#fuck you jeff!

[teencopandthesourwolf]

𝔇erek ℌale 𝔏ives

one morning, you wake up and you’re able to finish the blasphemous FUCK YOU TEEN WOLF MOVIE! tribute artwork you’ve mean meaning to share with the world for a while now… guess i must have our lord and saviour on my side today or something, huh? jc gets it lol

[madame-mongoose]

What the gleep!!! Follow me for cool art!!!

[anyfire]

jeff sadecki loves to be like Ugh my bitch wife has been so paranoid and high strung ever since she killed the guy she thought was blackmailing her friends over the stuff they did during the 19 months they spent stranded in the canadian wilderness. Something that has nothing to do with me at all

[horny-marbles]

eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum—most definitely over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm—it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed—whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment—he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no décor. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbing since your last mission—one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without biting down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door—just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand—and knock once.

No answer.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth—mistake—and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconscious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably keeps it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost sparkle.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands—already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later—alcohol, something minty, clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that house no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless. Still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him stepping into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples.

You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips. Slowly. It hurts.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, and tendon. His head tilts slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats the word, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You—what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree—just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. It hurts again, surprise.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trembles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there—but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused. Professional. Detached.

And it’s that—exactly that—that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath hitches. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing—what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen—

He keeps going. Calm. Professional.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing beneath your chin.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practically vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary—never does—but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp—sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't speak right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way—listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself—almost—but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he says. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked—if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just prescription.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue—but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you—doesn’t help guide you down or force your head. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare—up at him, at the soft shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from his touch or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with more than clinical interest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Not for them. So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, like him. And yet, here you are—kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already-bruised jaw. So you ease into it—inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests—dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts—settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn—and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, pooling around the base. It’s getting messy now—your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive—but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, low, strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it—sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffens above you—not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of slick arousal is thicker in the air, heady and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic—but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Dripping down your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed—tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers—the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters around his cock—

That changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental—observational, but something darker coils beneath it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond—can’t—too full of him.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips red and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion—strong, sure, impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence—thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or threatened.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way—not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, glistening from your spit. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely—calmly forcing your thighs back until you’re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there—palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly—almost cruelly—he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy—he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales—sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open—but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep—like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably—already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It was almost humiliating how close you were already.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk—he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls—his voice now tinged, barely, with something darker, something less restrained. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this—then let it last.”

He starts fucking you—really fucking you—like your desperation and your body bursting at the seams in need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises—slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out—like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again—not with medical intent now, but need—fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing painfully. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it—a snap, the high-pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you—groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged—driven not by logic but need. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward—body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest—barely a warning at all— before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred—savoring it. Your flesh parts around his fangs with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again—making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again—but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock.

“Cum,” he growls—against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash—blinding, consuming, full-body spasms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls—then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow—somehow—it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it—deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from the overstimulation.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you—thick, hot, and neglected for too long—filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then—for the first time—he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over—when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe—you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves—no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another case. Another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you—but he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side—hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep—ugly, violent—but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next—swabbed, sealed, wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively—even as your eyes roll, unimpressed—and he presses a thumb along the hinge—palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something—anything—about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

[brightlotusmoon]

[nightingale2004]

Sterek au ida

Mieczyslaw 'Stiles' Stilinski, the god of strategy, wisdom, and mischief

And Derek Hale, the god of the moon and wolves

[blueskittlesart]

social media monetization is literally incredible i love earning $30 for complaining about college

[erenasia]

𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒚, 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝟐 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: 𝟏𝟖+ 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝑫𝑵𝑰. 𝑵𝑶 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺.

𝑰 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐𝒅 𝒊'𝒎 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉 𝒐𝒖𝒕---

𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑵𝑶𝑾 𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑳𝑼𝑫𝑬𝑺 𝑩𝑶𝑻𝑯 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑺.

𝑾𝑯𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑬𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑺𝒀𝑴𝑩𝑶𝑳 *** 𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬𝑨𝑵𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻'𝑺 𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑬 𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑰𝑵𝑨𝑳𝑳𝒀 𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑫.

(𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒉𝒉𝒉𝒉)

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑱𝒆𝒇𝒇 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕?

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔: 𝑱𝒆𝒇𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑲𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔: 11.5𝒌 (𝑰’𝒎 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚)

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑺/𝑻𝑾: 𝒅𝒖𝒃𝒄𝒐𝒏 (𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂) 𝑺𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚, 𝒅𝒐𝒎/𝒔𝒖𝒃, 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒆, 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒅𝒆𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

𝑨/𝑵: 𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 (𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒐). 𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒐.

𝑨𝒍𝒔𝒐…𝒑𝒔𝒔𝒕, @horny-marbles 👀

Regret. The word hung heavy in the air. 

People lay slouched in the chairs, cigarettes burnt low, fingers pulling at grass just to keep the blood flowing. 

No one was there by choice. 

Not anymore. 

They were just waiting for it to end.

Waiting for this unfolding nightmare to be put to rest; to go back inside and enjoy the warmth of the house, or eat unlabelled human organs in the privacy of their own room.

But it wouldn’t. They couldn’t. 

Because they’d agreed to it.

And now they were paying the price.   

The atmosphere was tense, quiet. The strained squeak of a chair leg only highlighted the unusual silence spilling over the forest. 

You shifted in place. 

Everyone was attending a garden party. 

One held in the dead of night. With a guest list of serial killers, crazed psychopaths, unnatural beings, and a dog, to boot.

It was freezing. It was uncomfortable. 

No one wanted to be here, not when the threat of freezing to death lingered like a dense fog.    

No one except, that is, for Toby. 

Because he was the man of the hour, the king of it all— the organiser of this cursed ensemble. Just an hour before, all attendees were sleeping soundly, tired from a long mission or a tricky day at the house. 

Yet Toby had other plans. 

The clock had struck 3am. The entrance had flung wide with a deafening ‘thwack’. Toby stood in the centre of it all, causing a ruckus so loud that sleeping dogs could no longer lie in peace.

At the time, you tried to ignore it, tried to nestle further into the bedsheets and push away the craziness happening outside.   

Yet it couldn’t be avoided.

Smile was the first to wake, bounding down the grand staircase to greet Toby with a wagging tail and curious sniff. 

Jeff soon followed. 

After that, all hell broke loose. 

You didn’t manage to catch the first part of their conversation. You didn’t want to catch the rest, but it became impossible to drown out. 

“W-well, m-man, I d-don’t see why not?!” His voice was raised, defensive. 

Jeff hissed, before groaning in annoyance. You threw a pillow over your head. It didn’t help.   

“Because it’s a stupid fucking idea, that’s why.” Footsteps followed, then so did the sound of metal grinding against wood. “These chairs look like dogshit anyway!” 

…Chairs?... Idea? You sat up in bed, throwing away the pillow before letting out a deep sigh; this could no longer be ignored. Whatever was going on downstairs suddenly became far more interesting than sleep anyway, and with a scoff, you swung your legs over the bedside.

“M-motherf-fucker, d-don’t fucking ins-sult my ch-chairs! I went through a l-lot of e-effort to get those!” 

Jeff grinned, as if Toby's words had lit a fire in the room, then handed him a can of gasoline. You didn’t need to see it— it was present in the tone. The rat bastard couldn't help but antagonise every situation he was a part of.  

“Don’t insult your chairs? What, they got feelings or somethin’?... They gonna start cryin’ if I call them rusty, no good, god awful, pieces of—”

“Jeff.” 

A voice cut through the carnage. 

Yours. 

It cascaded down the staircase and brought the two bickering men to a halt. Clad in a long shirt and wearing it like armour, you stood tall at the precipice— quiet spilling into the dilapidated foyer, tense and uncertain. As Jeff dropped the chair he was holding, a metallic clang echoed off of the walls.  

He glared. “Yeah? Got somethin’ to say?” Then he took a step forward, and If it were at all possible his gaze would have narrowed. 

In the meantime you’d descended into the scene of the crime, and surrounding the culprits sat four rusty garden chairs. Looking behind them, an equally grimy table wedged the front door wide open and let in a sharp breeze. The whole scene was disjointed, like something out of a comedy sketch; almost impossible to read at first glance, and requiring you to have seen the past 3 episodes to understand. You hadn’t been privy to those, so instead you directed your attention back to Jeff.  

“Yeah, I do,” The words slipped out through a yawn. “Stop being mean to Toby will you? and instead,-” Another yawn, “-tell me what the hell is going on?” 

The man scoffed, arms crossing in a firm ‘x’ across his chest. He opened his mouth once more— most likely to spit venom— before Toby interjected, the persistent twitching seemingly having eased at your presence.   

“W-well, I found these.” He gestured to the chairs, as if they were something marvellous. A flicker of a smile ghosted across Jeff’s face, noticing how you looked over the furniture in confusion. 

”I… see that, Tobes. And… why do you have them?” You gave Jeff a warning glance, one that reflected the words ‘Don’t fucking start’, as much as humanly possible. In response, furrowed eyebrows raised to create an expression— one that was smug, waiting, expecting.

“Stole t-them on a mission. I-I thought we could throw a party outside— one of those, like, g-garden parties, you know?”

You grinned, side eyeing Jeff. What was wrong with that idea? Why the looks? Maybe he was just trying to get under your skin like usual, or vehemently hated the idea of being a community. 

“...Oh! Sure, I’ll attend. We could grab some beers from the store, I'll make potato salad, it’ll be fun. When are you thinking?” 

You and Toby were pretty close. Close enough, that it was almost always you who felt the brunt of his strange ideas, or impulsive decisions. He let himself run free in your presence, and more often than not, you indulged it with open arms. 

Jeff let out a sliver of a laugh.

Toby responded.  

“... R-right now.”

Expressions stalled. Thoughts ground to a halt. 

He wanted to throw it right now? In the dead of night? In the cold, dark, nightmare ridden forest? 

No chance.

You’d be mauled to death by Seed-eater, eviscerated by the rake, or worse, have to spend the whole time with Jeff complaining about the cold. Feet tapped the ground trying to think of an excuse, or a way to let Toby down gently. 

Because Jeff was right, this was a stupid idea.

No sooner had the thought crossed your mind, did something sour begin to dwell; something that pooled in the depths of your stomach and settled like a thick venom— something vicious. 

Spite. 

The feeling festered, no matter how fleeting the moment was; it worked quickly, poisoning every judgement you made with precise accuracy. It only worsened, when you glanced at Jeff.     

The bastard was smiling. 

Smiling, because he knew you were about to agree with him. 

You, whose main objective in this place centered around driving him to the depths of hell— arguing every point he made without reason, getting under his skin when things went awry, poisoning people against him— you. 

And the cherry on the cake? You weren’t just about to agree with him—   

You were about to prove him right.  

This concept was so foreign; if you had to place money on which would come first— the rapture, or Jeff and yourself finding common ground— your bets would be on the rapture. No hesitation. You weren’t about to lose hypothetical money, either— so with a sly grin thrown his way, you turned to Toby. 

“Oh, right. Well, we can’t have any beers or food, because there isn’t any, and the store is closed. But, I don’t see why that should stop us. So come on, I’ll help you get the chairs back outside.”

Jeff’s face was a picturesque mix of anger, disbelief, and embarrassment all at once. It was perfect, and you? You lived for it.

Toby smiled, excitement bubbling under his skin as he began pushing at the table almost immediately, trying to un-wedge it. You were, of course, doing this for him too. You weren’t about to let Jeff bully your best friend— no matter how stupid the idea. 

Another large yawn echoed off the walls. 

“Actually, I'll help in a second. I’m still shrugging off the last of my sleep.” 

A lie. You just wanted to watch Jeff unravel in full view. 

Toby nodded, groaning with another push to the table. 

Your smile remained sweet, ‘genuine’, looking from one man to the other like there wasn’t a problem in the world.  

Meanwhile, Jeff fumed.

He wasn’t the type to admit when he’d lost, nevermind accept it with open arms. In any other scenario he’d storm off, throw a calloused insult, then slam the door. He’d retreat. But not with you. Never, with you. Because you worked so hard, so damn hard, to bring out the worst in him; to take his fury and set it to a boil, all while wearing that damned innocent smile.

“Oh fuck you! You bitch. You really wanna go outside and play tea parties? Right fuckin’ now?” He laughed, callous, raising his arms with a grin. “Just fuckin’ fess up already, doll, you think it’s a stupid idea too. Admit it, come on, I know you want to” 

With that said, it wasn’t as if he was guilt free. He forced your hand many a time— deep rooted insults, petty theft, ‘harmless’ pranks, often curating his own torture as a result— but the blame was never on his shoulders.   

An emotionless stare was thrown his way, as if the mere act of paying attention to him was a cruel punishment. It was then followed by a phrase, and a grin. 

“Admit what, Jeff?” 

Then Jeff stalled, his anger festering even further. He could’ve kept it contained, too, if you hadn’t paired the words with that smug expression. 

With that smile. 

That damned smile.

After that, he lost all composure. The man was stepping closer now, pointing angered fingers and almost frothing at the mouth. Meanwhile Smile stood up beside him, his teeth bared and growling, mirroring his owner perfectly. 

“That you’re lying. Fuck– you know damn well what i’m talking about. You’re just sayin’ that, you’re not agreeing just because—fuck— you fuckin-’,” 

He cut off the mismatched sentence, taking a deep breath. 

God, it was so easy to get under his skin. 

Your response was the opposite: calm, composed, and soft. 

“There’s nothing to admit. I just think we all need a break, and it could be a nice way to let off steam. I get along with the others, and it’s a lovely idea from Toby. So no, I'm not just saying that. I genuinely don’t see a problem here!” 

You paired the phrase with an evil grin, knowing exactly what it would do to him— knowing that even though he had clocked half of your motivations perfectly, he could do nothing to prove it. Each insult lay hidden, laced perfectly between feigned ignorance and wove a tapestry only he would understand.  

Even when he let out a low hum, clenching his fist tight, you still persisted. 

You still pushed further. 

For Toby, and yourself.  

“Well, no problem other than you I suppose. No one wants to spend that much time around you, Jeff, no offence and all. But I'll put up with it, for Toby. I’m kind like that, you know?”

