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peachm1lkk · 11 hours ago

Note

... Wound fucking pretty please... With Edgar...

' The nicest guy I'll ever meet '

Synopsis — Edgar is the most average, plainest, guy you've ever met, and unfortunately, you are his new class partner after his last one disappeared suddenly. Hopefully, you don't piss him too much over the next few months.

Warnings — Rape/Noncon + Inappropriate use of eye socket + Gore, Skullfucking, red room scenario, torture, branding, name carving, Reader death, porn with plot, degradation, arguing, classmates to lovers trope but it's diverted, fluffy-ish first half, betrayal, crying, slow burn, sex on live, gender neutral reader, tons of small time skips, post-canon

Pairing — Edgar x Reader

w/c — 13.5k

a/n — Cross posted to Ao3 // ou, I'm so tired... My longest published fic to date,, I don't know how I kept up the motivation but I'm proud of this

Average.

That’s the only word that fits Edgar.

His appearance? Average. His grades? Average. Everything else about him? Painfully, almost impressively, average. The only things that manage to stand out are his height—which you’d grudgingly admit is above average—and his personality, which somehow remains just as middling unless someone decides to poke at his already razor-thin patience.

And honestly, that’s fine. Edgar’s a decent enough guy. He doesn’t cause you grief beyond the usual snide remark or judgmental glare, and it’s not like you’re tethered to him for life. The semester partnership is temporary—a necessary evil after his last partner mysteriously dropped out two weeks into the school year.

You try not to dwell on that fact for too long. It's easier to chalk it up to coincidence than to let your imagination run wild.

Edgar's glaring at you now, though. The kind of glare that feels personal even though you know it probably isn’t—he stares at everyone like they owe him money. The real trick is gauging just how pissed he is by the sharpness of his words, a scale of tolerance ranging from sarcastic politeness to barely restrained venom.

“I forgot,” you mutter, breaking eye contact and glancing somewhere—anywhere—else. You feel the heat of his gaze drilling into the side of your head, but you resist the urge to squirm.

“How did you forget your textbook?” His voice is incredulous, each word dripping with irritation. “We’ve been working on this for four weeks. I’ve seen you—”

“I figured I’d do some extra work at home,” you interrupt, cutting him off before he can get too carried away, your tone is light but firm, as if that’ll somehow ease the tension. “I just forgot to put it back, alright?”

Your gaze remains stubbornly fixed on the desk between you, refusing to meet the murderous look you’re certain he’s giving you. If stares could kill, you’d already be six feet under.

He exhales sharply, the sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, and drags a hand through his hair. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head as he debates whether to let it go or keep pushing.

“How far did you get?” he asks finally, his voice tight.

“Somewhere around Section D…”

“Alright. That’s…” He hesitates, searching for the right word. His lips press into a thin line before he settles on, “Fine.”

It isn’t fine. You both know that. But rather than explode, he shifts in his seat, shoulders tense as he forces himself to move on. “I’ll just… figure out a way to work around it.”

You don’t thank him, but the small nod you give in response feels like enough. For now, at least, the storm is passing.

“We were supposed to finish sections D through F.” Edgar’s tone makes you wince, the way he leans on the word ‘were’ twisting the knife a little deeper. “But since you barely managed to scrape the start of section D, we’ll just skip the whole thing and work on the essay till we're able to circle back to it.”

It doesn’t sound like a suggestion—it feels like an order. You can’t help the grimace tugging at your lips as it hits you: you’re stuck with this guy for another three months.

“Uh, I can work on—”

“No.” He cuts you off almost t. “I don’t need you forgetting the damn thing when we actually need it.” The irritation in his voice is unmistakable now, at least there’s no guessing how he feels.

The conversation stalls, an awkward silence settling between the two of you like an unwanted guest. You let your eyes drift to the desk, tracing the lines of the wood grain as if it might offer a way out of this mess.

“We could just go to my dorm,” you suggest suddenly, the words slipping out before you can fully second-guess them.

Edgar looks up, his sharp gaze softening just enough to convey a hint of surprise. For once, it’s not outright disdain. You’re not sure if you should take that as a compliment or an insult.

“It’s not too far from here,” you add quickly, gesturing vaguely with your hands. “And it’s gotta be better than working here, with all these people I mean.”

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze dropping to the textbook in front of him. His fingers drum against the cover as he mulls it over, the silence stretching just long enough to make you regret speaking up.

Finally, he sighs, the sound heavy with reluctance. “Honestly, I think I’d prefer that. It’s too noisy here anyway.”

You nod, biting back the urge to grin at the small victory.

He doesn’t talk much on the way to your dorm. Any attempts at small talk flicker out as quickly as they start, leaving an uneasy quiet between you. The sound of your footsteps fills the gap, and even though you don’t look back, you can feel his presence close behind—calm and entirely uninterested in breaking the silence.

By the time you’re fumbling with your keys at the door, the weight of his stare is almost suffocating, burning into the back of your neck like he’s silently judging your every move. You wouldn't be surprised if he was.

“Uh, don’t mind the mess,” you mumble as the door swings open, hastily kicking a stray hoodie and some other loose clothing to the side in a weak attempt to clear a path.

He steps in after you, eyes scanning the room. He doesn’t say anything about the state of your dorm, but the faint furrow of his brow tells you he’s quietly judging. He moves toward the chair by your desk and takes a seat, his silence a heavier form of critique than any words could’ve been.

The silence stretches again, the awkward kind that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. He looks at you like you've forgotten something important—because, of course, you have. Realization smacks you upside the head, and you quickly excuse yourself, darting into your bedroom to find it exactly where you left it—mocking you with its plain, unassuming cover. You snatch it up and hurry back before he can make any snide remarks about your delay.

How’d you forget it if it was right there in your bedroom?” he asks, his voice laced with faint amusement.

You freeze for half a second, heat creeping up your neck. “I just did,” you mumble, looking anywhere but at him as you take the seat across from him. He doesn't press on the matter thankfully.

That was the start of it. He began coming over more often after that, usually unannounced and always with the same curt demeanor. You barely ever questioned why he never invited you to his dorm, though the thought lingered in the back of your mind.

The one time you did bring it up, he shot you down with a flat, “You’re annoying. Why would I invite you anywhere?” There’d been the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, and then, almost as an afterthought, he’d added, “Plus, my dorm’s further away from the building.”

You’re ninety percent sure the second part was just an excuse—a flimsy attempt to soften the blow. Not that it made it any less cutting.

And at some point in time, you figured you'd just have to force him to open up, bothering him with questions whenever you lost interest in working— Which, much to his dismay, was often.

“What do you even do?” you ask, only earning a mildly confused glance from Edgar that egged you on to elaborate. “For work, I mean.”

“I do independent work,” he mutters, his brows furrowing slightly as he skims over the essay in front of him.

You roll your eyes, wishing—not for the first time—that he’d at least pretend to enjoy your company. You’ve been forcing yourself to tolerate him for weeks now; a little effort on his end wouldn’t kill.

Tilting your head, you watch him carefully, your voice light and teasing. “What? Like selling drugs?”

He exhales sharply—a humorless puff of air that seemed closer to annoyance than amusement. “No, nothing like that,” he murmurs, though his lips twitch into the faintest smile. It’s odd, really, how distant he always manages to be when you've already managed to dump most of your interests onto him.

“You’re staying vague on purpose.” You accuse lightly, pushing yourself up slightly from your lying position, resting on your elbows. “Why aren’t you on the floor, anyway?”

“Why would I?” he countered, not even sparing you a glance. “I’m not laying down there. I could catch something.”

You pout at the remark, though it doesn’t sting nearly as much as it might have a few weeks ago. If anything, it almost feels like a backhanded joke between… well, acquaintances, maybe? Friends feels like a stretch, but you’re starting to think you’ve at least edged into “barely tolerable” territory.

“I cleaned,” you insist, sitting up fully. “I wouldn’t be down here if it was dirty.”

He finally looks at you, his expression a perfect mix of skepticism and subtle amusement. The glance he gives you—a quick up-and-down assessment—it's enough to make your temper flare up, though he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

“Whatever you say,” he says softly, his tone almost dismissive.

