rook

What I Offer

-Canon x Canon

- OC x Canon

- OC x OC

- Reader-inserts

- Yume content

- In Character writing

- Fanfics and Oneshots

- Editing

- Ghost Writing

I will write for any fandom but require an extra $1 per 1k words if I’m unfamiliar. I’m most likely forgetting some so please inquire if not listed!*

Fandoms

-Supernatural

- MHA

- Avatar the Last Airbender

- The Legend of Korra

- Red Dead Redemption 1 and 2

- All Assassins Creed Games

- Harry Potter

- Scream

- Demon Slayer

- Detroit Become Human

- The Last of Us

- Stranger Things

- Stardew Valley

- Your Turn To Die

- Deltarune

- Arcane

- Dungeon Meshi

- Chainsawman

- The Legend of Zelda

For NSFW commissions I will write you whatever you’d like as long as it is legal!

Writing Samples

Miscellaneous:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/15f6fj5byBVrfpEastjaWXDzFgQHmueEBauQDhMOnvgY/edit?usp=drivesdk

Fanfic:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/86878946/chapters/229995561

Smut:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/15z48R-rLvScXP3qqIljn2CYuekFjDS9OMSyWWii5pMU/edit

Reach me through DM or my Kofi! Thank you for reading so far!! 💕

‘Wanted Dead or Alive.’

Everyone knew that really meant dead.

When someone’s crimes grew so numerous they eclipsed ordinary legal procedure, they stopped having a bounty, or a charge, or even the luxury of showing their face in town.

A petty thief could wander back into the same store they’d robbed without anyone batting an eye.

A stagecoach hijacker could pay a fine, serve a short sentence, and be back on the road.

Even train robbers sometimes lived out the rest of their days with a roof over their heads and three meals in prison.

But you weren’t the average outlaw.

You hadn’t committed one crime.

Or five.

Or ten.

And there wasn’t some sprawling gang to spread the blame around.

It was just you.

Well.

You and Brian, if you could count him for much.

That lazy son of a bitch was the smoothest talker you’d ever met.

He could flash that crooked grin—all guile and gapped teeth—and sweet-talk his way out of just about anything.

As capable as he was, though, he’d dodge actual work whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Sure, he’d put a bullet through a man’s skull from two hundred yards if it meant saving your life.

But when the plan went to hell?

Funny how every punch, every kick, every fresh bruise somehow became your problem.

Even now, he was proving your point.

The two of you had made the catastrophic mistake of trying to rob a bank in Saint Denis.

Turns out, the city took exception to that sort of thing.

Nearly fifty lawmen and what felt like a thousand bullets later, you and Brian were down a horse, two revolvers, the promise of several hundred dollars…

…and every last option.

The city was locked down.

Every neighboring town knew your faces too well for a bandana to fool anybody.

Which left you with a bullet buried in your shoulder, slumped in the saddle atop Brian’s dark bay Shire, and one particularly useless lump of flesh draped against your back.

Brian’s chin rested on your good shoulder, his hands lazily hooked around your waist more for his own balance than yours.

He couldn’t even be bothered to hold himself upright.

His black Cattleman hat was tipped low enough that its brim shaded both your eyes from the setting sun while he stared dreamily toward the western horizon.

“Well, Cricket,” he sighed. “I think you’n I’ll be just fine. Everything good’s west, y’know.”

“Says the asshole from Alabama…” you muttered through gritted teeth, too exhausted—and in far too much pain—to muster any real venom.

“Now don’t go chirpin’ back, Cricket.” He smiled, giving your hip an absent-minded pat. “They call it Westward Expansion for a reason. Manifest Destiny and all that. ’Sides, Alabama can be considered west.”

“West of what, fuckin’ Maine?”

“If the boot fits,” he said with an easy grin, nudging your heel with his own.

Unluckily for the both of you, the horse beneath you took that as a cue to perform one of the many utterly pointless tricks Brian had taught him, rearing onto his hind legs.

“Woah there, Preacher!” the blond laughed, taking the sudden lurch far too well while you let out a startled yelp.

The jolt sent you sliding backward. Your hat slipped askew as you scrambled to stay seated, your wounded shoulder screaming in protest.

In his first genuinely helpful act of the day, Brian caught your hat with one hand before it could tumble into the dirt, pressing it back onto your head while the other gathered the reins and settled Preacher back onto all fours.

His long legs tightened against the horse’s barrel, keeping all three of you steady as you stumbled back into the solid wall of his chest.

“Christ!” You sucked in a sharp breath once the horse finally stilled. “What the fuck was the point of that?”

Brian only shrugged.

“Didn’t want a one-trick pony.” He gave Preacher’s neck an absent pat. “Boy’s got real potential.”

Your frustration was rapidly becoming immeasurable.

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever fucking heard.” You twisted just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “And so is that name. Why the hell’d you call him Preacher? ‘Cause he’s a judgmental bitch like you?”

Brian barked out a laugh, leaning forward until his chin nearly rested on your shoulder again. His hands drifted back around your waist as naturally as breathing.

“That…” he grinned, “and because I get to tell folks I’m ridin’ a clergyman.”

He paused just long enough for you to think he was done.

“…Hard and long.”

You groaned.

“I am going to shoot you.”

“See?” Brian beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

“Oh, please. The only spirit we’ll be needing is yours when I bury ya six feet under.”

“And ruin those pretty little hands of yours handling a shovel?” he drawled, a teasing lilt creeping into his voice as his gloved fingers wandered lazily down your forearms, brushing over your knuckles.

You’d somehow ended up pressed even closer now, your back flush against his chest.

His heartbeat thumped steadily behind you.

Slow.

Even.

Nothing like your own.

Heat rushed to your face so suddenly the world tipped on its side. The trees blurred together, the horizon swaying as though Preacher had stumbled.

You blinked hard.

It passed.

Mostly.

You couldn’t afford to slow down.

Every sheriff, deputy, and Pinkerton in Saint Denis was probably combing the roads already.

“Oh, hush up…” you muttered, your voice coming out weaker than intended.

You squeezed your eyes shut for only a heartbeat, waiting for the dizziness to settle.

When you opened them again, the world was still hazy.

Murkier than it ought to’ve been.

But clear enough to keep riding.

“Aw, you know you like it better when I’m singin’ along with you, Cricket.”

A dry laugh escaped you.

“Good luck singin’ when I shoot you.” You swallowed, only then realizing how raw your throat had become. “I’ll wait ‘til I’ve got my own horse, though… so I can leave your ass behind if I miss.”

“I’m glad you’re aware.” Brian chuckled. “That’s why I keep ya around.”

He gave your side a light squeeze.

“Smart mouth…”

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

“…and a downright pitiful shot.”

He waited for your usual snappy comeback.

It never came.

Brian frowned.

“…Cricket?”

His hand lingered at your side a moment longer than necessary.

“…You’re shakin’.”

“Huah?” you managed, only half of his words cutting through the ringing in your ears. Your head turned toward him a fraction too slow. “Speak up. Since you like talkin’ so much.”

Instead of a grin or some lazy retort, you were met with knit brows and a tight, uneasy smile. The color had drained from your face—lips faintly blue, quivering at the edges.

He swallowed whatever he was about to say, like he already knew you’d brush it off.

“Hey now, why don’t—”

“’m fine,” you slurred, reading him too easily through the haze. As well as he knew you, you knew him right back.

There wasn’t much you trusted him to fix.

And right now, there wasn’t much time left to argue about it.

Before you could force out anything else, your vision slipped—world tilting hard and wrong. The sunset broke into smeared streaks of scarlet and lavender as your weight pitched sideways.

Strong hands caught you immediately.

Firm. Steady. Certain.

Brian hauled you upright with more care than you expected, careful not to jolt your injured shoulder as he guided you back against Preacher’s saddle.

A moment later, something warm and worn settled over your chest—his bandolier, loosened and thrown across you to keep you from sliding.

Then your reins were gone from your hands entirely, your arms dropping uselessly to your sides.

“How much blood have you lost, darling?” he asked, voice low now—stripped of all its usual ease.

“Just a bit…” you muttered, the lie slipping through your teeth like sand.

Brian didn’t answer right away.

His hands stayed on you a second longer than necessary, steadying you in the saddle as if letting go would confirm something he didn’t want to name yet.

Then, quietly:

“Cricket.”

It wasn’t teasing this time.

You blinked slowly, trying to focus on him over the haze creeping in at the edges of your vision. “What.”

His jaw tightened.

“Look at me.”

“I am lookin’ at you,” you shot back automatically, though your head lolled slightly with the effort.

That earned nothing from him. No grin. No joke. No easy dismissal.

Just that same tight, unreadable line of his mouth.

His fingers slid from your waist to your upper arm—careful, testing more than touching.

“…You’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted again, weaker this time.

Brian exhaled through his nose, something sharp and controlled, like he was biting down on every instinct he had to argue with you.

Then he shifted behind you.

One arm locked firmly around your middle.

The other pulled the reins in short, controlled motions.

“Hey,” you protested faintly, “what’re you—”

“Shh.”

It wasn’t harsh.

It was worse than that.

It was focused.

Preacher slowed beneath you, the rhythm of hooves changing as Brian guided him off the main trail and into the tree line. Branches scraped lightly past your boots. The world tilted with every step, and your body stopped cooperating in small, insidious ways—first your grip, then your posture, then the simple act of staying awake.

“Brian…” you tried again, quieter now. “We can’t stop. We gotta keep movin’.”

“I know.”

That answer didn’t help.

It was too calm.

Too sure.

You forced your head up again, squinting through the blur. “Then why’re we—”

“Because you’re bleedin’ out,” he cut in.

Simple.

Flat.

No humor attached to it anymore.

The words didn’t fully register at first.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then laughed—small, breathless, wrong. “Oh, don’t start that again.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You always lie when you’re scared,” he said, quieter now. “And you always get quieter right before you pass out.”

That shut you up.

Not because you wanted it to.

Because your body decided for you.

The next breath didn’t come quite right.

The trees around you started to smear into each other—greens and browns melting together like wet paint. The sky tilted farther than it should have.