Truth be told, you didn’t even know why Toby himself wanted to throw this party; usually, he was standoffish to most other inhabitants, only really talking to them to relay orders or bark commands. Unless they were his friend, he purposely hid much of his bubbly personality around them, a hard lesson he came to learn many years ago. If you had to guess, it was nothing to do with the people attending, and more to do with the chairs serving a purpose. 

But that didn’t matter. What did matter, was forcing Jeff into a situation he’d do anything to avoid, whilst still having your friend’s back. 

Jeff was breathing deeply now, trying to hold on to any semblance of his temper. The venom tripled, forcing out a line that would make the man crumble. 

“And, look, If I have to put up with a giant man child for a few hours to make my best friend happy? Then so be it.”

Although he was still in a fight with the table, Toby grinned at your words, chuckling softly.

And that was all it took for Jeff to snap. 

To no-one’s surprise, the both of you ended up in an explosive and heated argument— so loud, in fact, that if Toby hadn’t woken everyone up with his earlier racket, they were definitely awake now. 

That point proved to be true, as at the end of this horrible debate, the whole house stood divided on two opposing sides of the foyer.

The chairs remained in the centre. 

Majority voting was the way this house worked. Although it was full of people who never even obeyed the law, the inhabitants strangely obeyed this one rule:

The majority vote is final. 

They’d figured out long ago that nothing would get done if they continued to work solo, and none of them denied the fact that they were selfish, either. So this system, as flawed as it was, worked; at some point, everyone would get something out of it. They didn’t have to vote fairly— put biases aside, rationalise,— they just had to vote. The deciding factor could be as arbitrary as someone forgetting to take out the trash.  

The state of this vote was troubling, however. It was a perfect split, directly down the middle, completely equal on both sides.

Jeff smirked, eyes locked intently on your form with a gaze that rivalled a burning pyre.

You started to think you’d lose, that the vote would be called a draw, that you’d have to backpedal and seek revenge another day.   

That is, until Eyeless Jack entered the fray.

Your smile returned, as your rivals fell. 

You delivered him organs last week—

unprompted, and free of charge. 

Wearing a blank expression, he calmly walked to your side of the room. 

Jeff scoffed.

And then, it was decided. 

Everyone was having a garden party. 

-

So there you were. Planted In the grass, shivering from the cold, and wondering whether your win against Jeff was even worth it. 

Masky stood with his back turned, looking out into the forest whilst smoking a cigarette. Hoodie lingered alongside him, the two somehow silently communicating with subtle head shakes and glances. 

Jack sat hunched on the grass opposite, showing nothing but a neutral expression. 

Nina and Jane perched beside you on the chairs, nattering quietly about a new ‘pop figure’ coming out soon. 

Clockwork lingered nearby, sharpening her knife.

Toby lounged across two chairs, using one as a footrest and gazing at the sky. 

Smile slept in the centre. 

Ben was texting. 

And he was sitting right next to Jeff.

Who for the past thirty minutes, had been scowling at you in total silence. He sat upon one of the seats, elbows leant on his bouncing knees, fingers clasped together, eyes burning a hole through your skull. Maybe he was trying to explode your mind with his; the act wouldn’t be unusual. It was as if he were begging for you to react, to respond, to lash out at him and tell him to stop staring. 

But you didn’t. 

The act was instead countered with a grin. 

A soft smile. 

One that made Jeff tremble with rage. 

Someone broke the stillness after that, evidently noticing the red-hot staring contest occurring around them despite the icy temperature.  

“Hey. Tell me again, why are we out here?”

Ben spoke up, barely looking away from the phone glued to his hand. 

“Because, I’m cold. And I don’t even get cold– I’m dead. So can we wrap this up, like soon? Cause, I got more interesting shit to do than this.”

The leaves rustled as if they had a response, crashing against howling winds which slithered between each tree. 

Toby went to argue, before Masky turned his head, interrupting.

“No.”

His mask, lifted ever so slightly to expose flesh, glowed orange as a deep drag was pulled from his cigarette. 

“Majority vote. We’re seeing it through.” 

The masked man’s gaze lingered, daring Ben to respond and throwing down an imaginary gauntlet.

Yet it wasn’t him who spoke up next.

“I mean, It is pretty chilly out here. You know, like, maybe, we can change it? Or something? I know I voted for this, but, um…” 

Nina. Her voice was wavering, the cold seeping through her flashy clothing and freezing down to the bone. 

Jane continued the girl's sentence, picking up where she left off. 

“What she means is this. We’re not opposing the vote, or questioning our stance on the matter,” She eyed Jeff, taking a shuddery breath.  “But we want to reschedule. Because I know I’m not alone in feeling like my fingers are about to drop off.” 

The air tightened.

She was right, she wasn’t alone—

Almost everyone let out an agreement, a nod, a hum, a scoff. 

Fingertips blue, nose red, lips chapped, you let out a frost ridden breath too. 

It was the middle of winter. 

And you’d all been sitting out here for an hour and a half. 

Masky hesitated, eyes glazing over in deep thought, the cigarette surging to life once more and providing a dull light. It seemed the man required nicotine to even breathe, let alone think. After a brief pause though the lifeline slipped from his lips and fell, crumpled underneath his boot. 

Then the mask readjusted. 

“Not how this works. We’re out here until Toby says it’s done.” His voice dripped with authority, each word punching through the air like a molten fist. 

“---um, hello? we’ll freeze?! And—and the Rake? And Seed-eater? What about them?” 

Nina again. 

She was right. Those monsters lurked in the shadows, waiting for the perfect time to strike— and when they did? You’d never see it coming. They would be on their way soon. 

If they weren’t here already. 

As Nina’s concerns fell on deaf ears, a small sense of guilt began to blossom, flourishing the more you looked around the garden. 

People were shivering. 

People were cold. 

People were hungry. 

People were angry. 

You weren’t just getting glares from Jeff anymore. 

Jack now wore an expression of annoyance, his body tense and breathing labored. 

Jane trembled, refusing to look at you, refusing to blame you, even though anger simmered beneath her skin. 

Clockwork nestled into her coat, breaths fogging the cold air. 

Masky glowered as his gaze flicked between Jeff, and you. 

Hoodie sighed. 

Ben glanced up from the phone, his eyes hardening. 

Jeff remained the same. 

Locked in his thoughts and seemingly having phantom arguments in his mind, the man barely paid attention to the world around him. That was, until he noticed the concern etched deeply into every wrinkle, the worry lining your lips, the fear clouding your eyes; the sight was relieving, like ice on a sizzling burn. 

He smirked, his lips mouthing a silent phrase dripping with conceit. 

“You. Lost.” 

He was right. 

You had. 

Even though bile simmered like acid and venom seeped into every pore— he was right. 

You’d lost. 

Because you were ending this. 

Whilst Toby had the final say, it wouldn’t take much to persuade him. All you had to do was admit you were cold, admit you were done, and that you needed to go back inside.

All you needed to do was admit Jeff was right, all along.

Everyone knew this fact too, their sly glares and pleading glances reflecting it well. It wasn’t a secret that you were close with Toby, that you had a sway over his occasional bullheadedness. Nor was it a secret that you had a deep hatred for Jeff. 

It didn’t take much to connect the dots.

So, the longer time passed, the more resentment began to fester.  

With a final tight lipped grin in Jeff’s direction, a voice slipped out from behind gritted, chattering teeth.  

“Hey, Toby…?”

His head snapped over, ripped from a deep daydream with the stars above. 

Trembling from both frustration and the cold, you closed your eyes in resignation.  

“I think—” 

The words got trapped in motion, as Toby launched from his seat and accidentally hurled the ‘footrest’ in the process. Then, following a grin that reached the eyes—

 He became your hero.       

 “H-hold on a minute–” The man raised a gloved palm. “G-got something t-to say f-first.”    

 A harsh twitch of the left hand.

If someone knew him—really, knew him— they’d know that was his tell. 

So If Toby ever wished to take up gambling as a hobby, you’d pull him out of the casino by his hair and scold him for being so stupid. Because every time a white lie escaped those damaged lips, his left hand almost always followed suit. 

He spoke again.

“T-this was not as f-fun as I thought i-it would b-be.”

You raised an eyebrow, mouth falling open slightly as frozen air raced its way inside your lungs.

“L-lets head back inside.” He turned, stomping a mud crusted boot on top of the chair discarded by momentum, then puffed out his chest. 

“I h-hereby, e-end this g-garden party. So s-sorry everyone! G-guess I got bored.” 

And then, In the dim light, illuminated only by the small camping torch placed in the centre, you saw it. 

He winked.

A faint gesture, veiled by the dim light and obscured by the tint of his goggles, meant for nobody except yourself.

You could’ve kissed him. 

You could’ve run over to him, thrown your popsicle arms around his torso, and tackled him to the ground— showering him in friendly affection. 

But you didn’t. Toby kept his motives quiet for a reason: to protect you from a loss in front of your rival. 

So instead, with a real grin, you stood from the grass, dusted off icy speckles of dirt, and sighed. 

“Alright, Toby. Well, thank you for- 

“No, no, come on, tell us bitch, what were you gonna say?” 

Eyes flung to Jeff, the man standing tall and huffing deeply as he paced towards his opponent. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but didn’t get a chance; the sentence hung stagnant in the air, interrupted by another. 

Masky held a firm hand on the man’s chest, glaring down with a stare so inhuman, it should’ve belonged to a wolf. 

“Leave it. Get the fuck inside.” He growled, shoving Jeff backwards before pacing towards the house, grabbing your best friend by the hood. 

“And you? You’re coming with me. We’re gonna have a little chat about what’s fucking appropriate, around here.” 

While Toby was dragged away, with growls, punches, and phrases like ‘g-get the f-fuck off m-me!’, being yelled out into the wilderness for no-one to hear, you grimaced.

You’ll have to make it up to him later. 

You had the power to stop this event from happening; the ability to prevent this punishment and nip it in the bud before it had a chance to flourish. 

But you didn’t. 

And the reason why? Stared deeply into your soul, eyes burning and raging with a fury so unrivalled, it could’ve raised the temperature enough to make the winter months masquerade as summer ones. 

And while each inhabitant trekked their way back inside, taking off boots kissed with frost, breathing hot air into each hand, there you both stood. 

In the frozen wasteland.

Snarling and grinning. 

Even Jeff’s scars, wounds carved many years ago to form a twisted smile, gravitated to the ground from the hatred coursing through his veins. 

Then, calloused, scarred, pale fingers flexed around something hidden beneath fabric. Jeff’s eyes darted to the door; he scanned the walls of the mansion, flicking across each window before finally focusing on one. 

The second highest in the place, hanging just below the bosses— one which looked out onto the forest, but was too far up to see anything going on in the leaf littered undergrowth. 

That one. 

The one that belonged to his keeper:

Masky. 

Although Jeff hated to admit it, deep down in blackened the depths of his soul, lay an undercurrent of fear— one which swept through him on days where the self righteousness keeping his head attached took a day off. One which kept him chained to this place, forever drowning, taking order after order.

The being that resided within the highest floor was the overarching cause— but Masky? Was only one level below him. Physically, and metaphorically.  

He’d already been warned once. 

A second time only entailed darkness. 

Eyes darted back to your own, fingers and muscles tensing when they took in the sight of you once more. 

In your nightshirt. 

Alone.

Smiling. 

Then something in his eyes… changed.

In turn the expression you wore proudly faltered, and in its place, lay fear. 

It was time to wrap things up. 

See, there was a line with Jeff. One that you don’t cross, one that you never even toe, unless you want to wind up dead in a ditch somewhere with nothing left but teeth to identify you.

You were approaching that line. 

Fast. 

The only thing keeping him tethered, was the threat that window held, and the reins the person behind it wound tightly around their weathered fist. 

But that only went so far, didn’t it? 

This was Jeff, after all. 

He’d cut free before. Broken out of the chains, let himself loose— but then returned with his tail between his legs. Other times, his misdoings had gone undetected, and the tales of said moments lay buried with those who experienced them.

You tried to fight the nerves. Tried to keep up the charade, even as his hoodie pocket shifted with his fist, highlighting the shape of a weapon.

But no part of you forgot what he was, deep down. 

A monster.

One much greater, and much scarier, than anything you could ever come close to rivalling. 

However, as you turned to go back inside, moving frozen limbs in a mechanical dance towards the door, something simmered. It lurched its tentacles to your mind once more, pushing down the fear one final time; fighting every adrenal instinct and crying out in a last stand.

Spite. 

Maybe you assumed you were safe. 

That you hadn’t gotten as close as you thought, that there was still breathing room for a final, lasting, remark. 

One look back. 

Two words. 

Three mistakes.

“I. Won.” 

The light in Masky’s room flicked to life.

The light in Jeff’s eyes faded to a dull grey. 

And that was all it took. 

In an instant, he lurched forwards, grasping your wrist in a bruising grip.

You didn't even have the luxury of time to react as he stalked towards the edge of the garden, his strides quick and powerful, only looking back to revel in your fear. And revel he did, for when wide, terrified eyes met his own, it only filled him with the urge to continue; the urge to push further, just as you had so many times before.

He didn’t say anything. 

Only dragged your body as if it was a corpse, one that fought against him with every ounce of strength it had left. 

You didn’t say anything, either. Words were trapped, caged, by the element of surprise.  

He turned his steely gaze ahead once more, stepping into the forest and pulling you through with a harsh tug. 

“Keep that silence for me, bitch. I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ word.”

A low whisper. 

Unfortunately for him though, Jeff never got what he wanted, for his words seemed to jolt you back to the present; the reminder of who you were rippling through each and every inch of your body. 

“Jeff! The fuck are you d-” 

A hand, cold, rough, stifled the words penetrating dead air. Meanwhile, a blade, sharpened and wanting, found its way to soft flesh, resting firmly atop it. The tree was next— it’s harsh bark colliding with the thin cotton of your night-shirt, trapping you. 

“I said, be fucking quiet. You an idiot? You wanna be fuckin’ mauled?” He hissed.  

A slow shake of the head. Narrowed eyes. 