Your eyes narrow. “What the hell is th—”

“Anyways,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his seat. “Since we’re pretty much done with the essay, I’ll just take it home and revise it myself. Seeing as you…” He trails off deliberately, the pause dragging out just long enough to make you bristle. “… struggle at writing anything with actual quality.”

“You insisted that I write it,” you snap, pulling yourself to your feet with the help of the couch cushions. “It’s not my fault if you hate it.”

He shrugs, “I insisted because I thought you could at least manage the basics. Clearly, I overestimated you.”

You glare at him, biting back the urge to fire off something you’ll regret. He stands too, gathering his things with that same infuriating calm, leaving you to stew in the lingering annoyance.

It’s becoming a pattern, one you’re not sure how to handle—especially now that Edgar’s started hanging around after finishing his work, treating your dorm like some sort of second home. He interacts with you in that half-interested way, glancing your way just enough to acknowledge your existence before his attention shifts to something else.

Usually, it's some random, insignificant thing like the dusty lamp tucked away in the corner of the room, as if it’s embarrassed by its own existence. The thing’s clearly never been touched; there’s even a layer of dust thick enough to make you wonder how long it’s been since anyone bothered with it. And there’s no lightbulb in it. At all.

You roll your eyes and glance up at him, trying to make sense of his latest behavior. “Who was that guy you were talking to earlier?”

He looks down at you, brows furrowing slightly as if the question caught him off guard. “What?”

“The guy with the blue hoodie,” you explain, already starting to regret asking. “I saw you two talking earlier. It looked pretty rough.” You don’t mention how you were more worried for the guy in the hoodie than Edgar— especially considering how visibly rattled the guy seemed once the conversation was over.

Edgar goes silent, and that familiar, almost menacing glare starts to settle in. This time, though, it feels heavier than usual, like it’s pressing down on you. You backpedal quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You don’t have to tell me. I—I didn’t hear anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. I was just curious.”

His glare softens slightly, and you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The relief is palpable. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to tell you to fuck off this time. Instead, he shrugs, that guarded look still in his eyes. “Family,” he mutters simply. “He was just telling me something, is all.”

You don’t press further, though a part of you wants to dig deeper, to ask him again, but something about the way he’s avoiding your gaze makes you feel like you’d just be wasting your time. Whatever it is, it’s none of your business, you remind yourself.

The days pass, and you decide to change tactics. If he’s going to keep hanging around, you might as well make it a little more interesting— by harassing him to let you in his dorm.

"Dude, you've stayed long enough that I feel responsible for feeding you sometimes!" you exclaim, catching up to him as he strides across campus. “You’ve literally been in my bed.” Neither of you comments on that particular implication, though it hangs in the air.

“It’s not my fault you felt pressured to treat me like I’m royalty,” he retorts, “I never asked you to feel responsible for me. I just figured you wanted the company.”

You roll your eyes, struggling to keep up with his quick pace. “Edgar—” you whine, almost pathetically so, “Just let me come over once. I won’t judge or complain. I’ll be the best guest you’ve ever had.” You plead, stopping at the door frame of a lecture hall you’re definitely not supposed to be in.

He pauses, sizing you up for a moment, his gaze lingering on your pouty face. You think, for a second, you might’ve worn him down. Then, he sighs—deeply, and you’re sure you’ve lost. “You’re gonna be late,”

You glare at him, the annoyance bubbling up, but he’s not wrong. You don’t have time to argue, so you turn on your heel and make a run for it, barely slipping inside the classroom right before the professor arrives.

The rest of the day feels oddly anticlimactic. After class, you expect him to drag you back to your dorm like usual, but instead, he grabs your wrist and pulls you toward his. You can feel the stupid grin stretch across your face when it hits you—your incessant begging actually worked.

His dorm is surprisingly clean. It’s not just tidy; it’s pristine. You can tell where he spends most of his time—the places he actually uses show signs of life—but there are entire sections of the room that feel untouched, almost sterile. The closets are spotless, like they’ve never seen a pair of worn shoes or a jacket tossed in a hurry. It feels more like a show dorm than someone’s actual living space.

“One word out of that mouth of yours,” Edgar starts, his voice low and firm, “and I’m kicking you out.”

You nod quickly, your attention already drifting around the room. You can’t help but comment, though. “It’s nice. A bit plain, though…” you murmur, your eyes sweeping across the bare walls, the starkness of it all.

“Sorry I don’t have twenty different posters from when I was sixteen,” he grumbles, plugging in his laptop. His action makes you realize something: you’re both done with work for the week. All the assignments are turned in. Why are you even here?

"Aren't we done working anyway?" you ask, watching as Edgar goes through his usual motions—kicking off his shoes, neatly placing them by the door, and tying his hair back. There’s a kind of routine precision to it, but when he turns toward you, his gaze sharp and assessing, you can’t help but feel like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Or maybe a stray he’s deciding whether to tolerate.

You also make a quiet mental note: you prefer his hair tied back. It makes him look... sharper, somehow.

“We are,” he says casually, as though you hadn’t already pointed it out. “I figured the one time I let you in here, it’d be when we’re free. That way, you don’t whine about how you were ‘too busy working’ to admire or whatever.”

"I’m not that whiny," you huff, though the defensive edge in your voice betrays you. You glance down for a moment, only to realize—with dawning horror—that you’re awkwardly staring at his pelvis. Your face warms instantly, and you force your gaze back up. “Could you sit down? It’s getting awkward, and I’d prefer not being eye level with…” You trail off into barely audible murmurs, your embarrassment reaching new heights.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you on it. He just sighs and sits next to you, the couch dipping slightly under his weight. For once, a comfortable silence settles between you, the kind that feels oddly rare in his presence.

“You’re… really annoying, you know that?” he muttered, breaking the quiet. His voice was low, almost too soft, like he wasn’t sure if he even wanted you to hear it. "Always whining about something, and if you're not whining, you’re bothering me.”

"What the—hey! Don’t just dump all your frustrations on me because I’m in your dorm!" you exclaimed, twisting to face him, only to notice that, for once, his eyes weren’t on yours. They were locked on some distant point on the wall, as though he was talking more to himself than to you.

“I’m just telling the truth,” he says bluntly, “You don’t know when to shut up, you pry into my private life—and my dorm, quite literally and metaphorically. You’re just... so annoying.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly agape before huffing in indignation, crossing your arms over your chest. “I didn’t know coming here meant I’d get bullied,” you mutter, half to yourself. “And for the record, I brought up your brother once! Everything else you could’ve shut down, but you didn’t.”

That earns you a small, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it’s gone before you can fully process it. “Fair point,” he concedes, though there’s no real apology in his voice. He leans back, resting one arm casually over the back of the couch. “But it doesn’t make you any less annoying.”

You glare at him, but the corners of your lips twitch upward despite yourself. “Yeah, well, you’re still a dick. So I guess we’re even.”

The silence that follows feels a little lighter this time, like neither of you really mind the other's presence.

Edgar leaned back into the couch, his head tilting slightly as he studied the ceiling like it held some profound answer to a question you hadn’t asked. The corners of his mouth tugged downward in thought, but the faintest trace of something else lingered in his expression.

You watched him, feeling a strange mixture of annoyance and curiosity. He had a way of making everything seem calculated, even moments like this, where his guard seemed lower than usual. The silence stretched between you, growing heavy.

“So…” you started, awkwardly attempting to break it. “What do you usually do when you’re not, y’know, being forced to hang out with me?”

Edgar’s gaze dropped back to you, one eyebrow quirking. "Forced? You’re acting like I dragged you here."

"You quite literally did!" you shot back, gesturing vaguely around the room. "I mean, you practically kidnapped me after class. I didn’t even have time to say bye to my friends."

"Kidnapped?" He gave a soft, incredulous laugh, "You begged me to let you come over. I’m doing you a favor."

"Wow, okay," you drawled, crossing your arms and sinking further into the couch. "So what I’m hearing is that you don’t actually want me here?"