Brian’s voice stayed anchored in the middle of it all.

“Stay with me, Cricket.”

You tried to answer.

Nothing came out.

Your head dropped forward, and the last thing you felt clearly was his arm snapping fully around you—pulling you in tight against him like he could physically hold you together by force alone.

“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath, and for the first time there was no performance in it at all.

Just him.

Just Brian.

“Hey—hey, don’t you do that.”

His voice sharpened slightly as Preacher moved faster now, breaking into a controlled, urgent canter.

“Not here. Not now. You hear me?”

The world flickered.

Your weight shifted completely into him.

And Brian stopped pretending this was just another ride.

Brian didn’t answer you.

Not right away.

His hands were still on you—steadying you in the saddle, keeping you from slipping sideways as Preacher’s gait shifted beneath the both of you—but there was a change in him now. Something quieter. Less talkative. Less Brian.

You felt it more than you saw it.

The way his grip tightened, then loosened.

The way his head turned slightly—not toward you, but past you.

Like something behind you had suddenly become more important than the fact you were actively trying not to pass out.

“Brian…” you muttered, or thought you did. It came out thin, stretched wrong in your own ears.

He didn’t respond.

That alone was enough to make something in your chest tighten.

You tried to straighten, or at least pretend you could, but the world immediately punished you for it—tilting sharply, colors smearing at the edges again. You gave up with a frustrated exhale and let your weight settle back against him.

“Don’t start actin’ strange on me now,” you mumbled. “I can barely keep my eyes open as it is.”

Still nothing.

That finally dragged your focus enough to notice it.

Brian had shifted behind you.

Not dramatically. Not enough to jolt you or the horse or even interrupt the rhythm of riding—but deliberate in a way that didn’t match his usual laziness. One hand stayed loosely around your waist, anchoring you in place.

The other had slipped away.

You heard the faint rustle of leather.

Fabric shifting.

The soft, controlled movement of someone trying very hard not to be noticed.

Your brows knit. “What are you doin’?”

No answer.

Another pause.

Then, quieter—almost distracted—

“Brian.”

That got you a reaction. A small one. His shoulder shifted, like he’d just realized you were still there.

“…Hm?”

You squinted through the haze. “What are you lookin’ at?”

A beat.

Long enough that it made your stomach feel heavier than the blood loss already did.

“Nothing,” he said.

Too fast.

Too smooth.

And that was worse than no answer at all.

You tried to turn your head, but your body didn’t cooperate the way you wanted it to. The motion came out sluggish, wrong, your neck barely lifting before fatigue dragged it back down.

“Don’t lie to me,” you muttered weakly.

Behind you, Brian let out a quiet breath—something halfway between a sigh and a decision he didn’t want to make.

The saddle creaked as he shifted his weight.

And now you could definitely hear it.

Something being opened.

Something being checked.

You swallowed, throat dry enough it almost hurt. “Brian.”

Still no response.

Which meant whatever he was doing mattered more than arguing with you.

That alone made your chest feel colder than the wind cutting across the trail.

You forced yourself to sit up again, slower this time, ignoring the way your vision tried to swim out of focus the moment you moved.

“Brian, I swear to God—”

A pause.

Then finally, a reluctant shift behind you.

“Just relax.”

That wasn’t an answer.

That was avoidance.

Your fingers curled weakly against the saddle horn. “What is it?”

Another rustle. Softer now. Controlled.

You felt him lean back slightly, like he was putting something away—or deciding whether or not to show you.

And then, just as you were about to snap again, your gaze caught it.

The saddlebags.

Open.

Half-hidden beneath a jumble of spare clothes and wrapped supplies.

Leather.

Worn.

Not yours.

You frowned harder, forcing your fogged mind to focus. “Brian…”

He didn’t look at you.

That was the worst part.

He was looking down into the bag like it had stopped being part of a robbery and started being something else entirely.

Something that didn’t make sense.

His fingers moved carefully—too carefully for a man like him—as he pulled something out from beneath the fabric.

A book.

Ledger-sized.

Dark leather, old enough to feel like it had already survived too much before either of you ever touched it.

He flipped it open.

You saw his eyes track the pages.

And you saw, even from your unfocused angle, that it wasn’t reading like anything normal.

Lines of ink.

Neat columns.

Names stacked like they were inventory instead of people.

Numbers that didn’t correspond to anything you recognized.

Strange markings in between them—symbols that looked less like handwriting and more like someone had tried to remember something they weren’t supposed to understand.

Seals stamped into corners of pages. Government ink, faint but unmistakable.

Land surveys folded into the margins like they didn’t belong in the same world as the rest of it.

Payments listed in codes that made no sense even when your brain tried to force them into shape.

Brian stared at it for a long time.

Long enough that you almost forgot to ask again.

Almost.

“What is that?” you finally managed, voice weaker than you meant it to be.

That got his attention.

The pages stopped moving.

His thumb held the edge of the ledger a little too tightly.

For a second, you thought he might actually answer you.

He didn’t.

Instead, he closed it halfway.

Not fully. Not like someone who understood it.

Like someone who didn’t want to look at it anymore.

“…Nothing,” Brian said.

Simple.

Flat.

Like it didn’t matter.

Like it wasn’t something that had been weighing heavier than gold since the moment he pulled it out of a hidden compartment during the robbery and instinctively shoved it into his saddlebag with everything else.

Like it wasn’t the first thing he’d absently taken when the shooting started.

And definitely not the thing he couldn’t stop thinking about ever since taking a closer look.

Afternoon bled into evening without either of you really noticing.

The light shifted first—gold thinning into something duller, heavier—then the sounds followed. The wind. The birds. Even Preacher’s hooves seemed quieter, like the world itself was losing energy.

At some point, you stopped talking.

Not all at once.

Just… less.

A few sharp comments here and there. A muttered threat you didn’t quite have the strength to finish properly. Then nothing at all.

Brian noticed before you did.

Of course he did.

He felt it in the way your weight kept settling more against the saddle horn than against him. In the way your answers started arriving late—like your thoughts had to travel a long way just to reach your mouth.

“Cricket,” he said at one point, low and careful. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” you answered automatically.

Too fast.

Too soft.

Wrong.

The next time he asked you something, you didn’t answer at all until several seconds had passed—and when you did, your voice sounded like it belonged to someone standing behind you instead of you.

The warmth of the day didn’t touch you anymore.

You started shivering.

Brian felt it when his arm tightened around your waist—subtle at first, then unmistakable. A tremor that had nothing to do with the horse.

“Hey,” he said under his breath. “Hey—look at me.”

You didn’t.

Not properly.

Your head lolled slightly forward, resting against the front of the saddle horn like it had become the only thing keeping you upright.

“’m fine,” you tried to say.

It came out broken.

Brian went quiet.

That was worse than anything else he could’ve done.

The next mile blurred.

Then another.

Then you stopped responding entirely.

Your body slackened against him all at once, like someone had cut the string holding you together.

“—Hey.”

Brian’s voice snapped sharper now.

“Hey, no—no, no, no.”

His arm locked around you immediately, hauling you back before you could slip off Preacher’s side completely. The horse jolted once, irritated, but Brian barely noticed.

He had you pulled tight against him now, one hand pressing hard against your back like he could force you to stay conscious through sheer will.

You were burning.

He felt it instantly.

Skin too hot.

Breathing uneven.

The kind of fever that didn’t come from nothing.

“Damn it…” he muttered, not at you—at the situation, at himself, at whatever invisible line he’d crossed without noticing.

He shifted Preacher off the trail without thinking, guiding him into the tree line with sharp, controlled movements. No jokes. No distractions. Just urgency.

“Stay with me,” he said, quieter now. “Stay with me, Cricket.”

Your head tilted slightly.

No answer.

That did it.

He didn’t stop riding.

But something in him changed.

The hesitation was gone now—replaced with a single, unpleasant certainty.

“There’s only one person,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.

Your eyelids fluttered faintly at the sound.

“…Huh?” you managed weakly, like you’d surfaced from somewhere deep and unpleasant.

Brian glanced down at you for half a second.

“Hey,” he said, softer. “Don’t go driftin’ off on me now.”

“Who…” you tried, barely audible. “Who’s there?”

He hesitated.

Just long enough for it to mean something.

“…A bartender.”

That got a faint, confused laugh out of you—or what might’ve been one.

“A bartender?” you slurred.

Brian’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t become a smile.

“Yeah.”

You squinted up at him through the haze. “Are you drunk?”

A pause.

Then—

“Not yet.”

That earned another weak breath of something like laughter, but it faded fast.

Brian exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip on you again as Preacher kept moving.

“You’re gonna like him,” he added after a beat, almost casually.

“…Do I?” you mumbled.

He glanced away.

“Not usually.”

That made you quiet again.

The trees thickened around you as the light started to drain from the sky, and Brian’s voice dropped lower, rougher around the edges than it had been all day.

“I owe him,” he said after a moment.

Then, like it annoyed him to admit even that much:

“…A lot.”

Another pause.

Preacher’s hooves thudded steadily beneath you.

Brian’s grip tightened slightly.

“And he hates my guts,” he added, almost fondly.

You didn’t respond.

Not really.

But you were still there.

And for now, that was enough.

You reach a tiny, dust-choked settlement just before dark.

Population: maybe a few hundred if you were being generous.

Everything is too still.

No voices drifting from porches. No children running between buildings. No horses tied up outside the general store. Just closed shutters and empty streets that feel like they’ve already decided not to care whether you pass through them alive or not.

Most of the businesses are shut tight, dark windows reflecting the last smear of daylight.

Except one.

A single building still has light bleeding through its front windows.

The saloon.

Brian doesn’t slow down when he sees it.

He just shifts in the saddle like he’s already made up his mind.

“Hold on,” he mutters, more to you than anything else.

You barely manage a sound in response.

Your weight is wrong against him—too loose, too unsteady—and every step Preacher takes feels like it’s happening farther away from you than the last. You can hear Brian talking, but it’s underwater now, stretched and muffled, like the world forgot how to stay in focus.

The horse comes to a stop outside the saloon.

