of all the houses, The Operator had a surprisingly decent employee list. Compared to the others, anyway.

“The way I don’t know that means.”

“Brooo, oh my god. Your thing with EJ! The tension has me on the edge of my seat.”

You quirked a brow. First off, how the hell did he know about that? You hadn’t told anybody, and the interactions you’d had with him were lacklustre at best. Not counting the last one. Second, he was talking as if he’d been watching. And now he was contacting you about it. God, when would you rest? Picking at your cuticles, you crossed your ankles.

“I’m sorry- have you been stalking me?”

“What? No- dude. Well, like not stalking-stalking. Your phone's just out when you talk to him, I can’t not. It’s literally my whole thing.”

“That’s creepy. Like so creepy, you realize that, right?”

“Ayo, chill. I’m not creepy- I don’t watch you when you leave. It’s only in the house, and c’mon. You know what I’m talking about- spill the deets!”

Groaning, you thought about how this was definitely a bad idea. Yet your need to talk to somebody about it overruled your logic. “Bro, like I actually don’t even- wait. Who even is this?” A snicker, then he huffed. “Ben, elf guy, yada yada- now, spill.” You rolled your eyes, continuing nonetheless. “Okay, it’s not a big thing- I don’t know. We’ve only talked-”

In the middle of your sentence, a thud sounded from outside your window, and you whipped your head to the side. Ben laughed on the line, “Oh yeah, Jeff followed you home. My fault.” And before you could register his words, a pale hand yanked open the sill latch. The killer had somehow scaled your house, balancing on the ledge just to eavesdrop.

The glass pulled up, allowing space for a man to shove his head in. Long, unbrushed dark hair shagged over his face. A Glasgow smile carved into his cheeks, with scarlet freckling his hoodie.

You screamed.

“Fucking- shut up, shutup-” He scrambled through the opening, jumping to your side and clamping a palm over your mouth. You were both frozen in a stare-off for a beat, then he spoke. “I’m not gonna’ kill you, so stop throwing a fuckin’ fit, ‘kay?” A jagged knife fell from his waistband, falling to the floor with a clang. “... That’s for other stuff- just don’t fucking scream.”

Slowly, he removed his hand. Stepping back, then settling into your window seat and collecting his blade. Your phone chimed in again. “Well, shit. Guess the gangs all here-” Obviously, you were the lord's favourite jester, because just as you thought this was it- a claw shot out from under your bed. Crawling into the light, he stood up.

LJ.

In all his feathered grandeur, he loomed in your cramped bedroom. Sharp grin on full display. “Heyyy.” The clown waved at you before dropping onto your carpet. His legs folded under him. Your life was a joke, and you did one final call. “If anyone else has broken into my house- please just come out now.”

You truly didn’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t for a girl to pop her head in from the window.

Her hair was dyed with pink stripes, faced sliced with a scar to match Jeff’s. “Sorry- it’s just that everyone else was going and I wanted to see.” Cheery, then she climbed in. Plopping next to the other killer. You massaged your temples, exhaling heavily. “Why are you all here?” Aggravated that work was affecting your free time, Ben answered.

“I told you, this is the most interesting thing since that New Year’s bash- okay, I can’t do this over the phone.”

The line cut, and you heard your living room TV switch on. Static, then shuffling, followed by your bedroom door swinging open. And just as he’d stated, an elf. With pointed ears, he was blonde, his eyes blackened. Blood streaking his skin, he looked like a classic horror figure.

The glitch threw himself onto your beanbag, a bag of chips in hand, while he nodded at you.

“Alright, I’m ready. Go.” Munching away, your eye twitched as you took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going to ask one question, is everyone ready?” Monotone, you deadpanned. The room filled with agreements, muted shifts of fabric, and you sat up. “Why are you in my house?” You claimed to be a patient person, yet sometimes situations really tested that.

Jeff flung his knife into the air, catching it with practice. “My girl likes gossip.” Said with little ceremony, you caught a glimpse of a bracelet dangling on his wrist. A singular ‘R’ charm that flickered in the light. Opening your mouth, you were interrupted by a collective gasp.

“Pause?!-”

“Oh? And you kept it from us?”

“Wait, who- Jeff, tell me-”

“PLEASE- can we just get this over with?”

Your outburst made them turn to you, stunned into silence. One could easily believe you fit in amongst them with the amount of homicide you were thinking about. Taking a moment to collect yourself, you gestured to Ben. “I’m guessing you’ve been running your mouth?” His lips pressed into a thin line, and he shrugged. “I got bored.” Reclining further back when your glare grew in heat.

“Aren’t you guys serial killers?”

“Not all of us, but it’s the same shit. C’monnn, give me something.”

Pinching your nose bridge, you deflated. Fuck it, might as well. “Whatever is said in this room stays in this room- or else I’m calling SWAT and ruining everyone’s day.”

Jeff snorted, and his acknowledgment mingled with the rest. The group listened expectantly when you began recapping the events. Reaching near the end, the girl who’d introduced herself as Nina piped up.

“He made you look at him? Oh my god- wait, I’m actually obsessed-” You replied with a sad puff. Shoulders sagging while you looked up. “It was fine- but like I think he kind of hates me- not hates me. It’s like I make him weird, and every time we talk, something goes wrong. Which makes it so complicated.” She hummed, tapping her lip in thought. “Mm, well, don’t you have to see him in a week anyway?” The remark had you frowning.

“Yeah, but it’ll probably be tense now.”

“Babes, he literally caught you. And it’s not like he said he hated you or anything. I think you should at least try making up- besides, you guys would be so cute.”

“Yeah, if he doesn’t fucking eat her.”

Jeff’s icy tone cut the banter like a dagger through prey. His head cocking to the side while he fidgeted with the knife's handle. “What? We gonna’ act like the guy’s not a headcase and a half? You’re lucky you even got out with your head- we all know he could’ve done worse.” Looking you up and down, he ran his tongue along his teeth. Though Ben was quick to ease the tension.

“Okay, but he didn’t. Also, where have you been? They have so much chemistry that’s literally all we’ve been talking about- and EJ doesn’t tolerate anyone. He held her, bro. That’s insane.”

Defending your budding romance with a passion not even you expected. The glitch emphasized his point by throwing his hands in the air.

Rolling his eyes, Jeff refuted his opinion. “I’m just saying not to be delusional. I mean, he fucking took a chunk outta’ your neck.” Nodding at you, his bluntness made Nina squint. “You’re such a debby downer. They could be soulmates, Jeff. Soulmates. Besides, he patched her up. If he didn’t care, she wouldn’t be here. That has to mean something.” She argued with a pout, and LJ chimed in from his spot on the floor.

“To be fair, she is the messenger. It’s his duty to keep the boss’s plans running smoothly. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if our medic had developed a crush? Oh, the drama, the anguish- I’m getting heart palpitations just thinking about it.” He sighed wistfully, twirling a strand of hair around his finger.

Nina crossed her arms, “I think you should go for it. Just like... bring an extra bag of organs in case he’s hungry.” Adjusting in her seat as you huffed. Ignoring the fact that you had no way to obtain said organs, you also didn’t have a clue how to approach him. Especially after that.

The situation was complex, something you’d never dealt with before, and far out of your comfort zone. You had to be careful.

Playing with the edge of your shirt, you shrugged, tired. “I don’t know- he’s checking me over next week. So I’ll see, I guess.” Your mood was sombre, yet Ben shot up. Snapping in your direction with a newfound determination. “Wait! You’re close with Toby, aren't you? He’s roughed up all the time, and we can get him to ask EJ about you-”

“Absolutely not.”

Your interruption was met with widened stares. The group, taken aback by your raised volume as you continued. “Toby’s weird around Jack right now. He saw me when I was down there, and it shook him up really bad. I don’t wanna’ stress him out more, alright?” The confession had Jeff gawking at you in disbelief. “Wow, he’s even got the whole overprotective act down- ya’ sure he’s not into you?” And the elf gasped, somehow more offended than you.

“Dude. No. That’s basically her brother; they have a whole thing. Oh my god, do you pay attention to anything?”

“They’re literally all over each other every time I see them. It looks like they’re fucking, Ben-”

“You’re actually- I swear you walk around with a blindfold and earplugs, bro. Toby is the overprotective childhood best friend trope, we are the comic relief cast, and EJ is clearly the brooding and damaged love interest. Your stupidity is throwing off the dynamic, Jeff. Lock in.”

Ben was nothing short of appalled, out of breath by the time he finished. Who would’ve known that the computer virus was a die-hard romantic?

Blinking, you shook your head. Focusing back on the conversation at hand. “... Okay. Anyway- please, just keep this to yourselves. It’s messy enough as is, and I have work tomorrow. I need to sleep. You guys can debate my love life another day.” You stated in defeat.

While you were technically using your schedule as an excuse, it was true. It was getting late, the clock reading fifteen-to-one when you glanced over.

If you wanted even a speck of energy for your day job, you’d have to pass out in the next ten minutes. But much to your dismay, the killers lingered for another half hour. Only departing once they’d ransacked your pantry for snacks. A few also insisted that you save their numbers, for “emergencies.” Allegedly.

It was nearly two AM by the time you were alone, and you groaned into your pillow.

Why did finding a boyfriend have to be so hard?

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Hustle and bustle, hustle and bustle. That was the motto.

The glasses clinked as you balanced them on the tray, and you put your best foot forward. The diner was busy, filled with lively conversations. Gold streaming through the windows from the midday sun, music sparking over the old radio's static. It had you squinting when you approached the booth.

After they’d left the night prior, you fell asleep around three in the morning. Not terrible, considering your shift started at noon- but still. The lack of a full night's rest was felt, and your faint eye bags spoke for themselves.

Placing the dishes down on the table, you chatted with guests. Small talk with the patrons had gone smoothly up until this point, so overall, you were pretty content. Your heels scraped on the patterned floors while you made your way back, when the entrance bell rang. Chiming brightly, you turned to the door from behind the counter to see the regulars. The couple.

Turquoise hanging from her ears, she walked ahead of him. Settling down in their usual spot. They appeared to be bickering, the wife clearly upset over something. Emoting enough to cause the husband to huff. It wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary, and you wiped down the surface with a rag. Yet, their argument remained in your peripheral vision.

It made you sad, in all honesty.

Their love story had begun so promisingly, ending in tragedy just because he’d chosen excitement. Your heart hurt on her behalf, dimming your mood a tad. However, you didn’t have much pause to linger on it. The alert for your break was buzzing in your pocket, catching your attention. It was time to take your fifteen.

You stepped out the back. Fishing your phone out of your apron pocket and leaning against the brick. Scrolling through your notifications absent-mindedly, the sound of the alley door made you look up. The wife. She trudged onto the concrete, not sparing you a glance as she passed you by. Leaning on the wall adjacent to you while fixing a cigarette between her lips.

The lighter sparked once, twice, before she inhaled. Defeated when she finally met your gaze. The sky was now overcast, the clouds blanketing the warm glow above. Drifting to suit the mood, it would seem.

The woman tugged her coat tighter around her frame. “What?” Her words were muffled by the smoke, and you stuttered. “Nothing!- Nothing, I just...” The question of what truly happened spun in circles in your head. You didn’t want to come off as nosy or rude, but you wanted to know.

Everything you’d heard about her dull romance had come from others. A game of telephone played by gossiping strangers with too much free time.

Hesitant, you cleared your throat. “I’m sorry if I’m being like- invasive, but... why’d you stay?” Tucking your phone back into your tied pinny, she scoffed. The noise wasn’t offended nor cruel; it came off more tired than anything. As if she’d heard that same phrase over and over again. She took a slow drag. “Always that question, huh?” You went to apologize, only for her to shake her head.

“Mm, it’s alright. I get it. Why would I stay, right? Everyone in town talks about it. My man’s a deadbeat, I know.” Laughing humouressly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I loved him. Oh, I loved the bastard somethin’ awful. Waited on him for longer than I should’ve. Believed him when he promised me a ring- but you probably know all that, don’t you?” Her remark had your ears hot, and you nodded.

You felt bad, yet she appeared unbothered. Used to it after the years. “I stay ‘cause it’s been too long. There’s no point in leaving now. He pays the bills, gets me things I want, so I don’t yell at ‘im when he comes home with a hickie. It’s easier that way.” Though her tone was neutral, the stale hurt lay beneath. Worn down from age.

Flicking ash off her cigarette, she simpered. Humming like she was reminiscing. “It’s just how it is, hun. Ain’t no way else about it.” Giving you a once-over, the woman gestured at you. “Now, I don’t wanna’ lecture you, but you stay far away from men like that, understand? Don’t waste your life away settling for someone ‘cause they seem ‘safe’. I’m tellin’ you now, it’s not worth it.”

She took another inhale, the paper burning around the tobacco. Lighting up a muted amber as she continued. “I waited because I didn’t know better. You’re young, you got time. Don’t let yourself become bitter. If you find someone who sends your heart racin’, you chase that bastard to the finish line, ya’ hear?” The words were spoken as both an instruction and a warning. To not lose yourself.

To never sacrifice your joy for the sake of maintaining normalcy.

Finishing the smoke, the filter was crushed beneath her heel. Simply ash on cement when she goes to exit the back lane. Her hand gripped the steel handle, and she faced you one last time. “If it’s right, you’ll know. Real love won’t fade, it’ll stick like a scar- even if you ain’t want it to. Trust me.” A click of the latch, the door swung shut, then shes gone. Leaving you to simmer in your thoughts.

Alone on the street, you sighed. Her phrasing made you think. “Stick like a scar,” huh? If the bandage on your neck was anything to go by, that had to mean something.

If this wasn’t a sign, then what was, right?

With your shift nearing its end, you folded your apron. Placing the bundle on a shelf with the rest. It had been a decent work day, and you checked your surroundings for anything you could’ve forgotten. The kitchen had already been tidied, the counters and floors wiped clean- you straightened your jacket. All you needed to do was clock out, then you’d be free.

Reaching for a pen hung next to the printed schedule, you scribbled onto the paper. Signing off, before you begin your trek home.

The next check-up could not come faster.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Of course, everything that goes wrong- goes wrong on a Saturday.

In theory, today should have been easy. You were off, your chores were finished, and the only thing planned was a take-out dinner. Yet, fate seemed to love throwing you in the wringer.

It had been almost a full week since you’d seen Jack. While you and the medic hadn’t left off on the greatest of terms, you were optimistic. If you broke it down, the only barrier that technically remained between you was a misunderstanding. You just needed to talk, clear things up, and it’d be fine. Probably.

Hopefully.

However, you couldn’t even mentally prepare for your endeavours because currently? You were a mess. Since you’d woken up, your routine had been in disarray. The neighbour's dog had gotten into the yard, biting and kicking all your plants over. You had to physically go out to lead the puppy back to its owner. Who was not as grateful as he should have been, by the way.

Then, when you thought things could not possibly get any worse, you realized your favourite spot had closed early. Something about a kitchen mishap, which meant you wouldn’t be able to get your usual. Which also meant you’d have to leave the house to get dinner. Sure, you could just suck it up and make instant noodles- but you wanted a treat.

Things have sucked lately, and all you wanted was a good meal. Unfortunately for you, Lady Luck’s help was a one-time get-out-of-jail card. So now you were forced to buckle down and take a journey to the local corner store.

Walking quickly, you shivered a little. Should’ve brought a thicker coat, yet your suffering didn’t last too long. The lights of the mart were only a few steps away, and you sighed upon entering. The in-store heating warmed through the layers, relaxing you as you browsed.

Okay, let’s try... pasta? Maybe a roast on the side with garlic bread. Mumbling to yourself, you plopped a pack of raw brisket into the basket. Collecting the ingredients leisurely as you made your way through the aisles. You threw a bubbly drink in there, too. You deserved something fun after all that. In your opinion, at least.

Check out was a breeze, and you started your march back. The plastic bags rustling in your hold while you stepped, hung at your elbow. You were humming quietly until you caught a glimpse of the hole in a nearby fence. The place that started it all.

It was weird thinking about it now, making you wonder about how different things would be if you had taken another route.

Glancing from the empty sidewalk ahead to the crooked metal, you squinted. Would it be stupid to take a shortcut? It’s not like there was anything that could harm you past that point. As far as you knew, the only creature of the night that lurked these grounds was your boss. Deciding to risk it, you ducked under the wire. Strolling down the trail with your goods.

You could already taste the massive bowl of penne; it was going to be glorious. The imagery had you grinning, and you shifted your grip on the bag. At the mention of food, you hoped Jack was doing okay—

Snap.

A twig, somewhere to your left, had cracked. This could not be happening. Again. Turning cautiously, your eyes widened. Wolves. You’d been so caught up in thinking about supernatural threats that’d you forgotten about how dangerous the woods were. Too absorbed in your bubble to remember the animals that prowled the grounds. Now, standing face to face with the carnivores, you swallowed.

If you ran, they’d chase. If you stayed, they’d attack. Stuck in limbo, cold sweat lined your back. They moved in packs, growling, as they began to circle you. You cursed yourself mentally. Why did you even go this way? It’d gone terribly last time, so why on earth did you think it’d be smart to take the route again?

The one ahead of the group bared its canines, snout in the air. Sniffing like it could trace your blood in the wind.

You blinked once, twice, three times- and then it charged. The rest following suite. They surrounded you while you fought. Wrestling its head away from your face as best as you could, it snapped its teeth. And you weren’t weak, per se, but an animal was an animal. Winning a fight against one wolf would be a miracle. Surviving five is a daydream.

It gnashed in your hold, another one snagging your jacket. They were beginning to grow impatient, closing in on you. Hot breath wafted above you, and it smelled like meat and hunger. You probably struggled for a couple of seconds at most, yet it felt far longer.

The jagged stone stabbed through your coat when you shoved wildly. Out of all ways to die, out of all the near-death encounters you’d had- of course, you’d lose to something mundane. A stray animal attack. Your muscles screamed, burning and straining with all their might. But it wasn’t enough, and even you knew that. A single slip of your arm, before it broke through your restraint.

You closed your lids on instinct, your whole body bearing up in preparation. A ragged huff, and its drool landed on your skin disgustingly—

Then something ripped it clean off of you.

A figure too rapid for you to see, moving like smoke, lightning over ash. It swung the wolf to the dirt by its neck, and the animal landed with a grinding scrape. Snarling only for the beast to snarl back. A show of dominance, predator on predator.

When your sight finally focused, you recognized your saviour in a heartbeat. Recognized him in a heartbeat. Jack, his claws flexing, gnarled and broad with barbarity.

The wolves pounced onto him from behind. Latching onto his shoulder, its tusks sank deep before he seized the head. Talons piercing bone as he launched it aside. Another shot for his throat, and he ducked. Swerving to the left, he grabbed the thing muzzle first, slamming it to the ground and slicing it from head to chest.

Blood from both parties slathered the grounds. He was brutal, not stopping for even a second. Every attack was refuted by a bite with more force. A slash that cut to the artery.

Some scuttered away after realizing the opponent was stronger, and others became mangled in the crossfire. By the end, the cannibal huffed over scarlet-soaked gravel. Wiping the gore from his jaw with the back of his hand before flinging the remains away.

He was panting, sweat soaking his collar, with red splattered on his mask. The thing was half-on, pushed up to reveal his mouth and the tip of his nose. After rolling his shoulders back, swivelled on his heel. Spotting you almost immediately.

The silence stretched on for an uncomfortable amount of time, and just as you gathered yourself up, groceries still in your possession- he borderline folded in half.

Catching himself by sinking his claws into a tree. Even at this distance, you could see the shudders that wracked his frame. The barely contained growl that fought to break free.

Though you weren’t as scared as you thought you’d be. Sure, he’d displayed an insane amount of strength and brutality, but he’d saved you. Jack could’ve left you for dead, yet he didn’t. Getting mauled for your sake in the process.

Lacking fear, it was exchanged for worry instead. With concern taking its place in your gut, you moved closer. Carefully calling out for him. “Jack?” You were quiet when his head shot up. “Get away from me. It’s not safe.” He sneered in response, his body jerking.

It sounded like it was a struggle to even speak, and he collapsed onto the dirt. Heaving on all fours. Alright, perhaps it wasn’t the smart decision- but you couldn’t just leave him there. Especially after he’d put himself at risk for you. The poor guy could barely stand; it’d be wrong to just walk off.

Kneeling in front of him, you tilted your head lower. Trying to catch a better glimpse of him. Now closer, you could see how strained he really was.

The perspiration dripped down the columns of his throat, adams apple bobbing when he swallowed. Jack shoved away from you desperately, and his back collided with the trunk behind him. “Enough. You need to go. Now-” Cutting himself off with an animalistic clicking. The noise erupted from his chest, seeping between his gritted teeth.

In the grand scheme of things, he was probably correct. This was dangerous- the man had almost taken your life last time. However, he still patched you up. Still held you when you’d fallen. Still went out of his way to keep you safe. He was good, even if he didn’t acknowledge it.

Under all the hunger, the aggression and violence, he was well-meaning. You knew he was. So you stayed planted.

This forest was close to the main road, and in this state, you weren’t sure if he could properly get away if someone saw. Making up your mind, you spoke with urgency. “We need to get you somewhere else. People break past the fence all the time; they might see you.” With that, you grabbed his wrist, tugging. Yet Jack was adamant in his refusal.

“Stop thinking about me and worry about yourself for one goddamn second- you won’t survive if I-”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

The outburst stunned him, and your eyes searched his. Begging him to stand. “M-my place isn’t far, it’s a ten-minute walk, but we have to hurry.” The dread was thick in your cadence, and he couldn’t fathom your desperation. Your overwhelming need to get him to safety. You were too kind for your own good, offering sanctuary even if it was at the cost of your own preservation.

This was a beyond foolish idea. Letting you bring him back would only end in disaster. You would be injured and further traumatized at best, and mutilated with a still heart at worst. His self-control was weak, threatening to give in at any moment.

He’d put off hunting because he’d been too caught up in his spiral. Then his rut had hit at full force. And now the scent radiating off you was making his mouth water. This was a bad fucking idea. He couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Can’t—

“Please.”

Your voice shook, the hold on his arm faltering before it was readjusted. You held onto him with both hands, your fingers digging into his blood-soaked sleeve. Too earnest, too genuine as you pleaded. You decayed his fight, chipping at his resolve until it shattered. Jack was at his wits' end when he begrudgingly agreed. Staggering up along with you as he was dragged along the path.

The pair of you reached your doorstep, and after you’d ushered him inside, he dropped onto your couch. Rapidly tapping his foot while you hung your coat.

Jack could smell you everywhere. Your fragrance stained the walls, wafting off the furniture. It was dizzying. Pungent and drowning, it was clear to him that he’d fucked up. It was hard enough to rein it in when you were in the open air. With the space being confined, he’d doomed himself as much as he had you.

He needed to leave. Now.

Pushing off your sofa, he stumbled slightly. You, of course, noticed him in an instant and rushed to his side. Easing him back down with a soft murmur. “You need to rest, you can’t go out like this- I have meat if you’re hungry? I don’t know if you can eat animals, but I can try to-” Your voice was buzzing in his head, the tangent becoming background noise.

It was disgusting, a rotting want that festered behind his ribs. Thrumming through him in pulses as he struggled to keep himself still. You were trying to help. Naive to the vulnerability, the risk you’d put yourself at. He understood that, knew it like scripture- but alas. His grit was wittling by the second, and it’d only be a matter of time before he snapped.

Jack wouldn’t be able to leave without touching you- without bringing harm to you in the process. You cared far too much; you’d try to negotiate. You weren’t aware of the severity at hand. He wasn’t just hungry; the sick urge to claim was now present. The need to possess, to take and breed. It was a part of his biology, something that had changed in his blood the day they’d changed him.

You were so close, settling next to him after placing tea on the coffee table as if it’d help. As if he weren’t drooling at the thought of breaking you open. Both in body and in soul.

“... Jack?” Hesitant, you leaned to the side. Attempting to see his expression. “Are you okay?” He hated how much your concern fuelled his appetite. Innocent, akin to prey, you blinked at him. Confused when he rasped. “You shouldn’t have brought me here.” And your reply had his molars grinding. “I know it’s- weird right now. But you literally can’t even stand. I don’t mind that you’re here. I- I’m not scared of you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

His nails dug into his palms. You were blameless, awfully generous to a beast that craved your essence. Jack cursed himself for letting his hunger get this out of hand. He should’ve hunted prior; at least then he’d have the energy to make a run for the door. The seasonal ruts were destructive on their own, so he couldn’t even comprehend the marks he’d leave on you.

Yet you only instigated the already building heat. Fussing over him, you fidgeted with your thumbs. “Is there anything that would help? It might be stupid- I just think if we get something in your stomach, you’d feel at least a little better.” Like poking a starved bear.

The straw that broke the camel's back was the minute you touched him.

Your palm rested gently on his shoulder, worry written across your features- and he lunged. Pouncing on you, your bodies slammed onto the floor. Causing the cups on the table to clatter. Jack pinned your wrists by your head, panting over you. His mask had slipped off in the rush, his face left bare. The obsidian tar dripped onto your cheeks while his lashes fluttered, and the sight made you gasp.

“You’re beautiful.”

It acted as a sucker punch to his gut, winding him. He snarled, the sound rumbling low. “You’re a fool.” Pained when he dipped his head closer, his nose grazing the uninjured side of your throat. You smelled so good, achingly warm and alive. It had his cock throbbing painfully in his slacks, and he latched onto the skin.

Lavving at the spot, his teeth pierced flesh, making you arch into him. And yet, this felt different than before. Too intimate, he wasn’t biting you to feast- it was like he was trying to infect you. Spreading his hunger like a disease and injecting it into you by blood. Another thing that contrasted with the previous incident was the way he dropped his hips between your thighs.

Spreading your legs to accommodate his mass and grinding onto your core. You whined, breathless. What the hell was happening? Though any logic was quickly dissolved when he began rocking against you. His zipper caught on your clit, the pleasure resetting your brain entirely. Your thighs twitched together, clamping around his body as he groaned.

It felt good, heavenly and mind-numbing. The taste of your blood, combined with the feeling of your clothed cunt sent him reeling. You sounded so pretty, all gasps and hushed moans. It was addictive- he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Not now, not when you were squirming under him. Not when you’d writhe and shiver from his touch.

He rutted harder, rougher, while your lids drooped. Tongue sliding over the tiny cuts left on your skin, savouring the taste. You were even better than he imagined. Pulling back, he licked across his canines. Breathing heavy, the air was so heated it created foggy puffs with each exhale. A view that had you dripping, Jack looked manic.

His grin stretched up, razor-sharp teeth on display and glimmering in the dim light. He purred, “Sweet meat.” A slow baritone. Leaning down and letting his lips mold to yours. He kissed you deeply, with his tongues exploring every inch of your mouth. He was completely drunk off it. Off you. Too lost to stop and think about the way he’d trapped you in place.

You mewled, and the drag of his bulge over your cunt made you dizzy. The thick outline slotted between your folds through the cotton, pressing against your sensitive clit. He was drowning, vast and ruthless. The cannibal wasn’t even fucking you, and you were already panting. You just couldn’t help it- the authority, the control of it, making your head spin.

Whining into him, he swallowed the sound. Grunting while his hips jolted. The friction was too much, too fast. Jack fucked you through the denim with urgency, refusing to give you reprieve. It’s not like he’d started gently either. The man had jumped from sitting quietly to pouncing on you in a blink. Still, the embers within your core sparked like matches. Setting aflame and devouring your heart's home.

The fury, famine, and fervour were balanced on a pin. Tipping the scales as your release overtook you.

Your orgasm came without mercy, rushing from your head to the tips of your fingers. Making your spine curve while he soiled his jeans. The groan he let out had you twitching. Empty, when you clenched around nothing. Your back felt raw from the constant motion of your bodies, and the afterglow blurred your vision.

“J-Jack-” Yet the shaky call of his name landed on deaf ears, the cannibal flipping you onto your stomach.

He restrained your lower half under his weight, caging you between his heavy thighs. With his stiff cock nudging against your entrance through the fabric; it was obvious to you that he had no plans ending this any time soon. Just what had you gotten yourself into?

Continuing to hump you, Jack’s saliva dribbled down his jaw, and he dropped. His arms bracketed your head while he bit onto your nape, moaning at the taste. The pain was sharp, a repetitive throb that mixed with the heat. You sang from the prickle, “Ah- mmph, s-slow down.” However, it appeared he was in a daze. Dragging his teeth to your shoulder, he sank his canines down.

Orgasm after orgasm, he had you pinned under him for hours. His seed had seeped through his slacks, blending with your slick. You’d lost track of how long it’d been, barely able to keep your eyes open by this point.

Weakly pawing at his bicep, you hiccuped. Eyes rolling back when his engorged cock head ground on your clit once more. You seized violently, skin littered in punctures. The red had stained nearly everything around you. The slow drip of the wounds painted the rug, streaking your frame. It made your living room look like a crime scene.

The clock on the wall read ‘2:48 AM’ when he finally slowed to a halt. Sweat beading down his brow as he reclined. You were lying beneath him in disarray. Hair knotted, with tears streaming along your cheeks. His teeth marks nearly covered the entirety of your upper body.

That was when it dawned on Jack what he’d done.

The evidence was clear as day between your wet thighs. His cum coated your flesh, slobber leaving a shine from your marred shoulders up to your neck. You were wrecked beyond repair. Injured and crying mutely, with your head craned to gaze at him. The lack of focus in your pupils had him fucking nauseous.

He shoved off of you, scrambling to do anything. To help, to aid, to fix this. And when you struggled to roll onto your back, he tasted bile.

You weakly propped yourself onto your elbows, slumped slightly to one side. “It’s okay- it’s okay.” Though it was evident that he disagreed, he hastily crawled forward. His hands shook while he sputtered, “Shit- I-I have to stop the bleeding. Just- just wait- I’ll- Jesus fuck.” Claws hovering over you, desperate yet hesitant.

“My bandages and stuff are upstairs, in my bathroom.” Trying your best to calm him, he hurriedly picked you up. Cradling you in his arms as he rushed the steps. You two rounded into the ensuite washroom, and he placed you on the bathtub ledge.

Darting to the cabinet, he grimaced at his reflection before grabbing the medkit. Yanking the white box open and dabbing the cuts along your collar.

He kneeled in front of you, his breathing unsteady. As much as he wished to flee, he’d done enough damage. The least he could do was make sure you didn’t bleed out. The guilt consumed him with every peel of a Band-Aid, with every pat of gauze on your lacerated throat. And once he was done, the silence was so thick you thought you’d suffocate.

Idly remaining on the tile, his bottom lip wobbled. He was so angry, disgusted- filled with nothing but self-loathing. Jack had no right to cry, no right to grieve. Despite all of it, his body was running on fumes, and he tumbled onto his hands. Head hanging low, an inch above your legs. He let out a choked sob.

The cannibal collapsed onto his haunches, burrowing his face into your knees. His claws pathetically grasping at your calves. Careful not to harm you further.

“I’m sorry- fuck, I’m sorryI’msorry- I didn’t want to. I didn’t- I swear on my life I didn’t. I would never- I wasn’t-” You go to comfort him, your hand a centimetre away from his trembling form, before he jerked away harshly.

Clarity had shot through him like a bullet. What the actual fuck was he doing? Forcing you into such an uncomfortable position. Making you soothe him as if he hadn’t just submitted you to an act so violating it’d haunt you for years.

You were probably so lost, traumatized and afraid. Trying your best not to trigger him into doing anything more. The shock was most likely the only reason you weren’t having a full-blown panic attack right now.

Stumbling back, his expression was bordering on pure devastation. Horrified, when he staggered past the doorway, his gaze fixed on you. “I’m sorry.” His words were heavy, and he left your sight quickly. That was all you got, the singular statement he left you with. You heard your front door slam shut, the force rattling your home as you fell apart.

Jack was right about one thing. You were in shock, and you were definitely on the verge of hyperventilating. It wasn’t that you were traumatized from him, exactly- it was simply that you were beyond overwhelmed.

Everything had happened so fast, you hadn’t had the time to process it. You needed something to ground you, to ease you after your endorphins had peaked. And he had left.

Putting you in isolation at literally the worst moment. If you didn’t call someone, you’d vomit.

While your bedroom was a few steps from your spot, it felt a world away. Your feet lugged against the floor, heavy as lead, and you dove nose-first into your sheets. Fetching your charged flip-phone from under your pillow, you unplugged it. Pressing it to your ear after dialling the only person you could think of.

Toby.

The tone cycled three times, then it clicked. A voice crackling through the other side when you exhaled. “H-hello?” Salt had already brimmed under your lids, and you sadly puffed. “Tobes, please tell me you can come over.” The quake in your words made him straighten up immediately, gathering his coat.

“Yeah- yeah, of course. W-what happened?”

“Like- ugh. Just hurry, please.”

The conversation was swift, and you hung up once he’d told you he’d started walking. Time flies when you’re spiralling on the brink, you suppose- because your bedroom door swung open in a flash.

Toby, out of breath, stood at the entryway. And the second he digested your state, he jumped to your side. Frantically rolling you over while you sniffled. You were pitiful when you reached for him, and he didn’t hesitate to sink into your embrace. His arms slipped under your back, with his body on you like a weighted blanket.

He was attempting to stay calm- but holy shit. The first red flag was that your door was unlocked, the second being the blood on almost everything. Then, when he’d gotten to you, you looked like this.