Edgar sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "If I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here,"

The words hung in the air, heavier than you expected. For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but it also wasn’t the outright rejection you’d half-anticipated.

"Well," you said after a beat, forcing some levity into your tone, "if that’s your weird way of saying you tolerate me, I’ll take it."

Edgar rolled his eyes but didn’t respond, instead reaching for his laptop and flipping it open. The glow from the screen cast soft shadows across his face, making his sharp features appear even sharper.

Curiosity got the better of you. "What’re you working on now?"

"Nothing that concerns you," he replied smoothly, not even sparing you a glance.

"Wow, rude." You leaned closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen. "Come on, just tell me. Is it for class? A side project? Another mysterious 'independent work' thing?"

At that, Edgar’s fingers paused over the keyboard. His jaw tightened slightly, "It’s personal," he said, not unkindly you note.

"Okay," you said softly, leaning back to give him space. “Are you going to at least feed me—”

“Fuck no, you're a grown adult, not some freeloader.” Edgar didn’t even look up from his screen as he delivered the jab, his tone as flat as ever.

“Well, at least I tried,” you muttered, sinking further into the couch and dramatically clutching your stomach. "Guess I’ll just starve here, all alone, in your boring, overly-clean dorm."

“Good,” he replied dryly. “Maybe you’ll learn to leave me alone.”

But, of course, you didn’t.

Instead, it became almost routine after that, with your visits to his dorm growing as frequent as his to yours. The initial tension that defined your interactions started to soften—not disappear, but shift into something closer to begrudging familiarity.

You developed a habit of showing up unannounced, often clutching some random trinket you’d found that made you think of him. A cat keychain. A stress ball with a terrible pun written across it. Once, a ridiculously tiny cactus in a shot glass-sized pot.

"Why do you keep bringing me this junk?" he’d asked the first time, holding the cactus between his fingers like it was radioactive.

"Because it screams you, obviously," you replied, grinning at his unimpressed expression.

Eventually, he stopped questioning it. You’d catch glimpses of those little items tucked away on his shelves or desk, not displayed prominently but not thrown out, either. It was enough to make you smile.

"You again?" Edgar mumbled, hair damp as if he just took a shower

"Miss me?"

"Not even a little."

Still, he’d step aside to let you in, and you’d settle into your usual spot on his couch like you belonged there.

“Woah,” you gasp, sitting up straight as your eyes lock onto the thin streaks of blood on his arm. “Oh shit, you’re bleeding! Did something happen?” You hesitate, unsure if you should grab a tissue, ask where he keeps the first-aid kit, or just keep staring like an idiot.

Edgar barely reacts, his gaze trailing down to his arm, as if he hadn’t even realized until now. The marks look like they were left by someone’s nails, thin and deliberate. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as if your concern is more exhausting than the injuries themselves.

“Right,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “I was busy… with work.”

You bite back the urge to make a snarky comment—something about him being a secret OnlyFans creator or a professional cat wrangler. Instead, you hum softly, leaning forward to get a better look. The scratches don’t seem too deep, but they still glisten faintly in the dim light of his dorm. You hadn't noticed them earlier, not with the shadows of the setting sun masking them when he’d let you in.

“Some interesting work you’ve got going there,” you remark softly.

He scoffs, brushing past you to grab water “Nothing that concerns you.”

“Really? Because it kinda looks like someone took a swipe at you,” you press, curiosity getting the better of you. “Like… were you breaking up a fight or something?”

Edgar rolls his eyes as he takes a sip of water, a flicker of something in his expression, not quite annoyance but it wasn't amusement, either. “Something like that.”

“Okay, Mr. Edgy,” you mutter, leaning back into the couch. “I guess I’ll just assume you moonlight as a cage fighter now.”

“Believe whatever dumb story makes you stop asking questions.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t any worse,” you mutter, though you’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself. It’s a stupid thing to say, especially since he clearly doesn’t care about the cuts. But something in the way he’s shrugging it off bothers you. Like he doesn’t even see it as a problem. Or maybe he’s used to this kind of thing. That’s a thought you don’t know how to deal with.

You let out a quiet sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions of his couch as you mindlessly searched for something easy to talk about. Finally, you spoke up, voice soft, hesitant. “I talked to your brother today.” You winced slightly, already anticipating his reaction. You kept your tone casual, ready to backpedal at the first sign of trouble.

"And before you get onto me, it wasn’t my fault," you added quickly, the words almost tumbling out of your mouth in an attempt to ease the tension. It wasn’t your fault last time either, but you didn’t feel the need to mention that. "Neither was it his fault now that I think about it..."

Edgar didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel the shift in his body language. He stiffened slightly, the air around him thick with silent expectation. Then came the inevitable question, his voice edged with a barely concealed irritation: “Get to the point.”

You winced, tense, and suddenly very aware that the conversation was treading dangerously close to territory you’d rather avoid. The last thing you wanted was to make him snap, especially when you didn’t even fully understand why he reacted the way he did to his brother. “It was a pretty nothing interaction,” you continued, voice light, trying to ease the growing tension. “We just asked about how the other was doing. And, you know, for someone who you always see going to your dorm, you never seem to talk about me.”

Edgar let out a heavy sigh, his whole demeanor sagging with it as if the weight of the day had just become too much for him. "Did he say anything else about me?"

“No, that was the only time you were brought up,” you answered quickly, relieved at the lack of further confrontation. God, it felt like you were walking on eggshells right now, trying to make sure you didn’t say the wrong thing, but there was something else building up beneath your words.

But when you glanced up at him, Edgar wasn’t scowling or glaring. His shoulders seemed to soften just a little as his gaze returned to the scratches on his arm. There was a shift in his demeanor, something a little less guarded, and for a moment, it almost felt like you could breathe again.

Then, as if the weight of everything he'd been holding in had finally pushed him to speak, he asked quietly, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, dude, just don’t ask me to plan someone’s death or something,” you joked, hoping to break the mounting tension, but the joke hung in the air like it fell flat.

Edgar’s eyes flicked over to you, his expression unreadable. He exhaled deeply, leaning against the wall, arms folding across his chest. “Stay away from Kai. I don’t want you talking to him.”

Your stomach drops, the weight of his words hit you harder than you expected. "What?" The word left your mouth almost without thinking, your eyes wide, incredulity etched across your face.

He didn’t flinch, instead stepping closer, looking down at you, his voice suddenly stern, no trace of humor. “Look, I just don’t trust him around you.”

You couldn’t respond immediately, the shock still running through you as you tried to make sense of what he was asking.

“He’s an immature asshole,” Edgar continued, voice low and controlled but edged with something darker, something more personal. “He doesn’t realize that his actions have actual consequences, and I don’t want you to get caught up in my family's bullshit.”

A part of you wanted to snap back, to ask him why it even mattered, why you couldn’t make your own decisions about who to talk to.

“Uh, that’s a bit much…” you mumbled, your laughter trailing off into an awkward chuckle. You could feel the tension radiating off him, making the air in the room feel heavier. Despite your nerves, you couldn’t bring yourself to outright deny him. That hesitation didn’t go unnoticed—of course, it didn’t.

“Answer me,”

You winced at his bluntness, resisting the urge to groan out loud. Could he not have a little tact? “I guess…?” you muttered reluctantly, avoiding his gaze as you tried to form a response that wouldn’t completely set him off. “I’ll avoid him and stuff, but I’m not gonna, like, run away if he happens to come up to me.”

Edgar’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you were sure he was about to push back harder. But to your surprise, he didn’t. Though his expression remained visibly unhappy,

like he was swallowing the bitterness of compromise, he didn’t object.

He let out a long, controlled breath, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “Fine,” he muttered, though the word carried a begrudging tone to it. “Just don’t talk to him.”

You nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond further. The conversation had drained some of the usual banter from the air, leaving behind an awkward stillness. It wasn’t like you’d been planning on chasing after Kai or anything, but Edgar’s insistence struck you as a little extreme. Still, you figured it wasn’t worth pushing the matter further—not when he looked like he was barely holding his patience together.