“Thought so.” He looked around then, eyes dancing in the darkness for signs of life. After a tense moment, hot breath graced your ear, trickling down your neck and prickling every hair in its wake. “So shut the fuck up. You’ll have plenty of time to scream once we get there. But do us both a fuckin’ favour, and be quiet for now, got it?” 

A sinister smirk.

A nod.

A palpitation. 

Then a shiver of disgust. 

He moved his hands, leading a now silent, but resisting corpse further into the dense woodland. All the while, you begged to ignore the feeling; to overlook the way your heart rate increased the moment he neared, put aside the fact your chest instinctively leant towards his as if it was born to do so. You pleaded with a phantom god, to tune out the faint sense of desire born only from a single spark. 

Because it was wrong. 

Because you were scared.

Because you hated him.

Even more so as he tugged your arm harshly, a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth in a muted tone. 

You refused to acknowledge it any further.  

Instead, eagle eyes scanned the surroundings, watching for any sense of movement that was out of the ordinary. 

Jeff stalked ahead, your wrist clasped tightly between his fingers with a stinging grip, tugging as if you were a dog on a leash. 

You had a good idea of where he was taking you. 

The safe house. 

Nestled deep in the centre of the woods, this place was a refuge for those caught in this treacherous landscape after the sun had escaped into the horizon; a place to hide out until morning from the hellish monsters that prowled beyond its doors. This was the intended purpose, of course, but it was used for other things too:

When people wanted to be alone,

When people wanted to talk without having eavesdroppers, 

When people wanted to fight,

When people wanted to fuck. 

You swallowed, almost tripping over a thick root. 

Jeff spent a lot of his time in the little cabin, mostly when things had gotten too much back at the house, or he had landed himself in a messy situation with the higher ups. From your place on the second floor, which looked out into the thick forest, it was often you caught him stalking out into the dreadful environment, whiskey bottle in hand. 

You grilled him about it. 

Countless times. 

Asked him why, why he went there alone to drown his sorrows, why he skulked off in the middle of the night. 

He obviously refused to answer. 

But you had a feeling.

A feeling then, and a feeling now—

You were going to find out.

You were right. 

The cabin emerged slowly out of the thicket, surrounded by bushels of leaves. 

Jeff, wasting no time, paced towards it, hauling your body up the decaying steps and onto the decking. 

Then, with one large push, the door flung open. 

A shove had you staggering inside. 

He followed,

turned, 

then bolted the door shut. 

And there you both stood, treading water in an ocean of darkness, broken only by sporadic rays of moonlight dripping through the clouded, dusty windows. 

One foot tread backwards, mirrored by one stepping forward. 

Hearts raced. Pulses quickened. A mirror of reactions, yet both for different reasons. 

“J-Jeff. What the fuck are you doing?”

You didn’t know whether it was the cold, finally managing to get through to an adrenalised body, or the terror, coursing through each vein and rooting you to the ground—- but the words came out stuttered. Forced. Scared. 

He only chuckled. 

“Something I should’ve done a long fuckin’ time ago.”

The floorboards creaked. 

Further away to where you last remembered Jeff standing. 

“…Masky will find out, you know. They all will. And Toby… Toby won’t forgive you.” 

Picking out which feeling was most overwhelming became impossible. Thoughts raced, emotions ranged, flipping between fear, anger, resentment… and something else.

Jeff hesitated. Another long creak echoed against the wooden walls, his next step drawn out, as if to haunt you further. 

“You don’t think I thought of that?” He smiled; It was audible. “There’s a fuckin’ reason I waited until Mr.Perfect was in his room.” 

“What?’ 

A ruthless growl of a laugh. 

“You think he pays any attention to the shit going on outside, when he’s away in his room of personal torture? Nah-“

Another step forwards. 

Another creak.

He was close now. 

“The guy’s too wrapped up in self pity. Drowning in bottles of pills, looking over photo albums, you know— that sorta stuff. Wouldn’t even occur to him to look outside. Not when he’s alone.” 

You shrunk away, feet hitting the opposing wall with a thunk. 

You were trapped.

Cornered.

Alone.

And all at once the realisation dawned, 

This was why Jeff liked the cabin. 

Because It was isolated. 

Quiet. 

Hidden. 

The idea of anyone coming to the rescue, slipped away with the howling winds. 

“And, Toby?…”

A knife shot out, splitting the wood beside your head as it brought with it your aggressor, hand strained around the hilt. On the opposite side, his nails dug into the panels. 

“Now, who the fuck is gonna tell him, princess?’ 

The knife was retrieved with ease, and instead traversed the length of the wall, before resting underneath your chin. 

Jeff tilted it upright, forcing you to look at him. 

Spit turned to ash.

You couldn’t see him. But he made sure you knew he was there. 

Looking down. Enjoying it. 

“Well? Come on, use your words, who?” 

“… Fuck you.” 

The words ran free before you could stop them. And with a short grunt, he pressed the tip of the knife further into your skin.

“Don’t fuckin’ start.” A drawn out sigh. “Fine. Since you’re too fuckin’ stupid to string a damn sentence together, I’ll answer for you.”

He leant closer then, chest pressed against chest with a suffocating force, lips gracing your ear. 

“No one. Not me, and sure as shit, not you. No one will tell him. No one… will ever fuckin’ know.”

His breath lingered in short, sporadic pants. It was as if he still held back a monster, one that beat mercilessly upon his castle walls and yowled before the gates.

One he was failing to contain. 

Jeff’s fingers trembled around the hilt of the knife.

What followed was a moment of quiet. A silent pause in the charged atmosphere, where the creaks and groans of the outside world seemed nothing more than an exit melody.

Thoughts once cast out by adrenaline cut through once again, unfortunately taking refuge in the stillness.  

You fought them. 

Because they were wrong. 

Because it was him—

And he was about to kill you. 

Fighting could’ve worked, if you’d had a weapon. But left forgotten on the night shelf, your knife remained a taunting reminder of the fact you’d rushed outside without a second thought— save for one. 

The thought of embarrassing Jeff.  

And look at all the good that it did you now. 

You couldn’t take him without a weapon, either; In one on one combat, he beat you every time— and he had an advantage. 

It was over. 

You were going to die. 

You swallowed, the knife’s edge moving as your jaw hardened. 

The faint flame of desire, the one that trembled in the winds of his closeness, grew brighter. It swallowed the initial match, almost burning down to the pale fingertips which held it. 

You put it aside. 

“I fucking hate you.” 

He smiled, retreating slightly, only to run his cold fingertips through your hair. Then in one swift motion he grabbed a fistful, eliciting a sharp whine. Jeff chuckled lowly, a sound more akin to a growl than a laugh. 

“Good. Because I fuckin’ hate you too.” 

Your sudden twisted smile met him in a standoff. Fight or flight, you supposed. 

“So, so what’s your plan, huh? Kill me, leave my body outside, tell the others I’d been eaten by seed-eater? Lie and say you were too far away to help? Or is that excuse too overused by now? Whatever it is, fucking hurry up and get on with it.”

Jeff’s hand retreated, instead finding your wrist and pressing it against the wood. 

With one sentence, everything changed. 

“Who said anything about killing?” 

His breathing, rugged and unkempt, slowed; his words once controlled and calm, sounded staggered and strained. 

“…what?”

There it was again. That silence. That pressure. 

The match, now burnt entirely, still held a flame; It simmered for a while longer, before the hand that held it tight let go.

And from there it fell into a pit. 

A pit filled with years of stockpiled fuel, waiting for something to ignite it. 

A pit filled with venom. 

In a mere moment everything caught alight, creating a blaze so intense it took over every thought and feeling. It controlled each action, like you were a puppet on a string. 

With your one free hand, you threw it around Jeff’s neck and dragged him close, lips crashing into his with a starved hunger. He groaned before dropping his knife in surprise, deciding instead to rest a callous hand around your neck. 

He pushed you back, smiling as you both took in a breath. 

“Turns out you’re not as fuckin’ stupid as you look.” 

It was an insult. But you didn’t care. Thoughts had long escaped you, now all that remained was hatred and desire, mixed into a perfect cocktail. 

“Yeah?” You hummed. 

“Yeah.” He replied. 

A beat of silence followed. 

Then, as if no time had passed, his lips met yours once more.

He hummed between gasps, strong hands feeling around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pushing you further against the wall. Legs then curled around his abdomen instinctively, a stark heat boiling in your core. 

“Don’t get it twisted. I still-“ a gasp followed, as he bit down on your lip. “-I still fucking hate you.”

 You felt the grin as it crept upon his face. 

“Good. You should. Wanna know why?” ***

His body shook as he tore away from you, chuckling whilst you dropped to the floor.

Wincing, glaring, eyes holding a feverish hunger, you responded. 

“Why?” 

He crouched low, retrieving the knife that had clattered to the ground in surprise, then brought it to your chin. 

“Because… you’re not off the fuckin’ hook just yet.” 

Blood raced through each vein. Meanwhile, Jeff moved closer, his calloused hands finding their way underneath your thin nightshirt and coming to rest on your underwear. With a soft but firm caress, he had your legs trembling. 

“What do you mean off the hoo-“ 

A weaponised hand clasped over your mouth, whilst the other pressed firmly on your clit. 

“You think that because you’re gonna open your pretty legs for me, I’ll let you off, just like that? You really think your pussy is good enough for that, bitch?” 

Eyes pleading, chest heaving, you whimpered. 

You fucking whimpered. 

Because everything within you had been turned on its head. 

He laughed in response, callous, cold, cruel, before freeing your mouth.

Then with a snarl, he cut away your underwear. 

The cold air was a shock as it hit your pussy, now slick with your own arousal. But Jeff wasted no time in letting his hand explore it, his other dropping the knife and slithering up to tangle in messy strands of hair. 

“No. It’s not good enough.” He grinned, leaning closer. “But it sure as shit makes it easier to forgive.” You glared at him, body tensing as you tried to fight the embarrassment. His next sentence did nothing to alleviate it, either. ”Jesus you’re fuckin’ soaked.” He purred, fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your messy cunt. “And you’re supposed to hate me. How fuckin’ embarrassing.”

“S-shut the fuck up” You whined, angry, humiliated, twitching. 

He merely scoffed, grinning at your words and leaning close, hot breath leaving shivers in its wake.  

“Watch your fuckin’ tone.” 

You eyed him. Body betraying each hateful thought with a jolt, only furthering your want for more. 

“Here’s how it’s gonna work, sweetheart.”

His hand slowly trailed towards your entrance, bringing your slick with it. 

“I’m going to teach you a lesson,” He teased then, keeping a thumb trained on your clit whilst letting two fingers caress your folds. Hands gripped his hoodie, body shuddering. 

“I’m gonna show you exactly how it feels,” A sharp breath. A whine. Fingers barely slipping into your warmth. “When you fuck with me. When you drive me to the damn edge,” His grip on your hair tightened, only amplifying the desperate need for him to go deeper. “And then fuckin’ smile about it.” 

Your warmth took his fingers to the hilt. 

And as he began to move, harsh and rough, you became a moaning, whining, mess; the pleasure was overwhelming, even from just his hands working in tandem. Then came the bites, fierce, harsh, unforgiving, leaving teeth marks trickling with blood. You could do nothing more than cry into the chest of his hoodie whilst he cradled you on the ground, lurching over you like a predator feasting on its hard earned prey. 

“You should be counting yourself lucky” He growled, his voice low, sadistic, enjoying every second of your unravelment.

“A lot of fuckers have done way less,” he let out a shaky huff, his own arousal culminating in his jeans, amplified by the slick coating his fingertips. “And come out of it way worse.”

The words elicited a spike of fear, yet that only amplified the experience. 

Your self control was long gone. Your body thrummed with excitement, grinding into his fingers and milking them for all their worth. 

He laughed, releasing his grip on your scalp to grope harshly at your clothed tits. “So I guess being a whore worked out, huh?” 

Deep down, a part of you wanted to lash out at him, to spit in his face, to tell him to go fuck himself— all because he called you a whore. 

But you couldn’t.

Because you enjoyed it far too much. 

As soon as the words left his mouth, your back arched, moans catching in your throat and turning into nothing but silence. In turn, his hands moved faster, desperate, frantic, forcing an orgasm to the surface quicker than anyone could have imagined. 

He grinned. “Really? That fast? Pathetic”

He increased the already mind numbing pace. Nails reached up, digging into his neck, and with a growl he shook them off. The pressure suddenly building within was too much to bear, so overwhelming and begging to be let out. 

“Jeff, wait, I’m-“ 

“you’re…? Go on, say it. I wanna hear it. Beg me, and I might let you.”

Your face flushed red, heart pounding in your chest as the moans became too fast and frantic to be consistent. 

“Please, I’m going to come, please let me co-“ 

Then everything stopped.  

His fingers retreated. 

His body moved away. 

And what they left behind, was a trembling pathetic mess shuddering on the floor of the cabin. Gasps, stuttered words, sounds of confusion, all escaped your mouth within a matter of seconds as you grasped at him. 

Jeff started to laugh, before uttering a lone phrase. 

‘You to take me to the fuckin’ edge… and then smile about it.” 

His laugh continued. Even as you pushed against him, angry fists beating down on his chest but garnering no reaction at all, he cackled.

Then in an instant, it was as if a switch had been flipped. Hands grasped at your throat, and as you struggled to breathe, pussy throbbing from the lack of touch, he leant close. 

“That’s, what it fuckin’ feels like,” 

He let you gasp for air a moment longer. 

“When you’re a bitch. I want you to remember this, every fuckin time you decide to test me. Every time you say something, do something, cause something, and then smile— remember this moment. Got it babe?” 

A frantic nod. Gasps for air. A low hum. 

“Good. Now stand the fuck up.” 

You stood, choking, gulping down oxygen like a lunatic. 

Jeff stumbled somewhere in the darkness, obviously knowing the layout by heart, before a beam of light finally battled against the shadows. A small camping torch sat on the nearby table, silhouetting Jeff as he faced it.

The table creaked as the man turned around, then leant against the wood. 

“Come h-…”

Jeff hesitated for a moment, drinking in the sight of you bathed in low light, desperate, wanting, broken. It fuelled the fire in him; the very same fire that had brought you both here in the first place. His cock throbbed with want, with need.