Mind racing a mile a minute, the brunette mumbled into your hair as you sagged into him. “Talk to me, pidgy. You’re s-scaring me here.” A weak jab at humour, and you sighed. “You have to promise not to freak out.” Quietly, your hands curling around his sweater.

Okay, now he was definitely freaking out. All the signs pointed to an obvious conclusion, one that he prayed wouldn’t be correct. Though he nodded anyway, waiting for you to continue.

“... I ran into Jack, he was sick- I think. I don’t know, I brought him home. I was trying to help and then-” Toby pulled back instantly, cutting in with a disbelieving huff. Eyes wild. “What?” You freeze, backtracking to explain, but he was already set in his wrath. Cupping your face, he stared at you unblinking.

A simmering rage and disgust swam behind his pupils, grip steady. “It’s okay- you’re okay. I’ll take c-care of it, alright? I’ll kill him, I’ll f-fucking kill him- I promise. He’s not gonna’ touch you, I s-swear he’s never gonna’ f-fucking touch you again.” His forehead rested on yours, and you shook your head. Tugging at his sleeve gently,

“No- Toby, it wasn’t like that-”

“Listen, okay? It-it wasn’t your f-fault, you don’t have to lie for him. I’ll take care o-of it, I’ll figure s-suh-something out. You can drop things off outside, I’ll wait for you-”

“Toby.”

You planted your palms against his cheeks firmly. “I know it... seems bad. But I promise he didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to.” The confession made him pause, speculation strong in his gaze. Toby was stagnant for a moment, then he hummed. “... You can tell me anything, you k-know that right?” Still distrustful when you fixed a lock of hair behind his ear.

“I know. If anything ever happened, I’d tell you first.” His narrowed eyes softened a tad at that, and his shoulders eased. “Okay. So, what...?” Waiting for you to explain, the boy dropped his head back onto your collar.

You let your sight drift to the ceiling, exhaling. “It’s- ugh. It’s like every time I see him, something happens, and he runs. None of this is normal, but I still... I don’t know. I still like him, Tobes. And it feels like he either can’t stand being around me or he’s all over me. Everything or nothing- I just want to talk.” Finishing your tangent with a tired shrug, he was at a crossroads.

On one hand, he didn’t like the idea of you getting mixed up with Jack at all. On the other, he knew you too well to ask you not to. You were determined, hard-headed, and way too believing. Seeing the best in everyone, even when you shouldn’t. Toby hated that about you as much as he loved you for it.

Jack was a one-off. Unique in how he carried himself down to the very fabric of his existence. He was hard to read, difficult to understand. A singularity in lifeforms. It’s not that Toby didn’t trust your judgment; it was that he didn’t have complete faith in the cannibal's intentions. He wasn’t even aware the guy was capable of  things like romance, let alone wanting it.

Muttering into the hollow of your shoulder, “Why him?” He sighed, and you lamented for a bit. Playing with the strings of his hoodie, then your voice flooded the fragile silence.

“I thought he was cool when we met- it sounds stupid outloud, I know. But he’s not as bad as everyone says he is, and he saved me. I went to get food earlier, and there were wolves- you should’ve seen him, Toby. He literally threw himself at me to get them off. They bit him everywhere, and he fought them to keep me safe.”

You knew that if he really didn’t care, he would’ve turned a blind eye. It was a hassle, and it’d been apparent he was already in bad shape. Jack had chosen to put himself at risk anyway. Even before that, he’d always done everything with consideration, no matter how little it seemed to be.

Giving you a colourful bandage over a plain one because he thought you’d like it more. Apologizing when he hadn’t warned you of the alcohol swab. Catching you when you tripped. Actively choosing to make things easier for you, just because.

Continuing to spill your heart out, Toby listened intently. “It’s so messy right now, and maybe he never wants to see me again- but I wanna’ fix this. I’ll have to keep interacting with him anyway, I don’t need it to be super tense, you know? And if you were in the woods earlier, you would’ve done the same thing- ‘cause you’re reckless and you don’t think when you panic-”

The mock scold had him snorting mutely, but he remained still nonetheless. “I know you don’t trust him- but if you were cursed, I’d still love you. Even if you got scary sometimes, you’d still be Toby. You’re my best friend, but you literally kill people in cold blood daily. He’s in the same spot, and I can’t hate him for being like you.”

Your confession weighed on him heavily, and he groaned. You were right in a sense; he was technically being hypocritical, it’s just that he’d never done harm to you. Yet he understood that the fact had a high possibility of not ringing true if you hadn’t met him the way you did. If things were different, he could’ve done much worse.

Toby expired begrudgingly, giving you a slight nod. “You h-have the worst taste in men, though. Like, s-shit, you couldn’t have gone for a business guy or s-suh-something?” Teasing, you smacked his arm. “Ew, Tobes. You want me to date a finance bro?”

“God forbid I want y-you to have a stable home life.”

“It wouldn’t be a home in the first place if there weren’t people like you in it.”

You always say sappy things he doesn’t know how to handle. Not meaning you wanted serial killers in your house, but that you didn’t view them as just killers. Your friends- simply individuals who were stuck. While he didn’t exactly agree, you had yelled at him way too many times for him to vocalize that.

With your spirits lightened, you circled your arms around his neck. Rubbing your cheek against his. You reminded him of a cat, and he laughed. The atmosphere was much brighter than when he’d initially arrived, a full minute of solace before he chimed up. “Okay, but let me get t-the whole story. You ran into him, then you took him home and...”

Head lifted by a fraction, the brunette raised his brows once, lips pursed. Squinting at you and insinuating exactly what you thought he was. You rolled your eyes in response, pressing your lips into a line. It was so hard to be serious around Toby at times. The topic wasn’t funny in nature, but his phrasing and mannerisms always got to you.

The guy who ran around like a maniac, hatchets in hand- was the same boy who couldn’t use “sex” in a sentence without giggling.

Who would’ve guessed, huh?

You stifled a snort, tying his sweater’s draw-cords into a bow. “Okay, TMI- but it was kind of crazy, not gonna’ lie. Literally growled when I was on the floor, Tobes. He got... weird after though. I think he thought I wasn’t into it; he patched me up and sprinted. Apologized a bunch, too.” Perplexed as you toyed with the strings further, Toby clicked his tongue.

“Mm, I mean- did y-you guys talk after? Maybe he got freaked out. S’not like he g-gets around.”

“I wanted to, but he ran before I could even say anything. And I’m stopping by tomorrow so he can check the stitches. I just don’t want it to be awkward.”

Catching him up, you laid out the details. Everything from how it started to the things Jack had said prior to the event. You ended the information with a beaten groan, making him chuckle quietly. He still didn’t love the idea of you with EJ, but it wasn’t up to him.

You were your own person, plenty capable of deciding things for yourself. All he could do was stand by your side. Keeping you safe, supporting you to the best of his ability. The conversation stretched on for about another hour before his phone buzzed in his backpocket. An alert that told him he needed to return, and he gave you a sheepish smile. “Duty calls,” you supposed.

Collecting his things, you walked Toby to the front, waving him off. Then you flung your body straight into the shower. The leftover muck of the day felt gross, and a thorough scrub was overdue. Swiftly slathering your frame with soap, the water tinted with red. Washing away all your turmoil down the drain.

You finished your routine efficiently, stepping onto the tile in a towel. In the midst of your skin-care when you heard a clatter from your bedroom. The wooden floors were cold under your feet while you peered from the bathroom door.

The flip phone. Earlier, when you dialled your companion, you’d haphazardly thrown the device onto your nightstand. It appeared that the notification ping had knocked it onto the ground, and you bent to grab it.

[ Incoming Call From: ERROR101001 ] ✚ One New Message :101001011

A couple of years ago, this would’ve unnerved you. However, you’d seen too much, and the caller ID could only belong to one person.

Ben, for whatever reason, had texted you. The guy was nosy, probably contacting you to pry. Your thumb slid across the keyboard, the metal smooth as you read the screen. “DETAILS. DETAILS NOWWW.” Quirking a brow at his message. Toby wouldn’t have said anything, and Jack definitely didn’t- so how the hell did he find out?

⊹₊⟡⋆  . ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧ ⊹₊⟡⋆

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Istg if you were listening through my phone, I’ll actually find a way to delete you. ]

[ Elf: NO. Omfg u actually think I’m a freak. Toby came back and didn’t look like he wanted to murder EJ walking past the basement. SPILLLL ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : You piss me off so bad. GET HOBBIES. ]

[ Elf: Pause- adding you to a gc. Give me a sec ]

He ignored the fact that you hadn’t acknowledged his request in the slightest, and you got another alert. Ben had stayed true to his word, attaching your number to a text chain. A groupchat with four other people. Wow, you wonder who in the world they were.

Giving up, you went back to your bedtime schedule. Sitting at your vanity, and opening your moisturizer. You multitasked, switching between replying and patting the cream onto your cheeks.

[ Clown: Ben told us you had big BIG NEWS !!!!!!! ]

[ Elf: I yapped mb ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : How r u guys so evil yet so easily bored. Aren’t you supposed to be brooding and scary?? ]

[ Nina <3: Not all the time, and that’s only Jeff :p now tell ussssss plspls ]

[ Stabby: fck u ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Okay like. He saved me from a pack of wolves, and I lowk brought him home... ]

[ Elf: AYO???????????? PAUUUSSSEEEE ]

⬩➤ Multiple people are typing...

[ Nina<3: WAITTT ARE YOU SRS??? ]

[ Elf: THE DEETS MAILMAN. ]

[ Stabby: stting up rn wtf  ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : I already told Toby, but it’s kinda TMI ]

[ Clown: You told Tobias ? I thought you said that he’d be against it ?? :^O ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : I called him after. I was crashing out icl- it was so messy ]

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Replying to ⭑.ᐟ - [ Nina<3: Noooo why r u ok :((( ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : I’m fine <//3 it’s just like ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Ugh. ]

[ Elf: I will start seizing rn istg STOP EDGING US BRO ]

[ Elf: Actually 1 sec ]

Elf added “Tobes :)” from your contacts ->

[ Stabby: sht might as well add masky atp ]

[ Elf: That’d be funny asf if he wouldn’t shoot all of us for it. NOW SPILL. ]

[ Tobes :): WHAT THE FUCK. HOW LONG HAVE U BEEN TALKING TO THESE PEOPLE???? ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : THEY BROKE INTO MY HOUSE ITS NOT MY FAULT. ]

[ Elf: THAT ISNT IMPORTANT EVERYONE STFU ]

[ Stabby: lol ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Making it short idc. Okay he saved me and then he came over and we did thingshsgsui ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : AND THEN HE RAN OFF. IDK IT WAS UGHHHHH. ]

[ Nina<3: Still not over the fact that he saved you T-T omggg I’m screamingg AHHH that’s so goals ]

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Replying to ⭑.ᐟ - [ Stabby: ej ran? ]

[ ⭑.ᐟ : Yeah. ]

[ Stabby: he prbly has a fcking complex ]

[ Stabby: got too real or smth. doubt its bc of u ]

[ Elf: Hello?? Who even r u rn?? ]

[ Nina<3: Jeff r u possessed ]

[ Stabby: stfu. ]

[ Stabby: im js saying it wdnt b surprising if he got weird ]

[ Stabby: ur a civi. ur soft n the mf eats ppl. he prbly got in his head ab it n fcked off ]

[ Elf: Holy shit. Having a gf gave you a brain. ]

[ Stabby: ill snuff u tf out ]

⬩➤ Multiple people are typing...

⊹₊⟡⋆ . ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧ ⊹₊⟡⋆

Despite the forming headache, Jeff’s words stuck with you. You already knew Jack was most likely at odds with himself about everything, but having someone who saw him daily confirm that made it click.

It would’ve been unimaginably lonely to live all your years at a distance. Always being careful because you never knew if ‘too close’ was only an arm's length away. Fearing a snap in physiology that could overtake you at any second, you’d flinch at touch. Craving it to the point of insanity, only to wail and wither as if it had burned you.

Jack kept you at a distance when he could, as a security measure. Not for his peace, but for your safety. Every time he’d crossed that threshold, you had gotten hurt, therefore reinforcing his bias. He left you assuming you wanted him gone. That was his apology; he thought the solitude was what you wished for, what you needed.

A gift to you after all he’d done. Made of sorrow and stitched from ruth.

With newfound clarity, you inhaled deeply. Mentally preparing for tomorrow's climate. It’d be uncomfortable, maybe tense and definitely stressful. Yet it needed to be done, to be said. You were going to talk to him, really talk to him.

No beating around the bush or avoiding the subject. You refused to exist in a limbo for all of the foreseeable future just because of miscommunication.

There was no time like the present.

Or whatever people said.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

You’d been restless since dawn.

Going through the motions on autopilot, you were nervous at best and nauseous at worst. The journey to the manor was done through muscle memory, the ambience settling hushed as you marched. As if the trees were holding their breath.

The sun had set about an hour ago, and by the time you reached the infamous porch, the crickets sang loudly. You closed your eyes at the door, steadying yourself before you knocked. Then your knuckles rapped against the heavy oak, and you heard the lock click from inside. Metal rattling, the door cracked open a sliver, the gap widening when he recognized you.

“Where’s yer’ package?” A cigarette hung from between his teeth, and he gave you a once-over. It wasn’t harsh or suspicious; the man spoke like he was genuinely curious. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him not smoking. The leaves rustled behind you, and you rocked on your heels. “I-uh, I got hurt last time, Jack told me to visit for a check-up.”

“S’that right?”

“Mhm.”

He squinted at you, eyes narrowing for a second, before he stepped aside. However, as you passed him, he tutted. “You eat yet?” The question left you confounded, and you turned to him. Brows raised, “... I had breakfast..?” You replied carefully, unsure of his intentions.

‘Masky’, you were guessing, was the person who’d let you in on most deliveries. He never interacted with you much otherwise, and his abrupt curiosity was jarring. The man appeared decent enough; this was just random. Yet he didn’t stop there. Pausing like he was registering your answer, he shoved his hand into his pocket.

A puff of smoke curled into the air when he pulled out a granola bar.

The wrapper was a little crinkled, and he held it to you. Face still blank while he grunted. “Here.” Masky dropped the snack into your palm, then his fingers went to his lips. Snagging the cigarette. Another cloud of fog wafted out, and your confusion built. Maybe it was dumb, but you asked nonetheless.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“You questionin’ me?”

His glare was sharp, cut-throat like glass- making you shoot up. “No!” Said too quickly, though he remained unbothered. Scowl fading before he gave you a stiff nod. He shifted to the entrance, another figure joining his side. A guy in a muted yellow hoodie, with a knitted black mask tugged down to his neck. The gun-slinger looked over his shoulder, and you felt his gaze on you.

Preparing to leave on what you assumed was a mission, he adjusted the rifle over his body. Rasping, “Don’t die, an’ you better finish that.” Nudging his head at the bar in your hand. Then the pair exited swiftly, the door swinging shut behind them.

They were basically strangers, yet you felt as if you’d been scolded for not taking better care of yourself. The word “Dads” flashed through your mind unconsentually, and you shook it off. Continuing down the hall, the rickety floorboards creaked under your feet.

Your boots dragged with anxiety in every step. This was it; there was no more room for aversion, no more time to waste.

You ran through what you’d say and began your descent. Entering the lab, Jack was exactly where you’d thought he’d be. Nestled in the corner, surrounded by clutter, he busied himself. Glancing up upon your arrival. He stood carefully, evidently tense in your presence. “Your check-up.” It wasn’t a question; he knew why you were here.

Knew that there was a hefty barrier between you two.

An unspoken stalemate, before he gathered his med-kit. Walking over to the medical table, you did the same. Meeting him in the middle. Your heft was braced by your hands when you leaned on the surface, and he started preparing the tools. Lying the needles and sterile gauze on the steel, you puffed through your nose.

His body language was rigid, overly aware of the distance to your form. He worked on the very edge of the counter, his mask tilted to the floor. You couldn’t do this anymore. It had stretched on too long, leaving you stressed for days, nights- months. Every encounter always passed you by, never acknowledged, and you were tired. Over it.

“Why’d you run?”

Three words, yet he froze dead in his tracks. Braced as if you’d shot him. “... It wasn’t safe.” The ‘for you’ was unsaid, then he returned to his task, clearly not intending to expand further. See, you were a pretty level-headed person, but his avoidance struck a nerve. He had left you, abandoned you, always too caught up to hear anything you said. A constant push and pull that exhausted your patience.

If he wasn’t going to address it, you would. “So that’s it? We’re just going to pretend it didn't happen?” An accusation that carried a world of weight, making him drop the instruments. His posture was stiff, fists balled by his side, when he spoke.

“There is nothing I can say to erase what I’ve done, and even if you don’t trust me, I assure you this visit will be swift. I’ll change your wrappings, it won’t take-”

“You’re not listening to me.”

You interrupted him, pushing off the table. “You act like you can’t stand being near me, and then you pin me to the fucking floor. You saved my life, shoved your tongue down my throat and left, Jack.” You threw your arm into the air, exasperated. The hurt in your voice had him gritting his teeth, and he snapped. “You think I don’t know that?-”

Stepping back, he dragged a claw down his face. “You think I wouldn’t give anything to undo what happened that day? Wouldn’t give anything to rid you of the disgusting things I did to you- but I can’t.” Flinging his hand down, his shoulders heaved, lip curling up behind the mask. “I’m not asking you to take it back, I’m asking you to listen.” You argued with frustration. He wasn’t getting the point.

“You’re allergic to me one second- then you’re all over me. You came over, used me just to fucking leave. I just wanted to help-”

“And I told you not to. I warned you. I begged you to stay away, yet you refused. And now you’re stuck in a room with a monster who—”

Jack cut himself off, clamping his jaw shut. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, too cowardly to confess it outloud. Absolutely scum. The cannibal drew an unsteady breath, uttering quietly. “I know what I’ve done. I know you were scared. I know you despise me, and you have every right to. There’s no excuse I could give to make you forget, but I’m- I’m sorry.”

The silence was suffocating, and you swallowed. His guilt must be eating him alive- it wasn’t like that at all. One foot in front of the other, you moved towards him. Holding your hand out when he shuffled away, his back connecting with the wall. “I don’t hate you. I just wanted you to stay.” You dropped your arm and clutched it to your chest. Standing in front of him as the gap tightened between you.

“What are you-?”

“Jack.”

You said his name softly, a singular aching syllable that knocked the air from his lungs. Reaching for his wrist, you tugged it over your heart. Cradling it before lacing your fingers together. “You kissed me until I was dizzy and wouldn’t look at me after. You can’t be surprised I was upset.” You pressed yourself flush, bringing his large palm to cup your face.

Nuzzling into his touch, “I’m not scared of you. I like you, and when you held me, it felt so good.” You mumbled, and his cadence shook. Yet he didn’t recoil. “You don’t know what you’re doing- you have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Deny, deny, deny- still, his pulse quickened nonetheless. You were so close. Eyes swimming with nothing but want.

“I almost killed you- I’m dangerous, why can’t you understand that?” A warning with little grounding, his resolve was splintering like glass, and you could tell. Stretching to his mask, your thumb hooked under the edge of it. Pushing it up gently while you sighed. “You also saved me, again and again. You kept me safe.” He was terribly weak- selfish, a fatal flaw amongst all his mastery.  

“You’ll break. I’ll ruin you- the damage will be irreversible, and I won’t be able to fix you.”

“Then make me someone new.”

The mask clatters to cement, and his lips molded against yours. Claws gliding up your waist while he forced you back. It was a straight zero to one-hundred, and you felt him everywhere. Grabbing at your hips, pulling you deeper into him as your spine collided with the table. The cold steel sent shivers through your body, making you gasp.

With your mouth agape, he took the opportunity. Slipping his tongues past your lips. It was atonement, reverence, and possession in physical form. You ran your hands up his chest, squeezing the muscle. Jack’s brawn had never gone unnoticed, but now you were drowning in it. Given the freedom to touch and taste without obstacles.

He broke the kiss with a huff, a ribbon of saliva glinting between you. “You will bleed, and it will hurt.” Grunting, then he hoisted you onto the counter. The denim of your jeans didn’t stand a chance. His talons snagged the waistband, yanking down and splitting the fabric clean in half. Your pants were at your ankles by the time he dropped to his knees.

The cannibal fell so fast it sounded like it hurt, bone slamming into concrete- yet he didn’t react. Instead, he hauled you forward. Forcing your thighs wide when he tore your panties with his canines. He dove in nose-first, and you screamed.

Slurping lewdly, he was nowhere short of ravenous. Latching onto your clit and swirling into your hole. He didn’t let you adjust or prepare in the slightest. And the groan that reverberated from his ribs had you whining out. Jack was eating you like a madman. Devouring you with an insatiable appetite. “Fuck-” He lapped at your pooling slick.

Your head spun, completely overwhelmed by the pleasure. It was so much, and he wasn’t easing his pace. Tongues thrusting in and out mercilessly of your cunt. They reached deep, worming frantically inside your tunnel while you convulsed. “J-Jack- ah, wait.” You gave his forehead a flimsy shove, tangling your grip in his hair. “Please-”

He responded by swiftly sinking his teeth into your inner thigh. Piercing flesh, the taste that flooded his palette made his lids flutter shut. You were always so sweet, decadent and rich. Something to be served on velvet and gold under mosaics.

The bite marks spilled a dark red. Dripping down your leg, the second he unfastened from you. His claws had punctured skin, and they cut in more and more with each jolt. The pain had you dizzy as your gaze flicked to him. Jack’s muzzle was drenched in your arousal, your blood smearing the metal. He looked every bit of the monster they’d told you about- and your eyes rolled back.

Mewling when his nose knocked against the sensitive bud, your shoulders bowed. “S’too deep- ngh. Please, I can’t-” The tips of his tongues were driving into your cervix, making you see stars. He gulped, “You begged me like a whore, and you will take what I give you.” Snarling, his talons suddenly fastened onto your hips.

Heaving you off the polished surface, he flipped you. Your tits pressing to the metal while he prys you open. The sensation of his tongues at this angle had you choking. “Holy shit- haah-” Gasping for air pitifully. It was humiliating like this.

He had dug his thumbs into your folds, spreading you when he began rocking you onto his mouth. The cannibal was literally fucking you with the muscles. Three inky tendrils that slithered and expanded inside your pussy. They slipped back and forth, making your canal squelch loudly. You were so exposed, borderline put on display by his grip.

Jack was straight up making out with your cunt. Slobbering, licking at every inch of skin you offered. And you wailed upon feeling his incisors puncture the fat of your ass.

A deep wound above his hold on you. Tiny droplets of scarlet bubbled along the pattern, mixing with his spit as he feasted. It was as if he were trying to consume you whole.

Leaving his signature in your flesh, signing his name off by the edge of his canines. A labour under moonlight, in the thrum of flourescents and the heat of fever. If you wanted him, then you’d have him in his entirety. Take and take until there was nothing left of you both- because this wasn’t sex. It was a welded brand that would condemn you as sick as he was.

If you wanted to be remade, then he’d strip your bones clean.

Estacy overspilled in your gut, and you came. “Jack- Jack.” White knuckling the steel ledge. He ran his tongue along his teeth after pulling back, watching you tremble with fascination.

You were bleeding, scraped up from head to toe- yet you had the stupidity to peer at him. Asking for more, like you wouldn’t be torn apart in the process. Like there wasn’t a chance you’d lose your life for the sake of lust. A glutton for punishment. A deer that had skinned its own meat for a starving wolf. Your ankle was caught in a bear trap, and you did nothing but reach for the hunter.

Your release poured out between your shaking legs. Puddling on the floor when he wrapped your hair around his fingers. He ripped you off the table and forced you to your knees. Making you clumsily steady yourself, your palms flat on the cement, before you looked up.

Over you, Jack unfastened his belt. The buckle jostling, clinking mutely- he grunted. “Open, courier.” Grasping your chin, the other tugging down his boxers. He was big. Inhumanly sized, his cock hung heavily in front of you. Flushed at the tip, with a vein running down the underside. He stroked himself once, lining up with your lips, huffing.

You had no idea how the hell that was going to fit. Fear contorting your expression, he settled his free hand on your windpipe. Squeezing faintly as you dropped your jaw.

He was warm against your tongue, and you gave the head a kitten lick. “Look at you, pleading to be debased like some mutt in heat. A brainless pet begging for scraps. You’re pathetic.” Sneering, then he pushed your head forward. His girth was almost painful.

It stretched your mouth to the brink of capacity, making your jaw ache around him. You gagged from the intrusion, and he bucked his hips. Bullying the length further down your throat while tears gathered at your lashes. The cannibal moved his grasp from your neck into your hair. Twisting the strands harshly and yanking at your scalp.

The pace he set was brutal. Mercilessly thrusting without giving you reprieve. He was using you as a sleeve, a toy without thought or agency.

Your hands scrambled for purchase, latching onto the front of his slacks. You choked; he was only about halfway in, and your lungs were already burning. Cheeks stuffed full, his pre-cum bubbled obscenely. Forming a gluey ring around his cock. “Gods-” He droned, letting his head fall back. You stared as he swallowed, his adams apple bobbing.

The view could last you for decades. Sweat beaded down the columns of his throat, shoulders broad and heaving. With his hair in disarray, he was a vision fit for your most debauched fantasies. It had you clenching on nothing, and your thighs twitched. He was so mean, fucking your mouth ruthlessly- wet plaps resonated through the basement.

He gazed at you half-lidded, pulling out, just to slap his dick on your face. Depraved, when you lapped at his balls. He grabbed himself, tapping it across your skin. His seed dribbling onto your features. Arousal and possession curled in his stomach along with disgust. You were being tainted, corrupted by his own hands with a smile.

It was such a wretched, diseased gratification. Satisfying him like rot to maggots. Jack was death with a pulse. A relentless hunger that ruined and devastated. Yet you worshipped him as if he were salvation. Deliverance from something wicked, someone you deemed a saviour. If you were deluded, then he was vile.

Because he let you stay. Let you touch and moan and weep. Allowed you to degrade yourself to this. An animal with a warm mouth and inviting cunt. Grovelling at his feet, crying for his cock like a whore.

Lip curling up cruelly, he taunted you. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Are you proud?” Shoving his boots between your thighs, he jerked your head back. Blood-soaked leather against your throbbing clit while you whined. It had your hips jolting, and your blissed-out expression made him grit his teeth.

“Humping my leg like you can’t help yourself. Stick out your tongue, dog.”

You followed his demand, obediently letting your jaw go slack. Drool gathering in the cavern- he spat harshly into your mouth, and when you swallowed, he scoffed. “I could crush your airways right now, and you’d use your last breath to thank me.” Then he slammed past your lips, immovable snare on your crown. You gagged violently.

Squirming from the pressure on your sopping pussy, and the fullness of your throat. You hiccuped with your nose buried in his happy trail. Salt streaming down your cheeks as he built his rhythm. You went limp, slumping into him with your spine arched. Each thrust had your body lurching in place, causing you to grind onto his boot.

“Fuck. That’s it- hah- keep it in-” Your esophagus was so wet, convulsing tight enough to have him shuddering. Roped muscle tensing when he rutted forward over and over. Brows furrowed in concentration. The pleasure had him fucking high. Submission was trust. Blind faith that he wouldn’t accidentally crack your skull open in the rush.

It was everything he’d ever wanted and everything he despised you for all at once.

Your surrender of mind and body sent him over the edge- and he flooded your mouth. Groaning lowly, while his cum pumped deeper. His grasp finally loosened, allowing you to tumble onto your haunches with a cough. Desperately trying to find your bearings, he tasted like thick syrup. A musky laquer that coated your tongue.

You lapped at his still leaking tip, gulping the leftover arousal. Pornographic, before Jack wrenched you up by the throat. Caging you beneath him after borderline tossing you onto the counter. Your back crashed into the chilled steel, and he threw your jeans to the side. Hiking your legs to your chest- “Wait! I want- I want to see you.” The meek stutter interrupted him, making him freeze.

Lying almost completely bare, you sniffled. Eyes glassy as you gestured to his sweater. “Please?” Beautiful prey, far too docile to be where you were. He reacted by snagging the back of his hood, ripping it over his head briskly. Now uncovered from the hips up, your leer drifted over his torso.

The scars littered his abdomen, tiny healed slashes leading from his Adonis belt to the curve of his pecs. They dotted up his frame, with freckles dispersed along the divots like stone. He was sculpted in the same way as statues in Rome were. Devastingly breathtaking.

He leaned forward, stationing between your legs as his hair shadowed his sockets. The cannibal was pretty. Perspiration dripping down his clenched jaw, lashes fluttering. A sacrilege of the natural law, yet you cradled his face anyway. He always loathed his reflection, couldn’t stand the sight of it- and here you were. Touching him like you wanted to, like he was something radiant.

Too gentle, too fond, you brought him closer. Brushing his nose against yours with intimacy he never deserved. Kissing him softly while he remained unmoving. It was overwhelming, and he flinched away as if you’d burned him. Wrestling your wrists above your head, his grip was bruising when he aligned with your cunt.

Jack paused, chuffing in thought- he grabbed a clean rag. Meant for blotting wounds, it had been cast aside, hanging off the table's ledge until now. He raised it to your lips. “Bite.” A single syllable, and the second your teeth met cotton, he returned his claw down south. Pushing the head inside without warning.

Your spine arched off the metal like you’d been struck by lightning. The bolt seized through your body, weaving into your blood, scorching your marrow, and forcing your ribs open. A harvest of the soul, reanimated like Frankenstein’s monster by Jack’s design alone. There was no going back. You had been altered to the very cell.

Wailing through the fabric, he grunted over you. Slowly feeding his length into your cunt, it was an ungodly stretch. Making you writhe helplessly, it felt like he was tearing you in half. You sobbed, and he sheathed to the hilt. Pitching over, while your vision blurred. He began rocking into you. Shallow thrusts that thumped against your cervix.

You tremored pathetically, you were too full, and you swore he was hitting your lungs. Stuffed to the brim, gorged beyond your limits. You snivelled, your eyes couldn’t focus- you couldn’t even think. Head lolling to the side with your ears packed with cotton. Your limbs went slack, and you jolted with every snap of his hips.

Letting out muffled “Mmph- mmph- mmph-”s. The searing pain had dulled to a simmer. Overtaken by a building decadence. It coiled in your womb. Engulfing you from the bottom of your feet to the base of your skull. He had torn your entrance, and the pale red blended with your slick.

Your ankles hooked behind his back, pressing him flush. You spat out the towel, “Wanna’ kiss- please. Ngh- so d-deep.” Mewling when he grinded into your sweet spot. You were a mess, ruined under him. Hair splayed on the metal with lacerations covering you.

Despicable as it was, the sight had him purring. You were a lamb ripe for the picking, lewd enough to make him salivate. Completely and undeniably his.

The baritone rumbled in his chest, sonorous as he dipped to your face. His mouth slotted against yours, making you moan into him. With his body bent to the new angle, his pelvis mashed into your clit- absolutely mind-numbing. “Ah- Jack.” It was spoken like a prayer, and he burrowed his head into the hollow of your shoulder.

His lust, his need, betrayed his principle. He lapped at your collar, sinking his canines in roughly as you screamed. Bite after bite, tear after tear. Jack was eating you alive, claiming you from the inside out. You wanted this, you begged him for this. So you would reap what you sow.

Releasing your wrists, the purple had already begun blooming. The hues decorating your flesh while he huffed. Driving his shaft balls deep. “Look at me, messenger-” Though your eyes refused to focus, and his patience waned. Running thin- he gripped your jaw. “You can’t even speak, can you? All it takes is my cock for you to become a drooling addict-”

Jack rolled his hips forward, the table creaking from the force. He continued. “Does it excite you knowing I’ve dissected bodies exactly where you are? Does it thrill you that I could snap your neck like nothing? Rip you limb from limb while you scream- does that make you wet?” Pounding into your weeping pussy as he snarled.

He was abusing your hole, splitting you open roughly, and your pupils blew wide. Rolling up into your skull. “Oh- ngh, god-” The cannibal hoisted your leg up, hooking it onto his shoulder before he crowded you. “Letting a monster fill your cunt like some depraved prostitute- pathetic.” His talons wrapped around your neck, pinning you in place.

The pace was unsparing, fucking you with abandon. You pawed at his forearm, and your view was speckled with black. The room had begun spinning. “Jack- can’t breathe. P-please, I can’t-” Yet his palm stayed firm, squeezing your airways without remorse. Your head was buzzing, your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen.

Pleasure and pain, pleasure and pain. You supposed it was inseparable to him, following him like a second skin. From the beginning, you already knew this was a risk. So this must have been fate.

Dying to him the way they’d warned you about. The way he’d promised it would end. A tragedy in the making, bound by grief and longing.

However, there was a whisper that told you he wouldn’t press harder. Maybe you were naive, but something about the anguish in his gaze made you believe it. His hold wasn’t one of malice; it was a test to himself. To prove something unspoken.

Your hand slipped, and you stared up at him. Admiring his features, the ripples of his body that were caused by exertion. Even though you were on the brink of passing out, it was still pleasant.

The deep drags of his cock sent waves of ecstasy through you, and you sighed quietly. “S’good- feels so good.” Slurring with your tongue heavy. You hoped that if this all went down in flames, he would remember you. A fleeting moment in his endless years. A time long ago, when an anxious courier had thought of him as something more.

Then, he suddenly yanked his claws from your throat, and you gasped. Inhaling deeply, he eased his rhythm to a halt. The look on his face was the definition of horrified.