You leaned back into the couch, trying to bring some semblance of normalcy back to the atmosphere. “So… are we just gonna sit in silence, or can we watch a movie?” you joked, your tone light in an attempt to diffuse the remaining tension.

Edgar rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward for just a second. “I'm not watching anything you put on, I had actual work to do before you barge into my home.”

You stuck your tongue out at Edgar’s back, rolling your eyes with all the theatrics you could muster before letting your attention wander to his TV. Grabbing for the remote to find the whole reason you even came by in the first place. The static hum of the screen filled the silence as you settled deeper into the couch, but no matter how loud the movie's dialogue got, it couldn’t drown out the lingering weight of Edgar’s warning.

His words sat heavy in your mind, stubborn like bad taste that just refused to disappear no matter how much you washed away. You replayed the moment over and over—the way his jaw clenched, how his tone sharpened when he brought up Kai. It wasn’t even protective; it was something else, something more personal.

Your gaze flicked to Edgar, hunched over at the dining table, his head bent in concentration as he worked through what looked like an endless stack of paperwork. He seemed calm now, detached even, but the memory of his earlier demeanor gnawed at you.

What could Kai have done to get under his skin like that? From your brief interaction with him, Kai didn’t seem dangerous—sarcastic, sure, maybe even a bit aloof, but not enough to warrant the kind of intensity Edgar had shown.

You shifted restlessly on the couch, fingers twitching as the urge to grab your phone crept up on you. You weren’t looking to defy Edgar outright—not really—but the unresolved tension clawed at you. It felt wrong to leave it like this, questions bubbling in your chest without answers.

Before you fully thought it through, you found yourself standing in the commons area the next day. The plan wasn’t exactly well-formed, but you figured you’d just... talk to Kai. Clear the air, or at least try to. It wasn’t hard to find him either, which surprised you. He hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to make himself scarce.

Maybe that was the thing. If your older brother told you to stay away from someone, would you really change your whole schedule for it? Probably not. Then again, you weren’t sure if Edgar had even bothered to tell Kai about his little warning. Judging by how casual Kai looked, he maybe hadn’t.

His blue hoodie stood out starkly against the muted greys of the concrete. Kai stood there, hands buried deep in his pockets, his head tilted back, gazing upwards with a detached, almost dreamy boredom. You paused mid-step, suddenly unsure of yourself. Should you even approach him?

Before you could make a decision, his gaze dropped, locking onto yours. His expression shifted as recognition dawned, quickly replaced by confusion, like he was trying to piece together why you were standing there, staring at him like an idiot.

Too late to turn back now. You swallowed your hesitation, forcing yourself to close the distance. Each step made you curse inwardly—why hadn’t you just walked away? Play it cool? But no, here you were, committing to this stupidly awkward decision.

“Wow,” Kai called out, his tone light but laced with amusement as you approached. “Didn’t think you’d go out of your way to find me.”

Your lips twitched into a nervous smile, though his words settled uneasily in your stomach. “You make it sound like I’m sneaking into enemy territory or something.”

Kai tilted his head, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Are you not?” he shot back. “Pretty sure Edgar would lose his shit if he found out you were talking to me.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

Kai let out a soft laugh, warm and surprisingly genuine. “Spoken like someone who has no idea how good he is at finding things out.” He leaned back against the wall, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. “So, what’s up? There’s no way you’re here without a reason. Risking both our asses has to be worth something.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his teasing with a bluntness that surprised even you. “I’m not risking anything. I just wanted to hear your side before I decide if I wanna ignore you entirely.”

For a moment, his smile wavered, a subtle flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he masked it. “You make it sound like this is some trial. Look, Edgar’s just… Edgar,” he said vaguely, his hand lifting to rub the back of his neck. His gaze shifted away, almost like he was debating whether to say more.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Whatever’s going on, it’s family stuff. Messy, sure, but it’s not your problem. Edgar’s probably overreacting—he’s good at that—but you don’t need to get dragged into it.”

His words were dismissive, almost as if he was trying to push you away without outright saying it. But they didn’t sit right with you. It wasn’t the answer you’d hoped for, though you couldn’t even pinpoint what you were expecting.

All you knew was that his vague non-answer left you more frustrated than before, the knot in your chest tightening instead of loosening.

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to rein in the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. You knew he wasn’t wrong; you were being nosy, poking into something that likely had nothing to do with you. But the way he danced around giving you anything close to a straight answer only made the feeling worse.

“You’re really not gonna tell me what’s going on, are you?” you said, unable to keep the irritation from tainting your tone. “You know, I’m just trying to figure out what’s up. Edgar’s not exactly open to explaining why either.”

Kai sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as his gaze shifted to the ground. For a moment, he looked almost guilty. “What do you want me to say? Family stuff is messy.”

“You’re not making this any easier, either,” you muttered, your brows knitting together. Was everyone related to Edgar this annoyingly vague?

Kai huffed a low laugh, more to himself than at you. “You’re the persistent type, huh?” His voice softened, almost like he was talking to himself. “I’m only telling you this because I have some decency to at least warn you. But if you keep pushing you're gonna find yourself a part of something you don't want to be a part of.”

“Well, I’m not just gonna back off without some answers.”

Kai looked at you for a long moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Maybe you should,” he said, his voice low and final, with no room for argument. “Well, I should probably get going before Edgar finds us and blows a fuse.”

Before you could respond, Kai pushed off the wall, the casual slouch in his posture belying the tension that still clung to the air. His figure retreated into the distance, leaving you standing there with a strange heaviness in your chest. You lingered longer than necessary, staring at the spot where he’d stood, the faint sound of his footsteps already fading into the hum of campus life.

You sighed deeply, raking a hand through your hair as you tried to shake off the encounter. Answers. Right.

It felt more like you’d just been handed more questions. But what could you do now? Dwelling on it wouldn’t help. With a soft sigh, you turned on your heel and headed to class, hoping the distraction would be enough to clear your head.

The day passed uneventfully, but the conversation with Kai replayed in your mind at odd intervals, the tension building the closer it got to evening. By the time you arrived at Edgar’s dorm, your nerves felt frayed. His door creaked open under your touch, revealing the familiar space—neat, methodical, just like him.

But something was off tonight.

Edgar was unusually quiet, his movements sharp and deliberate as he went about his evening routine. He barely acknowledged your presence at first, and when he finally did, it was with a pointed glance that made your stomach twist. There was an edge to his silence, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

“Everything alright?” you asked, trying to sound casual as you sipped your drink, though your grip on the glass was just a little too tight.

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes scanning you like he was searching for something just out of reach. “You’ve been acting off recently,” he finally said, his voice calm but laced with something colder. “Did our little talk last time throw you off that much?”

His tone was unsettling—not the usual sharpness you were used to, but something softer, almost polite, as if he were savoring your discomfort. It only made you feel more on edge.

“Not really,” you replied, keeping your voice even. “Just been busy, I guess.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a subtle but unmistakable confirmation of your unease. He flipped a page in the textbook resting on his lap, setting a pencil down between the pages with deliberate care. “That’s not it, is it?” he asked, almost innocently. “You’ve been talking to Kai.”

Your breath caught in your throat for a moment, but you quickly recovered. “I don’t see why it’d matter if I did, honestly,” you said, forcing a nonchalant tone. “Even if—”

“Don’t start with that ‘if’ bullshit,” he interrupted, his voice still disturbingly calm but the edge of frustration is evident. “There’s no point in lying.”

You hesitated, your eyes drifting back to your own textbook in front of you, pretending to focus on the words that had long since blurred into meaningless shapes. “We just said hi,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you intended. “You’re acting like I went out of my way to talk to him. It was just… coincidence.”

Edgar’s gaze bore into you, unrelenting. “Coincidence,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Funny how things like that seem to happen right after I specifically told you to stay away from him.”

You purse your lips, staring down at the textbook in front of you, the words blurring together. It's easier to focus on them than to look at Edgar. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this? It was one little conversation.”

“I don’t fucking know. Maybe because you did the one thing I literally asked you not to do?” he snaps, the words clipped.