Jeff turned away from you again, barely managing to contain himself. 

“C’mere, now.” He spat.

But you didn’t listen.

Instead, your eyes remained glued to something highlighted by the blue tinge of the camping torch.

His knife.

Laid forgotten on the ground. 

Eyes floated towards Jeff slowly as you moved. 

Then his appearance fully took hold; he looked as freaky as he normally did, sure— but the way his back rose and fell, the trembling of his hand, the sweat gracing his neck, his strained grunts— all painted a picture of something so desirable that it only cemented your want for him.

But this was not going to happen in the way he pictured.

Not now, 

Not after that. 

You didn’t know where the new-found confidence came from—- whether it was the frustration of a denied orgasm, or the false confidence of obtaining a weapon, or maybe you just remembered who you were. 

You weren’t some helpless girl, who bowed to his every whim. You were here for a reason. You lived here, for a reason. 

He was a monster, sure. A terrifying one, at that.

But so were you.

“Hey, are you fuckin’ listening? I said come here. Don’t make me fuckin’ ask-“ 

The words were cut off. Trapped, by the feeling of his own knife pressed harshly against his neck. Your words came next, whispered over his shoulder, hot breath just gracing his ear. 

“I’ve got a better idea.” 

He shuddered. He could get out of this, he thought—- but not without damage; not without ending up in Jack’s care. He’d win, but at what cost? 

Not to mention part of him wanted to see where this went, where your little attack would lead. 

His cock strained against his jeans, the material clinging to his legs and almost suffocating him. 

The man raised his pale hands, slowly. 

“What the fuck are you doing.” He stated, low, shuddery.

You smirk, knees trembling with anticipation, heart racing. 

“You’re not the only one here, who has fucking issues.” You press the knife harder into his neck before continuing. “You’ve shown me how you feel, now it’s my turn to show you.” 

Jeff paused, his hands lowering, shoulders slumping as breaths escaped in quick succession. 

He could end this. He could. He was far stronger than you.

But he didn’t want to. 

Because he couldn’t deny the ache in his groin that was growing more and more pertinent by the second; the way it throbbed, leaking with excitement. He couldn’t deny the way his heart rate spiked, nor the way his fingers flexed in anticipation. 

He couldn’t ignore the fact he still wanted you. 

Like this.

He’d let the scene play out for now, pride battling with internal instincts that screamed for him to be the one on top—- for him to be the one with power. But he’d let you get your way,  then take back control when you were least expecting it. 

Atleast, that’s what he told himself. 

“Lie down.” You spat, ripping him from an internal monologue. 

He smiled then, letting out a nervous hum of laughter. 

Your eyes, heavy with lust, stalked him as he retreated from the table, steadily treading over to the tattered couch nearby— all the while, you kept his knife trained against skin. Your core throbbed, wanting, begging for more, needing to be touched once again; the feeling only worsening when he sat down, his chest heaving, cheeks flushed a deep red. 

You kept the knife still, yet hopped effortlessly over the back of the couch, crawling over to his lap. You said nothing. Instead, simply straddled his thighs with your own, pressing the weapon harder into his skin as you neared. 

“Take them off, Jeff.”

The man stalled. His heart raced. His expression faltered, but slowly, nervously, he shifted. Lifting you up with ease as you sat on his hips, he shuffled down his Jeans and freed his length, before resting on the couch again.

He should’ve had something to say. Something to bite back against your tone. But nothing was coming to mind. 

He only stared at you. 

With a mixture of awe, and absolute hatred. Admiration and arousal; disdain and frustration. 

“Now.” You uttered, tracing your free hand down his face, watching his expressions react to the touch. Meanwhile, slowly, you shifted, hovering over the bare length which almost reached his navel. Gently you ground against it, liquid arousal coating it entirely as his back arched in response—- calloused hands grasping at the cushions beside him with a groan. 

“Here’s how it’s going to work” 

The words were a mockery of his, and with a cruel smile, you brought a cold thumb to his lips, jutting it inside and capturing his jaw between your fingertips. His eyes grew wide as you kept his lips parted. 

His inner conflict spiralled. 

He’d take back control soon, right? 

Because he fucking hated you, as much as you hated him. 

He wanted to destroy you. 

So why was he continuing to let you steal the power from him?

You pulled him close by his Jaw. 

“I’m going to show you,” You ground hard against his length then, eliciting a shuddery moan, and panting gasps. The feeling was immense, overwhelming, and after a soft series of breaths, you spoke again.“I’m going to show you exactly why I hate you. Why I grew to hate you.” You grinned, letting go of his jaw and capturing him in a rough kiss, hand flying to tangled strands of hair and grabbing them in a fistful. 

He whined into it. 

Jeff the fucking killer, whined into your kiss. 

You couldn’t hide the grin that jumped into your features after the soft noise escaped his lips. 

He couldn’t hide the shame he felt, his anger bubbling beneath the surface, subdued by a want for more. His hand reached out, grasping your hips with an inhuman strength— then pushed you down further against cock, his hips jutting, swallows strained. 

You pulled back, grasping his cheeks in a firm grip. 

“You don’t move until I fucking tell you to move, got it?” 

He stared, wide eyed. 

His emotions failed to make sense; he wanted to kill you—- now more than ever. 

But instead, he nodded.

You smirked, yet your own heat was becoming equally as overwhelming. With a shuddery breath, you raised from his hips, lining him against your entrance. 

But you wouldn’t let him inside. Not yet. 

Not until he begged. 

You lingered there. 

“When you first arrived here,” You begin pushing down slightly, as his chest jerks. “I wanted nothing more than to get along with you. Remember that?” 

This time Jeff actually had something to say.

”Yeah, you were pathetic. Even brought me a damn-“ He interrupts himself with a sharp gasp, followed by a whimper. You’d shifted away slightly. It worked in getting him to shut up. 

His face crumpled, beet red.

”Yeah. It was. And you only made it worse.” Your own legs were failing you now, begging to give in, begging to lower yourself and chase a much needed release. But you persisted, your slick pooling on him. Your breath hitched. “You never stopped. You took my kindness, and you tortured me with it, forever harassing me, never giving up,” You grabbed a fistful of his hoodie, bringing him near. “And do you remember what you said, Jeff? When I came to talk to you about it. When I wanted it all to stop.” 

Jeff swallowed. His dick twitched. 

He did. 

The implication of it hit him no sooner, knowing what was about to happen. His face twisted into what can only be described as pure dread. 

He struggled, yet you kept him caged with one flick of your hips. 

“You said that I needed to beg. To get down on the floor, and beg. Beg for you to stop.” 

Jeff shook his head, his chest heaving. 

He couldn’t beg. He wouldn’t beg. 

But when you let go of his hoodie, letting a hand fall beneath your legs to appease the lewd need for him, he caved. 

He didn’t know why. But he caved. 

“S-so.” You grinned, letting breathy moans escape into the tense atmosphere. 

“Beg. Beg, and I’ll sit down.” 

His response was quick. It surprised even him, as the words left his lips without so much as a second thought. 

“God fuckin’ dammit, please, sit down, holy fuck-“ 

“Louder.” You interrupted him, a sadistic chuckle paired with the phrase. “Fucking scream it.” 

His voice, choked up, followed soon after— much louder than last time. 

“S-sit the fuck down, please, I’m damn fuckin’ beggin’, god, sit the fuck down. Plea-“ 

And with a devilish grin, you finally obliged, his thick girth sinking into your warmth and trapping any sense of sound escaping the man’s lips. 

It was damn near euphoric. 

The two of you let out shuddery whines, gasps, your free hand falling to his chest as your grasp around the knife trembled. Jeff was still almost silent, the only noise present in the short gasps that escaped his lips; he could feel everything, the way you clenched around him, the way your legs shook, the way your head rolled back as you began to move. The man clasped his weathered hands to your hips, letting out an almost disbelieving whine after each bounce. 

Meanwhile, you were losing control. After every rock forwards, each harsh slap of your ass against his thighs, each time his dick hit that sweet spot over and over and over again— your will to keep your head held high was beginning to falter. So much so that after a short while you leaned forwards, threading a hand down to your clit as you rocked against him. Then you rested your head against his. He didn’t fight it. Instead, he lifted a trembling hand, running it through your hair and grasping it tightly. 

“H-hey, bitch,” He uttered, his throat letting out a low groan. “Your little act is starting to slip.” Although the growing urge to submit to your whims remained—confusingly—- in tact, one fact proved true: 

This was Jeff. 

And you were never going to have him under complete control. 

Not in a million years. 

His psyche just couldn’t handle it. 

The defiant words were paired with a low chuckle. His hazy eyes scanned your face for a response, an indication that he was in trouble, but he found nothing. Nothing, except that is, for a weak point.

You were already losing yourself. 

You should’ve grabbed him by his hair, whispered in his ear that if he ever spoke out of turn again? You’d stop. But instead: 

“F-fuck you,”

The words were bitter. Intertwined between moans which only became louder, hips which only moved faster. 

As if awakened by the phrase, something started to creep up on Jeff, something that had been temporarily subdued by his need to be inside you so desperately. 

Anger. 

Fuelled by the words that were spoken to him, the position he was in, the way you made him act, even for a short time. 

The way you made him feel weak.

He’d given up control voluntarily, sure— but enough was enough. 

He gripped your thigh with one hand, teeth gritted and breaths escaping in rugged gasps, then used all of his force to thrust up into you; his other still tangled deeply in strands of hair. Your grip on the knife loosened, as a knot in the pit of your stomach began to tighten, an unbearable heat brimming at the surface. 

You tried to regain control at least a little— pressing your free hand to his chest, but he merely fought through it, forcing you to give in. The man continued to relentlessly abuse your insides, grinning as he felt the knife loosen from his throat, tumbling to the ground and clattering against the wooden panels. 

He figured he’d let you finish this time. 

And you did. Coming so hard against him that it left your body a trembling, shaking mess— slick pooling on his stomach as your thighs clenched around his, head aimed at the sky. He grinned, watching you with heavy lidded eyes, his sinister intent surging the moment you came down from your high. 

You lifted your hands to your face, taking deep breaths.

Then paused. 

Slowly, you lowered them, staring at the man beneath you— realising something. 

You’d dropped the knife. 

He grinned. 

In an instant, he lifted you from his thighs, cock slipping out of you and hitting his stomach with a slap. Then he carried you towards the table, throwing you down against it with a clatter and grabbing a fistful of hair, pulling your face up to meet his. 

“Playtime’s fuckin’ over.” 

He didn’t take long to line up again, and you— too fucked out and swimming in a post orgasm haze— did nothing to fight him. Not even when he grabbed an arm, twisting it behind your back and holding it there, whilst burying himself to the hilt. 

The pace wasn’t soft, gentle, no, the moment he felt you clench around him, it was full speed ahead; animalistic grunts, curses under his breath, like a feral monster chasing nothing but his own release. It didn’t take long before your body writhed underneath him; it took every thrust with a sharp moan, raised its legs to hook around the backs of his thighs, surged with excitement. 

Your rational thought had been cast to the wind. Because the feeling was more than overwhelming. 

It was almost addictive. 

He dropped your hair then, in favour of slapping your ass, and before you knew that familiar tension began to build; he seemed to notice, almost cackling as he belted out a laugh. 

“Hates me so much, but wants to come twice on my cock? Startin’ to think you’re full of shit, whore.”

He matched it with another deep thrust, grunting as he grabbed your hip with a free hand, the other still pressing you firmly into the table.

You said nothing, only glancing at him with clouded eyes, mouth open wide and gasping for air. 

He grinned. 

“Beg.” 

The word slipped out through staggered breaths. Yet were too fucked out to acknowledge them. 

“Beg.” He spat, firmer, matching it with a harsh smack. 

You did just that. 

You begged for him to let you finish, screaming his name over, and over, and over, free-hand grasping at the panels of the table. 

He snarled, satisfied. 

“Cum then, slut.” 

Then, for the second time, you were coming— and all he could do was laugh. Laugh as you shook, as you milked against his cock as it drove into you, as you gasped for air. He soon stopped; twitching as you rode through your high, shuddering when he felt himself nearing his own release. He let go of your wrist to grip you by the back of the neck, pulling you upright then hooked an arm around it in a chokehold. 

Your eyes rolled, letting out sharp, desperate, whines as he grasped at your tits. 

“Fuck,” Jeff rasped, groaning into your shoulder before biting down harshly. 

You cried out. 

Only for it to send Jeff completely over the edge, his body tensing, his arm flexing and choking out any form of air. His hips jutted to chase his fleeting orgasm, as he filled you in entirety, the hot liquid already escaping down your thighs. 

You both remained for a moment, his arms loosened, his chin rested by your neck. 

A heart beat passed. 

Breaths slowed to a halt. 

Then, the air was still. 

The gravity of what you had just done hit you both like a ten tonne truck, mowing over any sense of life in the room.

It only brought with it a thick sense of dread.  

Jeff was the first to move. Silent, hesitant, pulling out of you with a crude ‘pop’ before treading over to the couch. Clothing shuffled as he grabbed his jeans from the ground. 

You had yet to shift, eyes glassy and clouded over, staring at a distant point on the wall; even though your lips spoke, it’s as if you weren’t even saying the words. 

“Nobody hears about this Jeff.” You swallowed. “No one.” 

A moment of silence passed, before Jeff responded. 

“Yeah, I know. Not one fuckin’ soul.” 

-

Over the next week, everyone could tell something had changed.

The house was now eerily quiet; the violent arguments that once adorned its halls in excess now simply ceased to exist. There were still chitters, still disagreements, still conversations which got loud—- but they weren’t one sided screaming matches. They weren’t altercations which ended in one party being dragged off screaming, whilst the other stood there smiling. 

They weren’t between you and Jeff. 

Toby was the first to notice something was up, and you had expected no less from him. 

It started with the subtleties; First, you couldn’t give him a straight answer on what took you so long to get inside that night. Second, every time Jeff passed by in the hall, Toby looked at you expectantly, faltering when the man passed you both without a hitch on multiple occasions. Third, the moment you sat amongst Jeff and the others at the dining table a few days later; not a single foul word was said between either of you.