His hand quivered near your neck for a second, then he slammed it onto the table. His nails flaying the steel open in grooves. “Fight.” Sneering, with desperation shaking his voice. Jack bracketed your form, trapping you beneath him when he roared. “Fight. Scream- yell for help-” His tone was exasperated, disgusted by his own actions and your acceptance.

“Hit me- do something- anything. I could have killed you. You would’ve died in this fucking basement under me-”

“I didn’t think you would.”

Reaching up, you cupped his jaw. The lacklustre strength made him sick, and you smoothed your thumb over his skin. “You didn’t think- you bet your life on a concept. Do you have any idea how idiotic that is? If I held on for even a minute longer, your brain would have begun shutting down. I would’ve violated you, then turned you into a fucking corpse.” He spat, lip curling up, and your reply had him scoffing.

“But you didn’t.” You sounded so sure. So absolute in your resolve- in your faith in him. It confused him as much as it angered him.

“You keep trying to convince me you’re this terrible beast, when you’re not. Every time you’ve done something, you break down. I know you’re not cruel. You just pretend you are because you think you have to be.”

He grit his teeth, letting his head sag to avoid your eyes. He stared at the center of your ribs, sockets flickering over the bruises and cuts. “Your belief in me is foolish. You should hate me.” Muttering with disdain, you raised his head, your palms on his cheeks. “But I don’t.” You whispered carefully. Searching his face and far too patient.

“You’ll get hurt.”

“We have Band-Aids.”

“It’ll ruin you. I’ll leave you starved.”

“Then I’ll come to you full.”

Your trust was agonizing. A string garden, woven together with glass thread, and devotion so pure it could only be born of something wrong. He drew a measured breath, resting his forehead on yours. “You make this more difficult than it has to be.” And you hummed, "Not if you stay.” Kissing him slowly, you took your time.

With your lips fitting together, you could pinpoint exactly when he gave in. A jar too full, each colourful marble hits the glass until it stacks to the top. The weight of it makes the container lean toward the edge of the shelf. You ran your fingers through his hair, unravelling the knots. Whining softly when his hips pull back.

Jack rutted into you, the base of him grinding onto your clit. He angled his maw to the right, savouring you without rush. The jar inches closer to the ledge, sliding a fraction. His tempo was painstakingly tender, and the warmth of it drowned you. “Ah- c-can feel you in my stomach.” You clawed at his shoulders, lids drooping.

A muted clink, and the thing sways a bit. He nuzzles your throat, rasping a defeated chuckle. “I should’ve warned you. Forgive me, little dove.” The petname has you swooning, making you cling to him. Pupils dilated when he pecked the corner of your mouth. The glass balances by a hair's breadth.

Your cunt twitches around him, plush and velvet-like. His jaw fell slack as he built speed. Hand sliding into yours before he entwines your fingers on the table. A sharp thrust, and your lips part, forming an O while your spine lifts. It topples over, shattering on the floor with the beads scattering vibrantly. “Please-” Slurring, he soothes you, affection bleeding in.

“I know, I’m here.” His cock pulsed inside your tunnel. Throbbing with need when you clenched down. He hissed, giving your smaller palm a squeeze. His claws were digging into the steel, an attempt not to harm you more than he already had. The metal below you fogged, and you tugged at his scalp. “Ngh- so good. You make me feel so s’good.” Your praise sent him reeling.

The med-bay was silent aside from your hushed moans and the sticky sound of skin on skin. Bodies moving in tandem, he thrusted in again and again. Picking up the pace with a grunt. “You don’t know what you do to me.” Then he hauled you off the surface. Bracing you by the waist, his talons dug into your ass. Reclining to full height when he started bouncing you.

Jack moved you like you were weightless. Unearthly strength that he used to sink you up and down. The added gravity had him knocking into your cervix, forcing pitchy moans to echo off the walls. He panted, “You have no idea how many times- haah fuck- I’ve thought of filling you-” Bucking up into your pussy, you left wet kisses along his jaw.

He was so fucking deep, a dizzying stretch, and your eyes crossed. Repeating his name like scripture while you came. The slick gushed out of you messily, drenching his abs and thighs. “So sensitive.” He cooed, fucking you through your orgasm. Following close behind when he slammed you onto his cock, once, twice more, before he spilled hotly.

Painting your insides white with a groan, he stepped across the room. Tugging you off, then twisting you to face the wall. His length slid back in instantly, and you arched into him. Spine forming a semi-circle as he snapped his hips forward.

The squelch of your cunt was embarrassingly loud, yet it did nothing but fuel his appetence. He grabbed your waist as leverage, jerking your frame to meet his rhythm. The friction of his balls slapping against your puffy bud made you collapse into cement, and you mewled. “Ah- ah- hah-” Drooling with your tongue lolling out of your mouth.

Your feet were lifted off the ground by his hold. On your toes, when he breaches your entrance to the hilt. The impact of his thrusts rippled through you. Pelting into the smooth surface under your palms and rattling the shelves. All his equipment, his tools and apparatus- clanked together. The glass clashing before whipping off the ledge.

The once pristine lab was an utter mess. Claw marks streaked the wall, dented into metal with blood trailing the floors. A ritual sight, where he bound you to him by essence and matter. Drawing release after release, splitting you in half until your pussy took his shape. Until your body would remember him by touch alone.

In the dead of night, when you were blind, lost at sea. When the North Star had failed to guide you, and your heart was shrieking with fear. You would call for—

“Jack!”

A gasp that made him zero in on your connection. His length was drenched, glistening with your arousal. It pumped in and out repeatedly, pummelling past the tight ring of muscle. Your hole had been overstuffed, oozing his seed with every plough. Obscenely pouring down your legs, gathering in a sticky puddle by his boots. He scrunched his lids shut.

Beating your cunt like he was mad at it, he splurted inside you. “Good girl.” Rumbling low enough to send you over the edge. You convulsed, crying out when he stilled. However, your peace was short-lived- because the man immediately spun you around.

Snagging your thigh in a large talon, he hauled the limb up. Hooking your knee over the crook of his elbow, then steadying you by the hip. He nudged in balls deep, and you sobbed. Nerve endings on fire while your other leg was basically dead weight. You scratched at his biceps, leaving shallow streaks. “Too much- I can’t think-”

Your blunt nails dug into grey, and he struck your sweet spot with a sniper's accuracy. Hammering into your bloated tummy over and over. You thought you were going to explode.

It was so much, devouring your senses like a wildfire. Every vein, every ridge, and pulse of his cock dragged against your walls as he continued to plunge. You could feel it all, oversensitive to hell and back. Jack was unyielding, tunnel-visioned on making sure it stuck. The pent-up need had possessed him; he wanted your mind rewritten.

Snarl akin to an animal- he grinded harshly. Baring teeth. “You’re mine.” His claw clamped down hard enough to bruise. “Mine to break-” The lines in his neck tensed, shoulders heaving. “Mine to corrupt-” You shuddered; his engorged cockhead was smearing too deeply. Fitting snug with no room to even breathe. “Mine to breed.” He drove his hips forward, and you saw white.

The cannibal bent had you in tears for hours on hours. Bending you in every position possible, he fucked you in ways you could barely comprehend.

Folding you over the table again, locking you in place with a heavy palm on your spine. He pounded you from the back, leaving welts on the fat of your ass. “Begging for more when you’re bleeding from the stretch. Where’s your dignity, courier?” Kicking your stance wider when you moaned.

He hung you upside down. Tongues expanding, guzzling your squirting cunt. He held you with a hand gripping your thigh and the other on your head. “Don’t pass out- you want to impress me, don’t you? Give me something worth keeping.” Using your throat while you clutched desperately at his legs, your ears ringing.

Then, Jack took you on the floor. Pelvis thwacking against your folds as you hiccuped. “Uh- uh- s’too good- ‘m gonna’ die-” He snickered, cruel and mocking. “What a mouthy lamb, I have.” Spearing you on his girth, you raked your nails down his back. Clawing his flesh, thrashing vigorously. He healed you like a saint and fucked you like the morning star.

You could barely move by the time he was done. Limbs buzzing with exhaustion, and your head heavier than tungsten. He hissed upon slipping out, meticulous of your state. “Apologies, I should have been more wary of your limits.” Mumbling quietly, his arms cocooned your limp form. Uprooting you from the concrete.

He carried you past the curtain near the back of the basement. Padding to the small washroom, you were gently placed on the bathtub's ledge. “I don’t think I can walk.” Teasing him while he stripped both of you. He shook his head in response, guilty. “You will be sore tomorrow, but I have ointments for your wounds.” The shower was turned on, and he helped you in.

It felt good under the spray, the warm water easing the sting. You circled your hold around his middle, and he hummed. Carefully washing the grime from your skin after discarding the old bandages. “Pretty romantic for a guy who supposedly hates touching.” You joked, resting your chin on his pec.

It seemed to fluster him, making his pointed ears tint with blue. “Enough.” An almost-pout, and he grabbed the shower head behind you, rinsing the cuts on your back. If you were a better person, you’d leave it at that. Let the poor man rest after all that turmoil. Alas, you weren’t, so you snorted instead.

“This better mean we’re official- ‘cause I don’t do one-night stands.”

“How you have the energy to be coy is beyond me.”

Monotone, yet the way he kissed your damp forehead after told you enough. He cleaned your bodies swiftly, finishing the task with medical precision. You were dried off with a fluffy towel, he’d left the room to bring you a new one and everything. Then he patched you up as promised. Transporting you between the med-bay and his sleeping area efficiently.

A solid twenty-minutes later, you were settled against his pillows. Watching him rummage around before you reached for him. “Cuddle.” Demanding with grabby hands, he agreed despite himself. “Are you thirsty?” Taking a seat next to you. He’d dressed you in an old T-shirt, covering your bottoms with the smallest pair of boxers he owned.

Low-hanging sweats at his hips, he was bare from the waist up, and you crawled onto him. Perched on his lap. “A little, but you didn’t answer me earlier.” You slumped forward, arms around his neck. It made him sigh. “You’re the strangest human I’ve ever met.” Tracing shapes onto your thighs, his hesitation wasn’t unnoticed.

Even if he was cautious for the rest of your days, there was still a risk. A danger that came with being around him. Though you were insistent on your view of him, refusing to back down.

“You bit me and said I was yours. Specifically, that I was yours to break, yours to breed-” And he threw an arm over his eyes. “Oh, gods.”

Post-nut clarity had hit him, the embarrassment kicking in quickly. You giggled. “No- no, it was hot, I liked it. Jack-” The groan he let out resonated through the entire room, and he dragged his claw over his face. Peering at you from between his fingers. “I got... carried away.” Cringing while you pecked his knuckles.

“Did you mean it? Like- y’know.” His hand descended, then he cupped your cheek. Memorizing your features, the vulnerability in your gaze- he exhaled as if he’d made a life or death decision. “Yes, I did.” A confession that fractured him more than you’d ever know, and you pressed your lips to his. Parting from him after a second.

You were determined to rid him of any excess worry. Your plan of action? Tooth-rotting affection. It was the obvious choice; he was right there. Completely unguarded, appearing very boyfriend material, you couldn’t not.

It started with a kiss to his nose, one to his jaw, then another to his brow. You trailed all over his face, leaving no stone unturned. And when you pulled back, Jack looked dazed. Sockets drooping, with an undeniable amour to his expression. “Mm.” He grumbled mutely, shying away by burrowing his head into your shoulder.

For someone so big, he curled into you like he was tiny. Clinging to you, he slid his palms under your shirt, sniffing a little. The closeness was addictive, and he basked in it.

Enjoying your scent, your warmth and intimacy. One achingly soft- saccharine moment of solace, before you spoke.

“I know you like the way I smell-”

“I beg of you.”

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

The aged wood creaked beneath his feet.

After you’d persuaded him to snuggle with you a bit longer, he ascended the lab stairs. Not bothering to throw on a shirt since it was nearly four in the morning.

While the proxies didn’t have good sleeping schedules by any means, they were always cooped up in their rooms. It should’ve been a brisk trip to fetch you water.

Emphasis on should’ve

Because just as he filled the glass, with the tap sputtering to life- a tell-tale snap sounded from behind him. Followed by a bright flash and a hushed “Oh my god.” He turned to see exactly who he thought he’d see. Ben.

Standing in plaid pyjama pants at the kitchen entrance, he had a palm slapped over his mouth, phone in hand. “Is she alive?” He stared at the cannibal with astonishment, flipping the phone around.

There, on the screen, was a picture of Jack. His back was covered in scratches, from the divots of his shoulders to his triceps.

However, much to the other resident’s dismay, he showed no reaction. “She’s fine.” Bluntly stated, before he shut off the faucet. Walking past him, the elf clicked his tongue. “We kinda’ thought it was over for all of us when you were down there- but I mean! Like- shit, congrats.”

Giving him an awkward thumbs up, it was evident that Jack’s presence still had him on edge, and he scurried off in a blink.

Though the interaction had been mundane, expected even, his words stuck. Just what in the world was Ben talking about?

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Earlier ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ -> ->

Approximately 9:45 PM Central Eastern Time.

They had gathered in the main room to lounge. Snacking on whatever they could find and putting on something interesting to watch- when suddenly, a force shuddered the manor. It rattled the ceiling beams, making dust waft into the air.

“The fuck?” Jeff mumbled, mid-chew, with his hand wrist deep in a chip bag. Spinning a blade with the other.

The group brushed it off as house noises, only for another bang to reverberate through the floors. Then another, and another, and another—

Toby, Masky and Hoodie had been sent on a job. So it couldn’t be the brunette trashing a room, Tim testing a new gun, or Brian fixing his truck. The next obvious choice would be LJ, except he was sitting in the love seat. There was no one else, and the boss was definitely not the answer.

The proxies were at a standstill, shooting each other curious looks, before Nina shot up. “Wait! Isn’t the messenger getting a check-up?”

A beat of silence as her words sank in, and the group erupted in scandalized gasps. The snack had fallen from Jeff’s lap, with LJ bordering a screech. “Oh heavens! You don’t think-?”

Ben replied aghast. “I mean, I knew they had tension, but holy shit- the whole house?” His tone made Jeff cackle, and he slammed his knife into the chair’s arm.

“Genuinely praying for her fucking pussy. Have you seen the guy? He’s gonna’ kill ‘er whether he wants to or not at this rate.” Immediately pulling out his phone to text his mysterious lover, Nina's eyes were bright.

“Ugh, their size difference.” Sighing wistfully, she clutched her hands to her chest while Ben scoffed in disbelief. “’Kay, this is great and all- but isn’t she human?-” Getting cut off by a loud crash coming from the basement.

It sounded like EJ and their messenger were either having the most insane sex to ever happen, or you were fighting for your life.

Nina hummed, freezing for a second, then huffing. “... Okay, but he’s in love with her. You literally said that!” To which the elf refuted with a passionate, “Bro- I want them to work. It’s just that EJ’s stroke game is about to collapse our house. Our house, Nina.” Exasperatedly throwing up his hands, she crossed her arms.

“You’re a fake shipper.”

“I am not! I’m literally the only reason you know about them-”

“Shit, what if he actually takes her out? Death by dick is fucked up.”

“Well, I’m choosing to believe our medic is simply a very, very passionate lover—”

➽──────────────❥

➽──────────────❥

So are dingy diner breakfasts. And full packs of cigarettes. And, most importantly—

Coffee.

Some days, the proxies could afford to splurge on a pack of Marlboro 47’s instead of the chalky Sonoma’s that constantly clouded their lungs.

And, god, what Masky wouldn’t give to have one of those filters sitting between his teeth right now.

Instead, he’s huddled in the passenger seat of their rusting pickup, fog curling on the inside of the windshield and moisture creeping through the seams of his gloves. The heater gave up somewhere outside of the interstate. The storm started maybe twenty minutes after that. Wet, heavy, and endless. It was just past sunset now, the last fragments of day holding on between the rows of pine trees. The windshield wipers made a soft chk-chk sound as the rain pelted the truck in rhythmic sheets, casting streaks of grey across the glass. The headlights cut through fog like a dull blade, barely illuminating the sign ahead: Hollow Pines Motel—a crooked “O” flickering like a stuttering heartbeat.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Masky muttered, voice low, rasped from disuse and days-old cigarette damage.

Hoodie, hands still on the wheel, squinted out into the rain. His soaked hood clung to his neck, the fabric stiff with damp. He hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour, not since they passed the blown-out gas station miles back, but now he nodded toward the structure. “It’s this or another two hours in this storm. But it’s starting to get rough, I can hardly see.”

You shifted in the back seat, body sore and stiff from being crammed in with gear and backpacks. “I’m not sleeping in this car again,” you said quietly. “I’d rather break into the motel laundry room and curl up in a dryer.”

Masky grunted something that might’ve been a laugh. Hoodie turned the wheel with a slow exhale and pulled into the lot, tires hissing over slick pavement. The neon vacancy sign buzzed weakly overhead like it was embarrassed to still be working. The three of you sat for a second in the silence. The kind of silence that comes from exhaustion that goes bone-deep. Hoodie shut off the engine, the low rumbling sputtering to a stop, steam wafting into the cold air.

“Christ.” Masky shoved open the passenger door, the wind snatching it like it was trying to pull him out. “You see the price?” he asked, yanking his coat tighter around his chest as he leaned into the rain to check the window near the front office. You all hauled your backpacks and loose gear into your arms, making sure to grab the pistols that were haphazardly shoved onto the console.

Hoodie was already out of the car too, stepping around the front with that slow, silent way he had. You followed them, boots sloshing in ankle-deep puddles.

Masky tapped the dusty glass of the check-in window. “Hundred bucks a night,” he confirmed.

You scoffed. “For a mattress that probably smells like piss and black mold.”

“Luxury accommodations,” Masky muttered.

Hoodie didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head toward the back lot, already making his way around the side of the building without waiting for a vote. You and Masky exchanged a glance—his eyes just barely visible behind his mask, shadowed and unreadable—before following.

The back of the motel was unlit, the shadows hugging the cracked stucco and chipped siding. The storm covered your movements well; even if there were cameras, the rain was so thick it blurred everything. Your boots slipped once in the mud, but you caught yourself on the siding. Hoodie was already crouched by one of the doors, gloved fingers working at the cheap lock with a bent nail file and a bit of force.

You leaned close, your voice barely above the wind. “You always this good at B&E, or is this just desperation?”

He glanced up at you, a little smirk twitching behind his balaclava. “You doubt me?”

“No,” you said. “Just surprised. Figured Masky was the one who played with locks.”

“I break things,” Masky replied from behind you. “Not finesse. That’s his job.”

The lock gave with a sharp clack and Hoodie stood, pushing the door open slowly. You all slipped inside like shadows. 

It was dark—no surprise—but you flicked on the wall switch, half-expecting nothing to happen. A single yellow bulb buzzed to life. The room was small, boxy, and smelled like mildew and cheap cleaner, the scent already soaked into the fake wood paneling and shag carpet. A dresser sat crooked against the far wall, one drawer missing. There was a tiny bathroom tucked to the left, door already ajar.

And there, smack in the middle of the room, was a single queen-sized bed.

The three of you stood there, dripping, steaming slightly from the sudden warmth of the heater kicking on. There was silence for a long moment, just staring at the ugly quilt bedding and the thin headboard.

“…Shit,” Masky said under his breath, breaking the tension.

You blinked slowly, peering around like maybe there’d be a cot hidden in the closet. No dice. “Well,” you said, unstrapping your gear. “At least it’s not the car.”

Hoodie dropped his bag with a soft thump. “I’ll take the floor.”

“You’ll freeze your spine into the carpet,” you muttered, shrugging off your coat. The boys pulled off their masks, wind-bitten ears and scowls now easily viewable. “We’ve all slept shoulder-to-shoulder in worse places. It’s fine.”

Masky huffed, peeling off his gloves and shaking out his sleeves. “Yeah, but this time I’ll have your elbow in my kidney.”

You smirked faintly and tossed him a dry shirt from your pack. “Then don’t sleep on the edge.”

“Not your call. I’m not sleeping between you two.”

The storm outside cracked louder now, wind howling through the gaps in the warped window frame. Hoodie knelt by the heater and fiddled with the dial. “It’s gonna get colder.”

“I’ll still hide in that dryer if I have to,” you replied, rubbing your arms.

Masky eyed the bed again, exhaling slowly through his nose. “You take the middle, then. I don’t want to wake up to your cold feet on my back.”

“Deal,” you said, without hesitation. “But if either of you snores, I swear I’m rolling off the bed and letting the carpet bugs have me.”

Masky shook his head, half a laugh slipping out. “We’ve slept next to corpses, and you’re worried about snoring?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. I deserve peace after that.”

Your joints ached from the cold, and your socks squelched as you peeled them off near the foot of the bed. The idea of crawling in without cleaning off three days of dirt, sweat, and blood made your skin crawl. You grabbed your pack and slung it over your shoulder, dragging it toward the bathroom.

“I’m showering,” you announced, not waiting for approval. “If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, assume I’ve been consumed by mold.”

Masky raised a brow behind his cracked mask. “If the water’s hot, leave me some.”

“If it’s hot, I’m never coming out.”

You slammed the door shut behind you with your hip.

The bathroom light flickered, then steadied. It smelled like damp towels and lemon-scented cleaner that hadn’t touched a surface in years. The mirror was warped, streaked with time, and the tiled floor was a patchwork of mismatched squares, some missing entirely. You dropped your pack, stripping out of your gear with heavy, sluggish movements. Clothes hit the tile with a wet smack.

The water knobs were stiff. You wrestled with them until the pipes coughed to life, sputtering brown water for three full seconds before clearing into a thin, pitiful stream of heat.

It was glorious.

You didn’t even care that the pressure was weak or that the water smelled faintly like iron. You stood under it until the chill started to lift from your bones, your fingers red from scrubbing grime out of your hair. The shampoo from your travel kit barely lathered, but it was enough. Just enough to feel human for a moment.

When you finally stepped out, towel slung around your chest and hair dripping down your back, the small mirror was fogged over. You swiped your hand across it and stared at yourself. Hollow-eyed. Pale. Tired.

But still living.

You dressed fast—baggy shirt, clean sweats, and thick socks—and stepped out into the main room again.

“Bathroom’s yours,” you said, tossing your towel toward the radiator to dry. “If you want a shower before we all start reeking like death.”

Masky looked up from where he was pulling the dresser away from the wall. “You sayin’ I smell?”

“I’m saying we all do. But I’m starting with you.”

He snorted and grabbed his own bag. “Fine. Brian, you go after me.”

Hoodie gave a small nod from where he was sitting wide-legged on the foot of the bed, unpacking a crushed protein bar and flipping a knife lazily in his other hand.

The bathroom door didn’t quite latch all the way when Masky shut it behind him. The rattle of the fan and the sound of the shower pipes starting up again filled the room. Steam already began to curl out into the room.

You pulled your legs up onto the bed, leaning against the headboard beside Hoodie. “You think it’s gonna keep raining?”

He nodded once. “For a while. Pressure’s low. Wind’s picking up, too.”

“We’re a good three hours out from the mansion with clear roads. Storm like this?” You looked toward the window. “Could trap us here.”

Hoodie didn’t look concerned. Just thoughtful. “We have supplies for two more days. After that, we’ll need to hit a gas station or raid a rest stop.”

Masky’s voice echoed faintly from the shower. “We shoulda taken that turnoff by Route 16. I told you the forest line was too flooded.”

You called back, “Yeah? And then we’d be stuck in that ravine with the blown bridge.”

“I still say we’d have made better time!”

The pipes groaned as Masky shut off the water. You heard the sharp snap of a towel and the thunk of the cabinet door being yanked open. A second later, he stepped back into the room wearing black sweats and a Yale shirt he stole from a thrift store, towel hanging around his neck.

“Enjoy your mold bath?” you asked.

“Best bath I’ve had all week,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. He was still a little flushed from the heat. “Your turn.”

Hoodie stood and passed you a granola bar from the floor. “If I’m not back in ten, assume I fell through the shower tile.”

“Then I’m keeping your coat,” you said, biting into the bar. He smirked faintly and stepped into the bathroom, the door left cracked open again.

Masky sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, closing Hoodie’s open knife and tossing it across the room with a thud. “We need to barricade the door,” he muttered. “Just in case.”

You nodded, chewing. “Already thought of it. That dresser looks like it wants to collapse under its own weight though.”

“Then we collapse it into the door. Makes it heavier.”

You both got up and hauled the thing across the carpet. The drawers creaked and sagged, one half-falling out, but the bulk of it pressed up solid against the door. Masky shoved a chair into place behind it just for good measure. “That’ll buy us time if someone gets suspicious,” he muttered.

You gave it a solid knock. “Better than nothing.”

The sound of Hoodie’s voice floated from the bathroom. “If the dresser doesn’t hold, we’ll hear it. But we should sleep light.”

Masky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I always do.”

You sat back on the bed again, rubbing at your sore neck. “This whole thing—getting cut off from the trails, missing the rendezvous… it felt off.”

Masky’s eyes flicked toward you. “You think we were set up?”

“No. Just… something’s been off since the last drop point. Toby didn’t meet us. The codes we found were weeks old. And the mansion’s been radio silent.”

Steam spilled out of the bathroom as Hoodie stepped back into the room, hair damp, sweatshirt sleeves rolled up with his baggy shorts. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now we need rest.”

Masky grumbled, but nodded. You looked at the bed. Then at the two men standing near it.

“…This is gonna be cozy.”

Masky sighed, rubbing his face. “Don’t steal the covers.”

You plopped facedown in the middle of the mattress with a groan loud enough to rattle the springs beneath you.

“Kill me,” you muttered into the pillow. “Actually kill me.”

“We’d have to move your body,” Masky grunted.

“But then there’d be more room on the bed,” Hoodie added, his voice dry as the towel he tossed onto the footboard.

“Assholes.”

The mattress dipped as Hoodie moved first, reaching across you to shut off the lightswitch. The room was immediately swallowed in darkness, save for the flicker… flicker… buzz of the red neon sign outside the window. The words VACANCY pulsed through the cheap curtains, casting long, broken shadows across the cracked ceiling. It painted the room in hellish slices of red and black, over and over again, like a warning no one wanted to heed. Wind howled outside, and the storm pushed against the walls like a living thing, the door hinges creaking.

The floorboards creaked under Masky’s weight as he climbed in, shoving your legs with his knee. “Move over.”

“I’m in the middle,” you hissed. “You move over.”

“You agreed to the middle, idiot. That means you suffer.”

“Not my fault you both smell like a wet barn.”

Hoodie wordlessly climbed in on your other side, tugging the blanket halfway across himself and accidentally yanking it off your shoulder.

“Dude—! I just got warm!”

“Share,” he said simply.

You groaned again and tried to burrow under the half-flattened pillow. The mattress bowed toward the center, the way cheap ones always do, and the weight of both of them on either side left you trapped in a warm, squashed human sandwich.

“Your knee is in my back,” you grunted, trying to shift.

“Your elbow’s in my ribs.”

“Your foot is on my ass.”

“Should’ve slept on the floor,” Masky muttered.

Hoodie huffed beside you, and you felt the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. “Should’ve stolen a second room.”

“Would’ve been too risky,” you deadpanned.

Silence followed, except for the storm and the buzzing hum of the neon. Rain hit the windows like coins flung from the sky. Somewhere, metal creaked—maybe a sign coming loose in the wind. Every so often thunder rumbled, deep and low, followed by the sharp crack of lightning that lit the room up in stark, stuttering white.

You blinked slowly, staring at the ugly floral wallpaper that danced in flickering red.

“…I hate this,” you whispered.

Masky shifted beside you. “We’re not built for comfort.”

“No shit.”

No one spoke after that. The warmth of the bed was stifling and too hot on one side, too cold on the other. Someone’s arm was pressing into your shoulder blade. The mattress springs popped and squeaked every time one of you breathed too hard. But it was warm. And dry. And no one was bleeding out.

So it was enough.

You felt Hoodie exhale, his hand resting somewhere behind your shoulder. Masky’s breathing slowed on the other side, steady and deep.

The three of you, wedged together like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit, surrounded by motel rot, bad weather, and the hum of neon that never shut off. And still, somehow—somehow—you felt safer than you had in days.

Not comfortable. Not relaxed. But safe. Warm. Alive.

And that was all you needed.

── .✦

The cold woke you.

Not gently, either—rudely.

The kind of cold that slid under your clothes and coiled around your spine, setting your teeth on edge before your mind was even fully awake. The kind of cold that made your breath puff visible in the dark.

You cracked your eyes open and blinked slowly, vision fuzzy from sleep. The neon still pulsed through the flimsy curtains—VACANCY, VACANCY, over and over like a heartbeat. But the air in the room had shifted.

Frigid. Still. Dead.

You shifted, trying to burrow deeper into the blanket, but it didn’t help. The sheets were icy and clammy now, the warmth from earlier long since bled out. Even sandwiched between the boys, your body was curled in tight with shivers that refused to stop.

Your feet ached. Your fingers were numb. You muttered something like a curse and extended your leg under the covers, kicking sharply into Hoodie’s shin. He stirred with a grunt.

Another kick. “Wake up,” you hissed through chattering teeth. “It’s freezing.”

He groaned and rolled halfway toward you. “You woke me up to complain?”

“No, I woke you up to fix it,” you growled. “The heater’s dead.”

He sighed, sitting up stiffly and rubbing his hands over his face. “Storm probably knocked something out. I’ll check.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric and blankets as he swung his legs off the bed. His feet hit the carpet with a dull thud. The air in the room was colder near the floor, and he muttered under his breath as he shuffled over to the ancient heating unit mounted below the window. You watched the silhouette of his body crouch in front of it.

Silence.

Then the sharp click-click-click of him toggling the controls.

Nothing.

“Anything?” you croaked, curling tighter.

He tried again. Click. Click. The machine made a low, sad whine and then gave up. “…It’s dead,” he said flatly.

Masky stirred beside you with a low groan. “Why the fuck are we talking.”

“Power’s out,” Hoodie answered, crossing the room and flipping the light switch. Nothing. No hum. No buzz. Just dark. “No lights. No heat.”

Masky grunted and buried his face deeper into the pillow. “Put on more layers.”

“I’d rather die,” you snapped.

“You will if you don’t move.”

But moving felt impossible. Every inch of your body throbbed from the chill, and even the thought of peeling back the blanket made your stomach twist with dread. You stayed still for a few seconds longer, limbs curled in, jaw clenched.

Then, against your better judgment, you did something stupid.

You turned over. And scooted forward.

Masky tensed as your frozen hands pressed against his back under the blanket.

“…Seriously?” he grumbled.

“I’m cold,” you whispered. “You’re warm. Shut up.”

“I’m not your personal space heater—”

“You are now.”

Before he could throw you off, you looked up toward the edge of the bed, toward Hoodie’s silhouette against the dim glow from the window. “You too. Come back.”

He hesitated for a beat—silent, unreadable.

Then, wordlessly, Hoodie climbed back into the bed and pressed in behind you, dragging the blanket back over your shoulders. His legs bumped into yours, cold against cold, but he wrapped one arm around your middle and flattened his chest to your back, sharing what little heat he had left.

“Fucking freezing,” he mumbled, breath curling hot against your neck.

“I told you,” you muttered.

Masky sighed like this was the single worst night of his life, but didn’t push you off. Instead, he rolled over to face you, adjusting just enough to tuck your frigid hands between his stomach and forearm, cursing under his breath when your fingertips touched bare skin.

The three of you laid there in stiff, half-defensive silence for a long moment—too aware of one another, too cold to care. The storm outside roared like it was clawing at the world, tearing through trees and battering the roof. Thunder cracked sharp again—too close this time—and you jumped a little, instinctively pressing back into the warmth behind you.

Hoodie didn’t move.

He was right up against your spine now, chest rising and falling slow and steady. One arm was still slung over your waist, hand resting on the curve of your hip. You thought he was asleep—until you felt it.

A small shift. A breath. Warm, humid, and far too close.

He was nuzzling against your shoulder without even realizing it, the scratch of his stubble catching your skin as his nose brushed against your shoulder. The blanket shifted with him as he exhaled, slow and hot right into the crook of your neck.

You twitched slightly, uncomfortable and hyperaware. “Hoodie,” you grumbled under your breath.

“Shut up,” Masky said against you, voice muffled as he turned his face into the thin pillow. “If he’s warm, let him be.”

“I’m not a heating pad.”

“You sure? You’re stiff enough to be one. Quit being a hypocrite.”

You let out a quiet, tired groan, but didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Didn’t want to, maybe. You weren’t sure anymore. Every inch of you was sore and freezing, but now you were also simmering—the kind of heat that came from nerves, not temperature.

Because Hoodie didn’t move away. Not after you spoke. If anything… he moved closer. His hand flexed gently on your hip, fingers brushing up under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. Not in a purposeful way. Not even in a bold way. Just enough to make you feel it.

The heat of his palm. The silence between you. Your only saving grace against the awkwardness was the thundering rain to drown out your thoughts.

Masky shifted against you—closer. One leg hooked loosely over yours, tangling the blankets further, his knee brushing your thigh.

Your body tensed between them, caught in a coil of limbs and heat and quiet desperation to stay warm—except the room wasn’t cold anymore. Not even a little. You weren’t sure when the switch had happened. The heater was still off, but you didn’t think you’d need it anymore.

Maybe it was when Masky’s hand found your waist from the front, nudging Hoodie’s out of the way without a word. His knuckles dragged just below your ribs, resting on the dip of your waist. A sharp inhale rose in your throat, but you swallowed it back down. Then Hoodie’s hand moved—slow and steady—up your side, pushing the thin fabric of your shirt with it.