“Dude, it was literally one conversation with him! God, you're so frustrating!” You throw your hands up, genuinely fed up with how blown out of proportion this whole thing had become.

“Don’t call me frustrating when all you ever do is get on my nerves,” he cuts you off, voice low and sharp. “Having to spend time with you is genuine torture, It’s like you get off on seeing me suffer.”

You feel your breath catch in your throat, frustration giving way to confusion. “You’re not my boyfriend, you're just a friend,” you bite back, your voice rising. “Why the hell should I listen to you on who I avoid or don’t?”

“Because he's my brother," he grits out. "You have one little conversation with him, and all of a sudden you act like you’ve known the bastard for years!”

you can’t stop the sarcastic laugh that escapes you. "Christ, why the hell do you even care? You’re my friend, this... this is a stupid argument.”

Edgar stares at you like it's the first time he's seen you, a coldness in his eyes that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. For once, you don’t think you can make this better. And frankly, you don’t want to.

His face twitches, and he stares at you like he’s weighing whether or not he even wants to continue this conversation. “Friends,” he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue with a mix of disbelief and bitterness. He laughs softly, but it doesn’t sound like anything close to humor. “Of course, you do think we're friends.”

Your stomach turns at the way he says it, the implication clear. It makes you sick, the subtle sting of something you didn’t quite want to face.

"Cause... cause we are." His voice falters, but it’s not genuine—it’s forced, like an afterthought, and it makes everything feel even more dubious.

"You should leave," he says finally, voice flat, the finality in his words making it clear that the argument is over, even if it’s not resolved. "I'll... call you later this week, to finish what we haven’t already finished. “I’ll... call you later this week,” he says, voice still tight with emotion. “To finish the project.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t even try to argue. You just nod, your mind blank, as you gather your things and leave the room.

The walk back to your dorm feels longer than usual, each step heavy with the weight of Edgar's words. The cool night air does little to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. Anger, confusion, hurt—they all blend together into a nauseating cocktail that sits uncomfortably in your chest.

You replay the argument in your head, dissecting every word, every inflection. The way Edgar's voice had shifted from its usual sharpness to something colder, more distant. The dismissive way he'd said "friends," like the very idea was laughable.

It stings more than you want to admit.

Back in your dorm, you toss your bag onto your chair with a little more force than necessary. The room feels suffocating in its familiarity, offering no escape from your thoughts. You sit down heavily on your bed, staring at the floor as the argument plays out again and again in your head.

The next day in class, the weight of the tension between you is almost unbearable. Edgar still sits next to you, his head bent over his notes, but the distance between the two of you felt more than just physical. You don’t apologize, though. A stubborn part of you refuses to back down, even as the oppressive silence between you grows heavier.

‘He could’ve at least explained what the hell was so bad about what I did,’ you think, biting the inside of your cheek. Ignoring the pang of guilt over breaking his trust, you cling to the argument that he’d given you nothing—no real reason for his reaction, just a vague warning cloaked in anger.

The minutes drag by as the professor drones on, the distance between you and Edgar more than just physical. You steal a glance at him, hoping for some sign that he might break the silence, but his focus never wavers from his notebook.

And you can't help but wonder if things will ever go back to the way they were. Or if they even should.

Four weeks. That’s how long the silence stretches, morphing from a tense ceasefire to an uneasy routine. Neither of you had dared to breach it, too stubborn—or too afraid—to make the first move. So when Edgar finally shows up at your door, it catches you completely off guard.

The sight of him is disarming. He stands there, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched like he’s bracing for impact. There’s a hesitancy in his posture, an awkwardness that doesn’t suit him, and for a moment, it’s almost hard to believe it’s Edgar standing there.

“I’m sorry for showing up,” he says, his voice low, almost cautious. His gaze refuses to meet yours, instead drifting somewhere past your shoulder like he’s intentionally avoiding eye contact. “I honestly thought you’d be asleep by now.”

You’re tempted to ask why he came anyway, but something about his tone makes you pause. Instead, you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, waiting for him to continue.

“And I’m sorry for blowing up on you like that,” he adds, the words stilted, forced out like they physically pain him. His jaw tightens as he waves a hand vaguely toward himself, the motion as awkward as the apology. “It was out of line. Irresponsible. I’m still…” He trails off, his hand dropping as he exhales sharply through his nose. “Trying to figure out how to deal with that part of myself.”

Hearing him actually apologize feels like a victory, though you’d never admit it out loud. For once, he’s acknowledging his mistakes, taking responsibility for something instead of brushing it off or doubling down. It’s disarming in a way that leaves you fumbling for how to respond.

“It’s… good,” you say finally, your voice softer than expected. “And I’m sorry too. I didn’t realize how insensitive it was to talk to Kai after you explicitly told me not to.”

There’s a beat of silence. For a moment, it almost feels like the start of something better, like maybe this could be the first step toward smoothing things over. But then he mumbles, “It was,” under his breath—so quiet you almost miss it.

Your eyebrow shoots up, your lips parting to say something, but before the words can form, he looks up at you. There’s something in his eyes, something sharp and apologetic, that freezes you mid-thought.

“Do you wanna come in?” you ask, stepping back and gesturing toward the space behind you.

“Ah, no,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, I came by for another reason. Wanted to kill two birds with one stone.” He shrugs, his hand motioning vaguely as though that explains anything.

Before you can press him, he steps closer, closing the distance enough that you instinctively straighten. “It’s nothing bad, I promise,” he says, his tone steady but still too ambiguous for comfort. He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “It’s about work. When you were out one day, the professor asked me to get you so we could move some documents over the weekend.”

Your skepticism is immediate, the words slipping out before you can stop yourself. “And you didn’t tell me this before because…?”

“I was being spiteful,” he admits without an ounce of hesitation, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Oh. Of course, Edgar would do something like that. He’s stubborn enough to ice you out for weeks over a petty argument, then show up at your door unannounced in the middle of the night as if the silence hadn’t existed. His nonchalance grates on your nerves, but it’s so painfully in character that you can’t even muster real surprise.

The chill in the air bites through your thin shirt, sharp enough to make you regret not grabbing something heavier. Each gust of wind feels colder than the last, and you can’t help but hunch your shoulders in an attempt to preserve warmth. The streetlights stretch your shadows long and distorted against the pavement, painting the empty streets with an eerie stillness.

“You’re not taking me to, like, a drug deal or something, right?” you quip, breaking the quiet with a nervous edge to your voice.

He glances over his shoulder, the faintest huff of amusement slipping past his lips. “You act a lot like them.”

“Like who?”

“Oh, just someone,” he says lightly, as though it’s not worth elaborating on. “They basically asked the same thing once. I just think it’s funny how you’re asking now.”

You furrow your brow at the cryptic response, but you don’t press further. Something in his tone tells you it wouldn’t get you anywhere, and besides, you’re too busy navigating the isolated path he’s leading you down. The campus feels deserted, the usual hum of student life replaced with an unnerving silence.

“Why couldn’t we do this in the morning?” you ask, keeping close behind him.

He slows slightly, his posture shifting as if the question hadn’t occurred to him until now. “Oh,” he mumbles, almost sheepishly. “Guess I just didn’t think that far ahead. I just had the keys to the building and figured I’d get it over with as soon as possible.”

What a bullshit excuse. Your lips part to retort, but all that comes out is a quiet muttering of curses under your breath. It’s not worth the energy to argue. You’re already out here, freezing your ass off in the middle of the night. Might as well get it over with.

The building is exactly what you’d expect—lifeless, stale, and reeking of dust and neglect. It’s the kind of place that seems frozen in time, filled with outdated textbooks no one bothered to throw away and records so untouched they might as well be artifacts. The room Edgar leads you to is tucked away in a far corner, isolated enough that it feels like even the walls have forgotten it exists.

As soon as the door creaks open, the musty air rushes to greet you, thick and stale in a way that makes your nose scrunch involuntarily. “I feel like I’m gonna get sick just from breathing in here,” you mutter, finding that It’s the kind of room no one comes to unless they absolutely have to. The kind of room people forget about.