Brian swings down first, boots hitting the dirt without hesitation.

Then his hands are on you immediately, firm and practiced, catching you before you can slide off the saddle entirely. You try to push yourself upright, but your arms don’t really agree with you anymore.

“Easy,” he says under his breath, guiding your weight against him. “I’ve got you.”

The door swings open.

Warm light spills out into the street.

He doesn’t bother knocking.

He just walks in.

The room inside is dim but clean in a way that feels deliberate. Polished wood. Quiet corners. The faint smell of whiskey and soap trying to cover something older underneath.

You can barely keep your eyes open as he carries you in.

The bell over the door doesn’t even finish ringing before a voice comes from behind the bar.

“You’re late.”

It’s calm.

Not surprised.

Not welcoming.

Just… factual.

Brian doesn’t stop moving.

You feel him pause for half a heartbeat, like he’s deciding whether or not to be offended.

Then, just as easily, he answers with a crooked smile you can’t quite see but can hear in his voice.

“Miss me?”

The bartender still doesn’t look up right away.

He keeps polishing the glass in his hand, methodical, unhurried, like nothing about Brian standing there matters in the slightest.

Only when the silence stretches does he finally glance over.

His eyes land on Brian first.

Then shift.

And stop on you.

The change is immediate.

Whatever detachment is on his face flattens out completely, like something in him clicks into place that has nothing to do with recognition and everything to do with assessment.

Blood.

Too much of it.

Too fresh.

Too close to the edge.

He sets the glass down slowly.

“…No,” he says at last.

Not to Brian.

Not really.

Just to the situation standing in his doorway.

Brian doesn’t bother easing into it.

“Room,” he says first, still holding you like you weigh less than you should. Like it’s automatic now. “Just one.”

The bartender doesn’t even blink.

“No.”

Brian huffs a quiet laugh, like he expected it and asked anyway. “Whiskey?”

Another pause.

“No.”

That one actually earns a reaction—Brian tilting his head slightly, as if reconsidering his entire relationship with this man. “You always this hospitable, or is it just me?”

The bartender finally looks at him properly.

“It’s you.”

You don’t have the strength to track all of it, but you catch the shape of the room shifting around the tension. It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud. It’s contained, like something both of them are used to holding down.

Brian adjusts his grip on you when you sway.

The bartender’s eyes drop to you again.

Longer this time.

He sees more than he says.

That much is obvious.

“…You gonna remove a bullet or just stand there collecting dust?” Brian adds, tone light—but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

A beat.

Then Tim exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he’s been handed a problem he already anticipated and still hoped wouldn’t show up tonight.

“I hate you,” he says flatly.

Brian smiles like that’s fondness.

“Missed you too.”

Tim’s gaze flicks between the two of you again.

Sharp.

Measuring.

And then, without asking anything—no names, no story, no explanation—he turns slightly and jerks his chin toward the stairs.

“Up.”

Brian doesn’t argue.

That alone shifts something in the air.

You feel it more than you understand it.

Brian just… moves.

Like that word mattered more than all the jokes he’s been making since the moment you met him.

He carries you past the bar with a steadiness that feels almost wrong for him—no hesitation, no sarcasm, no performance. Just obedience.

And Tim watches him do it like he’s cataloguing an old habit he thought he’d broken.

You force your head up slightly, squinting through the haze.

“…This the bartender?” you manage, voice thin.

Brian glances down at you.

“Yeah.”

You study the man behind the counter.

Clean lines. Controlled posture. Eyes that don’t miss anything. A saloon that feels more like an operating room than a place meant for drinking.

Unimpressed, you murmur, “Doesn’t look like a bartender.”

Brian gives a small, almost amused exhale.

“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time. “That’s the point.”

Ahead of you, Tim is already moving—setting things in order before you even reach the stairs, like he’s preparing for damage he’s seen too many times to be surprised by anymore.

And when you glance between them, something sits wrong in your chest.

Not fear.

Not relief.

Something in between.

Because Brian didn’t hesitate.

And Tim didn’t ask.

And whatever they were to each other once… clearly didn’t stop being real just because it stopped being allowed.

The room upstairs is quieter than the saloon below.

Not peaceful—just controlled. Like everything in it has been arranged to stay out of the way of whatever usually ends up bleeding across the floor.

Tim lays you down on the bed without ceremony, but not roughly either. Efficient. Careful in a way that feels practiced more than kind.

Brian hovers for half a second too long.

Then Tim flicks his eyes at him.

“Sit,” he says.

Brian actually listens.

That alone makes your fogged brain snag on something important before you can lose it again.

Tim doesn’t wait for permission after that.

He cuts.

Fabric gives under the blade with a clean, quiet sound that feels too intimate for how much it stings when it pulls away from your skin. Cold air hits the wound immediately and your body jerks on instinct.

Brian shifts in his chair.

Not forward.

Not back.

Just… tense.

“Hold still,” Tim says without looking at you.

“I am still,” you mutter automatically.

“Mm.”

That’s all the acknowledgment you get.

The shirt is peeled back further. The wound exposed properly now. Tim leans in closer, steady hands pressing just enough to make you hiss through your teeth.

There’s no hesitation in him.

No panic.

Just assessment.

Then, after a long moment—

“…You’re lucky,” he says.

Brian lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“I am?”

Tim doesn’t look up.

“If you’d gotten here a day later, you’d be dead.”

That wipes the humor out of the room completely.

Brian doesn’t respond.

No joke.

No deflection.

Just silence.

You manage to tilt your head slightly, trying to see him through the haze. He’s sitting back in the chair now, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped—but there’s nothing relaxed about it. Like he’s holding himself still on purpose.

Like if he moves too much, something will break.

Tim continues working.

Clean cloth. Alcohol. Pressure that makes your vision spike white at the edges.

You bite down hard enough on your own breath to keep from making noise.

“Try not to pass out again,” Tim says, almost bored.

“Not tryin’ to,” you whisper.

“Good.”

Another pause.

Then—

Metal shifts.

Tim pauses mid-motion.

Not because of you.

Because of something behind him.

You don’t see it clearly at first. Your vision is still slipping in and out like the world can’t decide whether you’re allowed to stay conscious. But you hear it—fabric rustling. Leather moving.

Brian.

He’s not talking.

That, again, is the most noticeable thing about him.

Tim’s eyes flick sideways.

Just slightly.

And stop.

There’s something half-hidden in Brian’s saddlebag where he set it down earlier—worn leather, edges frayed, sitting too casually in a room that suddenly feels like it can’t afford casual things.

A ledger.

Tim doesn’t move right away.

He just looks at it.

Long enough that the air shifts again.

He sets the cloth down slowly.

Too slowly.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before.

“…Where did you get that?”

Brian doesn’t answer immediately.

And when he does, it’s careful in a way you’re not used to hearing from him.

“Picked it up,” he says.

Tim’s expression doesn’t change much.

But something in his eyes does.

Recognition, sharp and immediate—like a door in his head just unlocked whether he wanted it to or not.

He doesn’t touch the ledger.

Doesn’t open it.

Just stares at it like it’s already open inside his memory.

Then he exhales through his nose.

“…Of course you did.”

Brian finally looks up at him.

“That bad?”

Tim doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reaches for the cloth again and presses it back to your wound with steady hands, like anchoring himself back into the present before he says anything he can’t take back.

“You two don’t steal things,” he says flatly.

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“…You bring them home.”

The words sit heavy in the room.

Brian’s jaw tightens slightly.

For the first time since you met him, there’s no joke trying to crawl out of his mouth to fix it.

Tim glances at him again—just once.

Then back at the ledger.

“…You have no idea what you’re sitting on,” he says.

And for the first time, his voice loses its detachment completely.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Something more controlled than either.

Concern that has teeth.

Outside, the saloon below creaks softly with movement—life continuing like nothing has changed.

But upstairs, in a quiet room above it all, something has.

Because whatever Brian stole in that bank wasn’t money.

And Tim has just realized that the people looking for it won’t stop at killing strangers.

They’ll burn towns for it.

And for the first time, all three of you are in the same room… with the same unspoken understanding forming between you:

This was never just an escape.

Rain fell in slow, heavy clumps while faster drops burst violently across the windshield, smearing into transparent streaks each time the wipers dragged across the glass with a tired mechanical groan.

THUNK.

The blades skipped slightly near the center.

THUNK.

Rubber against water.

Metal rattling beneath the dashboard.

The low hiss of tires cutting through flooded asphalt.

Everything sounded muffled beneath the storm.

The distant mountains dissolved into a bruised smear of muddy brown and dusty black, their peaks powdered white beneath fresh snow that clung to the trees in uneven patches. Fog drifted lazily between them, swallowing entire stretches of forest before coughing them back up again farther down the road.

From a distance, the mountains looked strangely small.

Like piled dirt.

Like anthills.

Like something harmless.

But the closer ridges crowded tightly against the road, rising beside the car in massive walls of dripping pine and exposed stone. Their shadows pressed heavily against the windows.

Claustrophobic. 

Suffocating.

The kind of closeness that made it feel impossible to breathe.

Water streamed down the rock faces in thin silver threads.

Branches shuddered overhead beneath the weight of rain and melting snow.

Somewhere deeper in the woods, something metallic groaned softly in the wind—an old signpost maybe, or rusted mining equipment half-swallowed by the trees.

The sound carried strangely through the mountains.

Long.

Low.

Almost animal.

The heater clicked weakly beneath the dashboard, pushing out air that smelled faintly of dust and old engine oil. Damp wool and lake water lingered in the cramped interior of the van, mixing with the coppery trace of blood that no amount of cleaning ever fully removed from county vehicles.

In the back, the stretcher wheels rattled softly every time the road curved.

A small sound.

Easy to ignore if you tried.

Still, you found yourself counting the noise unconsciously.

Rattle.

Silence.

Rattle.

Silence.

The body shifted slightly during sharper turns, the black plastic rustling almost delicately in the dark behind you.

You kept your eyes fixed ahead.

Meanwhile, the windshield framed the world in flashes: wet guardrails that glistened under passing headlights, telephone poles leaning with the weight of age, an endless sea of trees, and the steep drops of the Appalachia’s which vanished into dark nothingness .