You let out the softest breath, barely audible, and immediately regretted it.

Because now? Now they both noticed.

Masky shifted again, his chest pressed against yours like he was trying to claim ground that Hoodie hadn’t gotten to yet. His hand stayed still—but the weight of it, the heat of it, was unmistakable.

“…We’re just trying to stay warm,” you mumbled, not sure if it was for them or for yourself.

“Right,” Hoodie murmured, voice lower now. Too low. Too quiet. Like he didn’t believe it either.

And yet, no one stopped.

Fingertips brushed skin in places they shouldn’t. Legs shifted and tangled until there was no telling whose was whose. Every exhale felt heavy. Every heartbeat, louder.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t even if you tried. Their breath was all around you now. Warm and slow and steady. Masky’s hand curled more fully onto your hip, hoodie’s fingertips resting dangerously at the edge of your ribcage.

Just trying to stay warm. Just trying to sleep. But none of you were sleeping. Not anymore.

The tension was palpable, like a low hum in the walls, crawling under your skin and pressing into your ribcage with every too-slow breath and unprovoked rub of Hoodie’s fingers. Not a single one of you had moved significantly in the last five minutes—but everything had shifted.

No one was breathing the same.

Masky’s hand was still on your hip, but his thumb now idly rubbed soft, small circles against your skin. Careless. Casual. Like it meant nothing. Like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. Except he was and you knew it.

And Hoodie’s hand? It was still resting against your side, fingers splayed just beneath the curve of your ribs. But his index finger kept twitching, tracing back and forth along the dip of your waist like he was memorizing it.

Not moving. Not groping. Not grabbing. Just there. There and not leaving. No one said a word.

The storm screamed outside—lightning strobing against the walls through the curtains, thunder slamming across the motel like a threat. But inside, the only thing louder than the weather was the silence. Heavy. Electric.

You swallowed thickly and shifted your hips slightly, just trying to get comfortable, but the second you did—

They both reacted. A small jerk from Hoodie’s side, as if startled. Masky’s hand tightening ever so slightly around your waist. And still—still—none of you spoke.

You could feel the heat building between your bodies, not just from physical closeness anymore, but from the constant, crawling knowledge that this was intentional. No one was pretending to sleep now. You could feel them thinking. You could hear them thinking. They were doing the same thing you were—holding their breath, trying to pretend they weren’t slowly, deliberately letting their hands wander. Acting like they were coy. Like none of this was deliberate. Like it was just… staying warm. It was. Sort of.

Your heart thudded too hard in your chest. You couldn’t breathe right anymore. Not with Hoodie’s breath now ghosting along your neck. Not with Masky’s fingers inching just a little lower, like he was daring himself.

Like he was waiting for a reason to stop. Or to keep going. The silence was unbearable again.

So you broke it.

“Y’know,” you said, voice a little too dry, “if you two are gonna feel me up, the least you could do is buy me coffee first.”

It hit the air like a lit match.

Masky let out a snort. Hoodie groaned and let his head fall forward against your shoulder, body shaking with quiet laughter. The tension cracked—not shattered, not gone—but enough to breathe again. Enough for everyone to get a second wind.

“Jesus Christ,” Masky muttered, dragging a hand down his face and rubbing at his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to toss your smartass off this bed.”

You grinned, even as his hand slid off your stomach, Hoodie’s following just after. They pulled back, barely, the air chilling where their hands had been. You rolled onto your back, staring up at the oddly colored ceiling.

“Relax,” Hoodie said, rubbing his palms against his chest like he was trying to wake up, trying to calm the sudden thrum of energy vibrating through all of you. “I wasn’t— we weren’t—shit, I don’t even know anymore.”

“No?” you said, voice lower now. “’Cause it felt like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

They went quiet again, for half a second. You reached out, grabbing both of their hands before they could retreat too far. Your fingers wrapped around their wrists, firm but not desperate.

“I said I was cold,” you murmured, “not that it was an invitation to leave.” Then you tilted your head, gave the smallest smile. “But if we’re gonna keep pretending this wasn’t happening—if we’re gonna lie to ourselves—then just go ahead. Crawl back under the covers. Sleep real close. Shake and sweat it out and pretend it’s the cold again. But I think you two know exactly what you want.”

That did it.

Masky’s eyes snapped to yours, sharp beneath the shadows of the room. Hoodie swallowed hard, his hand curling tighter into the fabric of his sweatshirt. You felt your pulse everywhere.

“If you’re gonna do this…” you said, quieter now, the storm filling in the background like it was listening, “then fuck it.” 

Your voice didn’t shake. “Do it.”

They didn’t wait. Hoodie moved first—he always did, once the hesitation cracked. He shifted back down, fingers sliding under your shirt with intent this time, not caution. His mouth found your neck before you could process how close he’d gotten, hot breath skating over your skin, lips brushing just under your jaw. Masky’s hands were on your waist again in an instant, pulling you toward him even as Hoodie leaned in from behind. They moved in tandem—without speaking, without planning—like they’d done this before, like they knew how to move together.

Like this was just another kind of mission.

Your shirt rode up as Hoodie’s fingers pushed higher, his teeth scraping your throat just enough to make your breath catch. A laugh slipped out, barely held in—half nerves, half disbelief.

“Still cold?” Masky murmured, voice low and husky near your ear.

You shook your head—because you weren’t. But not for the same reasons anymore. Masky’s hand spread flat against your stomach, fingers dragging upward, slow and deliberate. His mouth found your jaw, a low breath brushing your skin just before he murmured, “You sure about this?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

That was all they needed.

Hoodie’s fingers curled at your hip as he shifted behind you, one leg sliding between yours for leverage as his lips dragged heat up your neck. He didn’t kiss—not really. Just breathed, lips parted against your skin like he was trying to memorize your pulse.

Masky leaned in closer from the front, your bodies flush now, every part of you wrapped in them. His nose brushed yours as he looked down, searching your face, checking for hesitation—but there was none.

Not from you. Not from them. Only hunger. Only need.

He tilted his head and kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate. Not at first. It was careful, like he was trying to figure out just how far he could push you—how much you’d give, how much you wanted to be taken. Your lips parted, and he took that as permission to deepen it, his hand splaying wide across your back to pull you closer. You gripped onto his shirt, clawing at the fabric and the hot skin underneath.

Hoodie’s hand moved too—traveling up your spine under your shirt, the calluses on his fingers dragging sparks in their wake. You arched between them instinctively, and they both reacted like it was planned. Like they knew each other’s rhythm. Like they’d always known how to share.

You gasped as Masky bit gently at your bottom lip, Hoodie’s teeth following suit at your shoulder, syncing up without a single word. The world narrowed to touch and breath and heat, to the way your body trembled, not from cold anymore but from the overwhelming closeness.

Your shirt was sliding upward, Hoodie’s hands bunching it at your chest, Masky helping tug it over your head. You felt the way they stalled, felt the energy tighten around you. Hoodie’s mouth slid off your throat, attention elsewhere. Masky did the same, his mouth no longer moving against yours as you looked between them.

“What? Did you really think I was about to wear a bra to bed?”

Hoodie gave a stark laugh, tossing your shirt across the floor. Masky grinned, a rattled breath snaking through his lungs and brushing against your skin. If there was any chance of this fizzling out, that was all gone the minute you felt their rough hands on your tits. You could’ve blamed your nipples being already hard on the freezing temperatures, but you knew otherwise.

Hoodie tugged your shoulder, forcing you to lay on your back between them. He palmed at your right, strong hands squeezing and kneading the skin, planting kisses across your collar bone. Masky’s cupping the other—firm, rough, fingers spreading and squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb circles slowly around your nipple, not quite touching it yet. 

“You’re so sensitive here,” he murmurs. “Bet I could keep you whining just from this.”

Hoodie’s fingers are long and skilled, and you arch a little between them, like you can’t decide who you want more. “Let’s test it,” Hoodie says quietly.

“See how fast we can get you squirming,” Masky adds with a grin.

Masky leans in first, mouth latching onto your breast—hot, open-mouthed kisses around the swell, then his tongue flicks your nipple just once, and your hips buck. “There it is,” he mutters against your skin. “Already needy. Huh, mouse?”

Hoodie chuckles—low, dark. His mouth follows suit, kissing down your sternum, trailing heat, then latching onto the other. Slower. Teasing. He sucks it softly, just enough to make you gasp. You’re caught between them—their mouths warm and wet, their hands gripping and stroking and kneading like they’re mapping you out.

Your hands find purchase in their hair, each hand tangling into the short strands at the back of their head. They groan a little when you tug, eyes glaring up at you through heavy lids and hungry gazes.

Masky bites down—not too hard, but enough to sting. You yelp. He groans. “Easy now.” he growls.

“Watch it, Tim,” Hoodie says, licking a slow stripe up to your nipple. “Gonna overwhelm her.” He pinches it gently between his teeth. Sucks. Again. Again. The little gap in his front two teeth seems to be made for your nipple, rolling the nub like you’re not gasping at every move.

“Good. She asked for it.” Masky flicks his tongue fast and merciless, then blows cool air across the wet skin, watching you shiver. “You should see yourself,” he breathes. “So fucking hot. Should’ve done this ages ago.”

“Mhm,” Hoodie murmurs, the sound muffled as he sucks onto your nipple. His eyes are fluttering shut, fingers digging sharply into your hip as he groans against your skin.

Your mouth is parted, small gasps and quiet whines with every roll of their tongues and nips of their teeth. “Boys—shit.”

Now Masky’s sucking harder, pulling needy, wet little whines from your throat. Hoodie drags his thumb over the nipple he just left wet and stiff, watching you writhe. You tug their hair, the sensation making their eyes roll.

“Bet I could get you off from this,” Hoodie whispers.

“Bet you’d scream,” Masky adds, licking a circle around your nipple like he’s trying to ruin you.

And honestly? They’re not wrong. You’re soaked between your thighs, heart racing, every nerve on fire—and they haven’t even touched you there yet. Your clothes feel hot, sweatpants feel too thick—despite the clouds of foggy air that leave your lips every time you breath out.

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” Hoodie breathes, kissing along the curve of your breast, right where your ribs meet the rounded skin.

“So fucking responsive,” Masky grunts. “Twitching from our mouths alone.”

Then—hands. Everywhere.

Masky’s dragging his hand down your stomach, fingers slipping past your waistband. Your gasp, legs instinctively closing together, but they’ve always been stronger than you. Hoodie shifts off your nipple for a quick second, sitting up to slide two large hands under your hips and lift. Masky pops off too, leaning forward to push your sweatpants down and off your legs, tossing them behind him.

Your panties are soaked. Even in the low red light, even when you have to squint to see their awed expressions—you can feel it. The cold air hits your clothed core and your legs lock tight, trying to shield yourself from the frigid air. They just chuckle, thundering voices making every hair on your body stand up.

Hoodie moves first, two hands clasping over your knees, before he’s pushing your legs apart. Your shiver from the cold air—and maybe the feeling of ecstasy that shoots up your spine—before he’s leaning down between your thighs.

You gasp, sitting up onto your elbows, but Masky pushes your chest back down, crowding your space before you can panic. “He’s got you. Just relax, sweetheart.”

His mouth immediately finds the nipple that Hoodie was occupied on earlier, wet lips wrapping around the bruised nub and sucking gently as he kneads your other tit. He’s a lot more gentle than before, like he’s savoring the taste of your skin as he rolls his tongue. Your hands find his hair, but you’re now keenly aware of the hot breath that has found its way against your inner thighs.

Hoodie has leaned down between the spread of your legs, his short hair tickling your skin with every press of his lips against your inner thighs. He’s being slow, making sure the kiss is pressed firm, making sure you feel it. You find yourself spreading them wider the farther down the goes, his calloused hands kneading into the skin just above your hips.

“Hmm, Brian…” you huff, tugging Masky’s hair when he lets off one nipple and shifts to the other, eyes shut tight in quiet concentration. Hoodie chuckles, making your hips twitch, angling them upward. “So impatient,” he kisses your thigh again.

You’re about to wind off with something, making a snide remark—until you feel firm lips press against your clit through your panties. Your hips immediately jerk to the sensation, clit twitching for more when he begins to plant kiss after kiss against your folds, the sensation muffled by your thin underwear.

“Oh god, oh my god—”

Masky chuckles against your tit, kneading the mound in his hand as he looks up at you, eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Remember to be quiet, sweetheart. Don’t wanna wake the neighbours.”

There’s no way they would be able to with the intensity of the storm outside, but it lights a spark low in your stomach nonetheless.

Hoodie plants one final, heavy kiss against your cunt before he’s hooking fingers under the waistband of your panties, slowly dragging them up your legs and off your ankles.

You can feel the thickness in the air, even despite the cold.

“Fuck…” Hoodie groans, mulling over every inch of your soaked cunt before him, eyes so wide you’d think he’s crazy. Masky smirks against your skin. You feel them both reading each other, shuffling in time until Masky’s teeth are nipping your chest, then your collarbones, up to your neck—and Hoodie’s hands move between your legs.

Hoodie’s warm hand spreads your folds open with slow, confident ease. You can feel his breath on your skin—close. Teasing. He runs two thick fingers between your lips, collecting the slick building at your entrance onto his fingers. “Jesus, you’re so wet. Haven’t even done anything.”

He thumbs at your clit, pressing the pad against the nub and eliciting a stark jolt from your body. They both chuckle, then Hoodie’s middle finger presses against your entrance.

“Oh, fuck—” you whine, arms wrapping around Masky’s shoulders as he finds a home at the crease of your neck, sucking with the same force as before onto your throat. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, and suddenly you’re keenly aware of just how exposed you are compared to them, their clothes still completely on while you lay shaking and bare.

Hoodie begins to press his finger, slowly slipping the first knuckle into your cunt, the cold digit making you hiss against your scalding insides. Masky captures the noise, lips gliding up your jaw and onto your lips as you drag your hands down his back. 

“Damn—tight,” Hoodie mutters. “Burnin’ up inside.” He pushes deeper, bullying against the resistance, until his entire finger is crooning into the heat of your walls. You cry out—head tilted back, running your hands under Masky’s shirt and pushing it up his back. His skin is so warm against your cold hands, him grumbling against your lips.

“Oh my god—Brian—please—” His free hand is pushing your knees apart, holding them open despite the instinctual jerks to close them shut every time he pumps that finger into your sopping cunt. It’s not another second before he’s adding another, curling the thick knuckles, your arousal glistening on his skin.

“Shhhh. Tim, can you grab her?” You’re dazed, kissed and dizzy and way-too-cold to think straight, but the two still seem to have a level head about them. Masky nods, biting a kiss against your jaw before he’s sitting up, pulling his half-askew shirt off his head and throwing it behind him. 

Your eyes are blurry, but the sight is enough to make your heart thud against your chest.

His body is thick. Solid. Built like a brawler. Not sculpted like a model, no—this is the body of someone who’s carried people over his shoulder, fought tooth and nail, hurt and healed, all muscle and brute strength. His chest is broad, lightly dusted with hair, and he’s got old scars crisscrossing his ribs—pale white against flushed skin. One, angry and puckered, traces the edge of his abdomen. You want to ask about it. You don’t. You’ll save it for later.

Hoodie follows, easing his fingers out of you, and sitting back on his knees. He pulls one arm out of his sweatshirt, then throws the fabric off, breathing deep and heavy as he looks down at you. His body is lithe. Lean muscle. Strong and resilient. Like he was made to move in the dark. His skin is pale in the light—not sickly, but smooth, cold-toned, with a few old bruises and sharp collarbones you want to mouth at. His stomach is flat, lightly defined, the kind of body that doesn’t beg for attention until you look too long. And then it’s like it begs you to touch it.

Both of them in the red VACANCY light. They move before you can stare for as long as you’d like.

Masky pushes an arm under your shoulders, lifting you just enough to sit behind you, back against the thin headboard. You’re naked, trembling, and pulled into Masky’s lap—back to his chest, legs splayed wide across his thighs, pussy bare and soaking, dripping down onto the bedspread.

His arms cage you. One around your waist, firm. One between your breasts, hand teasing the soft weight of them, thumb brushing a nipple already sensitive from earlier, still slick with their mouths. “You look so good like this,” he breathes into your ear. “So helpless.”

“All for us,” Hoodie adds from below, kneeling between your spread legs.

You’re tilted back, cradled in Masky’s lap, thighs open wide and shaking—because Hoodie’s face is right there. Inches from your core, his breath hot, his fingers already sliding between your folds again. “So pretty,” he mutters. “So fucking pretty, little mouse.”

“Don’t make her wait,” Masky growls. “She’ll start begging.” Hoodie grins, Masky does too.

Hoodie licks a slow, devastating stripe through your folds—tongue thick, hot, relentless—and your whole body jerks against Masky’s chest. He groans behind you, lips dragging along your neck, holding you tighter. “Yeah. Just like that. Let him taste how bad you need it.”

Hoodie wraps his arms under your thighs, pinning them open, then sucks your clit straight into his mouth—firm, wet pressure that sends shockwaves straight up your spine. “Oh my god—B-Brian—”

His response is to moan against you—low and hungry—then slide two fingers inside your slick heat, curling instantly, like he knows the spot. And he does. Your arch into the feeling, gripping your hands into the fabric of Masky’s pants.

“Feel that?” Masky mutters, gripping your chest, grinding his clothed cock slowly against your lower back. “He’s already got you shaking. Not even fucking you yet.”

You sob, back arching. Masky holds you tighter.

“Eyes on him,” he commands. “Watch what he’s doing to you.”

You do. Hoodie’s devouring you—tongue flicking, lips sucking, fingers pumping slow and deep, angled perfectly—and the sight alone would be enough to undo you. But with Masky’s rough grip on your tits, his breath hot in your ear, his teeth nipping your neck? You’re already right there.

“Mhmm—Hah—Fuck—” you whine, moaning every time Masky’s lips brush under your ear.

There’s no rush in him. This isn’t frantic. It’s not desperate. It’s methodical. He licks in a rhythm—slow flicks to your clit, long, wet drags through your folds, then dipping just enough of his tongue inside you to make you cry out before he’s back up again.

Your hips jerk up, instinctive. Hoodie groans—and the vibration of it against your clit sends a bolt of pleasure so sharp you gasp. “There it is,” he murmurs against you. “That little flutter. Right around my fingers.”

He fucks you slow—fingers deep, tongue steady, so much eye contact. He watches every twitch of your thighs, every shake of your breath, memorizing you. “You wanna come?” he asks softly, lips brushing your clit. “Then take it. Grind on my mouth. Come just like this.”

You do. You grind. You moan. You beg. Hoodie speeds up. His tongue never stops—swirling, licking, sucking like he’s trying to ruin you forever—and his fingers are hitting just right, just right, over and over.

Masky’s mouth is on your neck, kissing hard, biting a little, hand dragging down to your throat just enough to hold. “Come on,” he growls. “Let him taste it.”

“Be good,” Hoodie pants. “Give it to me.”

You shatter. Your thighs clamp down, toes curling, back arching against Masky as you cry out—loud, shaking, the orgasm rolling through you so hard it blinds you.

Hoodie doesn’t stop. He keeps licking. Gentle now. Praising. Masky holds you through it, one hand stroking your thigh, the other soothing your chest. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Come all over his fingers.”

You’re a mess—you can feel it. Your thighs are slick, chest heaving, and your head’s tipped back on Masky’s shoulder as aftershocks ripple through you—little tremors you can’t control. Hoodie’s fingers are still inside you, curled perfectly, buried to the knuckle while his mouth rests just above your clit, his breath still hot against your overstimulated skin.

He’s staring. Watching your pussy twitch. Watching your orgasm leak down over his fingers, practically dripping onto his wrist. “Christ,” he says softly. “Look at this mess you made on me.” And then, slowly—deliberately—he slides his fingers out of you.

You feel everything. The drag. The stretch. The wet sound as you clench down, reluctant to let go. His fingers are soaked. Glistening. Sticky with you. “Still so warm,” he murmurs, eyes low, voice thick. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t wipe them off. Instead, Hoodie brings them to his mouth and sucks. First one finger. Then the next. Tongue swirling. Lips sealed around them as he tastes your orgasm like it’s dessert—slow, patient, savoring every drop of you like you’re something holy.

You watch. You can’t not watch. His eyes never leave yours as he licks his fingers clean, moaning quietly, like he could drink down your pleasure and still need more. “Tastes so good,” he mutters, fingers leaving his mouth with a soft, wet pop. “I could keep eating you all night.”

And he means it. Because once his fingers are clean, he leans back in. His hands return to your thighs, spreading them open wider again—reverent now, like he’s laying you bare for something sacred. Then he dips his head and licks you clean.

There’s no rush now. He already got you to fall apart. His tongue is gentle, slow. He licks up the mess he made, collecting the slick along your folds, savoring it. You gasp as he brushes your clit again—sensitive, overstimulated—and he pauses. Your hips twitch, instinctively tilting into him.

He groans. Masky kisses up your throat, trailing the pulse line up your neck, rubbing your sides as he watches Hoodie.

He licks along your slit. Soft. Deep. Focused. Devouring you slowly like the taste is something he’d kill to keep on his tongue. Every flick is precise. Every swirl of his tongue feels like the echo of your orgasm being dragged out longer and longer, until you’re shaking all over again.

Your thighs squeeze his shoulders. Your hands tug at Masky’s pants. You moan—loud, raw, needy—as he sucks your clit one more time. “B-Brian—please—”

He kisses your thighs one last time, then crawls up your body—slow, mouth wet, eyes hungry. He plants his hands at either side of Masky’s hips, resting his weight just above you. He doesn’t say anything as he leans down and kisses you, tongue slipping past your lips.

And you taste it. You taste you. Raw. Sweet. Still slick on his tongue. You moan into him, and he smiles against your mouth. “Told you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fucking addictive.”

“Fuck,” Masky mutters, voice low, rough, gravelly with want. 

“Yeah,” Hoodie says, quieter, more composed—but there’s a rasp to his voice that wasn’t there before. “She’s still dripping.”

He lifts his fingers. Still slick with his spit and the taste of you. Masky stares. His jaw clenches. Hoodie grins.

“You wanna taste?”

That makes him freeze. His eyes flick up to Hoodie’s—sharp, uncertain. A silent what the fuck hanging in the air between them.

But then your voice breaks the tension, soft and breathy, “Please… I wanna see.” You smile small between them, looking up through wet lashes as they challenge each other.

Masky’s eyes snap back to you—and whatever resistance was there? Gone. Disappearing behind a smug smile.

Masky reaches out. Not for you—for Hoodie.

His fingers wrap in Hoodie’s hair, yanking him forward fast—rough, impatient, like it pisses him off that he even wants this—and he kisses him. Not clean. Not graceful. It’s awkward. Heated. All teeth and subtle fighting. Their noses bump. Their mouths don’t line up right. Masky’s jaw is too tight, and Hoodie’s caught off guard, breath stuttering against the pressure of it—but neither of them pulls away.

Masky tastes your slick on Hoodie’s lips and growls. “Jesus,” he breathes, breaking the kiss for just a second, staring at Hoodie’s mouth like it betrayed him. “What the fuck.”

“You’re the one that kissed me,” Hoodie mutters, but there’s no anger—only heat, confused and burning, as he presses forward again.

They kiss deeper this time. Still awkward. Still not romantic. But slower. Hungrier. Their tongues slide, catching the taste of you between them—and it’s not about each other—it’s about you—or at least they’re telling that to themselves.

Masky’s hands go back to your thighs. Hoodie’s palm presses against your stomach, holding you still as they lean in together—over you, around you.

You reach up and wrap your fingers into their hair, tugging them both close—sandwiched between them, heat radiating off their bodies like they’ve been waiting for this. You pull them down toward you with a breathless whine, lips parting—eyes wild with need.

“Good grief,” you whisper, voice wrecked, trying your best to sound humorous. “I can step out of the room if you need me to.”

You glance outside to see the way the rain is flooding off the gutters and onto the pavement below, and maybe think otherwise.

Their eyes flick to each other—sharp, unreadable—but they don’t speak. They don’t need to.

Because Hoodie’s fingers are already under your jaw, tilting your face up. And Masky’s grabbing your waist, yanking you back toward his chest. It’s greedy. Open-mouthed. Back and forth—Hoodie’s lips first, still tasting like you, then Masky’s mouth, rough and hot, tongue sliding between your teeth like he’s trying to take something from you. They groan—fuck, they groan like they need this—and you moan into them as your thighs clench around Hoodie’s hips.

Their hands are already on your body—gripping your waist, your hips, your jaw—and suddenly you feel it: a shift in the weight of the bed, a rush of cool air as they move.

“Off the bed,” Masky speaks, voice thick, already climbing down. “On your knees. Now.”

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Hoodie murmurs, gentler—but the command is still there in the grip of his hands on your arms.

You’re panting as they guide you off the mattress, strong hands dragging you to the edge and down—the motel carpet rough under your knees, your body between them.

Hoodie stands to your right, skin glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling steady. He hooks his thumbs in the band of his shorts, and drags them down, kicking them and his boxers off his ankles. Masky is on your left, he does the same, tugging the string of his sweatpants and kicking them off as well.

Your hands are resting on your knees as you kneel between them, but you’re fighting the need to wipe the drool from your lip as you glance between them.

Hoodie is long. Thicker than you expected. Veins along the shaft, flushed at the head—and fully hard now. Standing proud, ready. Like the sight of you wrecked is more than enough. His pubic hair is short and well kept, a light brown trailing up to his belly button. He grins, hand fisting the base as he watches you with blown pupils and parted lips.

Masky is heavy, thick, flushed from you grinding back against him. Half-hard, proud, veins visible in the light. He’s bigger than Hoodie, but not longer. His pubic hair is thicker, too—running up through his torso to the patches at his chest. You see the thick, aching weight of him, twitching with every breath you take.

They’re both standing over you. And you’re down between them—messy, panting, mouth wet, eyes wide, ready.

Their hands find your hair at the same time. You hiss as they pull you closer, up off your heels, hands finding their thighs.

Hoodie brushes your jaw with his thumb. “Open that pretty mouth,” he breathes.

Masky growls low in his throat. “Gonna ruin it, baby.”

Your knees press against the motel carpet, damp and rough beneath your skin, but you don’t care—all you can feel is the heat rising off them, their bodies looming over you like the storm about to break through the window.

Hoodie’s cock nudges your lips first, thick and flushed, twitching with need. His fingers thread into your hair, gentle but commanding, tilting your head forward. He holds himself at the base, tapping the drooling head against your pout.

You open your mouth, tongue lapping the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groans low, deep in his throat—and you suck him in slow, sliding your mouth down the length as far as you can go, then pulling back off with a wet pop.

Right then, Masky’s hand curls around the back of your neck, steadying you, thumb brushing your cheek as his cock presses at your other lip. You turn to him, parting your lips and wrapping them around his head, swirling your tongue around his head. He groans through his teeth, then huffs when you pull off as well.

Hoodie’s fingers tighten in your hair again, tilting your face toward him. You open your mouth willingly, and he slides in deep—slow, controlled. “That’s it,” he groans, his hips giving one gentle thrust. “Open wider for me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Masky stroking himself, smearing your spit down his length as he watches you.

Hoodie’s cock glides over your tongue, salty and smooth, his breath growing rough as you suck your lips around the size. You hollow your cheeks, swallow around him, making his knees twitch. “Dammit,” he growls.

He fucks your mouth deep and slow, thumb resting on your jaw, guiding the rhythm. It’s wet, messy—obscene—your throat working to take him in. 

When you choke a little, he lets out a dark chuckle, pulling out just enough to let you breathe. “Good… just like that. Now—”

“My turn.” Masky cuts in, voice rough with impatience. His hand replaces Hoodie’s in your hair, tugging you toward him. He doesn’t say much—just lets his cock rest against your lip, thick and leaking.

You look up at him. You know that look. You’ve seen it every time he runs out of cigarettes, every time he cleans his pistol before a kill, every time you’ve caught each other’s gaze tonight—need.

He slides into your mouth hard, almost punishing, like he hates how much he wants this. “Fucking hell,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You like being passed around, huh?”

Your moan vibrates down his length. He grabs the back of your head and starts thrusting, shallow at first, then deeper—fucking your throat with sharp, possessive hunger. Your hands claw up his thighs, nails clenched into his skin until you go to reach for the base of his cock, wrapping a fist around to give yourself some relief.

He snatches your wrist before you could even really try. “Don’t use your hands,” he snaps. “Just your mouth.”

You obey, eyes wet, throat stretched—letting him use you. Hoodie scoffs, looking between the two of you, gripping his own cock so tight he’s wincing. He grips Masky’s shoulder, leaning his weight on him as they both look down at you, both get off to the sight.

Masky grabs either side of your jaw, pulling you until you’re buried to the hilt, your nose pressed against his pelvis. You gag, tears slipping from your eyes, refusing to look anywhere but between the dual-paired eyes. Then he pulls out, with a wet gasp and a tight grip to your jaw.

“Switch.” They trade you again.

Hoodie’s cock back in your mouth, already slick from your spit, sliding in easier this time. His pace is gentler, but more thorough—praising you, petting your hair—making your eyes flutter every time he tries to reach the back of your throat. “Doing so good for us, little mouse.”

And then it’s back to Masky—rougher now, grabbing your face, thumb dragging your spit from your lips as he pushes in again, groaning through his teeth as your tongue swirls around the head. He’s quick, cockhead knocking against the roof of your mouth with each snap of his hips. “So fucking wet.”

Back to Hoodie. He lets you moan around him, and jerks just slightly when your tongue flicks the underside.

Back to Masky. He groans, “Gonna ruin your throat, sweetheart,” while his fingers dig into your mouth, tugging your jaw open.

And they keep going, keep snagging you by the hair and dragging you into a different cock before you can get settled. It’s dizzying, but you’ve never been so horny in your life. You can practically feel yourself dripping onto the carpet below, inner thighs slick with want.

Eventually, your face is a mess—lips red, eyes wet, throat raw—and both of them are panting. Their cocks are twitching, flushed, glistening with your spit and smears of precum. 

“Fuck, I could come just like this,” Hoodie mutters, thumb brushing your lower lip.

Masky growls, holding your head back as your hands grip their hips, everyone taking a moment to breathe. He’s silent for a moment, eyes dark with something unspoken—hunger, jealousy, something sharper. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling your head back just a little, tilting your chin up so both cocks press against your lips.

Hoodie’s eyes darken, his fingers tangling in your hair on the other side, steadying you with a grip that says this is going to get messy.

They slide in together—slow at first—thick, hot, slick. Your mouth is so full it almost hurts, your tongue flattened beneath them both, trying to stretch and swallow, but there’s barely any room. They can barely get just past their heads, the first ridge of a vein on Masky’s length pressing into your lip.

You gag once—low, wet—but they hold you there, groaning above you.

“That’s it, baby. Take it all,” Masky growls.

“Good girl,” Hoodie whispers, hips twitching.

You feel them push deeper, their hands pulling your hair to keep you steady as they fill your mouth completely—every inch, no space left—you can’t even move your tongue. Your cheeks bulge out, saliva pooling, and your eyes water—but you won’t back down.

They start moving slowly at first, their cocks sliding in and out in tandem, driving you wild with the tightness and heat. You can taste them—salty, slick—mixed with your own spit, the feel of want and possession.

Their breaths are heavy, ragged, voices low and broken.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Hoodie pants.

“Goddamn, how’ve we only just now done this?” Masky hisses.

You gag again, swallowing hard around them, desperate to keep up, desperate to show them just how much you want it.

The motel room fills with the sounds of wet mouths, shallow gasps, and the slick, messy rhythm of two cocks moving inside your mouth—one gripping, one teasing, both claiming. They rival the storm outside, the intensity not even close to the swirl of emotions in this room. The roar of the rain and thunder is nowhere near the roar in your skull.

Your jaw aches. Your throat flutters around them. And it’s so obscene the way they use you—not cruel, but so fucking filthy it makes your thighs press together, desperate for friction.

Masky’s voice is tight, groaning low as he watches your lips stretch around him. “Fuck, look at that. So fucking messy.”

Hoodie strokes your hair, his fingers trembling just a bit as you moan around both of them—the vibration making them both curse. “She’s drooling all over us,” he breathes. “Sweetheart, you want us that bad?”

You can’t speak—not with your mouth so full—but you whimper, the sound broken and hot. And they feel it. Your tongue flexes beneath them. Your throat squeezes.

Their hands grip tighter. And for a moment, they start fucking your mouth—not deep, not cruel—just slow, building rhythm, hips rocking forward in sync, stuffing you full again and again until your eyes roll back and your spit drips down your chin, slicking your neck.

You don’t want it to stop.

But suddenly, they pull out—quick, with a wet gasp and a groan, your mouth gaping open, lips red and glistening, a string of saliva still connecting you to them. You’re gasping, drooling, fucked-out and needy, and they just look down at you like they’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“C’mere,” Masky rasps. “Up.”

Hoodie helps you to your feet—gentle now—kissing your spit-slick cheek, his breath shaking. “You did so fucking good,” he whispers. “But we’re not done.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Masky’s hands are on your hips, gripping tight, pulling you toward the edge of the bed.

Hoodie’s already climbed up, sitting back against the headboard, his cock is heavy and red, leaking with need and smeared in your spit, twitching as he props himself up on one elbow, watching you with dark, hungry eyes.