“We’ll probably catch a lung disease or something,” Edgar deadpans, stepping aside to let you in first. You don’t think much of it when he closes the door behind you, too distracted by the sight in front of you.

The room is cluttered, file cabinets lining the walls like forgotten sentinels, their metal bodies rusted and dented from years of neglect. The books, if you can even call them that, are stacked haphazardly on nearly every surface, some piles teetering so precariously that even the slightest movement might send them toppling to the floor.

You’re too busy surveying the mess to notice the soft click of the lock sliding into place.

"I'm honestly surprised the building is even unlocked at night," you murmur, finally making your way back over to Edgar’s side. The thought lingers in your mind—an isolated, abandoned space like this would be a hotspot for students looking for a place to make bad decisions. "You’d think people would turn this place into a hookup spot with how out-of-the-way it is..."

You don’t get much further before Edgar, with no hesitation whatsoever, grips your shoulders and moves you aside like you’re some inconveniently placed object in his path. It’s so casual, so dismissive, that you barely have time to react before you find yourself a step away from where you were standing.

"I'm just surprised there aren't any junkies here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. He motions towards a slightly smaller stack of documents set apart from the rest. They look… newer, or at least cleaner than their surroundings. The yellowing pages haven’t entirely succumbed to age, but there’s still a lingering mustiness to them.

You frown, stepping closer. "This is what we came for?" The skepticism in your voice is obvious. "I feel like you could’ve done this yourself instead of dragging me along..."

Edgar scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I did do most of it myself, dumbass. I just got tired of doing what’s supposed to be your job too."

You don’t bother responding beyond a quiet, indignant muttering of, "Well, excuse me," under your breath, shifting your weight with a petulant pout.

"Whatever, I’m here now!" you declare, pushing past him with a dramatic huff. You barely think before grabbing a stack of papers that’s, in retrospect, probably too big to carry all the way back to… wherever the hell you were actually supposed to take them.

Your fingers struggle to wedge beneath the stack, the weight of the papers awkward and unwieldy. You consider halving the load—maybe then you'd have a chance of carrying it back down the stairs without tripping over yourself—but before you can commit to the thought, Edgar steps away, preoccupied with whatever it is he does when he gets bored of dealing with you.

"Hey, Edg—"

The scent hits you before you even register the cloth pressed against your face. A thick, cloying sweetness invades your senses, sickly and chemical, like cheap vodka drowned in artificial sugar—or maybe something floral, something sharp, like a pool cleaner laced with perfume. It clings to the back of your throat, seeping into your lungs before you even think to hold your breath.

Your body reacts before your mind does. A frantic jolt, arms flailing, legs buckling beneath you as you twist against the iron grip pinning you in place. It’s funny, in a way that isn’t—this would be an embarrassing way to go.

Somewhere through the growing haze, you hear Edgar mutter, “Can’t this stuff kill you if you inhale too much?” His voice is distant, muffled by the fog rapidly swallowing your mind. He barely sounds concerned, like he’s just remembering a fact he read somewhere.

The last thing you feel is the weight of his hands keeping you upright before the world goes black.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the pressure.

Your wrists, bound too tight, skin chafing where they press together. Your ankles, similarly restrained, stiff and aching from the forced position. The second thing you notice is the dampness—your mouth, tacky with drool, the fabric stuffing it thick and unpleasantly damp against your tongue. Whatever it is, it scratches at the corners of your lips, the texture rough, used.

What the fuck happened?

Bleary eyes drag toward the only real source of light in the room—a laptop, its screen casting a harsh glow against the darkness. The brightness stings, sending dull, throbbing pulses through your skull. Just beside it, a camera, its lens glinting beneath the artificial light.

If your legs weren’t bound, you might’ve tried to push yourself up, might’ve tried to reach for the screen or maybe just close the damn thing because god your head hurts. But you're stuck, sluggish from whatever the hell Edgar used on you, limbs unresponsive beyond weak, sluggish twitches.

Then you see him.

You recognize him instantly—his stance, the way he carries himself. Even with the white mask obscuring his face, there's no mistaking Edgar. He’s talking, fast and low, words spilling out in a jumbled stream you can’t quite parse. Your ears catch snippets—"requests," "chat," something about donations—but it all bleeds together, too warped by the lingering chemical haze for you to fully comprehend.

But it doesn't take much to put the pieces together, though. The camera. The laptop. The way he’s looking at you like you’re less of a person and more of a prop.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, every sluggish beat a reminder that your body still hasn’t fully shaken off whatever the hell he drugged you with. Edgar, meanwhile, moves like this is just another casual night—like he didn’t just fucking kidnap you, like he hasn’t tied you up and gagged you in front of a camera.

He turns to you, and even though that mask hides his face, you know he’s smiling.

"Hey," he drawls, the word rolling off his tongue with ease as if checking up on a hungover friend. His fingers tap against your cheek—light at first, but when you turn your head away, he follows, his touch lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl.

"Glad to know you didn’t overdose or something," he hums, more to himself than to you.

Your breath stutters against the damp fabric between your lips, a mix of confusion and fury bubbling beneath the surface. You’d scream at him if you could, demand to know what the fuck is wrong with him—but all you can offer is a glare, bewildered and seething.

Edgar chuckles, amused by something you’re clearly missing.

"Come on, smile for the cameras."

His hands grip your head, shaking it far too roughly for it to be anything close to affectionate, your neck straining under the force. He finally backs off, leaving you rattled and dizzier than before.

You don’t have time to recover before he’s back at the laptop, his attention shifting away from you entirely.

"I’m turning on donations now," he says simply, like it’s just another part of his routine.

You hear the faint ping of a notification from the laptop, followed by another. Then another. Your breath comes shallow through your nose, the gag sticky against your lips as you struggle to steady yourself. Whatever high you were floating on is fading fast, but the clarity that replaces it is worse—because now you can fully grasp what’s happening.

Edgar doesn’t move right away.

He shifts, arms folding over his chest as he watches the list of donations grow, each new request stacking atop the last. His head tilts slightly, thoughtful, as if he’s picking out a meal from a menu rather than deciding what to do to you.

"Man," he finally exhales, his voice light, casual, "Some of you are real creative." His fingers tap lazily against the laptop keys, scrolling through the suggestions, occasionally pausing to hum in consideration. He’s waiting. Drawing it out. Letting the anticipation build—not just for you, but for them. The unseen audience. The ones paying for this.

The next notification dings, louder somehow, or maybe it just feels that way.

Edgar perks up, his whole posture shifting as he reads over a specific question, “Metal?” He repeats, giving you a clue as to what the hell was asked, your wide, terrified eyes locked onto Edgar as he moves about the room, his steps unhurried, casual, as if he were merely picking out a snack from the fridge. "Mh, I don't think there's anything like that lying around," he mused softly, his gaze sweeping lazily over the cluttered space. Then, something seemed to spark his interest. His posture straightened, his movements purposeful as he reached into a cabinet and retrieved a thick metal rod.

Its weight was evident in the way he tested it with a light toss between his hands. It was heavy, sure, but small enough for a firm, comfortable grip. He turned it over once before facing the camera, a disturbing spark of excitement lacing his tone. “Someone donate 3k right now, and I’ll brand them with this,” he announced, holding the cursed object up like a prize.

The response was almost instant. The ping of the donation alert startled even him, his soft huff betraying his surprise. “That was quick,” he muttered, shaking his head before sauntering off to place the rod onto a portable stove. His movements were eerily relaxed, his tone almost cheerful.

“Well, while that’s heating up—” He turned his attention back, words dripping with mockery as he tilted his masked head. “Let’s get our guest a little more comfortable.” Though his face remained hidden beneath the smooth, white porcelain of his mask, the grin behind it was unmistakable. His voice held a teasing lilt, cruel and condescending.

Your instincts kicked in, body squirming back as he closed the distance in long, confident strides. He crouched in front of you, bringing his masked face to your eye level. “You make a sound, and I’ll slit your throat,” he whispered, his voice sinking into something far darker, far colder. The threat was delivered with a nonchalant finality as his hand rose to your cheek. His fingers traced your skin with a gentleness so sickening it made your stomach churn, the almost tender gesture in complete contrast to the malice behind his words.