It all came to a head, when Jeff took your seat on the couch.

Toby knew the perpetrator was in for a rough time then; witnessing time and time again the passive aggressive, sweet-sounding, psychological remarks that would roll off your tongue in quick succession whenever it had happened before. 

Yet, 

When you entered the room… 

Jeff moved. 

He said nothing. He rose from his seat, cleared his throat, then sat somewhere else. 

You didn’t acknowledge him either. Instead, you flopped down into the seat that was previously being kept warm, then closed your eyes. 

And that is what alerted the others. 

That’s when they knew for sure, something had changed— but nobody could figure out exactly what. Hushed conversations followed your form everywhere, hiding behind closed doors and happening when they thought nobody could hear. 

“Those two confuse me, Jane. One minute they’re at each other's throats, the next? They’re strangers.”

”Maybe they came to an agreement, Jack. Or maybe they got bored of tormenting each other. As you know, Nina and I had a feud with him for many years, and after a while, the aggression became exhausting. That doesn’t mean their feelings have lessened, though. Ours haven’t.”

Each time you heard their twisted theories, it only made the fear of being found out fester; only made your ears hypersensitive to the sound of whispers. Your heart stopped the time Ben hit the nail on the head.

”Maybe they hate fucked. I dunno. I’ve seen it works.” 

“No, y-you’ve ‘seen’, it works, in f-fucking p-porn. It d-doesn’t work like t-that in r-reality.” 

Luckily, he’s a known pervert, so nobody took him seriously. 

Toby pulled you aside on every free moment he had, to poke holes in your lies. But you wouldn’t let up, no matter how hard he tried. 

Besides, by the time he’d even gotten to that stage, you’d long since figured out an alibi. 

“I don’t know where Jeff went, why would I care? I went to the safe house, I needed some time alone. When I got there, I fell asleep after getting cosy. Then, I came back.” 

You heard through the grape-vine that Jeff said he went for a walk; he could fend for himself in the woods, so the excuse was plausible. You hadn’t spoken to him about it directly though, In fact, you hadn’t spoken to him at all since that night—- 

Until now. 

A lit cigarette dances between your fingertips, blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders, as you sit on a garden chair. 

Jeff leans back into a different seat, fingers tapping away at the metal as smoke curls into his mouth. 

An empty pack of Marlboro reds lies discarded nearby. 

You’d come out here to smoke, to get away from the whispers that wouldn’t cease inside the house. 

He’d come out here before you, to stare at the sky. 

And now, after sharing the last pack of cigs you own over brief small talk, you sit here, silently.

Together. 

The quiet lingers for a good while. The trees groan in discontent. 

Then, Jeff stands.

He tosses an extinguished cig to the ground. 

He rolls his shoulders. 

Then slowly walks to the edge of the forest… 

and stops. 

He turns his head. 

You meet his gaze, the blanket slowly falling from your shoulders as you come to a stand. 

You see, throughout this past week, there has been something else happening in your mind; a realisation. 

You hate the stares, the theories, the whispers— the fear of being found out. 

But not… 

Jeff. 

Because since that night, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him; fingers delve between your thighs each time you get into bed, imagining it happening all over again, frame by frame. 

Little do you know, he’d been doing the same. 

You meet him at the edge of the forest. 

He grins, letting out a breathy chuckle. 

“Thought so.”

𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒖𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒆. 𝑺𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒄? 𝒐𝒉 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒉, 𝒏𝒐, 𝟏𝟏𝒌 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆. FUCKIN HESUS CHRISTE.

[tartarusknight]

I want more platonic stobin and bisexualy disaster Steve and gay disaster Eddie in my life. So I wrote some :)

Steve wanted to scream as he tried the handle again. "Steve. Steve!" Robin pulled him away from the door. "They aren't opening the door, and you're just gonna break the handle. Keith already hates your guts. Don't make it worse." She pointed out, weirdly calm about all of this. "Plus, it's not like we don't share space normally." She says and sinks down to the floor, tugging him down with her.

Steve looked at the door, "Why can't they accept that we're only ever going to be platonic?" He asks and runs a ran through his hair. He was sick of this. Of the comments and the teasing. It stresses him out.

They kept pushing the two of them together, and Steve was worried that it could mess up what friendship he had with Robin. Because Steve's used to messing up and hurting someone, and he really doesn't want to hurt Robin. He has nightmares of outing her by accident and ruining her life. It terrifies him.

"Steve, come on, it's okay. It's just a stupid bathroom. We've shared a bathroom stall. This is bigger than that." She jokes, and he pulls his knees up to his chest.

"I can't do this, Rob." He admits and watches her freeze. Her walls climbed up like he said something really stupid. "I'm sorry, but I'm just-"

She cuts him off, "I get it. You don't want to deal with the backlash of being a lesbian's friend." She says, and he blinks.

"What? No! I don't want to say the wrong thing. I get bitchy when I'm annoyed and I'm easily annoyed when I'm stressed. And I'm stressed! So I don't - I can't be the one to out you. I can't mess that up for you." He says, and it's nice to finally admit his fears.

Robin blinks at him, "That's what- Steve, that's what bothers you about all this?"

Steve nods, "I mess up everything I touch. I can't do that to you, I won't do that to you. Honestly, you should probably find better friends. One who thinks with his brai-"

"Shut up." Robin snaps, and he stops speaking. Looking at her with wide eyes. "You can't talk about my best friend that way. I won't let you," She states.

"You're best friend?"

Her eyes soften, "yeah dingus. Who else would be my best friend? We're soulmates," She decides, and he's confused because she sounds like she means it. "Platonic, with a capital p, soulmates."

He swallows back a ball of emotion, "even if all the kids I babysit-"

"Mother."

"Babysit," he stresses, and she smiles. "Try to get us together at every opportunity and won't believe that we aren't in love. Or that I'm in love with you at the least. I think you're better off because you call me dingus more than my name," he mused.

Robin sighed, "I won't say that it's not annoying. But I'm used to dodging questions about boys, and this way... with you, I have someone to be myself with. That's more important to me than some stupid preteens who think locking us in a bathroom would get us together."

Steve smiles, "last time we shared a bathroom did go pretty well, honestly." She knocked her knee into his. He glanced over at the door. "Do you think they'll give up?"

Robin snorts, "Dustin's more invested in your love life than you are. I don't think he'll give up unless you're dating someone else or the truth comes out."

Steve sighed, chewing his lower lip until something clicked in his head. "What If I come out?"

Robin blinked, "you- what?"

Steve nodded, "I mean I like both but I could just say I favor guys." He shrugs, "it's not like they could disprove it since it's mostly true."

Robin stared at him, "Steve... since when did you- what? Steve oh my god," She shifted onto her knees and slammed into him. "Since fucking when! Why didn't you ever tell me!"

Steve raised an eyebrow, "what do you mean since when? I literally point out hot guys all the time! When we watched watched Rocky Horror, I said Tim Curry was sexy!"

She shook his shoulders, "you did no such thing! You ask if I also think a guy is hot and you said- oh." It clicks for her and she falls back on her ass. She covers her face, "holy shit."

Steve smirks, "holy shit."

A giggle escapes her lips, "you so have a type."

"Shut up," he groans.

But before they can really dig into it, there's a loud knock on the door. "We're gonna open the door in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!" The door swings in a Dustin's hand is over his eyes like he's gonna be scarred at the sight of them.

"We're literally just sitting on the floor Henderson. Not having freaky bathroom sex," Steve rolls his eyes and stands, Robin following suit.

Dustin looks upset like he expect his plan to work. "I don't get it." Steve ruffles his hair as he passes the kid. Robin lets out a small laugh as she stretches her limbs like she had been stuck in there for more than just 15 minutes. Steve turns, and she locks eyes with him, a silent question.

"Kid, I've said this a million times, but I'll say it one more time." He glances at the other kids that had either always been there or gotten here at some point since he'd been locked into the bathroom. "Robin and I will never date. She and I have no romantic feelings for each other. And if you pull this shit when we're at work again, I'll kill you."

"It's not like it was hard to figure out how to check someone out," Max shrugged and Steve huffed at her nonchalant grin from behind the counter.

Steve ushers the kids out from behind the counter before taking his normal spot, looking around at the empty store. Robin moves and bumps shoulders with him. "Platonic feelings only." She gestures between them.

Dustin groan, "I just don't get why!"

Steve glances at Robin, "because I'm too gay for her." He states and everyone goes quiet. "Honestly boobies are so high school." He winks at Robin who looks at him like he's bravely stupid.

"Wait but you dated Nancy?" Mike questioned arms over his chest.

Steve rolled his eyes, "so? I am more picky on who I date. Doesn't matter the gender. Robin doesn't tick my boxes."

"But she should!" Dustin complains and Robin groans.

But then Steve sees someone in the windows, heading towards the doors to Family video. "My type is more," and he just gestures just as the door dings to call their attention to the newcomer.

Eddie Munson glances at the kids and then at Steve. "Sheepies," he says. Eyebrows raised in confusion at the eyes on him. Eddie glanced at Steve, "Harrington, you break the kids?" He asks as all the kids continue to stare at him as he moves to the horror section.

Steve waves his hand, like he can brush off the confusion. "Nah, they're just shocked that I'm not completely in love with Birdie over here."

Everyone's jaw is on the floor as Steve leans his arms on the counter, not even bothering to hide the way he checks Eddie out when the man looks away. "Right," Eddie sighs and grabs a movie. "Well, not everyone's type is jocks." Eddie teases slightly, having warmed up to Steve little by little when Steve picks the kids up from Hellfire.

Steve takes the movie from Eddie, giving him his one free movie he gets for the week and hands it back to Eddie without charging him. "I'll win ya over." He winks, and Eddie's eyes go a little wide.

Eyes glanced around like he could ask if anyone else saw that. "Um, well, yeah, how-how much for the-"

"Consider it on me." Steve waved his hand and then leaned more into Eddie's space, "I haven't seen this one yet."

Eddie swallows, "You should check it out. It's, uh, pretty good."

Steve smiles, "I'm shit with horror, maybe if I had someone to hold my hand through it." He sighs overdramatically, then snaps, "Oh, I know! If you're not busy we could watch it together. I mean, it seems like a scary metalhead like yourself would be capable of holding my hand through the jump scares."

Eddie's eyes are blinking rapidly, "it's for the boys." He says, looking lost. Steve frowns, and Eddie jumps into action, "But I could-" He stops himself and groans. "I've got to- plans- fuck-" He stumbles and practically smacks into the door in his rush to leave family video.

Steve sighs and leans his head down on the counter. Robin pats his back, "I miss my whiteboard." She sighs and he looks up to glare at her.

[mint-chocolate-flakes]

I think Liir and Callie would’ve been friends

Doodles cuz art block

All I know about Liir is that he got his mom’s bisexuality. Idk how to draw him either

I am also tripping balls rn

[cinnamnt]

BIG BOTTLE ROCKET!

[vaguely-concerned]

tiny animation detail from this scene I really like: rook glances towards the locations of lucanis and bellara's rooms (and possibly where they're most likely to be found in this moment?) respectively when they deliver this line!

(honestly I expect that lucanis is hanging out somewhere other than the pantry during this to give everyone in this unfolding catastrophe some space, but consider: it's so much funnier if he IS sitting in the pantry hearing this all go down on the other side of the wall like

taash stomps in with thunder and trepidation in their eyes like 'hey. I need vegetables. can we make vegetables happen.' and lucanis already handing them a lettuce and tomato like i gotchu fam this is literally the only thing I know how to do for you in this situation go with the maker and these salad ingredients I resignedly already know you'll just put on a plate with no dressing no spices no nothing. just the most sleep deprived caffeinated to the point of vibrating gently in place awkward-yet-painfully-well-meaning man in the world standing there before his friend about to have one of the most difficult conversations of their life like '...can I offer you a turnip in these trying times' while rye desperately treads social water out in the dining room to buy time. amazing. our lives really all do touch each other. headcanon passionately embraced)

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

{ soooo.... @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe reblogged ONE werewolf post and mentioned steddie in the tags and then... this... happened. It was all spur of the moment with no planning so if you see mistakes and/or plot holes... no you don't. 😬💖 }

Warnings: Billy Hargrove, blood, wound tending, violence, if it needs anymore let me know. ✌🏻

🍒🍒🍒

"I'm completely serious." Eddie says, feet kicked up on.... someone's coffee table. He doesn't remember who's party it is. Jeff nods agreeably next to him, sinking further into the couch.

"No. You've gotta be fucking joking. That would not-" Gareth tries to argue. Eddie cuts him off immediately.

"No seriously. I need a werewolf to take one look at me and go 'I'll have that.' Then claim me as their mate and never let me go." Eddie sighs, the hellfire boys erupting in chaos around him.

Normally, Eddie would join in, cause a ruckus. But he'd frozen after he'd spoken. His eyes glued to one Steve Harrington. Who had been taking a drink and promptly choked on said drink, his eyes wide when they landed on Eddie, beer or some other liquid dribbling down his chin as his cheeks flushed.

He was all the way in the kitchen, his friend Robin chattering away next to him, now wiping at his face. There's no way he could have heard Eddie. Not over the music, and the house full of shouting drunken teenagers.

Eddie watches as he finally tears his eyes away. He watches Steve grab Robin's wrist and yank her out of sight. If Eddie's lip reading was as good as it used to be, he'd said something along the lines of: "Robin. We need to go. Now."

But that didn't make any sense. Eddie was just joking. And Steve was all the way in the other room. Eddie sunk down into the couch, ignoring the way his stomach turned when he heard the front door open and close. There was no fucking way he heard him.

No fucking way.

Unless.

~°~

"Steve Harrington. Is not a werewolf. What the fuck are you even saying?" Gareth was nearly yelling now. They'd been having this conversation for almost an hour and it seemed he was at his wits end.

"Yes he is Gare! Yes he is! I would swear on it." Eddie shouts back, pointing at his friend from his position on the floor, his feet up on the couch next to Jeff. His toes wiggling under his arm every now and again to get warm.

"Swear on what!?" Gareth shrieked, his hands flailing into the air next to his head.

"Werewolves aren't real!" His voice is so squeaky now the neighbors dog has started barking.