You crawl forward on your knees, fingers grazing the soft fabric of the bedspread, then dragging up his thighs, and lower your head toward him.

Your lips part eagerly, tongue sliding out to taste the slick head of his cock. He lets out a low groan, hips lifting just enough to press into your mouth. Your lips open wide, tongue swirling, sliding over every inch of him. The salty taste of him fills you, hot and sharp. His fingers thread into your hair again, tugging lightly, steadying you. But the other wraps under your jaw, angling your head just right so he can press into the back of your throat. “So good, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with need. “Just go nice and slow.”

You obey, your tongue flicking over the underside, swirling around the sensitive tip, your mouth stretching, working him deeper.

Behind you, you feel movement. Masky’s heavy hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles over your skin just above the curve of your ass.

He leans over you, body pressed atop your back, pulling your hips up to meet where his heavy cock sits against your tailbone. His breath is warm against your neck, voice low and rough. “Got you good and wet, huh?” he growls. “Look at you, taking him like you were made for this.”

One hand slides under your hip, fingers slipping between your legs, pressing firmly against your soaked folds still incredibly sensitive. You shiver, hips pressing down involuntarily, grinding against Masky’s hand. His grip tightens, thumb brushing your clit in slow, teasing circles.

Hoodie’s cock twitches in your mouth, hips rocking gently, setting a slow rhythm. You suck harder, deepening your mouth around him, feeling his pulse through your lips. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails scratching lightly at your scalp.You wrap a fist around the base of his cock, helping you as your eyes flutter closed, breath hitching around him.

Suddenly, Masky’s mouth presses to your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly, sending a sharp thrill through you.

“Make him cum, alright?” he hisses. “Let him spill all in that pretty mouth.”

You hum around Hoodie’s cock in response, tongue swirling, lashes fluttering as you feel Masky’s fingers press one last time against your clit, making you arch back just slightly. You can feel every nerve firing, every muscle tightening in eager anticipation.

He sits back, gripping your hips with bruising hands. Slowly, deliberately, Masky lines himself up. You jolt at the feeling, bulbous head smearing across your folds and collecting your arousal. You shiver, breath hitching around Hoodie’s cock as your back curves toward Masky’s. He chuckles low, and then begins to push in.

At first, just the thick head of him bobs inside—slow and steady—stretching you wide, the new, delicious pressure making your muscles clench and pulse around him. Your walls immediately grip around him, sucking him in the best they can. Your hips press back, desperate to take more, to swallow him whole.

Hoodie moans deep above you, fingers tightening in your hair as he feels your gasp and throat flutter around him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Masky rasps behind you, his breath hot against your skin. His hands grip your hips firmly, steadying you as he pushes deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt inside your warmth.

The stretch, the fullness—your body’s desperate response sends a wave of heat rippling through you, mixing with the wet slickness from Hoodie’s cock in your mouth. You try to focus on your breathing, but it’s hard when Hoodie’s hips rock up, pushing deep and slow against your tongue, while Masky’s hands knead your hips, thumbs digging into your skin.

Your hands clutch the bedspread, nails scraping the thin fabric as Masky starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate and testing—letting you adjust, letting you savor the sensation of being filled by him.

The motel room is alive with sounds—the wet slick of Hoodie’s cock sliding in and out of your mouth, your muffled moans and gasps, and Masky’s low growls as he fucks you from behind—all accompanied by the wonderful pounding of the storm.

You feel every inch of Masky’s cock inside you—thick, hot, and demanding—while Hoodie’s steady rhythm in your mouth keeps you dizzy with pleasure. Fucked absolutely out.

Masky leans down, pressing his chest to your back, one hand sliding under your body to cup your breast, fingers teasing your nipple. He kneads it roughly, making you arch against him, grinding back with every thrust.

Meanwhile, Hoodie’s hands tighten in your hair, pulling your head closer, making you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. You’ve almost got it all—almost.

The mingled sensations—the fullness behind, the heat in your mouth—makes your head spin. 

Your breath comes in ragged gasps; your hips start to move with Masky’s rhythm, meeting him, pushing back harder. He growls, biting lightly at your neck, leaving mark after mark.

Hoodie moans deep, head leaning back to hit the headboard, voice thick with need. “You’re such a good girl for us,” he groans. “Taking us both so well.”

Your cheeks burn with the praise, your body trembling as Masky’s thrusts get harder, faster, hips slapping wetly against your skin. His hands roam greedily, one sliding between your legs to brush your clit, thumb circling as he fucks into you. Every thrust knocks against your g-spot, every tug of your hips angling your spine, forcing his cock deeper.

You cry out around Hoodie’s cock, your throat full and achingly stretched, saliva dripping down your chin. The waves of pleasure rise quickly now—your body screaming with need and overstimulation.

Masky’s grunts grow louder, his hips slamming against you, every thrust harder than the last. Hoodie’s breathing grows ragged; his fingers tighten in your hair as he holds you captive, your lips and tongue worshipping every inch of his cock inside you.

“Gonna come—” Hoodie gasps.

“Yeah,” Masky growls, voice rough and desperate.

Your body trembles, caught in the eye of their storm—filled, stretched, pleasured from both ends.

Your throat is sore, stretched perfectly around Hoodie’s cock as he shudders, his hips twitching deep inside your mouth. You feel the thick pulse, the hot flood spilling down your throat. Hoodie groans low, voice ragged, as his hips collapse down onto the bed, breath heavy and satisfied.

His cum floods into your throat, and you swallow in time with every twitch of his cock, nails digging into his skin. You pull back just enough to catch your breath, lips swollen and slick, your gaze flickering up to meet his. But before you can savor that moment, you feel Masky’s grip tighten on your hips, rough and insistent.

He growls, voice dark and possessive. “My turn.”

Without warning, he yanks you up by your hips, pulling you up onto your knees and back against his chest. Your legs wobble, but his hands hold you steady, strong. His cock is still buried deep inside you, thick and hard, and with a sudden force, he starts thrusting again—harder, faster—driving up into you with a hunger that steals your breath.

His arms wrap around your middle, holding you close as you bounce back to match every thrust. Your hands reach back, clutching his head and shoulders for support as you try to keep up with the sudden increase in pace.

Masky’s breath is hot against your neck, low and rough. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he snarls. “You gonna cum all over this cock?”

Your body responds instantly—every nerve on fire, every muscle trembling as he pounds into you. You nod, eyes rolling into your head.

Hoodie watches with dark, hungry eyes, sitting up off the mattress to press against your front. He palms at your tits, rolling your nipples as they bounce with every knock of Masky’s cock.

He leans forward, pressing a wet, teasing kiss to your cheek, then down your jawline. “You’re so good for him,” Hoodie whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

He nips at your jaw, trailing his hand down your stomach and between your legs, pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit. He jerks the bud, and you cry out, wrapping an arm around Hoodie’s shoulders.

You pull him to you, chasing hips lips as you feel your cunt ache, feel the familiar coil in the pit of your stomach. Masky feels how you tighten around him, his pace stuttering. His breath grows ragged, voice thick with desperation as he pulls you tighter against him.

“I’m—fuck—gonna—” he gasps, hips stuttering.

“Yeah—please—inside—” You’re cumming so hard your vision cuts, eyes rolling so hard the two have to hold you steady when you go limp in their arms. Hoodie’s fingers slow, easing you through the waves of pleasure. Masky thrusts once, twice—until he buries in as deep as he can.

Masky presses his face into your shoulder, biting the skin as he cums into your cunt. You feel the spill, the thick ropes that paint your cervix and fill you so good.

The bed creaks, old springs shifting under the weight as bodies shift and breathing rattles lungs. You’re gripping both of them, a head pressed close to either shoulder, each kissing your skin.

“Fuck…” you huff, eyes struggling to stay open. You rest your chin against Hoodie’s shoulder, trying your best to catch your breath. “Feels good… So warm…”

Hoodie’s eyes darken with a dangerous hunger as he pushes his fingers further past your clit, feeling the spot where your entrance begins—stretched full of Masky. He hums, making your body jerk as he tries to press his fingers into the little space there is left.

“Brian—” you warn, nails digging into his shoulder. It doesn’t matter, he somehow manages to press the first knuckles of his middle fingers in, digits burying in the warmth of your cunt along with Masky’s cock. You all groan, Masky’s hips involuntarily jerking up at the sensation of Hoodie’s knuckles against his length.

“Brian, man. What—” Masky starts.

“Stay in,” Hoodie murmurs to Masky, voice low and urgent.

Masky stalls, searching his eyes, but growls his assent, hips still heavy inside you, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid to lose you.

Hoodie pulls his fingers out of your sensitive entrance, reaching around behind your legs to pull them out from under you. Masky catches your weight, holding you steady as Hoodie pulls your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back. Hoodie grips under your ass, Masky holds under your thighs, your body sandwiched between them.

Hoodie shifts closer, positioning himself at your entrance. Your body tightens instinctively, every muscle clenching around Masky’s cock buried deep within you.

“Wait—Wait, hold on—”

“You can take it,” Masky kisses against your shoulder, continuously glancing between you and Hoodie. “You will.”

Slowly, carefully, Hoodie pushes forward. 

At first, just the tip teases your wet, stretched folds. You gasp—a mix of pleasure and shock—as you feel yourself being stretched again, wider than you thought possible.

Masky’s hands grip your thighs tighter, steadying you as Hoodie tries to fight the resistance, bobbing the very tip of his cock against the tight ring of muscle burning from the attempted stretch.

“Shit—shit, shit shit—” Your breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed, mouth parting in a moan. You try your best to relax, try your damnest not to cry and whine with every burn that runs up your body.

Finally, one angle catches his head, your cunt opening up around his thick head. Hoodie’s cock slides past Masky’s inside you, the sensation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A delicious fullness floods your senses, your body opening to take them both, cunt absolutely screaming in sparks of pain and overwhelming ecstasy.

Masky shifts, thrusting just enough to give you room, hips grinding slowly, his voice a low growl against your skin. “Gonna ruin this pussy,” Masky rasps. “You’ll never be satisfied again if it’s not us.”

The three of you move as one tight, wet unit—Masky’s cock buried balls-deep, Hoodie’s cock sliding alongside him, pinning you open so completely it’s like you don’t even have a choice. The motel sheets are rumpled beneath you, their knees pressed hard into the thin mattress, arms braced against their shoulders for balance as Masky’s heavy thrusts rock you forward into Hoodie’s chest.

You can feel both of them inside you. Masky’s thick length fills your back walls, the girth taking up most of the room inside, causing you to lose your breath with every hardened thrust. Hoodie’s cock presses into your front, sliding quickly past Masky’s still-buried base, the dual pressure stretching you wider than you’ve ever felt before.

“C’mon, little mouse. Let us hear you.” Hoodie smiles.

Their hands grip your hips and thighs like anchors, thumbs digging into flesh, guiding your movements. Every time Masky pulls out slightly, Hoodie pushes in an extra half-inch, and vice versa, the two of them taking turns controlling your rhythm. The sensation is overwhelming—a deliciously torturous fullness that has your entire body humming with overstimulation.

Your senses explode. The slick heat of Masky’s cum still coating you from before mixes with fresh heat as you’re squeezed around both of them, a salt-tinged warmth that makes your toes curl. Their breaths are hot in your ear and on your neck—Masky’s rough growls vibrating against your spine, Hoodie’s low moans tickling your shoulder.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoes around the cramped room—Masky’s thighs smacking against your ass, Hoodie’s groaning as he presses flush into you.

With each thrust, Masky leans forward, chest against your back, caging you. His hands push your hips down, angling you so every stroke smacks your cervix with delicious force. You feel every ridge of his cock sliding deep inside, muscles clenching around him. “Hnn—gonna fu—shit—gonna fuck you stupid, sweet girl.”

Hoodie shifts his grip from your ass to slide to Masky’s hip, feeling his timing. He digs his nails into Masky’s skin, matching his pacing so he fucks you in perfect sync with Masky, making you cry out. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?” Hoodie pants. “Wanna do this forever.”

Your head falls forward onto Hoodie’s shoulder, lips parted in breathless moans that each of them feeds on. You can taste yourself on their skin—your slick mix of spit and cum—and it makes you ache for more. Every nerve ending feels alive, your clit crushed against Hoodie’s pelvis, Masky’s cock pulsating inside you like a living thing, and your brain goes fuzzy with the exquisite pain-pleasure of being stretched beyond your limits.

“It’s too much—fuck—I can’t—can’t keep up—”

They don’t let you rest.

Masky’s thrusts grow harder, sharper, forcing your hips up into Hoodie’s pelvis each time the head of his cock hits your g-spot. Hoodie, in turn, squeezes your ass so tight you can’t move, riding those jolting shocks from Masky’s cock, matching you thrust for thrust with a fierce, driving pace that threatens to break every bone in your body.

Your vision swims; sweat beads on your skin. You feel your orgasm building again—hot, desperate, unstoppable. They know your signs now. They’re built to adapt, to learn, to complete impossible tasks—so of course they know exactly what it feels like when you’re about to cum already. As the pressure peaks, Hoodie’s hand slaps down hard on your ass, and Masky’s fingers dig into your thighs in a gritted command, “Come for us.”

With a final, simultaneous plunge—Masky’s cock buried to the hilt, Hoodie’s thrusting floor-to-ceiling—you break.

“Fuck!”

Your toes curl, your back arches, and a guttural cry tears from your throat as wave after wave of orgasm ripples through you. Your body clenches so fiercely around both of them that it drives them over the edge, too.

Masky roars, releasing inside you in long, trembling spurts, his cock pulsing deep within. Hoodie groans your name, spilling his hot cum as he holds you tight, his fingers still gripping your ass as he comes.

Their combined release floods you, warmth coating your insides as the tremors of your orgasm shake your limbs. For a long moment, the three of you move together in trembling grinds—skin gleaming with sweat, breaths ragged and mingling as you ride out every inch of pleasure, tight cunt milking every drop they’ve got.

Finally, Masky pulls back, still buried inside you, and Hoodie slides out, collapsing under you on the bed. You fall forward, landing on top of Hoodie, Masky following behind.

They sandwich you, sweat-soaked bodies pressed close as Masky musters the last of his strength to slip out of your spent cunt, sending cum spilling from your folds and onto the bedsheets below. 

The room smells like sex and sweat and crappy motel soap.

You’re sprawled across Hoodie, boneless and dazed, your body still trembling from the storm they dragged you through. The thin, scratchy sheet is tangled around your legs. The pillows are damp and askew. The red light from the neon sign outside bleeds in through the blinds, painting everything in a low crimson haze.

Everyone rolls off each other, taking up the entirety of what little space there is of the matters.

You’re caught in the middle, surrounded by the weight of their bodies, the heat of their skin, and the press of breath that slows with every minute on either side of you.

Masky’s against you, chest to your back, arm slung lazily around your waist. His hand is splayed across your stomach, fingers twitching occasionally, as if he’s trying his best to go back to staying still. His breath brushes your shoulder in soft exhales, nose buried in the crook of your neck.

In front of you, Hoodie lies on his back, one hand lazily stroking your arm, eyes half-lidded and dark with something softer than before. He’s flushed, chest rising and falling slow, mouth slightly parted. There’s a sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, his lashes damp from the heat and friction of everything that just happened.

No one speaks for a long while. Just breathing. Just silence. The weight of your shared pleasure settling in the small, hazy air of the motel room.

Your body aches in every place they touched. You’re full, sore, and you feel like your soul’s been picked clean—but not in a bad way. It’s grounding. It feels good, like you’ve finally unwound all the tension in your psyche.

Eventually, Hoodie shifts, his knuckles brushing your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but the touch is soft, thoughtful.

Masky murmurs into your shoulder, his voice scratchy and low. “You good?”

You nod, barely, too tired to speak yet. But your hand finds his on your stomach and laces your fingers through his, gently squeezing.

Hoodie lets out a breath—somewhere between a sigh and a huff of amusement. “Didn’t think you’d actually let us go that far.”

You blink slowly, managing a tired little smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Hoodie chuckles under his breath, the sound light, pulling you a little closer with the crook of his arm. You nuzzle into the curve of his shoulder, lips brushing over the faint scrape of stubble on his jaw.

Behind you, Masky groans quietly. “Stop flirting.”

“You can’t call dibs on her after we just shared her.”

You laugh under your breath, soft and barely there. Masky’s grip tightens just a little at your waist in response.

“You okay?” Hoodie asks this time, a little more serious.

You nod again. “Yeah. Just… full.”

Both of them laugh, low and lazy and quiet, and you let your eyes flutter shut as they sit up.

They don’t say a word.

They just move—Masky sliding down your body to one side, Hoodie shifting to the other—and before you can protest, both their heads dip low.

Masky begins at your hip crease, tongue tracing slow, firm licks along your soaked skin, gathering every last drop of cum that smears across your skin. His free hand cups your thigh, pressing you open for him, while his other hand snakes between your legs to steady you. Each broad stroke of his tongue pulls your body taut with sensitivity, the warmth of his mouth searing against your skin.

Hoodie, mirrored on the opposite side, leans in beneath your belly, tongue flicking up in short, quick passes at your lower lips—then sliding deeper into your soaked center. He laps gently, methodically, collecting the sweetness you left behind. His breath hovers warm across your thigh as he cleans with expert devotion, making sure no spot is missed.

They work effortlessly.

Every few inches of Masky’s slow, worshipful licks are matched by Hoodie’s precise, teasing sweeps. You feel the wet press of their tongues meet at the center, swallowing and savouring you, their mouths hot and insistent.

Masky’s tongue drags a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, then circles it, flattening and pressing until you arch your back, legs tensing around both of them. Hoodie’s tongue dives in synchrony, curling just right to find every crevice, every tremble point. You grab the bedsheets, tugging and pulling with every sharp roll of the muscles.

Their hands aren’t idle either. Masky’s fingertips brush delicate arcs along your inner thighs, glide up to tease your sensitive folds; Hoodie’s thumb brushes gentle, reassuring circles over your hip bone as he leans in to work the tip of his tongue against your clit again.

You moan—soft, breathy, nearly pained with relief and pleasure—as they feed on you, cleaning you with their mouths like they’re righting some cosmic wrong. The red neon light flickers in the curtains, painting their faces in shadow and warmth, and you’re suspended between their ministrations, heart pounding.

Finally, when every drop is gone, they lift their heads together, lips glistening, eyes dark with need and something softer—care, devotion, worship. Masky presses a slow, wet kiss to your inner thigh; Hoodie brushes your stomach with his nose, his breath feather-light.

They slide back up—Masky pressing a gentle kiss behind your ear, Hoodie trailing one across your collarbone. Their hands settle on your hips and shoulders, cradling you in a triangle of warmth and quiet satisfaction.

You’re nestled between them again, chest still rising in unsteady waves as the weight of their attention and afterglow begins to soften into something cozy, close. The scratchy motel sheet is pulled half-heartedly over your legs, but Hoodie reaches to tug the heavy comforter up higher, draping it over all three of you. You instinctively scoot closer to the body heat pressing into you from both sides. The heater is still broken, the electricity is still shot—but you’re incredibly warm despite it.

Masky’s arm is hooked under your neck, fingers resting lightly on your shoulder. Hoodie’s hand is against your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles into your bare skin. Their bodies bracket you like armor, all strong limbs and quiet breath.

There’s a quiet moment—just the loud thrum of the rain in the background and the distant hum of neon through the window.

Then you tilt your chin up toward Hoodie and nudge Masky’s jaw with your nose. “C’mere,” you whisper, voice still low and sleep-thick.

They don’t hesitate. Hoodie leans in first, kissing you slow and unhurried, his lips soft and warm, the kind of kiss that isn’t asking for more—it’s just being. A little messy, from how relaxed he is, but sweet.

When you break apart, Masky is already there, nudging Hoodie aside with a little grunt like he’s annoyed he had to wait. His kiss is rougher, more teeth, more pressure—but not because he’s impatient. It’s just him. And you like that.

They both kiss you again—switching off without a word—until you’re dazed, lazy, flushed all over again from nothing but mouth and hands and heat.

You hum against Masky’s lips as he kisses you one last time, then break away with a smug little grin. “You know…” you murmur, glancing between them. “You two should kiss again.”

Hoodie’s eyes flick toward Masky, brow arching slightly. Masky scoffs, instantly bristling.

“Fuck off,” Masky mutters, shifting on the mattress. “Not gonna do that just ‘cause you get off on it.”

“Yeah,” Hoodie echoes, dry but amused, “not a circus act for you.”

You pout playfully, dramatically cuddling into Hoodie’s chest like you’re wounded. “Rude,” you mumble. “After you did unspeakable things to me, too.”

Masky snorts. “Yeah, more like you begged us to, sweetheart.”

But even as he says it, you catch the glance he and Hoodie share—a flicker of tension, a spark of something under the surface. A challenge.

And then Hoodie shrugs. “Fine.” He grabs Masky by the jaw, jerks him forward, and kisses him across you.

It’s not graceful. It’s not slow, or romantic. It’s messy and firm and unexpected—Hoodie’s hand in Masky’s hair, their mouths pressed together hard enough to bruise. Masky makes a surprised sound, fists clenching in the sheets, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

The kiss breaks after a few seconds—both of them pulling back just a little, eyes locking for one tense, unreadable moment.

“Happy now?” Masky mutters, breath warm and a little shaken.

You beam. “So happy.”

They groan in unison—so done with you—but they don’t move away. The three of you settle again, tangled under the blanket, skin against skin, quiet and warm. Hoodie lets out a soft breath, his fingers threading lazily through yours. Masky shifts until his nose brushes your shoulder.

And it’s not another minute before your breathing slows, eyes fluttering shut whether you’d like them to or not. It’s just so warm, and safe, and…

── .✦

The first thing you notice is the sharp click—the unmistakable hum of power rushing back through the motel’s ancient wiring.

Lights flicker on, harsh and sudden, cutting through the red glow of the neon sign outside. The storm has passed. Outside, rain still trickles down the windowpanes, gentle now, like a quiet exhale after a violent scream.

You stir slowly, eyelids fluttering open to find Masky’s warm chest pressed against your back, Hoodie’s arms wrapped loosely around your waist. All three of you are tangled, skin slick with the aftermath of last night’s messy heat. Your muscles ache, sore from every touch, every thrust—but that ache feels good, grounding.

You reach out, fingers trailing softly over Masky’s shoulder, then nudge Hoodie’s arm. Their eyes blink open, heavy-lidded and slow, matching your own sleepy haze.

Masky grunts low, voice rough from sleep. “Power’s back. Storm’s over.”

Hoodie’s lips twitch into a tired smile. “Figured. I heard it snap back a few minutes ago.”

You press a kiss into Hoodie’s shoulder, then turn to face Masky, your hand resting on his chest. “Feels like… we should get up.”

Masky groans, pulling you closer. “Five more minutes.”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, the warmth of their bodies still wrapping around you like a cocoon. “Nope. We gotta move before motel staff starts getting suspicious.”

Hoodie shifts, fingers brushing your ribs, his eyes dark and sleepy but amused. “Final shower before the road?”

You nod. “Yeah. Warm water. Then hit the road and figure out why Toby didn’t meet us.”

Masky lets out a slow breath, reluctantly peeling away from you. Hoodie follows, helping you all untangle from the sheets and each other, muscles stiff but spirits gentle.

Together, you move toward the bathroom, the air cool against your heated skin, the scent of rain still lingering in the cracked-open window. The sound of water soon fills the room—steady, soothing—and you lean against each other, sharing quiet moments of comfort before the world outside calls you back to motion.

The morning was cool but the shower was blistering hot—steam clouded the cracked mirror, dripping down the grimy tiles like sweat. You shuffled in first, hauling the wrinkled plastic curtain closed, the water sputtering uncertainly before finally warming up.

The spray hit you in jagged pulses, barely enough to drown the sweat and grime from the night. You grabbed your clothes from the grimy floor and hung them on the rusted rack, wincing as the cold brushed your skin.

Then, the bathroom door creaked open.

“Hoodie?” Masky’s voice echoed in the tight space. “You getting in or what?”

Hoodie grinned, stepping into the narrow space, brushing damp hair from his eyes. “Hell yeah. This place might be a shithole, but a hot shower’s a hot shower.”

You laughed, leaning back against the cool tiles as Hoodie slipped in beside you. Masky pressed in from the doorway, careful to avoid knocking over the lone soap bar.

The three of you shuffled under the tiny showerhead, water washing away the grime and the tension. The cramped space forced your bodies close, and though it was uncomfortably tight, it was also… familiar.

“Man,” Hoodie said, voice muffled by the water. “You ever crave something stupid after missions? Like, I dunno—pancakes? With syrup? Maybe some crispy bacon?”

Masky chuckled. “Pancakes sound nice. But all I want is a coffee.”

You smirked. “I’d kill for a greasy diner breakfast right now. Coffee that’s strong enough to wake the dead. Eggs over easy. Hell, I’d even take burnt toast.”

“Burnt toast?” Hoodie teased. “You’re picky.”

“Not when it comes to food. I’m starving.”

The water splashed harder as Masky shifted, nudging you gently. “We’ll get there,” he promised. “Back at the mansion. Full kitchen, good food, and maybe even a bed that doesn’t squeak.”

The warmth seeped into your bones, but reality crept back in. The storm had passed, but you still had to get out.

You rinsed off quickly, the water cooler than before, and dried off with the thin motel towel. Masky and Hoodie did the same, the cramped bathroom turning into a mess of wet clothes and half-stifled laughter.

Back in the room, you grabbed your packs, and Hoodie yanked open the dresser. With a grunt, the three of you shifted the heavy, scratched piece of furniture off the door—praying that nobody heard the loud shuffling.

“Think they’ll lose their shit when they see this place?” you asked, peeking over your shoulder to see the absolute disarray you’re leaving it in.

“Doubt it,” Masky shrugged. “They probably get worse than this.”

You peeked out the grimy window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the lot was nearly empty.

“Alright,” Hoodie said, voice low. “Let’s move before someone sees us.”

You crept out the door, puddles of water and broken tree limbs littering the lot. Outside, the cold air hit you all at once, bracing and sharp. The truck was waiting, just like you left it—windows streaked with rain, engine cool but ready.

You climbed in, each of you wiping the last drops of water from your faces. Hoodie turned the keys, the engine sputtering to life, before you peeled out of the parking lot. Music was turned up, the heater was turned high, and you all relaxed back into your familiar spots.

Masky’s hand dipped into the glove compartment with that familiar, casual ease—the one that made you forget just how much he needed the habit. His fingers closed around a crumpled pack of cigarettes, the familiar crinkle of cellophane breaking the silence. He pulled one free, flicked the lighter from his pocket, and inhaled deep.

Passing the cigarette over, you caught it next—fingers brushing against his briefly as you took a slow drag, the smoke filling your lungs and settling the restless ache that lingered after the night. Hoodie leaned in, grabbing it carefully, his eyes half-lidded in that hazy, just-woken-up way.

Just then, your phone buzzed—buried deep in the bottom of your pack, vibrating insistently. It was a burner, one used only to communicate between proxies. You cursed softly, fumbling to unzip the heavy canvas and dig through the clutter.

“Shit,” you muttered, finally pulling it free. The screen flashed with Toby’s name.

“Where the h-hell have you be-been?” his voice was sharp, frantic.

You glanced up at Masky and Hoodie, who had gone quiet, exchanging looks loaded with equal parts exhaustion and irritation.

You answered, voice low, “We got caught in the storm. Couldn’t get back to the mansion.”

Toby’s rant came fast and furious through the speaker. “You should’ve c-come back. The meeting point was h-hours ago. I never met you gu-guys cause boss told me to come back. Not wo-worth getting caught in a storm. St-Staying out like that? Stupid.”

The three of you shared a glance—silent, tired, and pisses beyond compare knowing that while the three of you were forced into a shitty motel to stay safe, Toby was lounging at the mansion with his feet kicked up.

You cut the call, the line going dead with a quick flick of your thumb. You tossed the phone back in the bag with a groan.

Masky cracked a crooked grin, shaking his head. “Screw it. After last night? A diner stop is worth it.”

Hoodie nodded, the cigarette between his fingers almost forgotten as he looked out the window. “Yeah. Pancakes, bacon, coffee… Toby can kiss my ass.”

You smirked, leaning back against the seat, the morning sun finally breaking through the clouds as the truck rolled down the highway. The energy stirred, a silent thrum between the three of you that was undeniable now, one that you didn’t even have to speak on to know.

Sleeping in your own bed is a luxury, no doubt.

But when two pairs of strong hands keep you warm, hold you close, and make you feel like the cold isn't going to kill you.

Maybe sharing one isn’t so bad.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

As soon as spring comes around, he becomes the horniest man on the planet. He's antsy and needy. And for once, he's the one begging for attention. (Though he won't admit it. Actions speak louder then words if anything.)

"Just- fucking stay there."

"Where do you think you're going? No- no, that's not happening."

"Fucking listen to me. Stop fighting me on this for once."

But none of his behaviour comes to be unexpected. Since after dating him it only really came with the same perk every spring. That at the same week of April—that whenever the hair on his arms stuck up, so did his own cock.

He hated it, of course. Wanted nothing more than to stop just having this little issue of his because of how cocky it made you. You tortured him into patience. Always so easily ignoring his whines like there were nothing more than blowing wind outside.

Because you wanted him to admit it. To say "(name), your right, you are..I need you bad"

So instead he tried to play it cool—especially when it, his rut, first started. Play the 'waiting game' and pretending he didn't crave desperatly to grind his cock into his precious bunny everytime your scent even wafted in his nose.

Because, even in those first few days—he still tried to play the character of someone the ache couldn't help him keep up with. Each day becoming more and more disgustingly territorial of you. Not in an obvious, clingy way either—he's more subtle, possessive with his things. He'll stand too close behind you. Appearing whenever someone else touches you. Even go as far as quietly inserting himself into your personal space like he belongs there.

His behaviour changed, too. He'll start to act less "human" or at least struggle to mimic them enough to blend in during his rut. He get's impatient. Blunt. And very very irritable.

His physical instincts spike hard. He’ll circle around reader a lot, lean down close to smell them, rest his chin on their shoulder unexpectedly, hold onto wrists or waists longer than necessary. Not always aggressive—just instinctively possessive.

His voice would probably change a little too—become rougher, quieter, more growling underneath his words when he’s irritated. Especially if you're near him while he’s already worked up. (Which is always.)

Gets worst with boundaries too. If you tells him “no” or tries to push him away, he’d go eerily still for a second before backing off. Acting as if he'd been caught doing something he himself couldn't believe he was doing.

"Forget it. I don't get what's going on with me"

While the both of you know full while what the issue is. He just refuses to let himself give into it.

If anything, the scariest part honestly was be how self-aware he is of himself. He knows his behavior is abnormal. Knows he’s being obsessive. But just refuses to act on it.

As days passed, though? His rut getttinfg familarly worse. Sleep becomes impossible. Obviously speaking, he finds himself jerking off more and more frequently to ease the pressure. Going as far as starting to pace the hallway till early morning to distract himself

He even starts getting unusually reactive to jealousy. Someone flirting with you? Talking to you? God forbid—touching you in a passing shoulder bump. Suddenly that person has terrible luck. Things go missing. They start feeling watched. Habit never admits anything, obviously.

“You’re mine right now. That’s just how this works.”

Also!! On a sorta side note, his rut would probably make his entity traits stronger. More glitches in cameras around him. More distortions in sound audio, not just to others voices but his as well.

But when he finally gives in?

"Okay- fuck, you win. You're right, is that what me to say?"

"Want me to admit that you're right? God- I hate you"

Yet? Beaides anything he may spit. He's absolutly pathetic the moment he slips it in. He'll make sounds. Not just groaning, he'll whine, and pant like he can't take it anymore.

He cums fast as shit too. Poor thing really. Can't hold up when he feels your body hugged around him in the slightest. But his endurance is fucking crazy good for the first couple rounds until his hips get lazier and sloppier each time his cock grinds into you.

Knots in you.

Recently, every time you’d come home from work, or hang out with your friends, or just leave the house in general, he’d smell it on you. A vague uneasiness that clung to you like second-hand smoke.

He’d asked you about it, yet you would always brush him off. Telling him it was nothing, swearing you were fine. You’d look at him and say you had no idea what he meant. However, you had forgotten a key factor in your relationship. Habit wasn’t normal, and he knew you better than you did.

Naturally, he started following you. Trailing you when you’d go out, tunnel-visioned on figuring out what the fuck your problem was. It only took about two days to solve the mystery.

His bunny had a secret admirer.

Plain and simple, the reason for your anxiety was due to a disturbance in your environment. You just didn’t pick up on it. Couldn’t pinpoint the source- but that didn’t matter. Your gut was screaming that something was wrong, and he could physically feel it wafting from you. As if your body was sending out flares subconsciously.

Initially, he thought that maybe the guy was a one-off bastard with a few odd tendencies. Nothing to stress about, a bump in the road, someone who would get bored after a couple of weeks. Yet he was proven wrong once the man upped the ante. He’d tried to put a tracker in your bag, and while it was found immediately, it was evidence of a bigger issue.

The fucker wasn’t a creep with a crush; he was a stalker. And that pissed Habit off like nothing else.

Somebody having feelings- or whatever the fuck- for you was already pushing it. A stranger trying to poke their nose in your his business? It was a crime punishable by death, and his teeth were grinding the second it clicked in his head.