His fingers tug at the damp, saliva-soaked fabric from your mouth, and before you can catch your breath, the unmistakable snick of a switchblade fills the air, freezing you in place. The blade caught the dim light as he brought it close, his tone turning taunting. “Hold your breath,” he said, the smirk audible in his voice. “I don’t wanna accidentally stab you or anything.”

Obeying, you sucked in a shaky breath, your chest rising and falling unevenly as he began to slice through your shirt with carelessness. Each tug of his wrist sent the tip of the blade grazing your skin, not quite breaking it, but enough to make your muscles tense. The fabric tore under his hands, but he didn’t bother removing it entirely, leaving the tattered remains hanging from your shoulders. He stepped aside to give his audience a better view.

The humiliation burned, hot and overwhelming, as the camera captured you. A deep sickness twisted your gut, your shame and anger intermingling with the gnawing fear.

“Hm,” he hummed, his head tilting slightly as though deep in thought. But you knew better. He wasn’t pondering anything. He already knew exactly what he wanted to do. “I’ll carve your usernames into this pig’s skin. A hundred each,” he said simply, reaching out to grab a fistful of your hair.

“Wa—” Your protest was muffled as his hand clamped over your mouth, his grip firm and silencing. The blade pressed lightly against your stomach, his voice sharp. “Ah, ah. Shut up,” he tutted, his tone scolding like you were a child misbehaving. “Nobody wants to see you die,” he muttered under his breath, his voice losing the playful edge for a brief moment. “Not yet anyway.”

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he dragged the blade across your skin, his movements deliberate as he turned his head toward the screen. “Fatal Night seems like a good enough start, right?” His voice was almost casual as if this were just another chore. He tugged your head forward with his grip, forcing you into a weak nod as strained whimpers fell from your lips, quickly breaking into desperate, repetitive cries. “Stop, stop, stop—” The word spilled from you like a mantra, hollow and powerless, as if it would somehow change the inevitable.

The blade pierced into your flesh, each letter carefully etched with a precision that made you sick. His murmurs filled the air as he sounded out each letter to himself, the uneven gashes oozing blood and stinging like fire. Every trembling flinch from you earned an irritated noise. “Keep moving like that, and I’ll cut your stomach open,” he snaps, his tone sharper now, laced with irritation, as if you’re the one being unreasonable. As if you were the one in the wrong for not staying perfectly still while he mutilated you.

Despite your best efforts, your shuddering breaths and tear-soaked face betrayed your terror. The first two names were finished with relative ease, his movements steady despite your involuntary jerks. You could barely make out what had been written though between the dim lighting, the tears blurring your vision, and the searing pain, not that you wanted to know. You're sure you'd be dead by the end of the night after all.

Edgar lets out a satisfied hum, his fingers ghosting over the fresh wounds as if admiring his work. The pain is unbearable, your skin burning as blood seeps from the jagged carvings, warm and sticky against your trembling stomach and staining your pants a dark red.

Another notification pings from the laptop.

Edgar sighs, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "You guys are quick," he mutters, wiping the blade against the tattered remains of your shirt. "I might actually run out of space at this rate." His fingers dig into your scalp as he forces your head back, his masked face looming over yours. “How you holdin’ up?” The question is unnecessary. You know that he can see the answer—your body trembling under his grip, your breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

A chuckle leaves him as he tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Y’know, I probably should've spaced these out a little,” he muses, dragging the flat side of the blade over your cheek, wiping the blood off on your skin. “But then again…” His gaze flickers toward the now-glowing tip of the metal rod.

He lets go of your hair suddenly, letting your head drop forward as he steps toward the stove. The heat distorts the air around it, the metal burning a dull orange. His gloved fingers carefully pick it up, and for the first time since this nightmare started, he seems to hesitate.

It’s brief—so brief you’d almost think you imagined it.

But then he turns back to you, tilting the rod slightly as he watches how the light catches it. “I think it’s hot enough, don’t you?”

“Please don't,” you whisper through heavy sobs, shaking your head as if it'd make a difference. But Edgar ignores it. Of course he does. Because why would he ever listen to you? He crouches in front of you, the heat radiating from the rod brushing against your exposed skin, making you flinch. “You’re gonna want to hold still for this part,” he warns, the grin practically audible in his tone. "Unless you want me to fuck you up further, but I don’t think you’d like that very much."

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself too little too late— And then the searing agony hits.

It forces an agonized scream from your throat. Your body convulses violently, the unbearable heat from the rod pressing into your skin. The scream that tears from your throat is raw, desperate, echoing through the room as you thrash helplessly against the restraints. Every attempt to move is in vain, the cords of your wrists cutting into your flesh as the metal rod sinks deeper into your chest. The sickening hiss of burning skin fills the air, mixed with the sound of your ragged breaths.

Edgar's laugh rings out, cruel and unaffected by your pain. "Cmon, quit moving if you don't want it," he mocks, shifting the rod ever so slightly, pushing it even deeper, drawing another agonizing scream from you. "You look like you're about to pass out," he observes with faux concern. The heat blisters your skin, but the worst part is the waiting, the anticipation of the next moment of pain. Your mind is foggy, vision blurring, but it's all you can do to focus on the sensation of the rod pressed to your body, the sickening weight of it.

"You’re making such a mess," Edgar comments absently, and you can feel the weight of the metal rod slowly lift, but the burn it left behind doesn’t fade. The wound throbs like a second heartbeat, pulsing with every breath you try to take.

Your breath hitches, chest rising and falling in uneven shudders as you struggle to process his words through the haze of your panic. Your ears are still ringing, drowning out the finer details of the sickening reality unfolding before you.

His attention flicks back to the laptop, and Edgar snorts, shaking his head. "Man, y'all are predictable," he mutters, twirling the knife between his fingers before giving it a lazy spin in his palm. The blade, slick with fresh blood—your blood— is wiped clean on the fabric of his pants, as if it wasn't going to get dirty again "Always with the same shit. But, hey, who am I to judge? I am getting paid, after all.”

He taps the blade against your cheek, the tip of the blade pressing against your lower eyelid. Earning another weak sob and more squirming, “C’mon, don’t be such a baby,” he drawls, angling the blade upwards slightly. "I haven't even done anything yet."

He lifts his other hand, fingers pressing against your cheek, pulling your eye open “Now," he says softly, watching the way you tremble under him. "Let’s see what all the hype is about.”

The sharp sting is immediate, a white-hot pressure that sends fresh agony searing through your skull. Your scream is muffled against the gag, your body convulsing on instinct, trying desperately to pull away—but there's nowhere to go.

Edgar doesn’t falter. He hums under his breath, steady hands pressing the blade in deeper, parting flesh with sickening ease.

“Damn,” he muses, voice almost drowned out by the ringing in your ears. “They weren’t lying about how soft this part is.”

You can’t see anymore. Not from that eye.

But you can feel it.

The blade presses deeper, a sharp, unbearable pressure that sends waves of searing pain through your skull. It isn’t a clean puncture—your eye resists, the delicate tissue stretching, distorting before finally giving way with a wet, sickening squelch. The pain is overwhelming, radiating outward like fire spreading through your nerves.

Your body thrashes instinctively, every muscle screaming for you to pull away, to escape, but the restraints hold firm. Edgar’s grip on your head tightens, fingers digging into your scalp as he forces you still.

"Shhh, shhh," he murmurs, his voice light, almost amused. "You'll ruin the fun if you keep struggling like that."

The blade twists. A fresh surge of agony explodes through your skull, your vision blurring into something incomprehensible—light, color, and then nothing at all. Something warm trickles down your cheek, thick and sluggish.

Edgar pulls back slightly, inspecting his work. "Hah. That’s—" He huffs a small laugh, breathing noticeably heavy "Messy."