"Jeff. Eric. You guys really not gonna help me with this?" He begs, holding his hands out to them, pleading.

"I mean..." Eric drawls, scratching at his ear.

"What?" Gareth asks, eyes narrowed.

"Maybe they are.... There was that thing with Chrissy." Eric says, his voice lilting as he looks in Jeff's direction.

"No. No no no no. We are not talking about that again either. Jeff did not see Chrissy Cunningham drinking blood." Gareth huffs, so frustrated now his face is turning red.

"I know what I saw." Jeff says with a shrug, his hand moving to Eddie's calf and rubbing it rapidly, trying to warm his cold leg for him. Eddie smiled at him and then looked back up at Gareth from the floor.

"He knows what he saw Gare. Chrissy is a fucking vampire. And Steve. Steve Harrington is a fucking werewolf. Possibly. The love of my life. Though that may be a tad unlikely. Given that he almost definitely doesn't like boys." Eddie pouts, and then startles when Gareth stomps over to look straight down at him.

"Oh is it? Is it unlikely because he doesn't like boys? Not because there's no such thing as FUCKING WEREWOLVES!?" Gareth full on yells it. His hands fisting in his hair.

"Gareth Eugene!" His mothers voice calls down the stairs.

"Sorry mom!" He yells back, turns on Jeff and Eddie when the laugh.

"It's not fucking funny. This is ridiculous. You're all ridiculous. It's not real. Fuck you guys." He hisses, keeping his voice low. Jeff and Eddie look at each other, then to Eric, all of them smile and shout,

"Gareth Eugene!" In unison. Gareth screams at them, tosses a few empty chip bags at them and throws himself into the emtpy chair next to Eric.

"You all sound, insane. You know that right?" He asks, sounding calm, and genuine again. Eddie shrugs, Eric laughs.

"Maybe you just need to open your mind?" Jeff suggests, brushing chip crumbs from his shirt.

"Open my mind? To vampires and werewolves?" He asks, arms crossed over his chest with a huff.

"Yes. Because if they exist. And mine and Jeff's crushes are one of each. Ugh. Shit." Eddie curses, his shoulder bumping the small table as he rights himself, slides his legs off the couch and kneels by the table instead.

"We could literally live our dreams." Eddie pleads, his fingers laced in front of him.

"Your dream. I don't have a dream about dating a vampire. Just dating Chrissy." He sighs, his eyes going glassy. Eddie waves him off, not even looking at him.

"I could literally live my dream. My dream of having a smoking hot werewolf boyfriend who wants to mark me and breed me and keep me forever." Eddie whines, Eric and Gareth both groaning at Eddie's details. Jeff gives no reaction, lost in  his thoughts about  Chrissy.

"You're crazy man. There are not secret supernatural creatures all over Hawkins. Is the whole basketball team werewolves? Is this fucking Teen Wolf? You think Steve is just gonna wolf out at the next game?" Gareth asks, his voice rising again. Eddie plops down onto his butt, elbows resting on the little table, chin in his hands.

"God that'd be great wouldn't it?" He sighs, eyes focusing over Eric's head like he can see it.

"Hey!" Gareth snaps his fingers in front of Eddie's face.

"Rude." Eddie swats at his hand.

"And who's next? Huh? Tommy and Carol? That dick Hargrove?" Gareth shoves a chip into his mouth chewing angrily. Eddie grimaces.

"Hargrove is not supernatural." Eddie shakes his head.

"He's a supernatural dick. Like... his asshole levels are way off the charts." Jeff chimes in, sinking to the floor next to Eddie and taking a swig of Eddie's mountain dew, Eddie nods in agreement.

"Yeah. He's definitely a peice of shit. But not in a supernatural way. Probably good. Honestly. Can you imagine?" Eddie's nose scrunches before he takes a drink as well. Even Gareth groans in agreement.

It's quiet for a moment. None of them talking. The occasional chip crunching or bag rustling, the pop of a soda can being opened. All of them just sitting, thinking, loudly, but in silence. And then Gareth breaks it, and his steadfast denial of it all.

"Okay. But seriously, if they're were vampires and werewolves in Hawkins we'd know about it! That's not something that could be kept secret." His voice is low now, his eyes moving over the boys around him.

"Is it?" He asks, looking slightly worried.

"I dunno. This town does have a long history of unexplained animal attacks." Eric chimes in, the three other heads in the room turn to look at him, slowly.

"What? I like history." He defends. They all go quiet again, for longer.

Eddie moving a few things here and there on the table. Jeff moving them right back just to frustrate him. Both of them slapping at each other. It devolves into a small wrestling match that Eddie wins by going completely limp on top of Jeff.

"Okay." Gareth breaks the silence again. Eddie and Jeff shuffle around, separating themselves from each other, ending up in the opposite spots as before, they notice, frown at each other, and then shrug, looking to Gareth again.

"Okay?" They ask, at the same time.

"Okay." Gareth nods, but holds his finger up at them. Their brows raised on their foreheads as they wait.

"But Steve Harrington. Is not cool enough. To be a fucking werewolf."

~°~

One week, three days, and ten hours later. The morning after the full moon. Eddie nearly hits Steve Harrington with his van.

Rain is pouring from the sky, his wipers on high, barely helping. He's heading for school, Wayne had sent him off on time after a nice plate of scrambled eggs and toast.

He didn't have any tests or quizzes today. And he'd actually remembered to do his homework. The morning was going well.

That's when the body appeared in the road just past his vision. He slammed on the breaks and had never been so happy that he'd been ripped off and over paid for new breakpads last month. The van skids to a halt, his headlights shining on the person, the naked person, in the road.

"What the fuck?" Eddie breathed. He slammed the van into park, grabbed the keys out, and jumped out into the pouring rain. He stopped, grabbed a blanket out of the back, that normally covered Gareth's drums when they traveled, and ran around the front of the van.

"Holy shit." Eddie felt like he'd been punched.

"Hi Eddie." Steve Harrington, naked, wet, waving up at him with a wiggly fingered wave, and holy shit was that blood.

"Is that blood?" Eddie blurts, his hands already shaking.

"Yeah." Steve says, like it's fine, like it's normal.

"Shit did I hit you?" Eddie falls to his knees, holds the blanet out to Steve. He eyes it, looks back to Eddie.

"You're naked." He says. Steve closes his eyes, sighs.

"Right. Thanks." He grabs the blanket, drags it around his waist as he tries to stand. The second he puts pressure on his leg he starts to fall again. Eddie ducks under his arm and catches him. Doing his best to ignore the way Steve's warm, wet, skin feels under his hands.

"Hospital?" He asks, helping Steve to the passenger door. Steve levels him with a look that tells him he should know better.

"Right. Okay. Sorry. Jeez. You just- You're bleeding kind of a lot dude." Eddie huffs, helps Steve into the van and grabs a towel from the glovebox.

His brows furrowed, he presses it to the very large fucking hole, in Steve's leg. He doesn't even flinch, his eyes locked on Eddie, and his slow, gentle movements. Steve's hand settling over his makes his whole body jerk.

"Thanks. I can do that." Steve says, softly. Eddie doesn't let go.

"You gotta put pressure on it." He says, eyes locked on the red seeping into the towel.

"I will." Steve nods, squeezes Eddie's wrist, trying to get his attention.

"Eddie?" He squeezes again, Eddies eyes move up his arm to his face.

"Yeah?" His eyes are wide.

"We gotta get outta here." Steve's own eyes widen, waiting for Eddie to understand. It doesn't take long. He whips his head around, trying to see into the trees around them, his hair completely soaked now, his bangs drooping into his eyes.

"Shit. Okay." He nods, turns back to Steve, hands over the towel to him and nods again.

"Okay. I got it." He says, not sure if he's talking to himself or Steve. Steve nods, fucking smiles, at him, and lets him shut the door.

Eddie runs around the van, jumps back in, starts her up, gets her turned around carefully, and drives.

"Did someone shoot you man?" Eddie asks after a moment, Steve groans as he presses the towel to his leg, hard, his knuckles going white.

"Yep. Sure did." Steve sounds... nonplussed. Like it's just, a normal fucking Tuesday. Which it isn't. It's very much not a normal Tuesday. Because Steve Harrington got shot. And now he's in Eddie's van bleeding. And besides all that it's fucking Friday.

Eddie's hands tense on the wheel, his own knckles white now as well. He's nodding. Just absently. His head knows Steve answered him, can't seem to from words to make his own answer just yet.

"You okay Eddie?" Steve asks, tugging the blanket around his waist more with his free hand. Eddie just keeps nodding.

"Where are you taking me?" Steve asks, seems to realize he wasn't going to get an answer to the previous question.

"Home." Is all Eddie says. He glances to his right, Steve's eyes are on him.

"Wayne'll know what to do. He'll help." Eddie nods, his eyes back on the road.

"He'll help." He says again, to no one in particular. Steve nods, bites his lip when pain shoots through his leg, doesn't quite manage to stiffle the groan of pain.

"Who fucking shot you Steve?" It's the first time he's used Steve's name, maybe ever, to his face at least. Steve snorts, it sounds like a laugh.

"Fucking Hargrove." He grunts, presses harder on his leg. Eddie's head whips to look at him, his wet hair slapping against his face.

"What? Shit. Really?" He asks, rapid fire. Steve closes his eyes and nods.

"Eyes on the road Ed's." Steve's lips turn up in a smile right before Eddie looks away, his eyes are still closed.

"Covered his scent somehow. I didn't smell him. Or hear him. Fucking asshole." Steve slams his fist against the dash, Eddie jumps, his whole body twitching, he refused to acknowledge the yelp that came out of his mouth.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Steve breathes deeply through his nose, like he's trying to stay calm.

"It's okay. I'd be pissed too if Billy Hargrove fucking shot me." Eddie says, quickly, the words falling out of his mouth faster than he can think them. Steve snorts again, and Eddie's sure he is laughing, as well as he can, through the pain.

"Wait, he drives that blue camero right?" Eddie asks, eyes locked on his rear view mirror.

"Yeah. Why?" Steve follows his gaze, then looks into the side mirror.

"Shit." He says, trying to sit up further, or turn around, or something.

"Put the seat back and lay down." Eddie says, his hand pointing across Steve's lap to the little lever on the side.

Steve does as he's told, the seat going nearly flat. Eddie reaches behind his seat and grabs his backpack, sets it genlty in Steve's lap. Anyone passing would just be able to see the top of it.

He pushes his tape back into the tapedeck and cranks the volume. His fingers drumming and his head bobbing to the music as Billy's car rumbles up behind them, fast. Eddie's lucky he even saw it at all in the rain.

He keeps his eyes forward, fingers drumming. Pretends not to notice Hargove's car pull along side him for a moment. He twitches his head to the side, does a double take and then scowls at him, motioning to the open road ahead of them. Clearly telling Hargrove to fucking pass him already.

He does. Flipping Eddie the bird as he goes. He does a u-turn in the middle of the road and speeds back past them, the water from his tires splashing across Eddie's windshield.

He flips the wipers back up and keeps his eyes on Billy's car until it disappears back into the rain. He grabs his bag off Steve's lap and sets it by his feet instead as Steve sits up with a groan. Pulling the lever again so the seat comes with him.

"That was pretty good." Steve sighs, leaning against the window. Eddie turns his music down.

"Don't sound so suprised. I sell drugs man. I have to act natural a lot. Plus, he almost ran me off the road last month, I was pretty sure he'd try and pass me anyway." Eddie shrugs, keeps both hands on the wheel and one eye on the road behind them.

"Why'd he shoot you?" Eddie asks, glancing at Steve and then back to the road. He'd swear Steve was smiling.

"Why do you think?" He asks, sounds tired. Eddie rolls to a stop at a four way, looks over at Steve, down to the towel on his leg soaked with blood. He pulls away slow, they're so close to home now, no need to draw attention.

"He doesn't know it's me, I don't think. Just that he shot a wolf. He's been trying since he got here. Hunting us." Steve sighs, readjustes himself in his seat again.

Eddie swallows, hard, his heart pounding. His knuckles flashing white again as he squeezes the steering wheel. He turns into Forest Hills, his foot that's not on the peddle is shaking now, his knee jumping and jerking.

He pulls up to the trailer slowly, cuts the lights and the engine, and turns slowly in his seat to face Steve.

"You're a werewolf." He exhales into the space between them.

"I'm a werewolf." Steve nods, gives him a pained, toothy, smile. Eddie nods back, keeps nodding, he's lost in it again. The nodding.

Steve's hand patting his cheek snaps him out of it. He jerks again, not used to being touched there, or anywhere, really. He sees Steve pull his hand back, swears he sees hurt in his eyes.

"Sorry. I know it's a lot. But I need to get this bullet out of my leg like, yesterday." Steve sighs, covers the hurt look with another pained smile.

"Right. Yeah. Of course. Hang tight." He pats Steve's knee genlty, hops out of the van, and yells for Wayne.

~°~

They get Steve inside no questions asked. Wayne carries him to the bathroom and sets him on the edge of the tub. Eddie grabs a pair of boxers from his drawer and brings them to Steve.

"Figured you don't wanna be naked while you do that." He shrugs. Steve shrugs back.

"I've done worse things naked." He says, a little smile on his lips. Eddie goes warm all over and nods, bumps into the door frame as he back out of the small room.

He watches Wayne roll his eyes at him. He shakes his head too, crossing his arms over his chest. Eddie mouths 'shut up'at him and goes to kitchen. Wayne walks up beside him while he tries to get Steve's blood out from under his nails.

"Hey." Wayne sets his hand on Eddie's shoulder, he twitches.

"You did good kid. Bringin him here." Wayne's voice is calm. Always calm with Eddie.

He's never heard the man yell, except maybe at the raccoons that live to dig through their trash and toss it all over the yard. Eddie swears he'd heard Wayne call them varmints once. But other than that, he's soft spoken, so different from Eddie's father. Eddie's grateful. Everyday.

"Yeah. He was just out in the road. I almost hit him." Eddie's lip wobbles and Wayne pulls him to his chest, his hand rubbing up and down Eddie's back.

"But you didn't. You stopped. And you saved him, sounds like, so..." he pulls back, cradles Eddie's face.