Jim Thorpe always felt isolated during storms.

Cut off somehow. 

Like the rain washed the rest of Pennsylvania away and left only the mountains behind.

The fog thickened suddenly as the road curved higher.

For a few seconds the headlights illuminated nothing except swirling white mist.

No trees.

No road.

No mountains.

Just blankness.

The emptiness made your stomach tighten instinctively.

Officer Harlow shifted beside you, one hand tightening around the steering wheel as the van crept forward through the dark.

The turn signal clicked hollowly through the silence.

It was pointless, really. 

There was no one out here besides you, the officer, and the half rotted corpse behind you. 

Somewhere beneath the storm, hidden deep in the trees beyond the shoulder, came the faint sound of running water.

Lake Harmony overflowed badly this time of year.

The streams feeding down from the mountains became violent after heavy rain, dragging branches, roadkill, and sometimes worse things down through the ravines.

You swallowed hard.

Behind you, something wet struck the metal floor of the van with a soft patter.

Then another.

Lake water leaked slowly through the seams of the body bag, gathering into dark trembling beads before slipping free. The sound was quiet—barely more than a drip—yet in the suffocating silence of the vehicle it seemed impossibly loud.

Steady.

Measured.

Patient.

Each drop landed with a hollow metallic tick that buried itself somewhere deep behind your eyes.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

You became horribly aware of the space behind you.

The stretcher restraints creaking faintly with every turn.

Plastic rustling softly against itself.

The heavy shape lying motionless in the dark.

It took every ounce of your willpower not to look.

Not to peel back the black plastic and search the girl’s face for something recognizable.

Not familiarity exactly.

Something worse.

Recognition.

You didn’t know her.

Surely.

And yet the feeling persisted stubbornly beneath your ribs—that awful gnawing certainty that you should.

Like forgetting the name of someone from childhood.

Like passing a stranger on the street who somehow already knew yours.

Your fingertips dug harder into the paper coffee cup balanced in your lap. The cardboard had gone soft from condensation, bending slightly beneath the pressure.

Outside, rainwater rushed violently through roadside ditches, carrying leaves and mud downhill into darkness. The mountains rose on either side of the narrow road in immense black walls, their tree lines barely visible through fog and sleet.

The windshield wipers groaned again.

THUNK.

THUNK.

Officer Harlow finally shifted beside you, one hand tightening slightly around the steering wheel.

“Do you recognize her?” he asked quietly.

The question slid through the van like another sound of the storm.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Another drip struck the metal floor behind you.

Tick.

Your eyes remained fixed ahead, watching the headlights smear weakly across rain-slick pavement.

“No,” you lied.

The word came too quickly.

Too flat.

Harlow glanced toward you briefly before returning his attention to the road.

He looked exhausted beneath the passing flashes of light. Deep shadows pooled beneath his eyes, emphasizing the sharpness of his expression whenever lightning flickered somewhere beyond the mountains.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The silence that followed felt different now.

Thicker.

Not empty anymore.

Listening.

The body shifted faintly behind you as the van rounded another curve.

Plastic crackled softly.

Then settled still again.

“Are you sure?” he pressed, dark eyes finding yours through the rearview mirror this time. The dim orange glow from passing streetlights caught briefly against the tired lines of his face, sharpening the suspicion hidden there. “You didn’t recognize her?”

“Yes,” you repeated firmly.

Too firmly.

The edge in your voice surprised even you.

Heat prickled uncomfortably beneath your skin almost immediately afterward—not anger exactly, but the sharp anxious sting that always followed confrontation. Your thoughts fluttered wildly against one another, frantic and directionless.

Did he know you were lying?

Or worse—

Could he somehow prove it?

The possibility made your stomach tighten painfully.

You had spent most of your life becoming smaller around conflict. 

Softer. 

Easier to swallow. 

It was simpler that way. Safer to nod politely through accusations, sidestep uncomfortable questions, lower your eyes and let louder people fill silence for you.

Even now, with a dead girl leaking lake water in the back of the van and your own name carved into her chest, some pathetic part of you still wanted to avoid making things difficult.

You hated that about yourself.

Because if recognizing her mattered—if saying something could somehow help the investigation or bring peace to whatever remained of that poor girl—then staying quiet made you selfish.

Cowardly.

The word settled heavily in your chest.

Outside, the town drifted past in blurred smears of amber and gray. Rainwater cascaded down steep sidewalks and flooded stairwells between buildings, carrying cigarette butts, dead leaves, and black sludge toward the storm drains. 

Jim Thorpe’s narrow streets gleamed wet beneath the headlights, the old brick storefronts towering close enough to feel oppressive.

The mountains loomed over everything.

Watching.

The windshield wipers dragged back and forth with another heavy groan.

THUNK.

THUNK.

Behind you, water continued dripping steadily onto metal.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Your fingers tightened unconsciously around the coffee cup again. The cardboard had nearly collapsed beneath your grip now, softened completely by heat and condensation.

Harlow kept looking at you.

Not aggressively, but carefully.

Like he was trying to piece together whether you were about to break apart in front of him.

“You look pale,” he said after a moment.

A humorless laugh almost escaped you.

Pale.

Why was everyone saying that to you lately?

As if you didn’t spend most of your days under fluorescent lights beside refrigerated bodies?

As if pallor wasn’t practically hereditary in your family?

“I’m tired.”

You spared a glance at yourself in the murky mirror of the van’s side. 

Admittedly, you did strike a resemblance t the corpses you worked on.

“That all?”

His tone remained neutral, but something beneath it sharpened slightly.

Your pulse stumbled.

The rain intensified suddenly, hammering against the roof of the van so loudly it swallowed the rest of the world whole. 

Water streaked violently across the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it, blurring the town into smeared gold reflections and shadow.

For several long seconds, neither of you could see much beyond the headlights.

Just rain.

Just darkness.

Just the suffocating shape of the mountains pressing close around the road.

Then lightning flashed somewhere overhead.

Bright enough to bleach the interior of the van white for a split second.

And in that instant, reflected faintly in the rearview mirror, you saw the body bag sitting upright.

Your breath stopped.

The black plastic hung slack around narrow shoulders. Water streamed from the shape in thin rivulets onto the floor below. Its head tilted slightly to one side, face obscured completely by darkness and folds of plastic.

Watching you.

The lightning vanished.

Darkness crashed back in immediately afterward.

The body lay flat again.

Motionless.

Your entire body locked painfully still.

The heater hissed weakly beneath the dashboard.

The tires cut through standing water with a low roar.

Behind you:

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Harlow frowned slightly.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You realized too late that you’d stopped breathing.

“I’m fine,” you whispered.

But your voice sounded wrong now.

Thin and strangled, like someone else had spoken for you instead.

Lightening struck occasionally,illuminating your too-stressed expression to Harlow’s unyielding, prying gaze. 

The officer left almost immediately after helping you unload the stretcher.

A muttered goodnight, the tilt of his hat, and then the heavy slam of the van doors.

Then headlights disappeared slowly through curtains of rain, swallowed piece by piece by fog and an unnerving dark until only pale flickers of red taillights remained.

And then—

Nothing.

Just the storm.

You stood beneath the awning for a moment longer than necessary, fingers curled tightly around the intake clipboard while rain battered the roof overhead in violent uneven waves. 

Water spilled from clogged gutters nearby, overflowing in heavy streams that slapped against concrete hard enough to splash the legs of your pants.

The body waited beside you silently beneath black plastic.

The zipper reflected weak yellow security light in thin silver flashes whenever lightning flickered somewhere deeper in the mountains.

You avoided looking at it.

Instead your attention drifted toward the mortuary entrance.

The funeral home seemed unnaturally stiff tonight.

Not empty.

Still; like a held breath.

The old brick building groaned softly somewhere above you as wind pushed through loose siding and ancient pipes. The sound traveled strangely through the night—low, wooden, and almost human beneath the hiss of rain.

You swallowed, stalled, and then forced yourself forwards.

The basement key stuck halfway into the lock like it always did. You had to shoulder the swollen door open with more force than expected, and the familiar smell hit immediately; cold air undercutting the musk of dust and the trace of undiluted bleach. 

Formaldehyde lingered permanently in the back of your throat no matter how long you worked there, the scent starting to seep in again as well.

Ashamedly, this crapshack was your home now after all . 

The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed weakly awake one by one as you stepped inside, illuminating the narrow basement hallway in flickering bands of pale yellow-white. The tile floor reflected the light dully beneath a thin sheen of tracked rainwater.

Behind you, stretcher wheels rattled loudly over the threshold as you pulled the body inside yourself.

The sound echoed, metal vibrating against tile.

Loose wheels squeaking sharply every few feet.

The noises seemed far too loud for the hour.

You grimaced instinctively and glanced toward the staircase leading upstairs, half-expecting your father to appear at the top landing and complain about waking the building.

The thought hit harder than expected.

Your chest tightened briefly, and then the feeling passed like the brief respite of a summer breeze. 

The storm muffled the rest of town completely down here. 

No traffic. 

No voices. 

Just the hum of refrigeration units farther down the hall and rainwater ticking softly against the narrow windows near the ceiling.

You exhaled slowly, shifting your focus on the routine.

Paperwork first.

Intake photos.

Personal effects.

You knew the motions well enough your body could perform them half asleep.

The stretcher turned sharply as you maneuvered it toward the embalming room.

One wheel caught briefly against uneven tile before lurching free with a squeal.

Perturbed at the idea of having something else that needed fixing you snapped your gaze down to the floor.

You stopped walking immediately.

Dark footprints stretched across the pale tile floor ahead of you.

Not smears of mud.

Footsteps.

Distinct.

Wet soil pressed into grout lines and drying slowly beneath fluorescent lights.

Large.

Far too large.

Your eyes tracked them automatically.

One after another.

Barely human-shaped beneath streaks of mountain mud and rainwater.

Not Harlow’s boots.

Not yours.

The prints crossed the hallway toward your father’s office at the far end of the basement.

Then stopped directly outside the door.

No returning prints.