And then thought struck him like an idle breeze, entirely misplaced and cruel: You're cute when you're crying. It lingered, despite the grotesque sight before him—tears and snot streaking your face, mingling with the blood that dripped from your chin. Your expression was twisted into something almost unrecognizable, ugly in its pure anguish, and yet he couldn’t look away.

His grip on your head didn’t falter, even as the nerve to your right eye snapped with an audible, nauseating rip. He held the severed piece up, tilting it slightly to catch the dim light, his movements dispassionate, almost clinical. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he discarded the knife, letting it clatter to the floor.

“Shit… Can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His hand reached for the bottle of alcohol nearby, the plastic just barely discernible through the fog of your failing vision. “This better work. I don’t want to deal with an infection from you.”

The words were faint, muffled by the static in your ears, but the unmistakable pop of the bottle cap cutting through sent a jolt of fresh panic through your broken body. You wanted to beg, to plead with him to stop, but the sounds caught in your throat, tangled with the sobs that wracked your chest.

And then it hit—a searing, white-hot agony as he poured the liquid directly into the empty socket. Your entire body convulsed, his grip loosening just enough for you to collapse forward, clutching at your face as though that could somehow dull the relentless, burning itch that clawed at your skull. The alcohol foamed as it reacted with the raw tissue, the sickly white froth spilling over your cheeks.

Your screams ripped through the air, hoarse and animalistic, until your voice began to crack under the strain.

“Christ, you’re loud,” he muttered, his tone laced with something disturbingly amused. The sharp grin in his voice was unmistakable, even as your cries finally gave way to ragged, choking sobs. He crouched beside your trembling form, watching as your body shuddered in waves, your mind too overwhelmed by the pain to register his presence fully.

“Hey,” he said, tapping your cheek lightly, as if coaxing you awake from a pleasant nap rather than this waking nightmare. “You still alive?”

You didn't—Couldn't respond, only the shallow rise and fall of your chest, your breaths erratic and uneven. He clicked his tongue, a mockery of disappointment, and slid his hands beneath your arms, hoisting you upright while allowing most of your weight sagged against his leg as he settled you into a kneeling position, his grip firm enough to ensure you didn’t slump forward again.

“Come on now,” he murmured, almost fondly, brushing some of the blood-slick hair from your face. “Don’t die on me. Not yet, anyway.”

Your head lolled slightly, your consciousness slipping in and out as you struggled to process the words, the sensations, the horror of it all. You barely reacted when he began unbuckling his belt, the motion slow, deliberate—practiced.

He ignored your weak attempt to say his name, or whatever it was you were trying to plead with him—honestly, he couldn’t tell the difference. Your words came out slurred, unintelligible, a garbled mess that barely even registered in his mind.

His gloved fingers dug into your eyelid, pulling it down with a dispassionate focus as he inspected the pink, raw flesh beneath, his gaze lingering with morbid curiosity.

"I don’t think I'll be able to fit anything past the tip," he muttered to himself, almost absentmindedly, his eyes scanning the mess he'd made of your face.

He straightened, the thought seemingly pushing him forward, "Well, two thousand is still two thousand. Might as well try," he hummed, tugging your head closer to his pelvis. The warmth of his thigh against your eyelid provided a steady anchor to your hazy mind. A small part of him couldn't help but hope that the socket was still warm and pulsing with life.

"Finally found a way to put that empty head of yours to use," he sneered, angling your head upwards with a tight grip on the back of your neck. The warmth of his skin pressed against yours unbearable as he slowly pushed in. "F-fuck... Shit I knew it," he chuckled through strained breaths, pushing further into the gaping hole in your skull. The pressure against your skull made you sob in pain, but he didn't seem to care. "Can't even get an inch in, it's like breaking in a virgin."

He tightened his grip on your hair, pulling it back as he adjusted himself against you. A low moan escaped your lips as he gave a shallow thrust that elicited a scream from your lips. Your entire body trembling and instinctively trying to pull away, desperate for some distance between you and the source of this pain

”Still..." he began, his voice rough with desire. “It's pretty warm.” He slowly rocked his hips against your head, the tip of his cock cruelly bumping into what must have been the back of your socket.

Tears streamed down your face, mingling with the raw, salty taste of your own despair. Your throat ached and burned from the incessant sobbing, leaving you gasping for air as you begged and pleaded with him. The relentless grinding of his hips against you felt like a physical assault, threatening to shatter the fragile barrier between your eye socket and skull. You could feel the bile rising in your throat, with each cruel thrust only proving to make you sicker.

“To be honest, I never saw the appeal of this kinda stuff,” he mused, breathing heavy and uneven, almost as an afterthought as if he'd just recalled a minor detail. His words were punctuated by the wet, sickening sound of his hips against your ruined eye socket. “But they seem to be—fuck— fixated on something about a 'fitting punishment' and some bullshit about 'karmic justice'. Whatever that means.”

His hand gripped your head with an iron grip as he ruthlessly thrust into your eye. Every ridge, every vein of his member could be felt as he pushed further and deeper, each movement causing a twitch and pull inside your eye socket. It was like he was trying to fuck right through the barrier of your skull, determined to push his way to the very core of your being. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through your body, and you could almost hear the sickening sounds of flesh and bone giving way under his relentless assault.

The initial pressure was almost relieving, a release from the intense sensation that had been building. But then the pain hit, sharp and fiery, like something inside of you had snapped or torn apart. Edgar's reaction was immediate, even though you couldn't see his face, only his thighs in your limited vision. You could hear his gasp and feel his sudden stillness as he takes in your shared realization.

"Holy shit," he exclaims, his voice full of surprise and something you could mistake for concern. "Did you guys hear that?"

Your attention is drawn briefly to the nearby stream before returning to Edgar's hips as they start moving again. But this time there is a new depth to his thrusts, a deeper penetration than before.

"Fuck," he mutters, realization dawning on him. "I think I broke something in there. Did you hear that snapping sound?" You can hear the way shock faded away, replaced by amusement as he picked back his earlier pace. The wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, punctuated by your choked sobs and his grunts. He used his grip on the back of your head as leverage, slamming his hips forward harder, burying himself deeper into your eye socket with each thrust.

“This is what you deserve, I should've done this ages ago instead of coddling you.” He punctuated his words with particularly harsh thrusts, the head of his cock kissing the back of God knows what in your empty socket. The pain was unbearable, white hot agony lancing through you with each movement.

You could feel the sticky warmth of your own blood coating his shaft as he violated your wounded eye, "Fuck... gonna... ungh... gonna fill that ugly socket with my cum. Mark you as my property inside and out.” His fingers dug into your hair as he chased his own high. Spots swam behind your bandaged eyes as you faded in and out of consciousness, the loss of blood and the pain making you dizzy and lightheaded.

With a guttural groan, Edgar slammed forward one last time and held himself there, buried to the hilt in your eye socket. A warm, thick gush of fluid flooding your head.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, a faint edge of exhaustion in his voice. He glances down at you, sprawled limp against his leg, your head lolling slightly with the weight of your lifeless body. For a moment, he’s almost... thoughtful, studying the way your chest doesn’t rise or fall, the way your skin has already begun to pale.

It’s almost cute, he thinks with a detached sort of amusement. Just moments ago, you were thrashing, screaming, begging for mercy like it would make a difference. Now, you’re nothing more than dead weight—quiet, pliant, a stark contrast to the fight you’d put up before.

Finally pulling out with an obscene pop. Blood and semen poured from your ruined socket, running in thick rivulets down your face and onto your shirt, he stares at the sight for a moment before patting your cheek almost affectionately. The gesture feels out of place, like a mockery of tenderness. “You’re really gone, huh?” he muses aloud, tilting your head slightly as though checking for a flicker of life. It’s unnecessary—he already knows the answer. But he didn’t need another slip-up like the last time.

“Well, since they’re dead,” he begins, his tone shifting into something more performative. He straightens up, tucking himself back into his pants, brushing the wrinkles out of his shirt and adjusting the mask that had slipped slightly during the ordeal. He takes a moment to smooth his appearance, glancing at his reflection in the darkened screen before turning his attention back to the camera.

“I guess that marks the end of this month’s stream!”

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