"Seems to me that's all that matters." He lifts his eyebrows, giving Eddie that look. Eddie nods, a little frantic, licks his lips, looks in the direction of the bathroom.

"Yeah. That's what matters." He nods again, wipes his hands on his shirt. Opens his mouth to thank his uncle when Steve calls his name.

"Go on. Go see to your boy." Wayne tilts his head in Steve's direction.

"Oh my god. He's not my- he can hear you." Eddie hiss/whispers at Wayne. He pulls his lips into his mouth, shrugs, looking like he could not be less sorry. Eddie hisses at him as he walks away, glaring. Wayne laughs behind him and starts a pot of coffee.

"You called?" Eddie teases when he gets to the bathroom, leans agaisnt the doorframe.

"You came." Steve teases back, his eyes locked on Eddie. Eddie flushes again, from head to fucking foot. He clears his throat, rubs at the back of his neck.

"Did you need something?" Eddie asks, his eyes on the floor now. He swears he hears Steve chuckle, but can't risk looking up to find a smiling, teasing Steve, he wouldn't survive it right now.

"Yeah. Two things actually. And you're not gonna like the second one." Eddie's eyes snap to Steve's face, he looks apologetic.

"What is it?" Eddie asks, shoving his hands into her pockets nervously.

"Well the first thing, I need you to call Jim Hopper. Tell him what happened. And that I'm here. And I'm safe. I am safe with you, right Eddie?" Steve looks up at him with wide eyes. Eddie nods, licks his lips, tries to do better.

"Yeah. Course. That thing, earlier? When you touched me. And I flinched." He jerks his head back, motioning behind him, into the past hour.

"That wasn't because of you and your- it wasn't cuz of that. I'm not afraid of you. I'm just not used to people touching me." Eddie babbles, knows that's probably not what Steve meant, probably not why he was asking if he was safe.

But that hurt look kept bouncing around Eddie's head and he had to say it, to tell him it wasn't because of Steve, any part of him. And it pays off, his babbling, for once, because Steve smiles, and his cheeks tint pink, and Eddie could look at that all day.

"Thanks." Steve mumbles, Eddie nods.

"Call Hopper. Got it. And the second thing?" He rocks up onto the balls of his feet and then back down, Steve looks up at him and grimaces.

"I need you to help hold this while I dig the bullet out." Steve taps the little homemade tourniquet he and Wayne had put together, resting right above the bullet wound. Eddie swallows, his throat suddenly very dry.

"O-okay." He stammers.

"Do you want Wayne to do it?" Steve asks, eyeing Eddie like he thinks he's gonna pass out. Eddie shakes his head, once to answer the question, and then again to clear it.

"Lemme go have Wayne call Hopper. And I'll be back. Should I bring more towels?" He asks, hand firmly planted on the doorframe as he leans into the bathroom, his eyes on the bloody towel in the sink.

"Maybe one more. And two glasses of water." Steve says, nods when Eddie does.

"What's the water for?" He asks, brow furrowed.

"To drink. Thought maybe you could use a glass too. I can hear your throat clicking from here." Steve teases, smiling again when Eddie nods frantically and ducks out of the bathroom.

"You can probably hear my throat clicking from across town." He mutters to himself, grabbing two glasses out of the cabinet.

"Not quite that far. Maybe a few blocks, if I really focus." Steve calls from the bathroom.

"Jesus Christ." Eddie mutters, hears Steve laugh. He shakes his head, fills the glasses, gives Wayne his instructions for Hopper, shoves a towel under his arm, and waddles carefully back to the bathroom, hands full.

"There ya go." Eddie hands him a glass, tries not to stare at his throat when Steve chugs it, startles when Steve looks at him and chugs half his own glass.

"Where should I..." he trails off, looking around the bathroom.

"On your knees." Steve points to the space next to him, Eddie obeys immediately, his knees hitting the floor hard. His bites his lip, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, using all his willpower to not look at Steve right now, in this moment.

"That was-"

"Don't. Just- please don't. I'm mortified, can we just..." Eddie waves his hand towards Steve's wounded thigh.

"Mhm. We can." He says, and Eddie swears he sounds like he's trying not to laugh. Eddie rolls his eyes.

"Nothing wrong with obeying orders well." Steve says, his voice hushed as Eddie scoots closer. He freezes, his eyes finally looking up, Steve is staring at him. Eddie gulps, Steve's eyes drop to his throat and jump back up.

"Put your hands here." Steve guides him, shows him where to hold the tourniquet, how to pull but not too tight. His fingers move over the back of Eddie's hands, leaving the faintest tracks of blood on his skin as Steve whispers,

"Good boy." Against Eddie's ear.

"Jesus H Christ." Eddie shutters, his shoulders tensing.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist." And Steve fucking winks at him. Eddie rolls his eyes and huffs, Steve laughs, shakes his head, and then rolls his shoulders.

"You don't have to watch." Steve says, serious now. Eddie nods, but finds he can't look away.

Steve's hand rests on his thigh, as Eddie watches his nails grow dark, and long, and sharp. Thick claws now where his nails used to be. Eddie watches as Steve moves, presses his finger into the hole in his leg and digs. He shoves his thumb in along side it, blood blooms bewteen his fingers and Eddie tightens his hold.

The whimper Steve lets out is what draws Eddie's eyes away. Away from the claws and the blood. They land on Steve's face, his features pinched in pain. He grits his teeth and Eddie sees fangs, too sharp teeth filling Steve's mouth as he groans.

"Steve?" Eddie's voice is airy, his throat tight.

"I'm alright. Almost got it." Steve grunts through his teeth, his jaw clentched.

"Okay. Be careful." Eddie whispers. Steve snorts again, pulls his thumb and finger back out of the wound with a whine, something shiny held between them.

He sags, his body drooping with relief. He holds the bullet out, Eddie moves, slowly lets go of the tourniquet, and holds out his hand.

"Don't lose that." Steve cautions, pausing before he drops it into Eddie's palm. Eddie nods, drops it into the cup near his toothbrush and moves back to Steve's side.

"What now?" He asks, hands hovering, not sure where to land. Steve looks at him, hooks his fingers under the tourniquet and winks at Eddie again.

"Now. I heal." He slips the rags off his leg. Eddie watches as one small pulse of blood bubbles up out of the wound, and then he watches as the edges close, the skin knitting itself back together. Steve wipes a towel over his leg, clearing the blood, and the wound is gone.

"Holy shit." Eddie says, breathless. His eyes jump to Steve face and he smiles.

"You're amazing." He breathes, and then smiles wider when his cheeks tint pink again.

"Ya think so? Most people wouldn't agree." Steve says, but he's smiling too.

"Well most people are idiots. And objectively you're probably weird as shit. But I love weird shit." Eddie shrugs, rubs at his neck when Steve just stares at him, feels himself going red again and stands. Offers his hand to Steve, helps him to his feet. He stumbles forward, Eddie catches him with his hands on his waist, feels his cheeks go impossibly hotter.

"You're hearts always beating so fast. Is that cuz of me?" Steve whispers, his hand settling on Eddie's chest, right over his fluttering heart. Eddie swallows, manages a nod before his resolve leaves him and he steps away from Steve hastily.

"You can shower if you want. I'm gonna- I'll go find you some clean clothes." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, bounces off the doorframe and bolts down the small hallway to his room.

He falls onto the edge of his bed, his legs wobbly, his chest aching, and his lungs somehow not pulling in enough air. He smiles when he hears the shower start, tries not to picture Steve in there showering. And shit, he forgot.

"The warm waters a little tricky. You gotta turn it all the way up and then lower it back down." He says, not too loud, wanting to know if Steve will hear him. He hears the tell squeak of the warm water handle and then Steve calls,

"Thanks!" Through the thin walls. Eddie bites his lip and falls back onto his bed, his head buzzing. He can't wait to tell Jeff. Oh, he sits up, thinking, he should ask about Chrissy. See if Jeff was right. All signs seem to be pointing that way.

He opens his mouth to ask when there's a knock at the door.An aggressive knock. More like someone pounding and trying to get in.

Eddie's up in a flash, but when he gets to the living room Wayne is near the door, his hand held out to Eddie, stopping him.

"It's not Hopper." Wayne mouths, and that's when Eddie sees the gun in his hand. Wayne's old shotgun. He'd only seen it once. When he turned 17, Wayne showed him where it was, and how to load and use it, in case of emergencies only.

Eddie's body tenses, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He can hear the shower running behind him. Hopes Steve is listening too.

"Open the door Munson! I know you've got him in there!" Hargove's taunting voice calls. A shiver runs down Eddie's spine, he shakes his head instinctively. He sees Wayne do the same. His uncle waves him down again, his palm held out towards Eddie, he lowers it slowly: stay calm. Eddie nods.

Wayne opens the door, keeps his shotgun hidden off to the side.

"Ain't nobody here but us. I think you should leave. We don't want any trouble." Wayne tells him calmly, his voice steady as he clicks the saftey off the gun in his hand. Eddie's breathing is shallow. He hears a snort from outside.

"Yeah right. You're Munson's. All you know is trouble. And you stepped in it big this time." Hargrove snarls.

"Now hand over that fuckin monster you got in there. And maybe I won't teach that little freak of yours a lesson for takin what's mine."

Eddie watches Wayne's knuckles go white where they're holding the door, watches the door shake as he grips it tight.

"Police are already on their way boy. You best be on yours before you get hurt." Wayne's voice is still calm. Too calm. Eddie's never heard him sound that way before. He can feel the anger just beneath the surface, his anger boils there too.

Wayne starts to say something else when Hargrove jumps forward, slams his body against the door, almost through it. Wayne stumbles backward, caught off guard just enough for Hargrove to get the drop on him. He grabs Wayne's arm, tugs him forward and headbutts him.

Eddie's stomach twists at the sound, as he watches Wayne fall to the floor. He knows he can't get to the gun. But Hargrove could. Doesn't seem to care about it though. His eyes land on Eddie, cold and empty, his jaw clenched. Eddie turns, makes for his bedroom. He feels Hargrove's hand slam down on his shoulder and screams.

"Steve help m-" Billy's knuckles slam into his cheek, he feels his lip split when his face hits the ground. Feels Hargrove move over him, and then away. His shadow there and then gone, quick as a flash. Eddie looks up, hears a low growl, and sees Hargrove against the wall, his feet almost a foot above the ground, Steve's clawed hand around his throat, holding him there.

His mouth is full of fangs again, his skin covered in fur now, not completely, just a thin layer, and his eyes seem to glow in the low light of the trailer. Eddie scrambles to his knees, hears another growl.

"Touch him again and I willl rip you apart." The words rumble deep in Steve's chest. Hargrove chokes and gags as Steve squeezes him tighter.

"Sounds like a great plan kid. But how bout you let me handle the rest huh?" A new voice. Eddie startles, tries too fast to turn and ends up on his back. Footsteps approach him and he's look up at Sheriff Hopper.

"You alright kid?" He asks, Eddie nods, his chest clenches.

"My uncle-"

"Already back on his feet kid. C'mon." Hopper extends his hand. Eddie takes it, lets the big man yank him to feet easily. Eddie suspects he may be a wolf himself. Or something else.

"Steve. Let him go." Hopper says, slow, like he's talking Steve down. He still has Hargrove against the wall, he's only wearing the boxers Eddie gave him. His skin is all skin again, but his claws are still out, his fangs pushing at his lips, his chest is heaving.

Eddie watches Hopper move toward him, Steve growls, low in his throat, Hargrove struggles as his fingers tighten, Hopper stops.

"Hey. Kid. I know. Alright. I get. He hurt your friend."

Another low growl, deeper, more feral, Steve's brow furrows.

"Oh. Shit. Okay." Hopper sighs, glances at Eddie.

"You're okay right?" He asks, leaning into Eddie's space a bit, Eddie thinks he sniffs him.

"Yeah. I'm okay. I'm good." Eddie nods, his eyes going back to Steve when Hopper's do.

"Your boys okay. Just a split lip. Nothin serious. He's okay." Hopper reassures, takes a few small steps forward. Steve twitches with each one. His grip on Hargrove's throat still tight.

"Steve I'm okay. You can let go now." Eddie tries. He watches the muscles in Steve's arm relax, but only a little. Eddie shakes his head, makes a decision. He steps forward, dodges Hopper when he reaches for him.

"Kid don't-"

"It's fine." Eddie dismisses. He walks up to Steve, gets close, Eddie moves his hand over his arm slowly, letting Steve feeling him.

"I'm right here. I'm okay." He soothes, fingers pressing into Steve's hot skin. But it works, his body relaxes, he loosens his hold on Hargrove, lets him slide down the wall til his feet touch the floor, but doesn't let go.

"Fuckin'... freak." Hargrove gasps, glaring at Eddie, eyes full of hate.

"Shut up." Eddie and Steve speak in unison, but Steve yanks him forward, then slams him back. His head hits the wall and Steve lets him go. He falls to floor, unconscious.

Steve turns to Eddie then, teeth too big for his mouth. His lips pushed out in a pout around his fangs, and he whines, his hand lifting to touch Eddie's lip, his claws receding back into his nails before his fingers touch Eddie.

He licks the blood from Eddie's lip off his fingers and then grabs for him, pulling him against his chest with a whine, clinging to him as he nuzzles into Eddie's neck. Eddie gulps, wraps his arms around Steve slowly, awkwardly, does his best to hold on. To soothe him.

Once Steve's calmed a bit he pulls back. Eddie looks down, Billy's body is gone. He turns to look behind him, Wayne and Hopper are sitting on the couch, watching some old movie. Eddie's brow furrows. How fucking long had Steve been holding onto him?

"Sorry. I didn't mean to, like, trap you." Steve clears his throat. Eddie turns back to him, he looks embarrassed. Eddie smiles, cups his cheek.

"It isn't a trap if it's somewhere I wanna be. Is it?" Steve looks uncertain for a moment, his eyes darting around Eddie's face, looking for something, Eddie's sure. He either finds, or doesn't, because he smiles so brightly it nearly blinds Eddie.

"Really?" He asks, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"Yeah. Kinda had a crush on you since like, fuckin forever. Seventh grade or something stupid." Eddie shrugs.