No continuation.

Just—

Stopped.

As though whoever made them had simply vanished.

Or lie in wait inside.

Your grip tightened unconsciously around the stretcher handle.

Cold prickled slowly across the back of your neck, the hairs standing on end one by one.

Drip.

Drip.

Behind you, lake water continued slipping steadily from the body bag onto tile.

You stared at the footprints too long.

Long enough for details to begin feeling wrong.

The size.

The depth.

The strange dragging impression near the heel, as if whatever made them walked unevenly.

Or injured.

Another fluorescent light overhead flickered violently before settling again with a low electrical buzz.

Your father’s office door stood slightly ajar beyond the footprints..

You were suddenly overcome by the bizarre certainty that someone had already gone in there before you arrived.

Not robbed.

Not searched.

Visited.

Your pulse thudded unpleasantly behind your ribs.

You looked back toward the basement entrance instinctively.

Still closed, still locked.

Nothing else moved.

Nothing of value had been taken.

And yet the feeling remained.

A morbid curiosity settled quietly into the back of your mind, needling at you with thin bony fingers. 

Go look. Just check.

 It rationalized itself quickly,

Your phone sat heavy in your pocket.

Police on speed dial.

Harlow had only just left.

If someone was inside, you could call.

If someone was hurt, hiding, waiting—

The thought tightened painfully around your lungs.

Your eyes drifted again toward your father’s office.

The door remained cracked open only slightly, revealing nothing beyond a narrow wedge of darkness. 

The footprints seemed darker now.

Wet mountain soil drying slowly into grout lines.

A strange dragging impression marred several of them, as though one foot had been pulled unevenly behind the other.

You imagined following them.

Crossing the hallway.

Pushing open the office door.

Seeing—

Your stomach lurched hard.

No.

Every instinct in your body revolted against the idea immediately.

Not fear exactly.

Something older.

Primal.

The same animal part of the brain that notices eyes in the woods before the rest of you catches up.

Do not look.

The thought arrived suddenly and with startling force.

Firm.

Absolute.

Do not look.

The mountains had taught you that lesson young.

There were noises you ignored.

Roads you didn’t take after dark.

Shapes in tree lines you pretended not to notice.

Living in Appalachia meant understanding that curiosity could become a kind of suicide.

Your rainboots suddenly felt impossibly heavy against the tile floor. Anchored there. Your legs stiffened beneath you until even the thought of movement felt difficult, heavy like lead.

Cowardice rooted itself deep in your spine.

You hated that too.

Hated the humiliating relief that followed your decision.

Work.

You needed to work.

Routine would fix this.

Routine fixed everything.

The dead made sense.

Bodies were simple.

They obeyed rules.

You tore your gaze away from the office door and forced yourself toward the supply cabinet instead. The wheels of the stretcher squealed softly behind you as it rolled a few inches across uneven tile.

The sound nearly made you jump.

Your hands shook more than you wanted them to as you pulled open the cabinet drawers, staring at a crowd of gloves in your father’s size.

You grabbed the first pair in your size and struggled briefly with them, fingers catching awkwardly against damp skin before finally snapping into place with soft elastic pops.

The embalming room smelled faintly metallic tonight beneath the usual sterile sting of disinfectant and formaldehyde. Cold air drifted steadily from the refrigeration units along the far wall, humming softly enough to blend with the overhead lights until the sounds became one continuous mechanical drone.

You focused on that noise.

Not the office.

Not the footprints.

Not the possibility of someone standing silently in the dark only feet away.

The body bag crackled loudly as you unzipped it, the sound too bright in the tiled room, like someone crumpling cellophane inside your skull. 

Cold damp air escaped immediately, rolling out in a visible cloud that ghosted across the stainless steel table. The smell followed seconds later—lake water, mud, and something human underneath beginning to turn, that particular sweetness that meant the bacteria had started their work in earnest, breaking down the last of her from the inside out.

The girl's face emerged slowly beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

Colorless and swollen lightly from the water, yes, but recognizable in a way that made your hands hesitate on the zipper. 

Pale hair clinging damply to her cheeks and throat in tangled strands that you would have to comb out later, working from the ends to avoid pulling, the way you'd been taught. Her eyelashes were still wet, clumped together in dark triangles against her skin.

For one impossible moment, she looked less dead than exhausted. Like someone sleeping badly, dreaming something they couldn't wake from. 

Her large eyes seemed peaceful behind translucent lids, her thin lips quirked up in a small, serene smile—the relaxation of muscles that happens when the rigor releases, when the face settles into its final expression whether you want it to or not.

Your chest tightened painfully.

You knew that smile, you knew that face

Not from Eerie, not from Split River High, not even from Lake Harmony. 

Not from life. 

From death. 

The realization slid slowly beneath your skin like something cold and alive, a leech finding purchase in soft tissue.

You had seen her before.

Not here, not tonight.

Three years ago beneath softer lighting and different flowers, in the viewing room at your father's funeral home on Marrow Road before it had been closed down.

You remembered powdering her cheeks with the brush that had belonged to your mother, working the cosmetic into the waxen skin until it looked like something approaching warmth. Remembered folding her hands carefully over her stomach while her mother cried hard enough to vomit in the hallway upstairs, the sound carrying through the vents.

You remembered your father standing in the doorway, watching you work, his own hands red-knuckled and trembling from the early Parkinson's he wouldn't acknowledge.

"She's a sweet thing," he'd said, his voice the gravel it became in the evenings. "Handle her gently."

The memory hit so vividly your hands nearly slipped against the plastic beneath her shoulders. Muscle memory overpowered reason, and like an automaton you moved; the woman was heavier than expected as you transferred her from the stretcher to the embalming table, waterlogged tissue adding density that dry flesh never had. Your muscles strained beneath the dead weight, the lumbar region of your spine protesting the torque.

Cold soaked slowly through your gloves where your fingers pressed against her sleeves—cotton, damp, the same blouse she'd been wearing then, you realized with a lurch, the same pearl buttons you'd fastened at her throat to hide the autopsy incision.

You positioned her head on the headrest, fingers finding the occipital bone, tilting her chin up to expose the carotid. The skin was cold, rubbery, resisting your touch like it remembered you from before and didn't want you back.

The trocar waited on the instrument tray, heavy and gleaming. You reached for it, and your hand stopped.

Her eyes had opened.

Not possible. You knew they had been closed. You had checked. The lake hadn't done this—post-mortem clouding didn't force lids apart. But there they were, staring up at the ceiling, the corneas milky with decomposition.

And all the while—

You could feel the office behind you.

The door you hadn't closed. The darkness where the light didn't reach. The weight of someone standing in the space between the filing cabinets, watching you work with a patience that was more akin to a predator scouting out its next meal.

Waiting.

The trocar slipped from your fingers and clattered against the tile, loud as a gunshot.

You didn't turn around.

You knew what you would see if you did.

You didn’t bend to retrieve it. 

You don't move at all. 

Your breath fogs in the cold room, each exhale visible, measured, deliberate—the technique your father taught you for steadying your hands before making the incision.

Count backward from ten. Make the first cut on one.

But you can't remember what number you're on. The body on the table has begun to steam slightly in the dry air, moisture rising from her clothes in thin wisps that curl toward the ceiling like fingers uncurling.

Her eyes are still open. Still fixed. And now—now you see that the smile has changed. It has widened, fractionally, the corners of her mouth lifting in a way that requires muscle contraction, requires blood flow, requires life.

"You're not real," you say. Your voice doesn't sound like yours. It sounds like your father's voice, that flat professional tone that promised everything was under control. "You're tissue and fluid and decay. You're chemistry breaking down."

The body doesn't respond. 

Of course it doesn't.

But the steam rises faster, and you smell something beneath the lake water and rot—something older, mineral, like the inside of a cave that has never seen sunlight. 

Like the ridge in Eerie. 

Like the abandoned dorm building.

Behind you, the office creaks.

Not the hinge of a door, but the floor.

Weight shifting on old boards. 

Someone—something—taking a single step from the carpet onto the linoleum threshold.

Your training takes over, or some fragment of it. You reach for the trocar without looking down, fingers finding the metal by memory, the weight familiar, comforting in its violence. You grip it tight enough to make your knuckles ache and force yourself to look at the body, only the body, the task at hand.

The jugular. You need to access the jugular to begin drainage.

You position the instrument above her throat, angling for the hollow where the vein lies shallow. Your hand trembles. The point hovers over her skin, not breaking, just touching, a dimple forming in the waxy surface.

Your training takes over, or some fragment of it. You reach for the trocar without looking down, fingers finding the metal by memory, the weight familiar, comforting in its violence. You grip it tight enough to make your knuckles ache and force yourself to look at the body, only the body, the task at hand.

You start with the clothes. Standard procedure—remove, catalog, preserve. Your scissors snip through the damp cotton blouse, 

You peel the fabric back from her shoulders, working methodically, refusing to rush, refusing to think.

Beneath her ribs, however, you can’t manage to ignore the fact that the same scar is there.

On her left side, just above the hip, a smooth patch of healed tissue the size of a half-dollar. You freeze, scissors hovering. You touch your own side through your shirt, the phantom ache that never quite goes away. 

It's your scar. 

Exactly yours. 

The same dimensions, the same placement, the same waxy texture that the doctors in Philadelphia called a birth defect.

But you know this body. You prepared it three years ago. You washed it yourself, handled every inch of it with gloved hands, and there was no scar. 

She'd died of lymphoma, wasting away in a hospital bed, her skin unblemished except for the bruises from IV lines and the hollows where the disease had eaten her from within.

You force your hands to keep moving. The blouse comes away, then the bra, the underwear, everything placed in evidence bags. You roll her gently, checking for lividity, for wounds, for the telltale signs of struggle.

There are no marks from the lake. No debris in her hair, no algae under her fingernails, no water in her lungs when you aspirate a sample into the beaker—just clear fluid, chemically neutral, but contextually wrong.

You palpate her abdomen, feeling for the organs, for the stiffness that should indicate her cause of death. The cancer had taken her liver, her spleen, her lymph nodes. You remember the autopsy report, the hollowed-out cavities, the way she'd felt light when you lifted her, as if the disease had already done your job and removed everything heavy from inside.