Alas, your boyfriend was nothing if not a good sport about competitions. So, of course, he’d play fair. If the bitch wanted to put in the work, then he’d let him. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, everyone knew that.

Habit had seen this type of man time and time again. Inbred dogs who overestimate their value while hating themselves. Incel-minded fucks, real gross- lacking hygiene, yada yada. He’d just never had the chance to dissect them up close, and this was a golden opportunity.

It was funny to him.

Mortals were so obsessed with self-image, yet refused to acknowledge their faults. Blaming and blaming, pointing fingers at obstacles they themselves made up. While he never struggled with his targets per se, guys like your little stalker were almost too easy. He’d have to stretch it out at least a bit to make it interesting.

He could technically just kill the guy. Take him out quickly, end the trial here- but where’s the fun in that? The nuisance was making his poor baby sad, and this was one of the rare instances where his violence would be justified. Not that he really cared, but it felt nice knowing he was doing a good thing. He fucking guessed.

The plan was simple, and it had three distinct steps.

Phase one: Setting the Trap.

It wasn’t the most ethical course of action. It’s just that it’d be the funniest, the most satisfying, if you will. The man wanted to have you, so Habit would lure him into believing he was getting closer. Allow him to think he was an inch away from the goal.

The most important part was to keep you oblivious until the end. It’d make the reveal that much more exciting- it brought a smile to his face just picturing it. And that Monday, he dove headfirst into activating his blueprint.

He started falling into the background of your life. Not creating any unnecessary distance from you, of course. Instead, all your dates were at home or indoors. Private enough while still maintaining your needs. Then, he gave you a challenge. A domestic wager to blend into his tactics.

If you could act like you didn’t know him every time you saw him, he’d book a couples getaway for a full two weeks by the end of the month.

He’d do all the stupid romantic shit you wanted without complaint. Turn the sentimentals up to the max- and all you had to do was play pretend. You were suspicious at first, but he framed it to suit you perfectly. It was just a funny secret between you two, something to giggle at when you were in bed. Roleplaying to spice things up, the works.

You were a spy, and he was the enemy. You had to keep your relationship hush-hush, or else the hitmen would come for you both. Elaborate, fantastical, and right up your alley. You loved stories, loved laughing along with scenes in a dumb book you’d read. It was inevitable that you’d be over the moon once he broke it down. And with that out of the way, everything else fell into place.

The motherfucker walked into it flawlessly. His strategies when following you were sloppy, and he couldn’t mix into the crowd if he tried. But it was enough, and by the end of the week, he was convinced you were single. Wholeheartedly believed that you lived alone.

To be fair, if he were even a notch brighter, he’d realize that there were far too many plot holes for that to be true. Yet he wasn’t. Habit was literally just using the back door to exit the house, and keeping the car inside the garage. All of a sudden, you’d never even had a boyfriend.

You just liked wearing oversized sweaters, had a lot of friends to text affectionately, you know? Still, your safety was always a top priority. He never let the guy get too close.

Your lover’s otherworldly abilities were used for all sorts of things.

If he looked like he was building up the nerve to speak to you, Habit would ‘accidentally’ bump into him. Send his belongings scattered onto the sidewalk, and when he was finished gathering himself together, you’d be gone. If he stood behind you, trying to get an unsavoury picture, Habit would trigger the closest stray. Have the flea-ridden puppy lunge at the man and knock his phone into traffic.

Sitting at a cafe with your friends? He’d spark the coffee machine if your stalker tried taking a scrunchie out of your bag. Make the barista panic, immediately calling his name because his order was unsalvageable, interrupting him mid-act. On a walk by yourself? He’d have the birds go haywire if your admirer picked up his pace.

He was having the time of his life. God, it took nearly all his willpower not to burst out laughing at the other man's frustration. However, this was nothing compared to the grand finale, and the second act was up next.

Phase Two: The Bait.

The creep was clearly planning to break in tonight, probably salivating at the thought of getting his hands on you.

Perfect.

See, Habit had already laid the bear trap; he was simply waiting for it to be activated. That morning, he’d taken up the honour of dressing you for the day. Cute couple stuff, he picked your outfit, and you picked his. He had put you in something soft, a tiny skirt, a throw-over coat, and dainty hair accessories. You would be irresistible to a freak like that.

He’d also told you that he was bringing someone over. A friend who was in town for work, a person who’d be gone by the next day. He didn’t even have to put in any work; the prey would sniff out the rabbit and pounce. Then he’d be left with a ripe kill, one less of an invasive species. Who said he wasn’t pro-environment, right?

From dawn to dusk, he tracked you. Tracked him. The man accompanied your shadow strictly, tracing your steps while you were shopping. He followed you everywhere, never breaking for even a moment. But eventually, the sun began to dim, and you were getting ready to head home. Blissfully unaware of what was in store.

Your stalker was predictable. He tagged along about a block away, fidgeting like some pathetic pervert, and Habit was only a few feet behind. The mutt waited for you to settle, circling the grounds, excitement thrumming through his veins.

The intruder's boots hit the porch an hour after you shut the door, and it was go time.

Phase Three: Reaping The Hunt.

He picked your lock, shuffling inside anxiously. This was it, you were going to be his. You’d been tempting him all this time, flaunting yourself- it was your fault he was here.

The home was dark, dimly lit by the moon peaking through the curtains. Each creak in the floorboards brought him closer, each bated breath had adrenaline spiking. He walked cautiously, and when he passed the corner, he saw you. Standing alone in the kitchen, cotton shorts hugging your hips delicately. You were finally within reach, framed by a single stove light over the counter.

He stepped once, twice, fingers inching out to grab you—

“Hey! Was wondering when you’d show.”

A heavy arm was thrown over his shoulders, and a very male voice filled the air. Then he turned to his right, finding a man with eyes far too sharp.

“What-”

“Oh, is this your friend? Hi.”

You had swivelled around, gaze darting between him and the brunette. Your greeting was cheerful, like you’d expected him. Like he was a guest. The confusion was evident across his features, and Habit snickered, jostling him. “Yup. Known the fucker since high school. Thomas, this is my girl-” He leaned down, tone hushed in a mock whisper. “I know she’s sweet, but don’t stare too long. Gotta’ keep up the strict boyfriend act.”

The joke made you laugh, and you flicked the light switch on. From this angle, he could see the dining table, set with an array of dishes.

What the actual fuck was happening?

However, he couldn’t linger too long, because he was swiftly ushered forward. Guided with a firm hand to take a seat, he stumbled into the chair as your alleged boyfriend chuckled. “She cooked for us, ain’t that nice?” With that, he sat down across from him, and you joined shortly after. The scene made his head hurt.

He never said his name. He didn’t know the guy at all, and any sane person would’ve called the cops. So why the hell was he sitting here? Playing house with two strangers. At a table with people who were way too jovial for the situation at hand.

“C’mon, dig in.” The prod snapped him out of his thoughts, “Uh, yeah. Right.” It could be poisoned, but you didn’t seem like the type. It was your lover who had his hair standing on end. His smile was natural at first glance, yet if you held his stare, there was an uneasiness that began seeping in. An uncanny malice that screamed danger- akin to a predator. Something hungry.

Habit grinned. This was fun. “Sooo, how’s work, old pal?” He spoke absent-mindedly, taking an exaggerated bite of roast. Twirling his fork as if he were waiting.

“It’s okay... I already ate, though- honestly, I should probably get going soon.”

“But you just got here.”

Your innocent comment made his blood run cold, and he stuttered. “I-I was just stopping by to say hi.” Rushed, while the other man huffed. “Don’t be like that, the food's good, the nights young. Have a bite.” It sounded teasing- he knew it wasn’t. The words carried a threat, laced with warning. He was stuck.

It was a risk to deny the offer of dinner, but it was a bigger risk to stay. If he didn’t put a stop to it now, who knows where he’d end up? Straightening himself, he started to rise. “I really can’t. It smells great, I just have to wake up early and-”

“Sit down.”

Frozen in place, his eyes flicked up to meet a weighted gaze. A hatred so visceral it had him nauseous flashed across Habit’s pupils, then it disappeared as fast as it came. Replaced by a lazy smirk. “It’s not even eight pm, man. Relax.” The statement made him everything but loose, and he grit his teeth. Deflating back into his seat when you hummed. “Tell me if the sauce is too salty. I was trying a new recipe.”

Rigidly scooping a spoonful, he mumbled in response once he swallowed. “It’s um, it’s good.” Except that apparently, he wasn’t enthusiastic enough for your man. “Just good? She spent hours on this.” You smacked Habit on the shoulder, bickering with him.

It was striking how easily he switched on and off the edge in his tone. Watching him speak to you, he seemed so normal. Unassuming, just a couple who bantered a lot. It gave Thomas whiplash, and he nearly flinched when the brunette nodded at him.

“Fuck, can’t believe I forgot. Tommy here saw you earlier- he’s been runnin’ into ya’ a lot, actually.” Sweat lined the back of his nape, yet the other man continued gleefully. “Texted me that he found a cute little thing, and I’m ninety-ninety percent sure I know who it was.” You cocked your head to the side. “Are you serious?”

“Dead.” He sniggered, and you puffed through your nose. “Ah, I’m flattered-” Except, before you could finish your sentence, Thomas cut in. “No. No, it wasn’t you. I’d never, I swear.” His outburst silenced the table, the desperation hanging raggedly. Habit reclined against the seat.

“S’okay, it happens. I mean, look at her, right?” A reply mundane enough, but he was never the smartest of the bunch. The hole he dug was getting deeper by the second, a self-made grave that he wouldn’t be able to escape. “It wasn’t her. She’s not my type, I wouldn’t even think about it.” That made your lover pause, and he leaned forward, elbows on the surface.

“What’s your problem? I get being embarrassed, but you don’t gotta’ be rude.”

“Bitty, it’s fine-”

“Nah, let’s hear him out.”

His glare was sharp enough to cut, and Thomas stammered. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I-I wouldn’t fuck her, alright?—” Habit’s chair slammed back in a blink, cutlery rattling from the force. “Sorry?” Your hand pushed against his chest. “Stop it.” The barrier did little to lessen his irritation, and he rounded the table.

Crowding his space, Thomas’s back hit the wall. “I invite you into my house. Had you over to eat dinner my girl spent all day making- and you’re running your fucking mouth at the table?” Every syllable was spat out with hostility as he tried to defend himself. “I wasn’t- I didn’t fucking mean it like that, man.” Habit sneered an inch away from his face.

“The hell is your issue, huh? You think this shit is funny?” The aggression continued to build, and you tugged him by the arm. “Enough-” Your voice appeared to settle him a tad, until Thomas made it worse. One final comment to really nail the coffin shut.

“Jesus Christ- I don’t want the bitch.

A pin drop could be heard in that moment, and the brunette went still. Then, when he spoke, there was enough venom to drown. “The fuck did you just say?” He braced for impact, a hit, a punch- something. Yet a full ten seconds passed, and there was nothing.

Habit sighed, turning to you, his cadence softened by a fraction. “Sorry, bonbon. I thought it’d be a good idea to have him over, but I guess people grow apart for a reason.” The way he said it made Thomas shiver.

How could someone fall into it so naturally? Lie with such a raw sincerity, like he was disappointed in an old friend.

The man had to be a psychopath.

“It’s okay, but I, um-” You fidgeted with your sleeve, bottom lip wobbling. You’ve always been sensitive, and you worked hard on the meal. It wasn’t his fault; it was just a lot, especially since it was rare that he brought anyone over. The excitement from earlier that day had been crushed.

“I think I’m gonna’ go upstairs. I’ll clean up after.” Though your exit was quick, he didn’t miss the gloss in your eyes. It was only the two of them now.

Your boyfriend could finally feast.

His mask dropped instantly, and it was like there was a physical shift in the atmosphere. His laid-back persona faded, all the cordial mannerisms nowhere to be found.

Habit grinned wide, wolfish and starved. “Wouldn’t wanna’ mess up the floors, yeah?” And before he could answer, his vision went black from a head-on collision.

ᯓ★

Everything hurt.

The smell was the first indicator that something was wrong. A metallic, dusty scent. It burned with each inhale, and he coughed harshly. Thomas shot up the second the memories came to the front of his mind, only to be jolted back. He was tied to a chair.

Cold lights flooded his view upon blinking, and he squinted. Where was he? He was just inside your home, wasn’t he? Inner monologue cut short- because a blurry figure stepped into focus.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

Habit twirled a dagger between his fingers. “How you feeling? Feelin’ good, feelin’ sassy?” Leaning down, he tapped the man's nose with the blade's tip. “You know, I was gonna’ at least let you enjoy a hearty last meal, but you just had to throw a fit-” The steel edge was razor sharp, and as he applied pressure, a small cut formed.

The blood dribbled, then he pulled back, fixing his posture. “So I gotta’ make it hurt. Sucks to be you.” He took in your admirer’s expression, the fear contorting his features. Thomas looked close to tears, and he snorted. “Any drink preferences? Whatcha’ craving? You can be honest-”

“Please. If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone. I- I swear.”

“Oh, no can do, bud.”

The fluorescent buzz made Thomas’s gut churn, a repetitive static that felt like it was counting down. You were supposed to be alone, supposed to be kind and nurturing. Why was he here? Where the fuck did you even meet this guy? Did you know?

He was in the basement.

He was still in your house. Maybe if he yelled, you’d hear. He drew a shaky breath, preparing to shout for help. And shout he did. Except that the wail that came out was powered by agony instead of defiance. The dagger had been speared through his left arm. The pain was searing, sparking so hot it burned like frostbite.

Habit flicked the knife’s handle. “The walls are soundproof, you can scream all you want!” Wrapping his hand around the tool, he yanked it out with one rough tug. It made Thomas screech, and the pitch echoed throughout the space.

His hopelessness must have been obvious, because the other man tilted his head to the side. “Aw. Did you think that if you yelled, she’d call the cops?”

Crouching to eye level, he clicked his tongue. “God, don’t tell me I look like an amateur. This ain’t my first rodeo- and even if she could hear us, she’s too busy being sad. You were real mean back there, rude as hell to my lady. Now-” A firm palm settled atop Thomas’s leg, and the next question had his chest caving in.

“Which eye?”

Panic filled him immediately. “I didn’t mean to. I just liked her, man. You- you get it, right? You do this shit better than me. I’ll never talk to her again, I won’t-” Unfortunately for him, Habit hated ramblers, and he despised people who thought they knew him. The dagger was slashed across the man's Achilles heel.

“I know you like her. That’s why I can’t let ya’ leave.” He hummed lazily while Thomas hyperventilated and rose from his spot. “I do get it, though. She just fits, makes you wanna’ keep her bundled up.” Speaking casually, he paced to a rusted bench hung from the wall. “But fuck, if she doesn’t attract all the crazies in a ten-mile radius, huh?”

An array of weapons decorated the surface, and he hovered for a moment before tossing up a pair of pliers. “If you don’t pick one, I’m just gonna’ choose for you.”

Everything about his body language was off. From his tone to even the way he walked. Not a speck of nerves, no anxious side glances, nothing. Just how many times had he done this?

With Thomas lost in his own thoughts, he failed to notice Habit positioning the tool near his right eye. Dissociation was common when the mind couldn’t handle information. Funny enough, he’d actually picked up that fact from you.

Sometimes, when things were too much, you’d shut down for a bit. Usually, it was in public, and you’d cling to his sleeve. However, there were days when you’d come home quiet. Occupied in your head, and he’d have to coerce it out of you. You could be such a frail little thing, needing the precision of a skilled craftsman to pick up the pieces. Balance you out so you wouldn’t shatter.

Humans were fickle. Tedious to maintain, far too particular, fragile to the very atom. You were actually never meant to stay alive for long, yet the closer you got, the further he pushed back your expiration date. Before he knew it, you’d been “dating” for almost two years.

He should’ve ended it long ago; it’s just that he’d grown used to your company. In a peculiar, pet-like way. You moved in six months prior, and now he found the house distastefully empty when you were gone. Yes, you were still annoying, but you were his.

And Thomas had made you cry.

Kept you up at night, put you on edge even if you weren’t fully aware of it. The fucker liked you, liked you so much that he tried taking up-skirt pictures. Wanted you so terribly that he’d broken into your home, planning to do depraved things because he knew you wouldn’t be able to fight back.

You were an outlier on Habit’s list, but he didn’t know you. He didn’t see your breakdowns or hold your hand when you got scared; you were only chosen because you were the closest prey. He didn’t chase you for a special reason; you didn’t do anything wrong. Never prompted a reaction, never went out of your way to lure him in.

You could’ve been anybody, and if your luck were worse, you would’ve been in a trunk by now. If Habit weren’t here, you would’ve been tormented beyond repair. All because you were vulnerable.

The more he thought about it, the more irritated he got. The guy wanted to take you for such shallow purposes. Used utterly shit methods to try and get close, terrorized you to the point you started dreading leaving the home. You’ve had nightmares about a faceless man for months. Additionally, his work was sloppy.

His strategy was humiliating. A weak-willed pervert who grovelled. He believed that he deserved to have you, hide you away to himself when he couldn’t keep you happy for one evening.

Pathetic, a waste of fucking air- and he had the gall to compare them? The audacity to sit there and act like he and Habit were the same—

The pair of pliers snapped in half.

“Ah, shit. Whoops.” However, the grin on Habit’s face didn’t meet his eyes, and Thomas couldn’t decide which was worse. An overenthusiastic serial killer, or a deadpanned angry one. Yet he wasn’t given space to dwell, flinching when the brunette laughed. “Guess I’ll do it the manual way.” He snagged the dirtied blade off the cement.

Lining it up to his pupil, he didn’t wait another second and jammed it forward. Paying no attention to the sobs ringing in his ears. He carved around the socket, the metal digging past muscle and tissue. Blood splurted with each harsh tug, and dark crimson poured down his wrist.

It was satisfying, the scrape of bone when the knife penetrated too deep, the sounds made when he tore out the organ. The optic sat wet in his hand, jaggedly separated from the host. “Told you to pick.” He let it roll around in his palm for a moment, and Thomas gagged as he threw the eye into his mouth.

Even from the chair, he could hear the pop of cartilage- bile rose before he could hold back. It pushed past his teeth and splattered onto his lap, the distinct smell of vomit making Habit cringe. “Gross. Where the fuck are your manners?” He spoke with full cheeks, gulping down the bite a beat later. “If you’re wondering how it tastes, think like gushers. If they were more... uh, fleshy.”

Thomas was lightheaded from the pain. His fingers had gone numb, and he slurred with saliva dripping to the floor. “Please, p-please. Don’t kill me, I’ll do anything. I’ll move towns, I’ll never talk to—” The moment the first syllable of your name formed, something blistering snapped behind Habit’s gaze.

He pierced the dagger through the man's cheek, the tip digging into his gums on the other side. He’d moved so fast that even Habit himself was shocked. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but the mention of you provoked a carnally rooted animosity.

The remaining traces of his playfulness vanished, and his lips curled up into a snarl. “I wanted to make this fun, but you’re really getting on my fuckin’ nerves, Tommy.” Running his tongue along his teeth, he exhaled, shrugging as if he were disgruntled. “You keep talking and talking and fucking talking.” Habit began pacing back and forth.

“I know I’m convincing, but we’re not actually friends, dumbass.” Spinning on his heel, he walked to station himself in front of the occupied seat. “What did you wanna’ do tonight?” And when Thomas failed to respond, he dislodged the knife once more, sending plasma flying. “You wanna’ yap my ear off, but when I ask a question, you’re mute? Talk.”

He grabbed a fistful of hair, using it as leverage to bash his knee into the man’s face. His nose sank in with a gory crunch, and Habit sighed. “Okay, we’re gonna’ try this again.” Slumping to a kneel, he rested an arm on his propped leg. “What did you wanna’ do tonight?” Thomas hiccuped, snot soaking into the wound.

“I jus’ wanted to s-see her.”

“Yeah? You wanted to see her?”

He nodded while your lover cocked his head to the right. “Mm, I think you’re lying to me.” The other shook violently, struggling against the rope, sputtering.

“No- no, ‘m not. I’m not, I swear I’m not. Please don’t kill me, I’m begging you. I-I—”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

Habit dragged a palm down his face, puffing, before he stood. “What did you wanna’ do tonight?” Thomas choked on another wave of nausea and mumbled inaudibly. Which was exactly what he didn’t want to hear. Raising his arm, he back-handed him forcefully. The impact knocked his teeth together, spittle mixing with blood on the concrete.

“Did you wanna’ fuck her?” The brunette dropped his face lower, a mock pout gracing his expression.

Thomas blubbered. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry, alright? Come on, please. I jus’ liked her, man. She was pretty, I couldn’t help it-” Now that made Habit scoff. “You couldn’t help it. You- you couldn’t fucking help it?” Voice ascending into a disbelieving chuckle.

“You’re such a stupid fucking bitch, y’know that?” He plunged the blade into his shoulder, then jerked it back out. “Bet you wanted to see her all dolled up.” A strike to his collar. “Have her crying real sweet.” A gash across his chest. “Screaming your name like she loves ya’-” A puncture between his ribs. “But you can’t.”

With one final swing, the serrated edge struck brutally into Thomas’s thigh, and Habit let out a breathy snicker. “’Cause she’s mine, Tommy.” Drawing out the nickname with a sickly sweet coo, he cast the dagger aside, the steel clanging against the ground. He’d worked up quite the appetite.

Rolling his shoulders back, his chest heaving from exertion. Habit decided, for his final act of generosity, he’d give him a good scare. A thrilling view for his final moments. He’d purposefully missed all vital areas, so Thomas could truly enjoy it.

It started with a faint twitch in his jaw. Then a jolt in his shoulder, followed by the sickly crack of bone.

The corner of your boyfriend’s mouth split wide, revealing row after row of jagged, sharp teeth. Dark purple veins ran down the side of his throat, with his sclera being swallowed by pulsating ink. As if his body had been damned on sacred earth, a possession in its wake.

His jaw hung open, and the entire left side of his face was mutilated to make room for parasitic-like tongues that swirled in the cavity. A monster.

Thomas, with the little energy he had left, strained against his bindings. “What the fuck are you—” His efforts were pitiful, a squirming bug on the brink of death. Habit had to laugh. “Well, that’s rude. I take off my makeup, and that’s what you say?” The base of his words was heavily distorted, vocal cords stretching to the new anatomy.

He took a step forward, and Thomas bucked in his chair, scrambling to no avail. He screamed at the top of his lungs, silenced in under a second. His upper half had been bitten clean off, intestines splayed messily over his rigid legs.

Habit thinks he could’ve had a better diet, though he wasn’t in the position to be picky.

Dusting off his blood-drenched jeans, his features slowly contorted back into place, and he finished the rest of his meal. He could’ve done a two-biter, but he wanted to chew on something while he cleaned.

It was the same process: wipe down the counters and tools, then mop. And after about an hour, the room was basically brand new. He knew putting down the tarps was a good idea. Except he still had one problem to solve.

You and your dampened mood.

ᯓ★

Of course, he goes off to run errands now, of all times.

Your lover had texted you once you’d gone upstairs, telling you he’d talk to the guy and that he’d figure it out.

Turning onto your side, the clock on your nightstand read ‘12:45 AM.’ You frowned, smushing your face into the pillow. Where was he? You could text him, yet he’d stated that he’d be off his phone earlier. He probably wouldn’t even respond.

However, just as you went to sigh for the umpteenth time, your bedroom door cracked open.

Sitting up, you spotted him. Habit had already changed into his pyjamas, appearing more boyfriend material than ever. You hadn’t told him, but the sweater he was wearing was your favourite. A light grey crewneck. The cotton was worn out, which made it very cozy to lie on.

You reached out with grabby hands, and he huffed a chuckle. “Miss me?” Climbing under the sheets, you latched onto him immediately. Pressing yourself flush against his chest when he settled against the pillows. “How was it?” He hummed.

“Fine. He was annoying as shit, though. It took a whole ass hour before he apologized- imagine that.” Nudging a hand up your shirt, his thumb trailed along your hip. “Don’t know where the hell he got the attitude from.” The low rasp in his tone filled your head, and your lids drooped. He always made you so sleepy.

“Did you like the food?”

Mumbling quietly, leaning up to peck his jaw. You giggled when he gave your hip a slight pinch. “Dummy. Yeah, I liked it.” With the room illuminated by a single bedside lamp, his features were softened, and you nuzzled into his collar. Basking in the way his heart beat under your palm. “What’d you say to him anyway?”

“I told him he was pissing me the fuck off. We were arguing, and he got in my face.” He shuffled a tad, cradling your cheek when you propped yourself up to look at him. “But he’s leaving tonight. So no more Tommy. Hope you didn’t like him too much-” His gaze dropped to your lips, voice no more than a whisper. “’Cause I don’t think he’s coming around any time soon.”

Habit slipped his fingers into your hair, cupping your nape, and your lips slotted together. It was all the comfort you needed, given to you in the form of touch. You parted after a minute, with the buzz of intimacy still lingering. “Thank you for saying something.” The meek confession had him rolling his eyes.

“You act like I’m not good to you, bonbon.” He muttered, tucking a strand behind your ear when you pouted. “Yeah, but-” Your retort faded before it even fully left your mouth, and he arched a brow. “But..? What? When the fuck have I ever let someone be mean to you?” As much as you wanted to defend your point, he was right.

“That’s only because you’re weird and get territorial about the meaness I’m exposed to.” Poking near his chin, he snapped his teeth forward, and you squeaked. “It’s true!” The deadpan on his face was blunt enough to make you sag in defeat.

“You’re an idiot.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Sleep.”

He tugged you down, touch buried in your hair. You were firmly squished against his pec, and you snivelled. “... I love you, even if you’re mean to me.” Cuddling further into him as he grunted. “Sleep, or I’ll eat you like I ate Thomas.” You gasped, scandalized. “That’s not funny! People have been going missing, Bitty. The Joneses said they saw something in the woods. He sucked, but I hope he got home safe.”

“I fucking don’t-”

“Habit.”

The call of his name was swiftly responded to with another pinch, and you thumped your feet under the blanket. “Stop it. What if something actually happens to him? You’d feel so bad.”

That alone had him snorting, patting your ass condescendingly while you sputtered about the dangers of the forest. For all your worry, you sure were touchy with the monster you claimed to fear.

Maybe he’ll snack on your ex next time.

— ^ ^ —

Sure, that sounded mean, but it was true. You were stupid. Not in a bad way, you were just kind of… dense. Empty-headed most days, in his opinion anyway.

And tonight that rang especially true.

Sitting across the couch from him, you fidgeted with your thumbs. Laughing at something very unfunny on TV. The fluorescent glow lit your face, and he sighed. At this angle, you really did remind him of a bunny.

You had showered at his, stealing one of his most definitely blood stained hoodies- and put it on without thought. The grey cotton was loose on you, the hood swallowing your head entirely. Sweater-paws and all, you were almost cute. He fucking guessed.

Nose twitching, you sniffled, rubbing your face slightly. And while he was busy inspecting you, your gaze drifted from the screen. In the darkness of the room, he appeared as brooding as ever.

Meeting his eye, you giggled. Habit always seemed so serious at the oddest times.

You reached for him, outstretching your arms as you shuffled closer on your knees. He already knew what you wanted, your protocol was predictable. Simple just like you were.

The daily routine affection, something that you needed to properly thrive. It was ingrained in your biology, he understood that- but it was still unbelievable how much trust you had for him.

I mean, the signs were obvious, weren’t they? The late hours, the weird shady shit he did, all of it. Coming back up the basement steps you were never allowed near, he’d be splattered in deep red. The evidence stained him head to toe, and he was certain he looked unsettling. Eerie and cruel when he would finally reach his bed.

The same bed you’d be occupying. Comfortable under the covers, you’d be nothing if not cheery. Excited that he was back, you would ask to sit on the sink counter while he washed off the grime. Your constant want to be near him was fascinating, innocent, akin to prey.

That want was present now, crystal clear and brightly coloured. You crawled onto his lap, with your knees resting on either side of his thighs. You hummed, “I think you look pretty today.”

The grin you gave him was crooked, nearly proud. Like you had hyped yourself up in preparation, given your reflection a pep-talk before hand. Pretty, what a strange creature you were indeed.

Habit scoffed, yet his grip on your hips never faltered, not even for a second. “Bet you worked real hard on that one, huh?” Circling his arms around your waist, he pulled you flush to him. Chest to chest, his eyes wandered your face. What an idiot, falling for a monster like you’d survive. Like you’d make it out unchanged.

Your voice was hushed, light with joy while you laughed.

Habit ignored that he didn’t hate the sound.

“I did, and I hope you’re having fun... I like sleeping over. It’s always my favourite day of the week.” Confessed into his cheek, you nuzzled him. Moronically dropping your guard as you always did, he pinched your thigh. Smirking with satisfaction when you yelped.

“Yeah. I’m having lots of fun, bonbon.”

“That’s because you’re evil, and mean to me.”

Your pout made him snort, and he continued to parade on your romance. “And you’re still fuckin’ glued to me- need me that badly?” He expected a frown, maybe a slap to his shoulder, something along those lines.

What he did not expect was your strikingly genuine statement.

With your face inches from his, your smile was warm. “Well yeah, I love you a lot. I always need you.” Said as if it were obvious, and you moved on. Leaving a peck along his jaw, you settled back down, returning your attention to the movie. None the wiser to Habit’s dilemma.

God you were so fucking weird, and dumb. You were very dumb- because who the fuck decides to love someone like him. Don’t get him wrong, he’s perfected the boyfriend act. Catered to you flawlessly, it’s all in his mental handbook for pet care.

So he understood why, he fucking supposed. He just feels bad because you clearly have no survival instincts.

Clinging to him as if he wasn’t worse than the grim reaper itself. You’d die out there alone, so you were right about one thing. It was… satisfying to hear you say it. Only because you’d be correct in thinking that you needed him. That’s all.

Slouching deeper into the cushions, he gripped your chin. Forcing you to look at him, you blinked in confusion. “Yes?” And Habit clicked his tongue, before dragging you both down.

You collapsed on top of him, catching yourself with your hands splayed across his chest. Sprawled on the sofa, he rested his palms on your hips. Tilting his head like he was analyzing you. “You need me?” Mumbled lazily, and you giggled.

“Yes, tons!”

Aw, he could basically see your tail wagging. So eager to please, eager to do whatever he wanted just a the chance at his affection. How quaint.

His lips pulled into a smirk, slow and measured. Calculating.

“Then say it. Tell me how bad ya’ love me, bonbon.”

You fall for it every time. Stroking his ego with practice, and you didn’t even have to try. The stupid sappy shit came to you like second nature.

“I love you so much- like so much you have no idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm! You’re my favourite person.”

And manipulation came second nature to him. I mean, could you blame him? You made it so goddamn easy. He could probably tell you the sky was purple, and you’d believe him.

Running his thumb along your bottom lip, he tapped the plush skin twice. “I don’t know… Are you sure?” Your eyes grew wide, your expression immediately turning sour.

Pitiful and desperate to reassure him, you pressed his palm to your cheek. Kissing his wrist when you spoke. “I am- you are my favourite person. I-I’d do anything for you.” His grin sharpened with something akin to venom. The way snakes do as they circle their prey.

“Anything at all?”

“Anything at all.”

The rush you gave him- fuck, he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Pulling you closer, he kissed you softly. Your mouths molded together, and you pawed at his shirt.

Habit’s touch was unique. For someone seemingly so brutal, he always kissed you with purpose. With just enough pressure, just enough desire to have you hooked on it. Hooked on him.

His tongue slipped past your lips, saliva mixing with yours, and his hand wrapped around your throat. Claiming as you whined into his mouth.

He could fucking smell your core growing slick.

You get wet so easily, worked up over nothing. It was amusing, to say the least. So he’ll play nice tonight, give you what you want without making you cry for it first. Well, maybe he’d make you cry a little, but who would he be if he didn’t, right?

His free hand drifted lower, palming at the fat of your ass. Grinding you on his half-hard cock, he gave your windpipe a squeeze. You were adorable like this, he had to admit. Squirming and pathetic, it just suit you.

Parting from him with a wet smack, the string of drool glistened in the dim light. You huffed, already impatient. “I want- can we…” Pouting, you bucked your hips lightly, hoping he’d take the hint.

Fortunately for you, he did. But he was still the man you loved, and mercy was not a name he knew well.

He tittered, scolding you. “Can we..? Spit it out, bunny. You wanna’ see what happens if you piss me off?” Harshly pinching your hip once more, and you jolt. Tripping over your words as you try and appease him. “Can we- um.” This was humiliating.

You hated saying it out-loud, he knew that. Which is why he made you do it every time, revelling in your embarrassment. You had half the mind to give up- but he looked so good. So pretty, nearly mouthwatering beneath you.

Smug with his eyes half lidded, he was aware of the effect he had on you. You swallowed. “Can we fuck.” Cringing when you heard yourself, yet his grin only widened. “Is that how we ask?”

You could feel him pulse every few seconds, his length slotting into your clothed slit. How cruel, you thought. Your boyfriend was so mean. “P-please?” And he clicked his tongue, disapproval written across his features. “Try again.”

Stern, his tone was a warning. You knew what he wanted, and your face was aflame. Voice dropping into a whisper, you rocked against him.

“Please, daddy?”

“There’s my girl.”

Satisfied with your answer, he shifted your hips. He wasn’t going to prep you, he didn’t need to. Your slutty body had long adjusted to him, Habit had trained you well after all.