Now she feels dense. You press against her stomach and feel something shift beneath the skin, something solid and organized that shouldn't be there three years post-mortem.

You make the incision. Not the jugular—you need to see inside. 

The scalpel slides through tissue that parts too easily, without resistance, without bleeding. You spread the wound and look.

She has a kidney.

Two of them, healthy, pink-gray, perfused with blood that hasn't started to break down. You touch one with your gloved finger and it gives, resilient, living tissue in a dead woman who died of organ failure, who had no kidneys left when you buried her.

Your breath stops. Your hands withdraw, trembling now beyond control.

She didn't drown. She didn't die of cancer this time. She died of something that left her organs intact, that filled her back up with what she'd lost, that arranged her hands and opened her eyes and—

Behind you, the floorboards creak again. Three distinct footsteps, heavy, unhurried, moving from the office carpet across the tile threshold. You see the shadow stretch across the floor beside the table, long and hooded, black against white, and you smell it—that particular combination of wet limestone and copper that you thought you'd left in Eerie.

The body on the table stays perfectly still. Her eyes have closed again. The smile is gone, replaced by the slack neutrality of true death.

The footsteps reach the door. The handle turns, the mechanism clicking with deliberate precision. The door opens, the bell from the outer office chiming faintly, impossibly, though you're certain you locked the front entrance.

The shadow withdraws.

The door closes.

Jeff the Killer

I Wanna be Adored - The Stone Roses

Four years counting only business days

He hates saying it, it feels like part of him is carved off every time he does

His family wasn’t big on saying it, and he became a creepypasta to young to ever have a real relationship before you

So even after blood, sweat, tears, and trauma bonding he still will respond with “I’m crazy about you” if you’re lucky

Conversely, he is a huge narcissist with a sensitive, overly inflated ego and loves hearing it

He wants nothing more than to be adored and yet refuses to give any himself

Masky

Iris - The Goo Goo Dolls

Tim has less of a specific window of time but more so an emotional standard that needs to be met

Can you calm him down in his all to frequent bursts of anger instead of just dealing with them?

Are you able to come to terms with what he’s done and what he must continue to do?

Is it possible for you to grasp his lack of autonomy and inability to prioritize you?

Any one of those alone is a hard ask for anyone

Yet, if you are able to do all of them the “I love you’s” will be well-earned and plentiful

Tim also enjoys hearing it, but he won’t let you say until he’s ready to as well

It is immensely important to him that your relationship is equal

Hoodie

Unloveable - The Smiths

Says it for the hell if it: rarely when he means it and usually when he has something to gain

D1 lovebomber

It can be sweet and heart wrenching, a tearful confession and then he’ll be gone the next day

When he says it for real, it’s the first time—romantically or otherwise

It feels like a hefty weight in his stomach and he chokes whenever he attempts to voice it

Due to that it takes him months after realizing to say it to you

He is uncomfortable hearing it no matter how long you’ve been together

It feels wrong as if he shouldn’t—or even can’t be—loved

Ticci Toby

Lovefool - The Cardigans

Immediately

Give this man a scrap of attention and he is putty in your hands

He yearns for affection and craves it more than anything else in the world

As a result he gives his easily and openly, despite not really understanding the emotional weight that it carries

Unintentional D1 Lovebomber

Toby’s willingness and even ability to say it depends on his mood with is highly erratic

One day he could be convinced you’re the love of his life, the next thinking you manipulated him into it completely

Whenever he says it he does mean it—earnestly and with every fiber of his being

It comes from the oh so rare feeling of being understood and accepted

As soon as those feelings are present, the words spill readily from his lips

Eyeless Jack

Lust for a Vampyr - I Monster

Never

Love is such an incomprehensible thing to Jack

You are his one, his other half, the sole thing keeping him on this wretched Earth, the blessing that makes the damnation of his immortal flesh oh so slightly more bare able

However, love is a human thing and his humanity is all but a stranger to him

He will call you his and throw a fit if you give anyone else a modicum of attention and yet he can not genuinely say I love you

It feels false to him, wrong, almost like a lie

He knows it carries a great weight but he is unburdened by it and blissfully unaware

He is apathetic to you saying it, he will not stop you but he much prefers other displays of affection

Kate the Chaser

I Found - Amber Run

It takes Kate around a year to say I love you

It’s not because she doesn’t feel it, simply because she handles her words with the weight of a loaded weapon

She must be sure of how she feels, sure that you two will work out, and sure they you aren’t going to leave

The months before she speaks it she’ll prove it through her actions and care—as long as you do the same in turn

Kate adores hearing those few words, but only when your actions align with them

She lives by the idea of saying what you mean and meaning what you say

Even after a year together she’d probably stare at you for several seconds after you say it first.

When she finally says it, it’s quiet and almost irritated, like she’s annoyed you made her feel something that deeply.

Jane the Killer

The Night We Met - Lord Huron

Not in a sense of competing, but Jane will never say it first

Jane associates love with grief more than happiness.

She loves deeply, but admitting it feels like tempting fate, her apple in the garden of Eden

If she says it, it happens years into the relationship after you’ve already built a life together.

She’d rather show devotion than talk about it.

It’s a sore subject of her, being insecure and guilt ridden she can not say it to you when she feels it so surely

Hearing it causes her to freeze and choke up

You’ll be met with her silence for a long time, and it will only evolve into warmth if you don’t let it dissuade you

Clockwork

Love Me Dead - Ludo

Relatively normal, it takes Clockwork about 4 months

She falls first yet realizes it last

Everybody around her knows she’s in love before she does

She’d accidentally say it during an argument, a joke, or a sleep-deprived ramble.

Afterwards she’d immediately regret it and try to pretend it never happened.

Secretly, she’s relieved the secret is finally out

As fickle as she is with her own affections, she loves hearing it from her partner

It’s a healthy boost to her ego and always brings a flush to her cheeks

Ben Drowned

From The Start - Laufey

Ben says “love ya” within a month.

“I adore you” within two.

“You’re my favorite person” within three.

Yet somehow avoids actually saying “I love you.”

If you press him for a different response, he’ll simply laugh and say “I’m just crazy about you”

The moment it finally slips out, all the jokes disappear.

He’ll try to brush it off as a slip of the tongue but seeing the eagerness in your eyes draws it right out of him without ounce of shame

Once it’s out, he uses it frequently to the point where it’s almost annoying—and he expects the same from you in turn

Nina the Killer

Crush - Ethel Cain

Three weeks, maybe less

Nina loves with the intensity of a forest fire and roughly the same amount of foresight

She doesn’t understand people who can quietly develop feelings over years

*The moment she realizes she likes you, she acts like she’s been in love with you since birth

She falls fast, hard, and with absolutely no regard for the consequences and every single time she means it with her entire chest

She’ll say it over text, in the middle of conversations, half asleep, and a hile you’re trying to tell her something important

when you first tell her you love her she stares at you for a moment before grinning so hard it hurts

She hopes you’ll say it as quickly and as much as she does

Liu Woods

Work Song - Hozier

Two years, at the least

Not because he doesn’t love you, but because he refuses to cheapen the words

Liu doesn’t view love as an emotion: emotions change, they fluctuate, they disappear and return

Love, to him, is a choice

There are months where he knows he would die for you before he knows whether he’ll ever say it

You know he loves you long before he admits it

He also becomes uncomfortable hearing it before he says it

You hated Jeff.

The animosity between you two was less of a grudge and more of a permanent low grade infection that seemed to fester every time he entered your life.

He was the most reprehensible, loathsome man you had ever met. That chard thing having not only the appearance of an ash tray, but the intelligence and emotional bandwidth of one as well.

The only thing he was good for, really, was a cruel laugh to make yourself feel better.

Or a good fuck.

“Fuuuuck-“

The sound tore from your throat, low and guttural, before you could even think to stop it. You buried your face into his mattress, inhaling the scent of musky sheets and the vague odor of wet dog, desperate to muffle the sounds of your pleasure before that asshole’s name could follow.

Sadly, the physical reality of him was something you couldn't deny, no matter how much your brain tried to hate him. His admittedly huge cock was splitting you open from behind, stretching you in a way that made you feel both stretched and incredibly full. Somehow, he knew exactly how to angle his hips to hit both your gummy g-spot and your cervix all at once, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your entire pelvis

The hand splayed across the small of your back was probably to blame, forcing your trembling body into a sinfully exquisite arch that had you gasping and writhing beneath him, squealing in ecstasy.

“C’mon, you’re getting fucked like a whore, you might as well sound like one too.”

Unluckily for you, Jeff’s free hand made itself useful when he noticed you trying to smother your cries and moans.

Grabbing the back of your neck and the base of your skull he grabbed a healthy fistful and yanked—firm enough for it to hurt, but gentle enough to keep all of your precious hair intact.

“Shit, shit—Jeff you fucking asshole.” You whined, blood rushing to your already red cheeks in shame as you cried out his name.

“An asshole, huh? For being a slut—“ your walls fluttered at the insult, making him groan and stutter as he felt every twitch along his throbbing length. “For being such’a *slut*,” he repeated, more out of breath than before, “you sure are afraid to act like one!”

All you could do was groan, too fucked silly to formulate a proper response and too well aware that he would stop if you complained too much. Not due to his exceptionally fragile ego, but simply because he enjoyed a just reason to make anyone suffer.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.” He chortled, hand leaving your neck as you fell back down into the sweaty sheets below.

Cheek pressed into the mess of fabric, your eyes fluttered shut as an immense pressure began building in your abdomen—something *different* from your previous orgasms that night. It was a pressure that wasn't just in your stomach, but in your entire body, a feeling of impending explosion.

Before you could so much as part your lips to warn him, Jeff’s scarred hand returned to your body, slipping betwixt trembling thighs to your swollen clit that had been neglected for some time.

Pinching the sensitive nub with enough pressure to make you see white he rubbed it in circles between his fingers, leaning more weight into you as he did. His thrusts never faltered, but his breath did—a stuttered staccato of moans and gasps.

You fell in step alongside him, nearly screaming as your walls began to spasm and twitch. The sensation was overwhelming, a cascade of pleasure that felt like it was going to tear you apart. You were right there, on the edge of a precipice, and you knew he was about to push you over.

“Be good and make a mess for me, let it all out for me.”

At his command, you couldn’t help but oblige. Your sex gave one final seize before he came inside of you just as your walls forced his cock out, dripping a sticky, bitter substance in its wake.

“There we go…” he crooned, rubbing your clit through the aftermath of your orgasm, forcing you to squirt one more time before finally pulling away.

He seemed oddly proud and you couldn’t quite tell if it was of himself, or you.

————-

The ache between your legs had finally faded, but the memory of it remained—a phantom throb, a reminder of the last time Jeff had wrung you out and left you to dry on the sheets. Three days. It had been three days of blessed, maddening silence. Your apartment felt too big, too quiet without his heavy tread scuffing up your floors or his grunted complaints about your lack of edible food.

You missed him. And that fact was a more bitter pill to swallow than the cheap whiskey you were currently nursing.

That’s how you ended up on the fire escape, a thin metal platform perched on the edge of the woods. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant traffic. You wore nothing but an old, oversized hoodie and a pair of his boxers you’d stolen—the fabric worn soft and smelling faintly of him, a comfort you despised. Your legs dangled over the edge, swinging gently in the breeze, your eyes tracing the treeline where the city lights dissolved into darkness.

This was your ritual. A twisted form of birdwatching. You were waiting for the magpie, the one with the chard-skin and scavenger’s soul. Sometimes he’d emerge, and you’d trade barbs across the distance, a verbal sparring match that left you buzzing. Sometimes he’d climb the ladder, raid your fridge, and leave without a word. Most often, he’d climb up, pull you inside, and fuck you until the only thing you could remember was his name, before vanishing before the sun came up.

He was a ghost, a headache, and the most regular thing in your life. You hated how much you craved that awful consistency.

Tonight, the woods were still. The moon hung high and round, a sterile, perfect disk that made the shadows below seem deeper, more menacing. You took a long, slow sip from your bottle , watching the exhale of your breath curl and dissipate into the night. Just as you were about to give up, to retreat back into the hollow quiet of your apartment, a voice rasped from the darkness below, startling you.

“Lurking out here again? You gonna start paying rent for this ledge?”

The sound was a physical thing, a gravelly vibration that seemed to travel up the metal frame and straight into your bones. You didn’t bother looking down. You knew the shape of his shadow, the particular crunch his boots made on the gravel.

“It’s a better view than your face,” you called back, your voice raspy. “And it smells better, too.”

A low, rusty chuckle echoed up to you. Then came the sound you’d been waiting for: the groan of the old fire escape ladder as it took his weight. It protested with each rung, a rhythmic groan-metal-scrape that announced his slow, deliberate ascent. He wasn’t in a hurry.

He never was.

When he finally hauled himself over the railing, he was a study in beautiful decay. The moonlight carved him in sharp relief, highlighting the uneven, scarred terrain of his face. A fresh gash ran from his temple to his jaw, still raw and weeping. He was caked in dirt and what looked suspiciously like blood, and his clothes were torn in several places. He smelled of pine, damp soil, and something coppery and sharp underneath it all.

He stood there for a moment, a predator surveying his territory, before his eyes found yours. They gleamed in the dim light, dark and unreadable. He ran a grimy hand through his matted hair, dislodging a twig that fell to the grating with a soft clink.

“Rough night in the woods?” you asked, taking another drink of your well-earned booze.

He grunted, a non-committal sound, and moved closer. He didn’t sit, just loomed over you, blocking the moon. His presence was suffocating, a gravitational pull you both hated and craved.

“Something like that,” he rumbled, his voice a low vibration. “Figured I’d come see if my favorite pain in the ass was still up here acting like a gargoyle.”

He reached out, his fingers calloused and rough, and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence etched into his skin.

“Miss me?”

His question hung in the air, a challenge or a taunt—you couldn’t quite tell.

You flinched away from his touch, the brief gentleness feeling more insulting than a slap.

"Go fuck yourself," you muttered, swinging a leg back over the railing to retreat inside. "I was just enjoying the quiet before the garbage truck showed up."

He laughed, that same rusty, grating sound. "Liar." He didn't move to stop you, just watched as you clambered back through the open window, the boxers riding up your thighs. "You're all prickly because you're empty."

The word hit its mark. You were empty. Your fridge was empty, your apartment was empty, and the ache in your gut was a hollow, hungry thing. You spun around, glaring at him from the relative safety of your bedroom.

"And whose fault is that? You ate the last of my frozen pizza three days ago."

"So get more," he said with a shrug, finally swinging a leg over the railing to follow you inside. He moved with an unnerving grace, his big body fitting through the window frame with practiced ease. He landed on your floor with a soft thud, his boots tracking dirt and pine needles onto your clean rug.

"And what? Pay for it with the good vibes you bring into my life?" you shot back, crossing your arms. "I'm out."

He stopped, his head tilting. "Out of what?"

"Everything. Food. Alcohol. Patience." You gestured vaguely at him. "I'm not hosting you, you dickwad. We're not doing this here tonight."

For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something—disappointment?—in his dark eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual sullen indifference. He looked around your small apartment, his gaze lingering on the empty bottle on your counter.

"Fine," he grunted, turning back toward the window. "Don't get your panties in a twist."

"Where are you going?"

"Out," he said, his back to you. "To get a drink. Since you're all out of hospitality."

A ridiculous, desperate idea sparked in your mind. You didn't want to be alone. You didn't want him to leave, not really. But you couldn't stand the thought of him sulking in your space, a constant reminder of your own need. You grabbed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from your dresser and shoved it in your pocket.

"Wait," you called out, just as he was about to swing his leg back over the railing. He paused, looking over his shoulder. "Don't break your neck. I'm coming with you."

He raised a scarred eyebrow. "Coming with me where?"

"You want a drink? I'll buy," you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "But we're not going to a bar. And you're not coming back here. We'll go to your place."

A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. He saw right through you, of course. He knew you were just trying to maintain some semblance of control, to dictate the terms of this miserable arrangement.

"My place?" he chuckled. "You sure about that, sweet cheeks? It's a bit of a walk."

"I'm sure," you lied, slipping on a pair of boots. "Lead the way, caveman. Just try not to trip over your own knuckles on the way."

———

The air in the clearing was thick with pine needles and the heavy, humid stillness of the woods. You’d dragged Jeff out here because you were desperate to get a drink, and he had made the mistake of agreeing to come along.

You sat on a fallen oak log, legs swinging idly as you shook a bottle of cheap whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing against the glass. Jeff was slumped against a tree stump a few feet away, looking thoroughly unimpressed. He was staring at the ground, one boot kicked out, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You look like you’re waiting for a funeral,” you called out, cracking the seal on the bottle.

He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “I’m waiting for you to stop making me walk into the middle of nowhere for a sip of swill.”

“Gee, thanks for the hospitality,” you shot back, unscrewing the cap with a pop. “Open up. It’ll make me less annoying.”

You held the bottle out to him, offering the first pour without waiting for a verbal invitation. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, snatched the bottle, and took a long, desperate gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and handed it back, looking only slightly less miserable.

You took a swig yourself, grimacing at the burn. It was rough, but it did the job. You took another, more generous pour for yourself and leaned back against the log.

“Seriously,” Jeff grumbled, kicking a small pebble that skittered across the forest floor. “Why here?”

“Because it’s quiet,” you said, tilting the bottle back. “And because I needed to get you out of my apartment. You’re like a bad rash.”

Jeff scoffed, a sound that lacked any actual humor. “A rash that fucks like a freak. I’ll take it.”

You laughed, a sharp, short burst of air. “You think that’s the only reason I let you stay over.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched you drink. The silence between you was comfortable in a way that felt dangerous. He shifted his weight, leaning his shoulder against the tree, the rough bark catching on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he finally said, his voice low. “But don't pretend you don't like it.”

You took another drink, letting the burn settle in your stomach. “I hate you, Jeff.”

“I know,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You’ve been saying it since the day we met. You hate that you need me as much as you do.”

You stared at him, the whiskey burning a hole in your gut. The confident smirk on his face, the way he so casually laid bare the ugly truth of your dependence, made you want to slap it right off his scarred mouth.

"You're so fucking full of yourself," you snarled, shoving the bottle towards his chest. He caught it easily, his expression unchanging. "You think you've got it all figured out, don't you? That I'm just some pathetic, needy thing who can't function without your magical, savior dick."

He took a slow pull from the bottle, his eyes never leaving yours. "I never said it was magical," he said, wiping his mouth. "But it's the only thing that shuts you up, isn't it? The only time you're not fucking complaining or moping."

The words hit you like a physical blow, because they were true. That was the part you hated most. He didn't just fuck you; he silenced the constant, chattering noise in your head. He gave you a moment of peace by drowning you in sensation, and you hated him for being your only antidote.

"You're a goddamn parasite," you hissed, scrambling to your feet. The world tilted slightly from the sudden movement and the cheap liquor. "You show up when you're hungry or horny, you take what you want, and then you crawl back into your little dirt-hole until you need something again. Don't you dare stand there and act like you know a single thing about what I need."

"I know what you want," he shot back, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He stood too, his full height imposing in the dappled moonlight. "You want to be treated like you hate it. You want to be used so you have a reason to complain. You want to be able to point at me and say 'he's the problem,' so you don't have to look in the fucking mirror."

"Fuck you," you spat, turning away. "You don't know me."

"I know you better than anyone," he said, grabbing your arm. His grip was like iron, stopping you cold. "I know you hate your job. I know you hate your neighbors. I know you lie awake at night thinking about the woods. I know you hate being alone more than you hate me."

You wrenched your arm free with a violent jerk, the skin tingling where his fingers had been. "Let go of me," you seethed, your voice trembling with a fury so hot it felt like tears. "I'm not your fucking project. I'm not a puzzle for you to solve so you can feel smart or like less of a roach than you really are."