Pushing down his sweats, he tugged himself free. The sight had you twitching, needy and hot all over. With his cock sitting heavy in his hand, he tapped it against your mound.

You had chosen to not wear pants with the stolen sweater, leaving thin panties in the way instead. It gave him easy access. You were such a well behaved rabbit. His thumb hooked the damp cotton, and he dragged it aside. You were dripping.

Soaked while you grind your cunt up and down his length. You mewled, the emptiness was driving you mad. “Want it- please, sir.” The coo he gave you had you shivering. Low and condescending, he lined himself up with your weeping hole. “Poor thing. Need it real deep in your tummy, right? Need daddy to make it better?” Pouting at you mockingly.

The liquid filth rolled off his tongue with practice. Watching you fascinated when you nod desperately. “Mhm.” He sighed, acting like he was mulling over something as mundane as groceries.

“Mm, think fast?”

“Wha-“

Your eyes rolled into your skull as Habit slammed you down to the hilt. Trembling violently from the feeling, you were stuffed. Filled to the brim, and drooling, he gave you no time to breathe. His feet planted on the cushions, he fucked up into you roughly. Your arms felt like jello, and you crumbled onto his chest.

Limp while he used your pussy as a cock sleeve. You panted against his collar, letting out clipped squeaks with each thrust. Head foggy with lust, your need for him overwhelmed you.

Despite his hardened facade, and calloused overall demeanor- you knew he cared. Habit payed attention to things that most people wouldn’t even notice. Making sure you were always comfortable in public, when you were anxious or scared to push yourself, he’d be there.

With a steady hand on your lower back, he’d calm you down. Let you hang off of him over the silliest things, treating you like you were something to be cherished. And you were aware that sometimes, to others, it didn’t seem that way. Yet, that’s only because they didn’t know him. Not like you did.

Didn’t see the way his eyes would soften just a bit when you truly got upset. The way he’d hold you impossibly close if the day had turned against you. Perhaps it wasn’t consistently obvious- but you knew if it came down to it, he’d always be in your corner. Ready to tackle whatever issue that threatened to steal your spark.

The intimacy of the position got to you, and you threw your arms around his neck. You wanted all of him.

Licking a stripe along his jaw, you nipped him, ghosting the skin with half kisses. Habit sniggered, clearly amused by your drunken display. “Filthy, filthy- where are your manners, bonbon?” And you gasped as he flipped you, swapping your places.

Now hovering above you, he pried open your mouth, shoving his thumb into the cavern. Swabbing the drool with the pad of his finger, he spit onto your tongue. The glob landed messily, tasting like ownership.

Loved you like a pet and fucked you like a whore, his signature pastime.

Your lover clamped a large hand over your mouth, forcing you to swallow. Running his tongue along his teeth when you gulped. “Look at you, drinking that shit like it’s water. Y’really do love me, don’t cha’, sweethearts?”

You were a fucking vision under him, glassy eyed and pliant- he bet you’d let him do anything. You’d said so yourself, hadn’t you?

Reclining onto his heels, he folded your legs to your chest, and the force of his thrusts had the sofa moving out of place.

Pounding your poor cunt with no mercy, his balls smacked against your ass with sticky plaps. An off-white ring formed around the base of his cock from your joint arousal, the slick dribbling onto the cushions.

Habit would be a liar if he said he didn’t care about you.

Because when your thighs were spread, and you stared at him with nothing but obsession in your gaze- he was sure he’d paint the town red in a heartbeat. Just for you.

Your tunnel felt like silk, sopping wet while he drilled into you. Squeezing down on him so tight that it had him biting his lower lip. Groaning lowly in satisfaction, he slowed his rhythm to a mind numbing grind. “Best pussy I’ve ever had, y’know that?” Each thick, deep drag of his cock making you whimper.

Your pupils crossed, back arching off the couch. “All yours- ngh. I-I’m all yours- love you-loveyouloveyou-“ Slurring, the lewd ramble caught in your throat when his pace picked up with a vengeance.

Snapping his hips forward, he grunted, sweat collecting at his brow. “Braindead ain’t you, bunny? You’d let put you in a fucking cage with a smile on your face-“ The dumb little nod you gave made him snort. His hand wrapped around your throat, and he grinned. Canines reflecting from the screens glow.

“-Could snap your pretty neck right now, think it’d hurt?”

The threat had you shuddering, making your head spin. Habit was so much stronger, so much bigger than you, authority radiating from him in waves. Shoulders broad with roped muscles that tensed every time he squeezed your airways.

You writhed violently, choking on the pleasure while you came. “Ah- d-daddy- daddy-“ Squirting onto his pelvis, and drenching his thighs. Absolutely fucking filthy.

The view got him off, you were just perfect like this. With your cunt stretched around his girth, gasping desperately for air- it had his eyes rolling back. Rolling his hips once, twice more, before he pumped you full.

His chest heaved, and for a moment, you foolishly believed you could rest.

The bruising grip on your waist as he spun you onto your hands and knees proved otherwise.

Hiccuping, you blinked away the tears blurring your vision. Mumbling in confusion when you craned to look at him. “Habit?” He hummed in response, giving your ass a stinging smack. “Not my name.” Driving his still hard cock right back into your heat, and you clumsily bit down into the pillow. He was so mean.

Balls deep when his tip thumped against your cervix. His cum dripped out of you, puddling between your legs on the cushion, you could feel him in your stomach.

The certainty in his next words had your blood running cold.

“Aw, don’t get all sleepy now, bonbon. I still gotta’ breed you like a real bunny, don’t I?”

— ^ ^ —

You should’ve been back ages ago. The sun had long set, and you hated staying out past dark alone. You’d told him that it made you anxious, especially since you knew supernatural dangers existed in the wild. He had turned the house upside down in his search, only to come up empty-handed.

Worry overtook him rapidly, fear tainting his vision like ink in water. “Hun? Where you hidin’?” He tried to keep his tone light, yet his words shook nonetheless. Each step was accompanied by a prayer, every breath shadowed by the hope that you’d be found safe and sound. He was just overthinking again, too anxious about you for his own good- that’s all.

He looked in all bathrooms, the kitchen, the office, and the entirety of the second floor. It seemed as if you’d disappeared into thin air.

Dropping rigidly onto the sofa, he dialled you once more, then again, and again and again. He waited for your voice to ring out, but it never did, making him more uneasy by the second—

“Tim, can ya’ ask her if she’s missin’ her phone? Swear one of these days she’s gonna’ lose it for good.”

Whipping his head to the left, Brian stood at the living room entrance, your cell phone in hand. Tim’s expression could only be described as frantic when he rose, rushing over. “Where did you get that?” The desperation in his voice had the other man taken aback, and he arched a brow. “... On the porch? She left it by the seats-”

“She ain’t home.”

Brian’s leisurely stance faded immediately, eyes guarded while he straightened his spine. “The hell you mean she ain’t home? Her shoes are here.” Tim dragged a hand down his face. “I- shit-” Muttering, he marched down the hall, bursting into the office with the blonde in tow. “I got back an hour ago, been tryin’ to find her since.”

Urgency drove his actions as he plugged a drive into his laptop, and Brian inhaled sharply. “You think someone saw her with us?”

Already checking his holster, counting ammo, the gunmetal was cold against his gloved palm.

Tim sighed, flipping through security cameras in the area. “Might’ve. If they followed her here, they ain’t amateurs.” He grit his teeth, going to speak when Toby popped his head through the ajar door. “That’s w-where you guys were. Are we eating s-suh-soon? She said she wanted to make soup ‘cause it’s cold.” The innocence in his question made him tense up.

He stuttered for a beat before the blonde cut in. “She’s missing, Rogers. Keep your hatchets on you.” His tone was blunt, lacking any sort of warmth. It left no room for hesitation or defiance, because he wasn’t talking to Brian; he was talking to Hoodie.

The statement registered a moment later, and he adjusted his stance, rolling his neck to the side. Toby’s playful attitude had been replaced with an iron callousness. It didn’t matter if they were at home; your safety was up in the air, which meant this was now an assignment.

They moved swiftly, slipping into their roles like a second skin. Masky reloaded his pistols, latching a dagger onto his belt while Hoodie went over all video logs with your silhouette from the past twenty-four hours. Toby paced, restless. “When’d she leave?” Giving his axe a loose toss when the older brunette grunted. “Texted us at twelve, but her phone was on the porch. I don’t know if she even got past the fuckin’ yard.”

He caught his weapon by the handle and clenched his jaw. “We literally built this c-cabin so people wouldn’t find us. How the fuck did this e-even-” Tapping his foot on the carpet harshly, his head jerked. He was gripping the hatchet hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, and Hoodie clasped a firm hand on his back.

“Focus.”

While it might sound cold to others, he knew what the man meant. They couldn’t afford panic or distraction on the field- this was reassurance. Focus was accuracy, focus was an indispensable skill, and a higher success rate. He wasn’t being reprimanded; he was being told that if they kept a clear mind, they’d find you alive.

Toby swallowed dryly, nodding. “She’s... she’s fine, right?” Zeroing in on the floorboards- the sniper gave his shoulder a squeeze, letting go after a beat. “She will be.” Although the ‘she has to be’ went unsaid, the gravity of your wherabouts remained.

With the footage not being of any help, the trio suited up. Guns at the ready, adrenaline kicking in as they made their way outside. They were hunters, and they’d stop at nothing to track you down. Sniff you out like police canines on foot if they had to.

Except that the minute the oldest two crossed into the grass, Toby yelled from behind them. “I- I think I found her.” The pair whirled around, hurrying to him- and there you were.

Asleep, curled up under the daisies. Completely unaware of their prior stress. You had gone on a walk earlier, and Tim was correct, you hadn’t made it past the yard.

The thing was, you were too curious for your own good, and the rock had been so pretty. You’d ignored the strange sigil painted atop, picking it up without a second thought. Which led to you shrinking. Which led to now.

You wiggled slightly, comfortably fitting into the centre of a fallen flower. You had one to support your head, and another to cup your hips, with your tiny feet hanging over the basket's ledge. The planter was placed on your porch railing, and you’d miss it if you were headed straight.

Unless you were just a tad bit shorter.

See, Masky and Hoodie were blunt men, very direct and to the point. Toby, on the other hand, liked to wander. He subconsciously lingered by anything eye-catching, and miniature limbs in a flower basket stood out like a sore thumb. Especially if they had your socks on.

Masky pinched his nose bridge. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding.” Sighing loudly, he reached up, unhooking the planter. The motion caused you to blink back to life, and you gasped upon seeing them. “Oh- god, what time is it?” Rubbing your eyes, Toby was mesmerized. You were tiny. A pint-sized, little replica of their lover.

He totally understood why you were so giddy when they were small.

He exhaled wistfully, raising his hand to scoop you into his palms. “How did you get s-so mini, angel?” You sprawled over his skin, basking in the freely given warmth. You hadn’t realized how chilly it was until he’d picked you up.

“I found a cool rock- then it started glowing, and now I’m like... yeah. I locked the door, so I couldn’t even get back inside! And you wouldn’t be back till way later, this was the only spot to nap.”

Your explanation had Brian letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and he chuckled quietly. “Scared us real bad, y’know that?” Holding out a finger, he stared in fascination when you hugged it close. “Ugh, I would’ve called, but I couldn’t get down after I climbed up there.” You confessed, feet swinging.

Tim had set the basket down, already unlocking the front door. Again. “Should’ve goddamn known. Of course it was some weird ass magic bullshit- why would it be anything else, right?” He mumbled to himself, ushering the rest of you inside. Toby carried you as gently as he could. “Did you nap all day?”

“Basically, the flowers were actually pretty cozy.”

“Yer’ like- what was that movie? Thumbelina?”

Brian kicked off his boots, and your trio made your way upstairs, wooden steps creaking under the weight. You hummed excitedly. “I loved that movie. We should rewatch it... Tim Tim, have you seen Thumbelina?” Unclipping the holster from his belt, he called over his shoulder. “No, ma’am.” Your bedroom was constantly busy, even more so when the boys would get home at the same time.

“What? But it’s such a classic.”

“I ain’t had the time growing up, was too busy keepin’ myself alive since my parents didn’t feel up to it.”

The blonde pressed his lips into a tight line, holding in his laugh while you gawked. “Oh, well. Um.” Stuttering, you could see Tim’s shoulders shake. “I’m- ‘m teasin’ you, sug’-” He spun to face you, unbuttoning his shirt. “S’okay, we can watch it. Swear on my ma, I won’t bring up my tragic past.” His smirk made you pout.

“No, you can talk about it if you want! You can always talk to me, I promise.” Your earnest nature was not lost on him, and he cooed. “I know, baby, I know.” You were too damn adorable for your own good. Inching lower, he caressed your cheek with a thumb. Careful not to jostle you. “Let’s get you into somethin’ more comfortable, yeah?” And once you nodded, he retrieved you from Toby’s grasp.

The next fiasco to tackle was your clothing. You’d shrunk in your outside wear, and your normal pyjamas didn’t exactly fit at the moment. He placed you on the vanity, resting his hands at his hips in thought. “Rogers, you ain’t got any tiny shirts in that collection of yer’s, do ya’?” The younger brunette had a habit of picking up random trinkets, and Tim was praying the hobby would save the day.

Though much to his dismay, Toby shook his head, shucking off his sweater into the hamper. “Nah, it’s just r-rocks and stuff.” The disappointment on Tim’s face was palpable. “Mm. Brian, you think of anything yet?”

“We got sewing supplies.”

➽──────────────❥

Who knew making doll-sized clothes would be this difficult?

Brian was assigned the task of sewing the garments, while Tim cut out the patterns and Toby ensured stability. Well, your stability. They’d positioned you on a tissue box at the dining table, measuring your shoulders and height. The boys took it so seriously that Tim had even brought out his reading glasses.

The frame was perched on his nose bridge as he scoffed, hunched over the laptop. “Who the fuck is designing this shit? Why are there so many layers- it’s one t-shirt.” The screen displayed a tutorial on how to properly stitch the arm holes. A step-by-step guide that Brian squinted at. “Okay, fold- then tie the knot in a loop...” He mumbled under his breath, glancing back down to pull at the thread.

“Lover’s, I can just wear this. You don’t have to make me a new closet.” Yet Tim waved off your comment. “Uh uh. This magic bullshit wouldn’t even be around you if it ain’t for us. We’re grown-ass men, we can learn to sew some shorts.” Focusing on the text when Toby snorted. “You got to have y-your fun, now it’s our turn.”

“Made us kiss like some damn Barbies. Yer’ gonna’ try on these clothes and like it, girl.”

“Tim-”

“Don’t Tim me. Now hush.”

The three of them were gathered under a dim lamp they moved from the bedroom. The singular bulb lighting the fabric, Brian tugged back the string, finishing off the pattern. “Alright- put this on.” He held the minuscule piece in front of you, and you shuffled off your dress. Left in nothing but your underwear, the cotton slipped over your head with ease. “How’s it look?”

You struck a pose, framing your face in your palms- Toby snickered. “Totally fit for a magazine, muffin.” They spent at least an hour constructing your new wardrobe, and it was nearly midnight by the time they finished.

Tim slouched into the seat, pushing his glasses to rest in his hair. You were dressed in a plain white shirt, slightly lopsided sleep shorts hugging your hips. But it was comfortable, made with love, and that’s all that mattered. You yawned, the day's weariness catching up to you. Brian hummed. “Slept till we got home, an’ you still tired?” His teasing lilt made you huff. “I’m allowed to be sleepy in my own house—”

You bickered all the way to bed, Brian’s argument being that since you were small, one normal hour was way longer for you. You disagreed strongly. “That’s not how it works.”

“I can’t hear you, missus- ya’ gotta’ speak up.”

“Tim, do something.”

“Leave ‘er alone, Bri.”

“I can hear you just fine, angel.”

Perpetually ready to back you up, Toby pats your form lightly. Your usual arrangement had been altered, and Toby was in the middle for the night. Tim on his right, Brian on his left- you were tucked into the collar of his sweater, using it as a blanket. Brian rolled his eyes. “Suck up.”

“You’re j-just mad ‘cause she wanted to sleep on me.”

“She ain’t want nothin’. We flipped a coin, and you rigged it.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“You act like I didn’t see you catch it all tilted-”

“If y’all ain’t shut the hell up.”

Tim grunted, clicking his tongue before you giggled. “I want a goodnight kiss.” Wiggling your feet under the fabric, Brian was propped up in a flash. Squishing closer to lean in. “Tell me if I suffocate you, darlin’.” His lips covered your features, and the warmth drowned you whole. He parted from you with a barely audible ‘mwah’, Toby taking his place.

He scooted up a smidge, then ducked his chin down. Letting you hug his face and press yourself to his mouth. Your bedroom was full of hushed laughter. Quaint, as it offered the comfort of candlelight. Then Tim, with a fake disgruntled attitude and all, was the last to go. “Should get you a bell for next time.”

The man pecked your forehead as best as he could before settling onto his back. Slumber, creeping along with the tides, you were out in a blink. And despite the situation, you’d never felt safer.

They reminded you of guard dogs, loyal to a fault, no matter the odds.

➽──────────────❥

Toby awoke with sunlight forcing its way behind his lids.

However, the minute he decided to sleep in a bit more, a dampness on his chest made his eyes shoot open. You were shivering, cold sweat soaking through both of your shirts. Even with his sleep-addled brain, concern immediately had the leftover fog disappearing. He nudged you.

“Baby?” Whispering again, once you didn’t budge. “You’re f-freezing- c’mon.” Still, he was met with nothing- then you let out a meek whimper. Your face was scrunched up in pain, and you trembled violently. Something was wrong. He hurriedly sat, shaking Tim. “Masky, I think she’s sick or s-suh-something.”

The killer rasped in response, rubbing his temples while he adjusted to the brightness. “What the hell do you mean she’s...” It took a single look for him to catch up, and he cursed. “Shit. Alright.” Swinging his feet off the mattress, before gesturing to the boy to wake Brian.

The two were swift, Toby cradling you to preserve warmth as Tim dug through your bathroom cabinet for medicine. Brian narrowed his eyes, gaze sweeping your body. “We gotta’ check her temperature.” He frowned, joining the other man to search in the drawers. Your lover returned with the tool after a moment, and Toby grit his teeth. If you were smaller than usual, would the cold hit you harder?

The blonde held the thermometer to your lips, grimacing when he had to force your mouth open. 105.2 degrees, you had a fever. “Tim, it’s high. We need to give her something now.” Unfortunately, it appeared your cabinets were useless. They didn’t even have tylonel, and you were growing weaker by the second. Tim slumped against the door frame.

Shoulders tense, he dragged a hand down his face. “We need to take her to Jack.” His statement had Toby’s head whipping towards him. “We can’t just fucking bring her there. It’s not safe, what if someone sees-”

“If her temperature’s dangerous normally, what do you think’s gonna’ happen if we leave it, huh?”

The gravity of your current state spilled into his gut like cement. Toby swallowed dryly. “How do we know EJ’s gonna’ be good about it?” Rubbing your back, he attempted to soothe you while Brian buckled his belt. “Jack ain’t running his mouth. The bastard barely talks most days.”

This was going to be a weird fucking med-bay visit.

➽──────────────❥

After they’d killed the engine, the three made their way to the basement.

You’d been tucked into Toby’s breast pocket, most of your weight supported by his unwavering grasp. He refused to just let you curl up in there, and he held the curve of your body through the cotton the entire ride. Now, standing at the basement entrance, he sighed.

Masky descended the stairs first, the other two following closely. “Jack? We got somebody sick. Her fever's real high, and she’s... she got hit with somethin’ to make her small.” His voice bounced off the concrete walls, then, after a beat, the cannibal in question stepped from behind the curtain. “She?” Tilting his head to the side, he inhaled. “An outsider.”

The words rolled off his tongue like an accusation, and Toby interjected.

“Don’t f-fucking start. She doesn’t deserve to suffer because you’re on y-your fucking high horse.” His outburst was met with a slight head shake, Jack raising a claw to placate him. “I was not denying your request; I was simply curious. That’s all.” He sputtered wordlessly, and Hoodie squeezed his shoulder, turning to Jack.

“Can you fix it?”

“Assuming her physiology is the same, yes.”

Stepping forward, he carefully removed you from his sweater, presenting you. Their medic pitched lower, sniffing you in a way that made Masky clench his jaw- before he reclined. “Mm, it’s a common cold. She will be fine.” Then you were swiftly picked up, and Toby had to stop himself from lunging after you.

Hoodie would give Jack one thing: the guy had the ability to stay unbothered in any scenario. It’s not that he wasn’t gentle with you; he just carried you with such little reaction that it threw your boyfriends off.

Lying you onto the medical table, he’d placed a heated towel down so your chills wouldn’t worsen. His movements were methodical, quick and done with skill. He filled a small spot plate with Acetaminophen, using a dropper tool to collect the syrup. Your head was propped up delicately, and he nudged the pipette past your lips.

The medicine pooled into your mouth, its sharp flavour causing you to swallow. You grimaced, then your lashes fluttered open. Everything was hazy, yet when your vision finally focused—

A giant, dark blue mask encompassed your view. Black voids where eyes should’ve been. Even in your current state, you could tell the man was massive. His inhuman baritone froze you on the spot as he uttered one singular sentence.

“I warmed up a rag so you wouldn’t get cold.”

You yelped.

Toby darted over immediately. “Hey, angel. You f-feeling okay?” Crouching, he rested his chin on the table, holding the edge while the other two padded closer. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think.” You glanced back at the looming figure, sitting upright weakly. “Who’s…?” Masky sighed. “We didn’t have anything at the house, and you had a fever. This is um- this is EJ.” He gestured to the doctor, and Jack gave you an oddly polite wave.

“The medication will activate faster because of your size. Nausea and other symptoms should lessen once you eat.” Withdrawing, he grabbed the lab instruments from your side, walking to a counter near the back. Your lovers took his place, and Hoodie rubbed your shoulder with his thumb. “S’always something with you, huh?” Meant to be teasing, but his worry was evident.

You leaned into his touch, pouting. “It’s probably because I stayed outside for so long. Sorry.” He shook his head at your tone. “Enough. It’s not yer’ fault- jus’ try not to give Rogers a heart attack next time.” The mention of his name had Toby huffing, and he stood, reaching out to let you cling to his hand.

“I didn’t wanna bring you here, but you were shivering like crazy. EJ’s g-good though, you can trust him.”

“I mean, he seems nice. He’s like your medic, right?”

“He does his job.”

Masky rolled his neck, and the doctor in question returned. He flexed his hand slightly, debating, before he murmured. “You…” Circling a finger amongst all of you, he cocked his head to the right. “Are all involved, correct?” His statement fell over the killers, making Hoodie shrug. “You could say that.” Toby coughed into his fist awkwardly.

Jack, unbothered by the invasiveness, continued nonetheless. “And you two are-?” He wagged a claw between Masky and Hoodie. “Yup.” The blonde nodded slowly, and Masky pinched his nose bridge. “And Tobias is?” Apparently, their resident cannibal had a knack for romance- Toby gave him a stiff thumbs-up.

“How intriguing. How did a sniper, a butcher, and a tempered serial killer end up in a relationship with a civilian?” Curious, Jack clasped his hands in front, expectant as you exchanged looks. Masky broke the stalemate, stern. “It just happened, alright?” Yet, the tallest persisted anyway. “I never thought you three would connect so deeply, but I suppose proximity creates intimacy. Do they ever… overwhelm you?”

Hunching down, the suggestion in his wording hit you like a brick, and Masky cleared his throat loudly. “Thank you, Jack. We’re goin’ now.” You were lifted off the surface, still swaddled in the cloth, when they began marching up the stairs.

Except, much to your lover’s chagrin, you thoroughly enjoyed feeding the fire.

“It does get overwhelming sometimes, but my stamina’s gotten better.” Masky clamped the pad of his finger over your mouth and shushed you through gritted teeth. “Little lady, if you do not-” Alas, you were not one to give up.

Wiggling to give yourself room, you chirped from his shoulder at Jack. “We kiss in circles. They throw me and Toby around a lot- I like it though.” The groan that escaped Masky was physically felt, Hoodie snickering quietly while Toby gasped, scandalized.

“I see.”

“I swear to the fuckin’ heavens above, EJ-”

“I bring no judgment. I’m quite happy you’ve found an outlet.”

Every day, Timothy Wright begs god to help him understand how this happened. And every day, he is ignored.

➽──────────────❥

Midnight, the manor was silent aside from the television speakers.

Jeff sagged into the couch, Ben and Nina occupying themselves with a debate on whether or not their favourite character would survive the new season. “He’s gonna’ die, bro.” Throwing his hands into the air exasperatedly, she responded by jabbing a finger into his chest. “No, he’s not! They literally built the whole plot around his backstory.”

“I hope he dies, he’s annoying as shit.” Jeff’s comment made Nina scoff. “You’re only saying that ‘cause your fav died.”

“No, the fuck I’m not? He’s annoying. You’re just fucking biased.”

“He was a good character- but he’s still dying, Nini.”

Bickering, they continued their disagreement as Jack rounded the corner, scanning the room. He hummed, glancing back and forth between the three. Jeff raised a brow. “You going hunting?” His comment was brushed off, then the medic tilted his head in thought.

The conversation had dimmed, his presence making the proxies curious. It was rare for EJ to leave the lab, let alone long enough for them to talk to him casually. “… What’s up, man?” Ben popped a chip into his mouth - only to choke on it once Jack spoke, and Jeff nearly broke his neck looking up.

“Are you three in a romantic relationship?”

“What the fuck?”

— ^ ^ —

Jeff

Jeff cursed everyone out day and night. He was wanted and if he showed his face anywhere he’d be shot on sight. And while running away from the cops he dropped his phone and broke it leaving him with no contact to you.

Tbh everyone wanted him out of the house, he was a pain in the ass and made his misery everyone else’s problem.

He’d drink almost all the time, and stalk around the perimeter of the house for stragglers.

If he did find one he’d kill them mercilessly, making it impossible to identify them. And in his haze of murderous intent and alcohol, maybe even weed, he’d carve your initials anywhere he could. To let you know he still thinks about you, wants you, hell even loves you.

If the body’s don’t hit the news, or show off the initials he worked hard to carve, he’d toss the remote at the tv and break it. Infact that’s the fourth tv they’ve had to replace.

He’ll be pent up and it shows, he’ll use your old clothes he has that barely smells like you anymore and he hates it. Any photo he can get of you is added to the list.

It’s over when slenderman gives him the clear to go find you. He’s running as fast as he can, drunk or not he’ll sober up on the way there. Dipping through back alleys until he’s slamming into your door. Pounding on it until he gives up and breaks the lock on your window falling gracefully into your living room with a hard thunk.

Your rushing down the steps in your night wear only to see Jeff scrambling to get to you, basically tackling you into a desperate kiss, hands wandering everywhere he can gripping onto you with bruising strength.

It’s every thing he’s craved for the past months. Your house, your stupid clothes that smell just like you, the way you bitch at him to do shit.

He’ll tell you to be rough with him, grab onto him, hit him even, he just wants your touch, wants to know you needed him as much as he refuses to tell you the same.

Tim

Tim is so close to losing it genuinely. Brian and Toby have to placate him by saying things that don’t always work some nights.

He stares at his pills like they’ve personally offended him as he try’s to tell himself to be patient, that your waiting for him worried sick, and then he cycles back to how he can’t tell you he’s gonna be ok. Now he’s starting to worry you might think he’s dead, or worse just abandoned you.

He’ll break things, drink, wallow in his guilt until Brian’s had enough and smacks him over the head giving him a wake up call and tells him to do some yard work or something to keep him moving.

He’ll fall asleep with your photos in hand, the ones that he was forced to take with you per your request. Unfortunately for him he’ll think about the things he wants to do to you when he gets back, to make up for all the time that’s been lost.

When he gets the all clear to come see you, he doesn’t think twice about hopping in the truck, driving to your house with worrying speed. But when gets to your house he stands outside your door realizing he’s got to say something, fuck anything at this point.

And when the door opens after he psyched himself into ringing the door bell, standing there sweating running a hand through his hair, foot tapping a mile a minute, it all freezes when he sees your stunned face.

Just taking a moment to breathe you in when he says, “Baby I..” at a loss for words he comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t need them, when you close the distance, slamming your mouth against his in a heated kiss. His burly arms are straining against his flannel as they wrap around your waist. Moving to pin you against the wall, breaking away to tell you how sorry he is, how he missed you so much, that he lost his phone and couldn’t contact you.

You’d have to tap his shoulder to pull him away from the sloppy make out to take him inside to where you really need him, and believe me he gladly obliges. Picking you up, with his hands supporting your thighs while he kicks the door shut.

Brian

Brian would be livid, when he realized he dropped his phone hearing the sick crack hitting the pavement his heart dropped and he almost went back for it. But if he got caught he’d actually never see you again, so he keeps running with Tim in front.

Brian realizes that he can’t use the computers cause they try to track it, so Tim basically confiscates it so he doesn’t attempt to make contact.

He’ll sit and watch tapes of you guys doing stuff around your place or out at the park, and drink his whiskey.

He refuses to go out some days, cause all he wants to do is sit in front of his tv watching tapes like their reruns while silently brooding. During this his stubble grows out quite a bit, and Tim has to tell him he basically looks homeless for him to shave and take care of himself.

Brian likes to work on the truck when he’s sick of the couch he’s basically called his home. He likes to play tape recordings of you talking and sometimes he answers back to make it feel like he’s home again.

When the tape ends he’s broken from his trance and calls himself pathetic while becoming angry again. He’ll try to calm himself saying it’s only for a few more days, cops will give up, and he’ll take you for a nice drive.

Slenderman’s go ahead was everything he’s been craving to hear. Making sure he shaved before hand because Tim’s been nagging him about it, and because he doesn’t want you to see how badly this affected him.

He’ll take the back roads to your house, thinking of every apology he’s gonna say, every thing he’s gonna do to make up for the time he’s missed out on, and suddenly he’s already fidgeting on your porch as he knocks heavily with more force then he meant to.

And when the door swings open all the words he was planing to say were thrown out the window, taking you in for a desperate kiss that knocks the breath out of you as he backs you up into the house, the cold wall of the entrance making you shiver.

He’s taking his time, it’s slow, and hot as if he’s taking the moment to remember every detail. Making sure he doesn’t forget a damn thing.

Toby

Toby is a whole mess, when he realizes he’s lost his phone. His tics get worse, he’s snapping and throwing fits left and right. All he wants is to see you, be in your arms, he wants you to tell him it’ll be ok.

Brian is sick of his shit, having to hide is computer from him so he doesn’t try contacting you. And Tim refuses to leave the car keys out in the open so he doesn’t get arrested on his way there.

He has to force himself to shower, he hates this distance and keeps thinking you’re mad at him, that you hate him and moved on. Toby doesn’t leave his room either, and it’s mostly trashed now, due to his fits and in his searches for your leftover clothes.

He’ll absolutely jerk off to your clothes, crying that he’ll come home and make it right. Fuck you right, give you whatever you want. He’s desperate and digs for any scrap of you left.

When slenderman lets them know the cost is clear, he’s demanding for the keys, saying he needs to see you. Brian doesnt want him driving his nice car and crashing it, Tim doesn’t want them to go back into hiding and he also doesn’t wanna be in the car alone with Toby, so they all pile in and drive him to your place.

He is legit tweaking out, being the worst back seat driver as he presses up against the glass looking for your house.

They eventually kick him out of the car and speed off, yelling that they’ll never do any favors for him again. But he doesn’t care as he scrambles up to your window climbing the side of the house to get into your bedroom, slipping in with a yell.

Luckily he can’t feel it, but you’re stunned seeing your boyfriend crack his shoulder back into place almost forgetting why he’s here until your eyes meet each other’s.

Suddenly he’s ripping his muzzle off, spewing apology through harsh tics and snaps. Toby wants to scoop you up and squeeze you so badly, but he’s afraid he’s not worthy of it after leaving you with no communication.

You’ll have to pull him into your arms first, peppering kisses all over him until he breaks down and curls up into you. Repeating his words of how sorry he is until you both pass out on your bed.

Habit

Habit would have to be in a lot of trouble to be hiding. And he’d try every way possible to communicate that but he just can’t stroll through this like he usually would.

He’s mad, livid, that his mate, as he likes to call it, is all alone without him. You need him and he’s not there.

He’ll wonder if you’re bored without him, if you’re looking for him too. Habit didn’t have the luxury of taking anything with him but sometimes on his journey he’ll steal phones and try to text you but most times the phones die before he gets to have a full conversation with you.

They’ll be ominous and you’ll be worried that someone else is stalking you now that habits out of the picture. What’s left of him you take and moving somewhere else. Cops are bound to sniff around there and either way you won’t be safe.

By the time habit is out in the clear, the house is already excepting nature, its dusty and whoever he left in there that you didn’t know about has also withered away.

He’ll track you down, it’s not what he wanted but he knows that you’re his and he will always come back. Whether you like it or not.

Nina

Girl is panicking. She’s upset and crying, glittery mascara that you bought her is staining her face.

She doesn’t leave her room, barely showers, eating is an after thought, and all these pictures of you are her only comfort.

Nina hates that all the photos she had mostly of you on her phone were crushed during her escape. Her time away from you affects her worse, sending her spiraling to the point her bed sheets haven’t been changed ever since you last slept in them.

It’s like she’s trying to preserve you, mourning you in a way. She’ll write manically about what she’s gonna do to the people who thought they could get close to you while she was gone, and what kinda stuff she’s gonna get you at the mall. She broke quite a few glitter pens in the making of these.

When she gets the word she can see you again she panics, she needs to shower, shave, get dressed in something remotely clean, do her makeup.

By the time she comes to see you she’s sweating nervously, knocking on the window for you to let her in. You’re already on her, helping Nina come in, while asking her what happened and where she’s been.

She’ll explain nervously, telling you how her phone broke, how desperate she was to come back to you, that she needs you in every aspect of her life. Promising you that she’d never leave you like this.

Nina also thought it a good idea to grab you a little something on the way back, it’s not much just some snacks you like. She’ll munch on them while curled up in your bed with you, watching some cheesy romcom like you usually do.

The timber of it rumbles in his chest, baritone filling your ears as he starts rocking into your mouth. The chair squeaks, and he runs his tongue along his teeth. Cupping your naps with a raspy “You act like I neglect you.” Before he pushes in deeper.

His length twitches, precum pooling at the back of your throat. The salt is heavy, thick on your tongue while his gaze flickers down. Half lidded when he grins, his sharp canines reflecting the cold lights. Jack is mouthwatering like this.

Cocky to a fault, skin dewy from the rooms swelter, sweat beads down his neck with his hair in disarray. The contours of his jaw tense, and he chuckles roughly. “So needy. I should leash you.” Forcing your nose into coarse hair, his happy trail leading from his base to his navel.

Saliva mixed with semi-opaque white dribbles down your chin, and you gulp, making his hips jerk. His pace turns harsh, thrusting into your throat as he grunts. He holds you flush, biting down on his lip, and his eyes flutter shut.

Jack rocks forward once, twice more, before he cums- “Fuck, keep it in- just like that.” His chest heaves, and he pulls you off a second later. You’re hauled against him, straddling his lap while his tongues slip past your lips.

The kiss is messy, spit and his spend spilling out with each gasp. He rips your underwear in a blink, the cotton snapping under his claws. You’re borderline thrown onto the table- the papers that he claimed were so terribly important now scattered across the basement floor. He lines up with your cunt, driving balls deep as you arch. He’s too pent up, and his patience has withered to ash.

He fucks you fast, hips snapping hard against your ass. Legs thrown over his shoulders, with your ankles by his ears. The rickety wood slams into the wall from the force, and your vision is practically white. Your breath has been replaced by fever, feeling every single vein and ridge of his cock pounding into your stomach.

You claw at his arms, the roped muscle tensing beneath his sweater. He’s so big, overwhelmingly strong. You think you’ll break, he knows it’s not enough. It never is, and bruises decorate your skin like paint on canvas.

He’s in your lungs, in your blood and bone. Splintering your DNA and binding it to his. You’re hiccuping- you don’t even know what you’re begging for at this point. Yet he’ll lean closer, drag his tongue along your cheek and coo anyway. “Such a cry baby, but you take it so well. You always make me so proud, don’t you?” Praising you softly, breeding you mean. He stuffs you beyond your limits, filling you over and over until you’re nothing but pliant.

When he’s finally satiated, he scoops you up as if you’re weightless. Still connected, still full, he’ll sit back down, snagging another notebook from a drawer. The click of a pen echoes behind you, and your lids are heavy as lead.

Jack did work better warm, after all.

The words left you without permission, carried by wonder so bright it startled even you.

Ronal’s ears twitched. Her lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. “It is them?” she repeated to the hunter, but her eyes had already swept over the tattoo glowing across your ribs—those two simple words that marked her fate as yours and yours as hers. Her breath tightened. Disbelief flared for an instant, followed by a shade of disdain, as if Eywa had played a joke at her expense.

No one laughed. The sea itself seemed to inhale.

The hunter bowed his head. “Ma Ronal, Eywa has spoken.”

Ronal exhaled through her nose. “Eywa speaks many things.” Her gaze returned to you, cool and assessing, as though she were measuring the height of an incoming wave she had no intention of respecting. “Some words do not matter.”

Her dismissal should have stung. Instead, warmth bloomed in your chest. Something in her severity made your heart lean closer, not away. You stood straighter. Your pulse fluttered with an aching admiration that longed to prove itself worthy.

Among the clans, the tattoos of first words carried the weight of woven prophecy. Na’vi believed that Eywa shaped the meeting of souls long before they drew their first breath. When pupils opened for the first time, when lungs tasted their first air, the ink also woke. Faint as moonlight, resting beneath the skin like a seed. Only the moment of recognition awakened its glow. Two souls meeting, two bodies drawing near, two voices speaking lines etched by a force far older than choice. A return to a bond that had existed before flesh.

For most, this revelation brought joy. Tears. Gratitude. Laughter shared between strangers destined to become family. Blessings whispered by tsahìk and elders, prayers rising like mist to the great mother who had stitched their fates.

Ronal, however, belonged first to duty.

As tsakarem, she lived in the shadow of great responsibility. Her days overflowed with training; breath work beneath the waves, ritual lessons, healing practices, combat forms shaped by countless ancestors. Her spirit bent toward discipline with unwavering devotion. She guarded the path to leadership with a vigilance that permitted no distraction. A mate chosen by Eywa herself would be expected to walk beside her, match her stride, share her burdens. She doubted any stranger could do this with strength or dignity. She doubted you most of all.

You had arrived with gentle steps, unfamiliar rhythms, and eyes too full of wonder for her comfort. She mistook that wonder for weakness. She saw the softness in you and deemed it unworthy of the life she lived.

You didn’t let her disdain stop you though. Even if she had not been your soulmate, your heart would have found her anyway, drawn to the steel in her voice and the reverence of her movements the way a tide seeks moonlight.

During your first days in the village, you rose before dawn with the warriors, following their routines with determination. You studied every motion, every technique, even when your lungs burned or your muscles trembled. The warriors respected effort, and you offered it without hesitation. You earned small nods from them, murmured approval from the older hunters, and a growing sense of belonging that settled into your bones.

Curiosity tugged at you after each session. Whenever you paused to drink or catch your breath, you slipped inconspicuous questions into conversation. Ronal, you learned, was basically the Metkayina’s spiritual spine. She spoke with the precision of someone carved for leadership. A healer’s hands, a warrior’s mind. Fierce in all things. The villagers respected her deeply, but beneath that respect lived a thread of fear—an awareness that she demanded excellence from herself and from everyone around her.

Every answer sharpened the shape of your longing. Every rumor, every praise, every caution only deepened your resolve. You wanted to know her beyond the mask she wore for her people. You wanted to hear her speak without ceremony, without restraint. You wanted to be someone she did not dismiss.

Yet the stories told you very little about who she was when she set down her tools, when she stepped away from her duties. You learned nothing of her joys. Nothing of her private comforts. Nothing of what might make her laugh, or what might soften the guarded slope of her shoulders.

So you turned toward the only thing you could control. 

Your first offering.

You sat on a smooth outcrop of reefstone near the shallows, knees pulled in close, the late-afternoon light falling warm across your hands. Beside you lay a small pile of shells the color of storm-lit waves, each one polished until they reflected the sky. You had traded for them with a fisherman that morning, choosing the ones that reminded you of Ronal’s eyes.

Your fingers moved with careful intent as you shaped a length of woven cord. Every strand carried meaning. You braided strength into one twist, patience into another, devotion into the next. The rhythm soothed you. The braid grew warm from your touch. You imagined Ronal’s hands accepting it, even if her face remained stoic, even if she tried to hide any spark of surprise. The thought lifted your chest with a simple, earnest joy.

The shells waited. You took your time selecting the first one, turning it in your palm until it caught the light with the soft glow of bioluminescent surf. This one would rest at the center of the piece. You threaded it through the braid. The sound of its gentle clack against the others echoed faintly, like a quiet breath.

Warmth curled through you. A gift meant more when shaped with intention. You remembered the way Ronal held herself, stern and commanding, yet with an undercurrent of quiet care—care she offered her people but refused to extend to you. Atleast not yet. The offering had to reflect both her strength and the tenderness she hid from the world.

A second shell followed. This one carried a faint swirl of silver across its surface, soft as the connection of tsaheylu (bond). You added it beside the first. Then a third, smooth as polished bone. The pattern began to form—a rhythm of contrasting textures, each one placed with a silent prayer to Eywa.

The last shell rested apart from the others. A small, deep-blue spiral the fisherman had nearly kept for himself. He had described it as tìkxetsew, “the ocean’s whisper,” rare and found only where currents collided. 

You held it to your chest for a moment, letting your breath steady. The connection between soulmates may have been destined, but courting was earned. Offered with open hands, not demanded by fate, and both must reciprocate. 

You threaded the spiral into place.

The finished piece rested across your palms, graceful and strong, much like the woman it belonged to. The shells gleamed softly, each one catching the last slant of sunlight as dusk settled over the water. You imagined her expression. Perhaps a raised brow. Perhaps a clipped nod. Perhaps a subtle shift in her stance that meant she had felt your intention, even if she refused to speak of it.

Your heart tightened with anticipation. Hope glowed in your chest like warm embers, steady and unashamed.

You rose from the reefstone, holding the gift with both hands. The sky deepened into shades of violet. Distant waves curled over one another, carrying the scent of brine and possibility.

Ronal was somewhere within that village, preparing for evening rites or finishing her duties as tsakarem. She would not welcome your interruption. Yet she had to see what you had created. She had to know that your devotion was not born of the tattoo on your ribs—it was born of the way she moved, the way she commanded a room, the way her presence filled Pandora around her.

Your footsteps pressed lightly into the damp sand as you began toward the heart of the village, the offering held close, the tide at your heels whispering encouragement. The evening breeze wrapped around you, cool and salted, steadying your pulse just enough to keep the trembling in your fingers manageable. Nerves skittered through your chest in quick, uneven bursts, but they buckled beneath the weight of everything warmer; your affection for her, your stubborn devotion, that fierce tenderness she drew from you without ever meaning to. You called it love because nothing else fit. Nothing else could explain the way your heart lifted whenever you thought of her, or the way your breath tightened when you imagined her accepting even a fraction of what you felt.

The village’s central clearing glowed with soft firelight. Clusters of woven lanterns hung between the marui (pods), swaying with the wind, casting gold over the sand. Ronal knelt near a low ceremonial platform, laying out carved totems and polished stones in a precise pattern. Her back was straight, her movements fluid, controlled. The last streaks of sunset painted a faint shimmer along the crest of her braid.

You hesitated at the edge of the clearing. She did not notice you at first, too focused on aligning a long piece of driftbone etched with spiraling motifs. You swallowed hard, forcing your feet to move even though every instinct urged you to retreat, to wait for a moment when her gaze might soften—if such a moment ever existed.

You stepped closer.

Ronal’s head lifted sharply. Her eyebrow arched, unimpressed, and her mouth flattened into a line that portrayed annoyance edged with disbelief. You knew the expression well; she had worn it the day she learned Eywa had tethered her soul to yours.

Still, you couldn’t help it—your face warmed, a smile blooming wide and helpless, and you lifted your free hand in a shy wave. You felt ridiculous before the gesture even completed itself. Ronal did not wave back. Her stare held the force of a spear meeting water, slicing through your hopeful greeting without hesitation.

“Good evening, ma Ronal,” you offered, voice soft but steady.

A curt nod. Nothing more. She returned her attention to the totems, adjusting one by mere fractions, her focus returning to the ritual with the same intensity she used during combat training.

You lingered, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. The sand felt suddenly too warm beneath your toes. You cleared your throat.

Her head snapped up again. “Srake (yes/no?)… what do you want?” The question cut sharp, brisk, free of ornament.

Heat spread across your cheeks. The woven cord in your hands suddenly felt too heavy. Your tongue stumbled as you tried to gather your composure.

“I… ah—Ronal, I wished to…” Your words tangled. You inhaled quickly. “You are… you are an incredible woman, truly. Strong, devoted, graceful, feared, respected—respected by all of your people.” Another breath, shaky but sincere. “I admire you. Deeply. I… I have admired you since the first moment I saw you.”

Ronal blinked once., surprised that you continued speaking after her clipped demand. Her ears angled subtly forward, attentive yet guarded.

You pressed on, heart racing. “I know I have little right to your attention. I know fate alone does not earn affection. I know I must be worthy, and I want to be. I want to learn, I want to grow, I want…” Your throat tightened with emotion you tried to swallow. “I want to court you.”

Her inhale was quiet but noticeable. Her jaw tensed.

Before she could dismiss you, you lifted your hands and offered the woven cord.

The shells glimmered in the firelight; storm-colored arcs, gentle silver swirls, the rare deep-blue spiral nestled at the center. The braid lay warm across your palms, still holding traces of the hope you had poured into each twist.

“I made this for you,” you breathed. 

Ronal did not reach for it.

Her eyes traveled over the piece slowly, taking in the careful weaving, the precise placement of each shell. She studied it with the same evaluative seriousness she gave to ritual objects, yet beneath that rigid composure flickered something quieter, maybe curiosity or hesitation. 

Your chest lifted with a trembling inhale. “If you do not wish to accept it, I will understand. But I wanted you to have a choice. Not fate’s choice.” Your voice dropped. “Yours.”

Firelight danced across her face. Her expression remained hard, but not as untouched as before. Her gaze lingered on the deep-blue spiral, and for a heartbeat her lips parted ever so slightly, as though recognition stirred in her.

You held your breath.

Her eyes lifted at last.

“Foolish,” she said, the word delivered with clipped, as if she hoped the single syllable would be enough to deter whatever devotion she saw in your face. “You give too freely. You feel too quickly. You do not understand what you claim to desire.”

Your cheeks heated, though you weren’t sure whether it was embarrassment or the rush of affection that swelled at the sound of her voice. She had not accepted you, but she had not turned away either.

Ronal exhaled a tight breath, the kind she used when a student tested her patience. “You make offerings without knowing the burden of what you ask. Do you think courting me is simple? Do you think you are ready for the life I walk?” Her hand lifted with a decisive motion, fingers stretching toward the woven cord as if she meant to remove the temptation entirely.

You did not move.

Her palm hovered above the braid for a heartbeat. Another. A third.

Finally, with a quiet noise that sounded more like resignation than approval, Ronal closed her fingers around the offering and lifted it from your palms.

The shells chimed softly against one another, a sound bright and gentle and utterly out of place in her stern grip.

Your entire body lit with warmth.

Her eyes narrowed, annoyed, not by the gift, but by the way your joy radiated so plainly, unfiltered and unashamed. “Do not look at me like that,” she warned, voice sharp, though a faint flush crept along the edges of her cheeks. “This means nothing. I take it only because it would be disrespectful to discard the work you clearly put into it.”

A breathless laugh escaped you before you could stop it, full of a happiness so pure it slipped out easily, like water spilling over smooth stone. Your smile widened, your face warm with delight.

Her ears angled back. “Ma Eywa, why do you look like a child shown a new toy?” She rolled her eyes, the gesture dramatic and practiced, as if she hoped it would disguise the subtle shift in her posture—the way she held the cord with a touch more care than she wanted you to see.

You hummed, unable to stop yourself. “Because you accepted it,” you said softly. “You actually took it.”

Ronal’s tail flicked once, irritated. “I told you it does not mean anything.”

“I know,” you replied, grin still stretching across your face. “But you still took it.”

Her jaw tightened. She looked down at the offering again, as though it had grown complicated in her hands. Her thumb brushed the polished spiral shell—barely a touch, a fleeting brush of skin against texture, but you caught it.

“You are foolish,” she reiterated, returning her attention to the ceremonial platform as though reordering stones could drown out the affection rising unbidden in her chest. “You stand here smiling as if Eywa herself has descended to bless you.”

You glanced at her, bright and earnest. “Feels a little like that.”

Her breath caught. Only for a moment. 

She did not scold you again.

Instead, she set the totem in her hand onto the platform with precision, but her movements lacked the crisp detachment they held before. She kept the woven cord close, fingers curling around it protectively whenever the breeze threatened to brush it from her grasp.

You watched her with reverence so soft and open it could have been its own kind of prayer.

Ronal noticed that too.

The roll of her eyes this time was slower, heavier with reluctant acknowledgment rather than irritation. “Stop looking at me,” she said, though her voice had lost its bite.

“But you look beautiful like this,” you answered without hesitation, your heart too full to be cautious.

Her breath faltered.

You felt it. An almost invisible shift in the atmosphere between you, the way tension softened, the way her defenses thinned even as she tried to hold them in place. For the first time, her gaze dipped, uncertain.

Uncertain and not annoyed.

Over the next weeks, your devotion unfolded across the village like a slow-growing tide; steady, impossible to ignore, warm in a way Ronal refused to acknowledge yet could no longer avoid.

Each morning, without fail, you appeared beside her path. Your hair still damp from the ocean. Your smile unguarded. Your wave embarrassingly enthusiastic. Villagers laughed behind their hands. Warriors shook their heads. Children whispered that you were cursed by Eywa with too much heart.

Ronal pretended all of this did not affect her.

You greeted her anyway. Every sunrise. Every eclipse. Every time the light caught the curve of her cheekbone and your chest ached with the thought of her.

“Ma Ronal,” you would say, barely containing the brightness in your voice, “how was your rest?” A curt nod. A clipped response. A warning glance meant to cool you.

It never worked.

You brought her gifts; pieces of reef glass polished until they gleamed like stars beneath water, small bone carvings of sea creatures she favored in stories you coaxed from the villagers, woven bands dyed in the deep greens of the ocean floor. You placed each offering with admiration, bowing your head slightly, never demanding anything in return.

Ronal accepted nothing.

Or so she pretended.

But you saw the way items vanished from where you left them. You saw the slight disruption in her storage baskets. You saw the glimmer of your dyed cord tied quietly around the handle of her medicinal satchel.

She never spoke of it. You never asked. Your heart only beat harder for her.

Still, gifts alone were not enough. You knew this. You had watched her train. You had watched her command. You had watched her lead with a level of strength matched only by the reef’s own resilience.

If she were to consider you a worthy mate—truly worthy—you needed to prove that you could stand beside someone carved from sea and storm.

So you sought the test all skilled Metkayina warriors must face.

A skimwing, large enough to challenge even seasoned riders.

You found one.

It nearly killed you.

Now you lay stretched across a woven mat inside the healing hut, your torso bandaged, your arm in a sling, your thigh marked with long, vicious bruises that bloomed in deep shades of violet. Every breath stung. Every shift of your ribs throbbed. And yet, for all the pain radiating through you, your grin was dizzyingly bright.

Because Ronal was here.

“You are reckless,” she snapped, pacing around the mat with the force of a storm tide. “Utterly reckless. Have you no sense? No training? No understanding of the danger you placed yourself in?”

You nodded eagerly, as if she had complimented you.

Her glare sharpened. “Do not smile at me.”

You smiled wider. The movement tugged at the bruises on your cheek, but the ache felt insignificant compared to the warmth in your chest.

She stepped closer, hands planted firmly on her hips. “You could have died. You nearly did. Bringing down a tsurak (skimwing) of that size alone? Stupid. Stupid beyond measure.” Her voice rose, full of clipped fury, full of worry trembling underneath the anger, worry she did not want you to see.

You saw it anyway.

“I tamed it,” you wheezed happily.

“Barely!” she hissed.

You lifted your uninjured hand, offering her a weak thumbs-up. “Still counts.”

Ronal inhaled sharply through her nose, the tendons in her jaw flexing as she restrained the urge to throw a basket at your head. She moved to your side with swift, practiced motions, checking your bandages with far more pressure than necessary. You winced, though your grin didn’t fade.

“You do not listen,” she muttered. “You hear nothing. You act on impulse. You—stop smiling.”

You tried. You really did. But the moment her fingers brushed your ribs, her touch warm and strong and undeniably gentle beneath the scolding, joy surged so hard you nearly laughed aloud.

“It seems you care,” you said quietly.

Her hands froze.

The hut filled with the soft, rhythmic clatter of carefully hung shells brushing in the breeze. A pot of heated herbs simmered in the corner, releasing a scent meant to soothe pain. Your chest rose and fell slowly as you waited for her reaction.

Ronal’s eyes lifted to yours, burning with a heat sharper than anger.

“I care,” she said slowly, “because if you continue to behave like this, Eywa will reclaim you before I decide what place—if any—you have beside me.”

Your heart leapt.

Ronal was admitting—weakly, reluctantly—that she had considered the possibility of you having a place at all.

You laughed softly, the sound breathless and full of affection. “So there is a place.”

Her ears tilted back, betraying the slightest hint of fluster. She jabbed a finger at your sternum, careful not to press hard. “Do not twist my words.”

“You said it,” you whispered.

She exhaled sharply, stepping back as though the nearness of your smile burned.

The woven cord you had given her trembled faintly against her hip. She wore it today, tucked partially beneath her belt as if she hadn’t meant to reveal it.

Your gaze softened. “Ma Ronal… I would tame a hundred skimwings for you.”

Her eyes widened with horror. “You will tame nothing for at least a moon. If you attempt it, I will personally tie you to this mat.”

The image nearly made you laugh again.

She shook her head, muttering something under her breath that you only half-understood, a phrase that sounded like a plea sent up toward Eywa for patience.

When she sat beside you to rewrap your waist, her movements, though brisk, were gentle. Her thumbs traced the edges of the bandage with a delicacy she would never admit to possessing. The anger remained, but beneath it pulsed a deeper, truer emotion—care, unmistakable and fierce.

You let your eyes drift over her face with open adoration.

She noticed. She always noticed.

Another eye roll, softer this time. “You are hopeless,” she said.

You hummed happily. “For you? Always.”

Ronal paused midway through tying the bandage.

“Skxawng (idiot),” she murmured.

But her hands lingered on your skin.

A few weeks passed, carrying you steadily away from the worst of your injuries. The bruises had faded to soft blue shadows, the deeper cuts had sealed beneath Ronal’s attentive hands, and your ribs no longer protested each breath. Healing became the perfect excuse to visit her, though you doubted you needed one anymore. 

She no longer met you with the rigid disapproval of that first moon. Her posture eased sooner. Her voice sharpened less often. You could tell when she relaxed, because her ears shifted into a looser tilt and her breathing quieted in a way she didn’t seem to notice. Each moment in her presence revealed another layer—her dry wit when a young warrior exaggerated a wound, the way she hummed under her breath while grinding herbs, the rare glimmer of warmth she let slip when she believed you weren't watching. Your affection only rooted deeper.

An important festival approached, everyone talked about with excitement in the days leading up to it—Txon kllkurwa kireat, the Night of Echoing Waters. The celebration honored lineage, ocean guardianship, and the returning cycle of strength within the clan. Families spent the day carving patterns into smooth driftwood boards that would later be set afloat, each design representing ancestral currents: spirals for growth, broad lines for endurance, cross-hatchings for unity. Songs carried through the air all afternoon, rhythmic and powerful, echoing off the spade wing arches like heartbeats shared by an entire people.

The festival attire reflected the theme of returning strength. Warriors painted swirling teal patterns across their arms and ribs, following the shapes of the sea’s currents. You had spent the afternoon carefully painting your own skin with dyes made from crushed reef pigments, tracing the spirals the way a Metkayina friend had taught you. The cool glide of color across your skin felt grounding, as if you were stitching yourself into their heritage with every stroke. Your ceremonial loincloth was adorned with thin strands of woven fiber that danced with your steps, brushing against your legs with each breath of wind.

As twilight descended, the community gathered near the shoreline. Lamps hung along the wave breakers cast deep gold light across the water, and the surface reflected the glow like a stretch of molten sky. The Tsahìk stepped forward, raising her hands as the crowd quieted. Ronal stood beside her; stoic, still, breathtaking. Her face bore ritual markings in patterns that seemed carved from moonlight itself, curving along the edges of her tolu (tattoos) and accentuating the power in her gaze.

The Tsahìk began to chant, her voice deep and resonant. “Eywa ngahu, Eywa ayngaru mì fahew, mì paywll, mì yawne tìrey (May Eywa be with you, may Eywa be with you in the air, in the water, and in beloved spirits).” The people echoed her words, their voices weaving into a single vast harmony that rolled across the reef. 

You felt the sound ripple through your chest, through your bones, through the water’s surface. Prayer carried the hope of a community ready to renew its bond with the sea that sustained it. Offerings of carved driftwood and braided kelp were lifted skyward before being set gently upon the water, where the tide claimed them with a soft hiss.

When the prayer ended, conversation and laughter slowly returned. Drums began to pulse, low and steady. Children darted between the seated adults, their faces glowing with excitement. Many villagers broke into dances that mimicked the movements of the currents, their feet stamping the sand in sweeping arcs.

Your attention, however, drifted only toward Ronal.

She moved through the gathering with the composed grace of someone who had already accepted that the evening would be filled with responsibilities. Her eyes scanned the space, seeking any breach of ritual order, any preparations that required correction. You admired her devotion, yet you could already tell that she had no intent of enjoying the festival. Her shoulders remained tense, her jaw set. She carried the air of a leader enduring the night, not savoring it.

Your determination flared brighter.

You weaved your way through the crowd, catching glimpses of her profile as she adjusted the placement of ceremonial bowls, offered formal blessings, and directed younger apprentices. Your heart lifted at every sight of her, even when she scowled at a misplaced lantern. Especially when she scowled.

“Ma Ronal,” you called softly once you reached her.

She turned, one eyebrow lifting, the edge of her expression caught between scrutiny and resignation. “Srane (yes). What do you need?” Her tone was composed, but her ears flicked in a way that betrayed recognition…and a small, reluctant welcome.

“I wished to walk with you,” you said, offering a warm smile that threatened to split your face. “The festival is beginning. I hoped you would enjoy it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Enjoyment is not my purpose tonight. I must watch over the rites. I must ensure the offerings are respected.” She lifted her chin with the certainty of lineage behind her.

Your grin softened but refused to fade. “You have served all day. Even Eywa rests when the moon rises.”

Ronal exhaled through her nose, a quiet huff of disapproval. “You speak like a child who knows little of responsibility.”

“Maybe,” you replied, “but I know you deserve peace tonight. Even if only a little.”

Her eyes flicked across your painted arms, taking in the spirals you had meticulously applied. A hint of recognition flashed there—the acknowledgement that you had honored her people’s traditions with care. Her gaze softened at the edges, though she quickly hid it behind a dismissive tilt of her head.

“You look…different,” she said, her voice quieter. “Better.”

Warmth surged through you. “I wished to look strong beside you.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “Let me share the festival with you. Walk with me. Only for a short moment.”

Ronal remained perfectly still. Her fingers tapped once against the ceremonial dish she held. Her lips parted as though to scold you again, yet instead she released a slow sigh, the kind she used when admitting defeat in the smallest, softest ways.

“One moment,” she said. “Do not expect more.”

Joy rushed through you so vividly you nearly felt weightless. You bowed your head with a grin you couldn’t contain. “One moment is all I ask, ma yawntu (my beloved).”

Her ears twitched sharply at your boldness, but she didn’t correct you. Her gaze flicked to your hand, waiting for the invitation she claimed she didn’t need. You offered your arm, your posture earnest and unpushy.

Ronal hesitated, just long enough to reveal the faint tremor of vulnerability behind her stillness.

She placed her hand against your forearm.

The contact was light, almost ceremonial, yet your chest tightened with so much affection you feared it might burst from your ribs.

You began rambling immediately, a habit you couldn’t seem to break around her. “The colors tonight are perfect for you, ma Ronal. Look—your markings glow exactly like the currents,” you said, gesturing broadly toward the dancers swirling near the shoreline. “I asked Tsintay to explain the carving patterns earlier—he said the spirals represent returning strength, so I painted them here.” You tapped your ribs, shoulders lifting with eager pride. “Do they look right? I practiced. A lot. Too much maybe. But you look—"

“Tsk,” she cut in sharply, though her voice lacked true irritation. Her lips twitched in the ghost of a smile she tried to hide. “You speak like the tide at high moon—too fast and relentless. Breathe.”

Your grin only widened. “Hard to breathe when you look like that.”

Her ears flicked back, a subtle sign of fluster she tried to conceal by straightening her posture. “Control yourself,” she murmured, but she didn’t pull her hand away.

The festival had barely begun, yet joy already rolled across the village like a rising tide. Children shrieked with laughter as they chased glowing dartfish near the water. Elders clapped to the rhythm of the drums, humming melodies passed down through countless generations. Couples painted in white spirals danced in looping patterns that mimicked the ocean’s currents. The air tasted of smoked sea fruit and sweet kelp wine.

Ronal watched all of it with that disciplined focus of hers—the gaze of a leader cataloging every detail. You recognized that look. She wasn’t here to enjoy herself. 

Your chest swelled with tenderness, and you made a choice.

Gently, you lifted her hand from your forearm and slipped your fingers through hers. Her eyes widened, a spark of disbelief flaring in their depths. You didn’t give her time to protest. With a breath full of courage and love, you tugged lightly, guiding her into the dance circle.

Her feet stumbled once before she steadied herself, cheeks flushing a deep, vivid aquamarine. “Kehe (No)! I am Tsakarem—this is not—” She sputtered, voice tight with restrained panic. “The clan watches. I will look like a skxawng.”

You leaned your forehead close enough for her to hear you through the drums. “You could never look like a skxawng. You are the sea’s strength.”

She swallowed, her glare attempting to melt you where you stood. It only made you smile harder.

She was cornered, not by you, but by pride. A Tsakarem could not lose face before her people, so her protests faded into a sharp exhale as she straightened her spine. “Frawzo (Fine). One dance.”

That was all you needed.

Music surged around you both. You stepped into the rhythm easily, letting the drums guide the movement. Ronal followed stiffly at first, her body rigid, but the crowd noticed her immediately. Eyes widened. A few jaws even dropped. Whispered excitement rippled outward.

Ronal—dancing?

A cheer rose from the group, joyous and loud. “Ronal! Nang!” someone shouted. Others joined in, waving their arms, delighted beyond measure to see the deeply respected, famously stern Tsakarem in the center of the festival’s dance.

Ronal’s blush darkened until it nearly matched the crimson strokes on her tattooed cheeks. “Kefe (not now)… why must they stare?” she muttered, voice frayed with embarrassment.

You laughed, bright and warm, pulling her closer as the dance required. “Because you are beautiful, ma Ronal.”

She hissed through her teeth and stepped deliberately on your foot. Lightly. You felt the restraint in it.

You spun her before she could argue again. Her braid whipped behind her in an arc of shimmering beads. Gasps rose around the circle as you lifted her hand and guided her into another turn, then another, letting the momentum carry you both into the heart of the music. Despite her glare, her feet followed yours.

Joy flickered in her eyes.

Real joy.

Something unfurled within your chest like a sail catching wind. You dipped your head and whispered, “You are having fun.”

“Ngaytxoa (sorry), but I am absolutely not,” she snapped, though her breathless half-smile betrayed her. “This is undignified.”

“Undignified can be good,” you murmured, leaning close.

A low sound escaped her, half a hiss, half a laugh she refused to release.

The dance shifted to a faster rhythm, and you caught her waist, spinning her beneath your arm with a flourish that drew delighted whoops from the spectators. Ronal’s eyes widened, and her blush climbed to the tips of her ears. Her tail whipped the air in an unmistakable flare of flustered instinct.

You dipped her.

For a heartbeat, she froze—arms tense, breath caught, eyes blown wide. The lantern light glowed against her features, softening them in a way that stole the air from your lungs.

A tiny smile lifted the corner of her mouth.

Your heart nearly burst.

When you lifted her upright again, she let out a sound you had never heard from her—an honest, unguarded laugh. It rang out clear and bright, cutting through the music as if Eywa paused to listen.

You stared, stunned, breathless, overwhelmed. Ronal’s laughter… it was otherwordly. It held strength, warmth, and an unexpected softness, as though she had opened a door inside herself that she had kept locked since childhood.

Her hand lifted hesitantly, trembling in the smallest way. Before you could speak, she leaned forward and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to your cheek. Her lips were warm, light as a whisper yet powerful enough to shake every bone in your body.

She stepped back, still blushing fiercely, her gaze lowered for once instead of unwavering. “Oel ngati kameie (I see you),” she murmured, voice low and sincere. “Irayo (thank you), ma yawntu. You gave me joy tonight.”

Your breath trembled as you lifted both hands, cupping her face with a tenderness that made your fingers shake. Her skin felt warm beneath your palms, warmer still where the faint glow of your soulmate tattoo flared to life. The burn wasn’t painful, it was more like a pull, a recognition, a quiet song rising from the deepest part of your spirit. Ronal inhaled softly at the glow, her eyes lifting, wide and bright with emotion.

Moonlight brushed her ribs as she shifted closer. Her tattoo—the words she had once spoken with such reluctance—shimmered like a squid lantern. “It is them?” glowed with renewed life, no longer a mark of irritation but of acceptance, of connection claimed rather than endured.

Tears gathered hot at the corners of your eyes. You let them fall.

Ronal’s hand rose, hesitating only a breath before settling gently over your own. Her thumb brushed your cheek, and her expression softened into something fragile and fierce all at once. “Ke tsun oe fìtsahaylut sluha (I cannot stop this bond),” she whispered, voice unsteady.

A small, shy smile tugged at her lips.

Your own smile broke open, wet and bright, guided by a joy so full it overflowed. You leaned your forehead against hers, breathing her in, feeling the warmth of her acceptance settle like sunlight into your bones.

Tonight, beneath the glow of lanterns and the hum of celebrating hearts, your souls met fully for the first time.

Eywa had woven your paths long before you were born.

Tonight, Ronal chose to walk that path with you.