He just watched you, his infuriating calm a stark contrast to your raging emotions. He took another swig from the bottle, holding it out to you like an offering. "Then what are you?"

You looked from the bottle to his face—the smug, scarred, beautiful face that you both loved and hated with every fiber of your being. And you realized he was right. He was right about all of it. He was the problem, but he was also the solution, and that paradox was going to eat you alive.

"I'm done," you whispered, the fight draining out of you all at once. "I'm so fucking done with this."

You spun on your heel and started walking, not even sure which direction would lead you back to the city. You just needed to move, to get away from the suffocating truth of his words and the suffocating presence of his body

"Where are you going?" he called after you, his voice laced with the first hint of something other than cool indifference. Annoyance? Maybe even concern.

"Away from you!" you shouted back, not looking back. You stumbled over a root, catching yourself on a tree. The bark scraped your palm, but you didn't feel it. You just kept walking, deeper into the woods, away from the clearing and the man and the bottle of whiskey that held up a mirror you refused to look into.

_________

You stumbled through your front door, kicking off your boots with a clumsy, frustrated thud. The woods had been too cold, the air too thick, and the silence of the night had done nothing but amplify the gnawing ache between your legs. You wanted a drink. You wanted to be alone. You wanted to forget that you’d been so easily swayed by a man who treated you like shit.

You dropped onto the mattress, not even bothering to change clothes, and buried your face in the pillows. The exhaustion was absolute, dragging you under before your head even hit the foam.

The transition into sleep was violent, a sudden drop into blackness where time ceased to exist. You floated in the void for an eternity, then—you were suddenly drowning in heat.

It wasn't the suffocating dark this time. It was a wet, searing friction against your hip. You gasped, a ragged, involuntary sound that didn't belong to you, your body seizing in the sudden, sharp jolt of sensory overload. Your eyes snapped open, but they were unfocused, seeing only static and grey shadows.

You were on your bed. The sheets were twisted around your legs. A shadow loomed over you, blocking out the moonlight from the window.

It was Jeff.

He was on his knees between your thighs, his face buried between your legs. The reality hit you with the force of a freight train, your brain struggling to piece together the scene.

You were naked.

He was naked.

His mouth was buried between your legs, his tongue a rough, demanding muscle working you over with a fervor that bordered on aggression.

You couldn't help but moan, a long, shuddering sound that escaped your throat. Your hips bucked instinctively, seeking more of that exquisite torture. Your walls fluttered and clenched around nothing, a non-physical tightness that you couldn't seem to scratch.

He pulled back slightly, a strand of saliva connecting his lip to your swollen clit. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and intense, a predator inspecting its prey

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper, dripping with satisfaction. "Still trying to act like you're so tough. Like you're better than me."

His hand moved to your hip, his fingers digging in hard, leaving bruises that would surely be there in the morning. "But you're not tough. You're just a needy little thing who can't get enough of my mouth."

He leaned back in, his tongue flicking against your clit, causing you to arch your back off the mattress. "So tight," he groaned, the vibrations traveling through your body. "You get so wet just from being close to me. Pathetic."

You gasped, the degradation washing over you, mingling with the intense pleasure. Your mind went blank, the only thought being of his mouth and the incredible sensation of being eaten alive.

He pulled back again, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide. "Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with pride. "Look at how good you look when you're being used."

He leaned in, his tongue diving deep, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. "You're so good," he whispered. "So fucking good. You take it so well."

You came with a cry, your body shuddering, your walls clenching around his tongue, milking him for all he was worth. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you felt him swallow, his throat working as he took everything you gave him.

He pulled back, his face glistening with your arousal. He sat back on his heels, looking at you with a look of supreme satisfaction, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.

"Good girl," he said, his voice a rough, whisper. "Such a good girl."

You lay there, gasping, your body still convulsing around the blissful sensation of his tongue. The air in the room was heavy, thick with the scent of sex and pine, and you couldn't bring yourself to care that you were completely bare and exposed to him.

Jeff didn't give you time to recover. He moved quickly, his large frame looming over you as he braced his hands on either side of your head. He didn't ask for permission; he didn't even look for a sign of consent. He just knew you were awake enough to take it.

"Open your legs," he commanded, his voice rough with lust.

You did as you were told, your body moving on instinct, parting your thighs to accept him. He groaned, the sound low and primal, as he positioned himself at your entrance.

He didn't tease. He didn't wait. He thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, hard stroke.

You cried out, your back arching off the mattress, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. He was huge, stretching you wide, filling you up in a way that made you feel both full and empty. He began to move, his hips snapping against yours, his thrusts deep and fast, driving you higher and higher.

"You're so tight," he grunted, his face contorted with effort and pleasure. "I can feel every inch of you. You're squeezing me so hard."

He reached down and grabbed your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, leaving bruises that would surely be mixed with the ones from his mouth.

"Look at me," he ordered.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. He was looking down at you, his eyes dark and intense, his jaw clenched tight.

"You're so beautiful when you're being used," he whispered, leaning down to kiss you. His kiss was rough and hungry, tasting of you and him. "So perfect."

He pulled back slightly, his thumb rubbing over your clit, making you gasp. "Such a good girl," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You take it so well. You're my good little slut.

You moaned, your body tightening around him, your walls fluttering as he continued to pound into you. The sensation was overwhelming, a cascade of pleasure and pain that washed over you. You felt like you were going to scream.

"You're so wet for me," he groaned, his breath hitching. "I can hear you. It's so fucking loud."

He shifted his weight, pulling your legs up onto his shoulders, giving him deeper access. The new angle made you cry out, your body shuddering, your toes curling.

"Take it," he ordered. "Take all of it. You're made for this. You're made to be fucked."

You couldn't speak. You could only moan and beg, your body moving in perfect sync with his. You were floating on a sea of sensation, your mind going blank, the only thing that existed was the feeling of him inside you.

He reached down and grabbed your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your neck to him. "Look at you," he groaned, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're so beautiful when you're cumming."

He thrust deep, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars, and you came with a cry, your body shuddering, your walls clenching around him. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and he came with a roar, filling you up, his seed spilling out of you as he pulled out and collapsed beside you.

Dean is my favorite so perhaps this may be a bit self indulgent but a rusty nail did NOT kill my man and now he’s an old grumpy bastard who’s alive and well

also so is his cock

for lack of a better term, “gooner” applies to Dean greatly

from hanging back at motels for alone time or slipping into the bathroom at late hours of the night he has no shame in taking care of himself when he needs to

From the perfect amount of pressure to the masterful mind numbing placement of his rough fingers Dean can make himself cum in mere minutes

Still, everytime it does less and less to quell the need inside him

He misses the bare touch of another, the musk of sweat mingling together, and the feverish heaven of being inside someone

You truly would be a godsend, a tight piece for him to sink into, defile, revere, and obsess over all at once

It really is an addiction once it starts be urges orgasm after orgasm without giving you even a moment to breathe

If he wants you in a different position, his dick stays firmly nestled in you as he does so

Between rounds you’ll only ever be empty as he switches from stuffing you with his cock to filling you with his fingers

The motel room was a cheap, fluorescent-lit box that smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and disinfectant—Dean Winchester’s favorite kind of place. The bed springs groaned under your weight as he drove into you, the rhythm already sloppy and desperate.

Dean was gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his knuckles white against your skin as he pounded into you from behind.

“Shit, yeah, just like that,” he groaned, his breath hot against your ear. “God, you’re so fucking tight. Don’t stop, princess. Give it to me.”

He reached around, his hand splaying across the small of your back, forcing you to arch further.

Feeling him hit deeper somehow eliminated any attempt of you answering back. All you could do was part your swollen lips, lap away your drool, and moan.

“Look at you, cock drunk already and taking me like a champ,” he sneered, though there was a note of genuine admiration in his voice. “You take my dick so well, don’t you? Just like this.”

He leaned forward, biting down on the sensitive skin of your shoulder before nipping at your earlobe. “Think you can take one more? C’mon princess, you got one more in ya don’t you?”

Your breath hitched in your throat, your head falling back as he slammed into you again, harder this time. You could feel the sweat beading on your forehead, the heat radiating off both of your bodies. It was intense, overwhelming, and exactly what you both needed.

You couldn't even fucking talk anymore, not with the way he was absolutely battering your cervix. His hand was buried in your hair, fisting the strands until your head was tilted back at an embarrassing angle, exposing your throat.

“You good?” he rasped, his voice wrecked, though he sounded more impressed than worried. “Or do I need to slow down? I figured you were built different, taking this much dick.”

He didn't wait for an answer, just smirked and snapped his hips forward, driving into you so deep it made your eyes water. “That’s the face. Yeah, you’re getting there.”

He leaned over, his heavy chest brushing against your damp back, and groaned right in your ear. “Fuck, I wish you could see how you look right now. Your eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open... you look like you’re having a stroke, princess. But a really, really good one.”

You clawed at the mattress, your fingernails digging into the cheap fabric. All you could manage was a broken sob, a pathetic attempt to beg for more or for him to just... shut up and fuck you already.

He laughed darkly, the sound vibrating through your whole body. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Tell me how much you love this. Say it.”

He grabbed your jaw with his free hand, forcing your face back toward the headboard mirror. “Look. Look at us.”

You tried to focus, but the only thing that existed was the friction, the heat, the overwhelming pressure of him splitting you open.

“You’re drowning in it,” he teased, his thumb rubbing over your swollen lip. “Jesus, you’re soaking me. I can feel you dripping down my balls. You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you? Just want it all, don’t you?”

He slammed into you again, hard enough to make the bed frame bang against the wall. “One more. Come on, I know you’ve got one more left in the tank. Show me what you got.”

He didn't give you a choice. He grabbed your clit, rubbing it furiously as he pistoned into you, chasing his own release. “Come on, princess. Come for me. Let me see you fall apart.”

You shattered around him, your back bowing off the mattress as you screamed his name. He followed right after, filling you up with a guttural groan that shook the whole room. He pulled out with a wet sound, flopping onto his back beside you and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, staring at the ceiling. “That was... decent. I think you might have passed out there for a second.”