"Fifth grade." Wayne calls from the couch, Eddie rounds on him, he hadn't even looked away from the tv.

"Oh my god what does it matter! Bud out would you? I'm having a moment!" Eddie hisses, watches Wayne smile into his cup of coffee. He opens his mouth to snark some more but Steve's hand turning his face back to him stops him.

"Fifth grade?" Steve asks. Eddie rolls his eyes, sighs, nods.

"Yeah."

"Wha- Why?"

"You gave me a rock." Eddie huffs, bites into his lip.

"I gave you..." Steve gasps, his hands moving to Eddie's waist and tugging.

"I gave you a rock!" He says, excited. Eddie nods.

"I know. I was there." He rolls his eyes, teasing. Steve looks at him, for a long moment.

"Did you keep it?" He sounds so hopeful. Behind them, Wayne snorts and then clears his throat. Eddie groans, loud, and long. Wayne and Hopper both chuckle.

"Of course I kept it. I'm a big gay loser and a pretty boy gave me a rock. It's on my nightstand." Eddie admits, his shoulder sagging in defeat.

But then Steve is nuzzling against his cheek and he decides he doesn't care if he's a loser. That pretty boy was a werewolf, and apparently this werewolf thinks of Eddie as his. And he could definitely get used to that.

"You kept it." Steve hums, presses his nose into Eddie's throat and nearly fucking purrs with delight, his chest rumbling against Eddie's, making his heart flutter.

"Alright kid. We gotta get this sorted. Get that bullet. We'll get this delt with. And you can come back here and... well you can come back here. The rest is none of my business." Hopper declares, clapping his hands once, as he stands and moves to the door.

Steve pulls back, nods, and ducks back into the bathroom. Eddie brings him some clothes and then he's gone. Riding away in Hoppers cruiser, an unconscious Billy Hargrove in the backseat, bound and gagged, for good measure.

Wayne moves to stand beside him as he watches them drive away. His arm wraps around Eddie's shoulders and tugs him close.

"Rough day kid." Wayne says, giving him a squeeze.

"Yeah. Not all bad though." Eddie considers, drops his head on Wayne's shoulder.

"Definitely not. C'mon," Wayne gives his shoulder a pat.

"Let's get this house cleaned up before your boy gets back."

Eddie nods, follows him back inside, and starts cleaning. There's woodchips all over the hallway, Steve had shattered the door coming out to help Eddie and Wayne. Eddie suppresses a shiver at the thought.

But has trouble not thinking about the way Steve had been so mad because Billy had hurt him, hurt Eddie. Not his friend. He'd been mad about that word too. Not his friend. Just his.

Eddie swept the floor and tidied his room and let the feeling of being Steve's surround him. Let it fill his head and his chest. Let it lift him up off the floor, his body floating when he finally fell into bed to wait for Steve. His Steve.

~°~

Eddie wakes to gentle hands on his shoulder. He lets go of his pillow and rolls to find Steve, on his knees on the matress behind him. He scrambles to sitting, hands reaching for Steve, met with Steve's own out stretched hands.

"You came back." Eddie mumbles, still drowsy. Steve smiles, soft.

"Course I did. Nowhere else I'd rather be." He whispers, presses forward, his face so so close.

"Can I kiss you?" He asks, Eddie feels his breath rush over his skin.

"You want too?" Eddie asks, because his brain still hasn't quite caught up, isn't sure this isn't just a dream.

"Eddie." Steve says name the way no one ever has, all longing and need, curled at the edges from exasperation.

"Yeah Steve?" Eddie's trembling now, his hands shaking in his lap. Steve takes them in his, like he can read Eddie's mind.

"I've wanted to kiss you for awhile now. Even before I heard what you said at that party." Steve whispers the last bit, his mouth curving into a smirk, his eyes twinkling. Eddie's own eyes widen and then squeeze shut as he groans, takes his hands from Steve's and hides his face.

"You did hear me. I knew it oh my goooodddd." He rolls onto his back, rolling side to side on the bed, bumping Steve with his thighs everytime he rolls toward him. The laugh Eddie's dramtics pull out of Steve is beautiful, it makes Eddie feel like flying.

He drops his hands to his stomach and looks up at Steve. Steve looks right back, his eyes soft, his mouth curved just so in a small smile.

"I wanna kiss you so bad Steve." Eddie admits, his fingers drumming on his stomach. Steve's nose scrunches.

"Yeah? You sure?" Eddie tilts his head, trying to read the sudden change in Steve. His confidence seeming to fail him.

"Did you think I would genuinely say no to you?" Eddie asks, pushing himself up to sitting, so he can see Steve better. Steve picks at a loose thread on Eddie sheet, lifts one shoulder, drops it again.

"Who the fuck could say no to you?" Eddie wonders aloud, just a breathed out question.

"Not everyone can love a monster." The words fall past Steve's lips with sadness, his voice thick with it. Eddie's heart aches for him.

"Hey. You're not a monster." Eddie shakes his head, Steve levels him with such a bitchy look, it nearly takes Eddie's breath away. He snorts and holds up his hands in surrender.

"Okay. Okay tech-... technically you- you are a monster." Eddie rests his hands on Steve's knees.

"Like in the, literal, old movie wolfman monster, definition. Then yes. Sure. You're a monster." Eddie shrugs, shakes Steve's knees until he's wobbling back and forth with Eddie.

"But that doesn't mean you're a monster." Eddie shakes his head.

"And hey, even if you are. You've come to the right place. Eddie Munson, monster fucker extraordinaire!" He does a little jazz hands display before pointing at himself. He can see Steve fighting a smile.

"I mean not that I've... fucked a monster... before..." he trails off, eyes on the ceiling, thinking. He snaps his fingers, points at Steve.

"But I am willing! And hopefully," he wiggles his fingers in Steve's direction,

"Able." He smiles awkwardly, his eyes dropping to Steve's crotch and then back up, his cheeks flushing when Steve raises his eyebrows at him.

"Willing and able. That's me." Eddie points both his thumbs at himself, Steve's lip twitches. Eddie clasps his hands in front of him.

"Please say something so I can stop talking." Eddie begs through a helpless breathy laugh. Steve drags his teeth over his lower lip and shakes his head slowly, moves closer, presses into Eddie's space.

"No... you're not gonna say anything? Or no... umm... wh- what did I say after that?" Eddie stammers as Steve keeps moving, one hand on Eddie's chest, pressing him back into the matress, the other ending up near Eddie's head, supporting Steve as he hovers over Eddie.

"I like when you talk." Steve says, tossing his leg over Eddie, sitting on his thighs. Eddie nods, feeling a little frantic.

"Oh well thats good. Cuz I'm notorious for not knowing when to shut the fuck up. Now being one of those times I fear. Pretty sure. My mouth literally will not stop moving." The nervous laugh that comes out of him just makes Steve smile more, but it's different, sharp at the edges. Eddie realizes what the look is and gulps, Steve leans over him, chest to chest now, nose to nose. He looks hungry.

"I'm almost certain I can find something that will shut you up." Steve fucking purrs, his finger dragging down over Eddie's lips, his hand moving to cup Eddie's cheek. Eddie's eyes flick down between them and then back up.

"I mean we gotta try right? There's gotta be somethin- mmphf! Mmmm." Steve kisses him, presses his lips to Eddie's like he's trying to swallow his words. Eddie hums into it, hands moving to Steve's neck, his shoulders, his back. His hands move everywhere, feather light touches, not sure where to land. Steve pulls back, rests his forehead against Eddie's.

"I really like you." He sighs, his eyes squeezed tight, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath he takes. Eddie watches him, eyes closed, trying to stay calm.

"I really like you too. That's why I kept the rock. And the bird you drew me in seventh grade." Steve's eyes open, he looks down at Eddie, brow furrowing.

"And the poem you wrote  freshman year, about wanting to be a wolf." Eddie leans up, presses his lips to Steve's forhead.

"Kinda cheated on that one didn't ya?" Eddie whispers, wraps his arms around Steve as he settles in his lap. Steve gasps when Eddie kisses down his neck.

"I kept the sweatshirt you gave me at the football game too.Sophomore year. It's tucked away in my closet." He kisses back up, eyes closing on a hum as Steve pushes his hands up under Eddie's shirt, needing to touch him.

"I used to take it out and just hold it. And smell it. But it stopped smelling like you. Years ago." Eddie breathes against his lips, Steve whimpers into his mouth.

"I like you so much." Eddie whispers, pressing a kiss to Steve's lips.

"You being a werewolf isn't gonna change that." He kisses Steve's cheeks, his left one twice, once for each freckle.

"If anything, it will make my feelings, monumentally stronger. Like it'll be disconcerting. It's gonna make people uncomfortable." He kisses Steve's eyelids as he laughs, squirms in Steve's arms when his hands work their way into the back of his pajama pants.

"I'm gonna be obsessed with you." Eddie whispers, kissing down Steve's nose and across his lips again. Steve whines again, chases his lips, Eddie puts two fingers across them, to shush him, groans when Steve pulls them into his mouth and sucks, his cheeks hollowing as he blinks at Eddie, eyes hooded and needy.

"Jesus okay. There's is- there is a 'but' coming." Eddie gasps, Steve smirks around his fingers but lets them go.

"What's the but?" Steve asks, pouting as he moves his hands up Eddie’s back again. Eddie snorts and kisses his cheek again.

"I just-" he stops, takes a deep breath. His stomach twisting. He feels Steve's hand on his chest and opens his eyes, Steve tilts his head like a puppy.

"Your hearts beating fast again." He says, quiet, like he's talking to himself.

"I'm nervous." Eddie says, straight to the point. Steve tilts his head the other way.

"Nervous to be with me?" Steve's thumb soothes over Eddie's chest, through his shirt.

"Nervous cuz- I've never done this." Eddie bites his lip.

"I kinda figured you were a virgin ya know." Steve shrugs, noses at Eddie's neck. Eddie puts his hands on Steve's chest and pushes him back genlty.

"Umm... excuse me?" Eddie scoffs, a smile tugging at his lips.

"What? Virgins smell different." Steve says, like it's a normal thing to say.

"Ew. What? Why?" Eddie asks, his fingers tangling in Steve shirt as he laughs, his arms winding around him and pulling him closer.

"Dunno. Never asked. It's just true. You smell so good anyway but that part," Steve shivers, looks down at him.

"It's just sweet. You smell sweet." Steve smiles down at him, kisses his cheek, runs his fingers over the spot after.

"Okay well, that's all... a lot of information. But what I meeeeant," Eddie drawls, poking Steve in the chest.

"Is that I've never been in a relationship before. Like, not a real one. Not like this. And I'm just scared I guess. Cuz you're like, a fucking dream." Eddie sighs, Steve smiles.

"And I have a very long history of categorically fucking up everything good that happens to me. And I don't wanna do that here. With you. I want-" Eddie frowns, Steve moves, pulls them to the bed and rolls them, so they're facing each other.

"What do you want?" Steve asks, his fingers moving over Eddie's forhead, soothing the frown and then moving into his hair.

"I want you. I want to keep you." Eddie worries at his lip, Steve moves his thumb over it, drags it from between Eddie's teeth and soothes over the hurt.

"I wanna keep you too. We don't have to do anything right now. I just needed to be with you. After today." Steve says, shrugs his shoulder and curls closer.

"We can just- do this? Just be together?" Eddie asks, hesitant, his eyes falling closed as Steve hums,

"Mhm. We can just hold each other." Steve moves his fingers deeper into Eddie's hair, pulls him to his chest. Eddie clings to him, arms wrapped tight, hears that fucking rumble in Steve's chest again.

"Are you actually purring or does it just sound like it?" Eddie mumbles sleepily into Steve's chest. He feels him laugh, feels him pull Eddie impossibly closer.

"Hopper refuses to call it that. But I like it. I've only done it once before today though." Steve sighs, Eddie perks up, rests his chin on his arms and looks at Steve.

"When was the other time?" Eddie asks, eyes blinking slowly. Steve reaches up, tucks Eddie's hair behind his ear.

"With my friend Robin. You know her. From band." Eddie nods. Steve nods back.

"Yeah well. I came out to her last year and she was so excited, and happy, and accepting. She made me a cake. I mean it was terrible. But she made it just for me." Steve laughs, Eddie smiles down at him, waiting for more.

"And after, she told me she was proud of me. And that she loved me. And that's when it happened. I think it happens when you find your people. Like, my wolf just knows, when it's right." Steve's eyes won't stay on him, and he looks nervous again.

"She's like your platonic soulmate huh?" Eddie asks, pushing his finger around Steve's chest, drawing little nothings here and there. But he feels the tension leave Steve, feels him relax underneath him.

"Yeah. She is." He nods, eyes locked on Eddie now, his are shining with tears. Eddie nods, scoots a little closer, further up Steve's chest.

"I have one too. Jeff. He's in Hellfire with me. We're like two trippy peas in a far out pod." Steve scrunches his nose, lifts his head and kisses Eddie, sweet and soft.

"Thanks for understanding." Steve breathes.

"Sure. Give me enough time and I can understand anything. That ones easy though. I'm glad you have someone like that too." Eddie drops back down onto Steve's chest, gets comfy.

An hour later Steve manhandles him onto his side and presses up against his back, arms wrapped around Eddie like vines, keeping him close. Eddie shivers at being tossed around, even more at being held like he's something precious. He feels Steve smirk into his neck, feels that rumble again.

He smiles into Steve's arm, presses his lips to his skin and lets himself fall asleep, feeling loved, and wanted, and like he belongs to someone.

~°~

Eddie finds out later that Jeff was right. Chrissy absolutely is a vampire. And a good friend of Steve's. Eddie, Steve, and Robin may or may not parent trap them into several ridiculous situations before Chrissy finally tells them her and Jeff have been dating for almost three weeks now.

Eddie swears he knew. Steve can hear him lying. But let's him have it anyway. Robin refuses to let it go and constantly claims that the first time she meddled was three weeks ago which means she got them together which means she wins the bet.

Eddie remains unaware that there was even an actual bet going on. He just thought they were trying to make their friends happy. Steve can hear him telling the truth, and loves him for it.

Steve holds Eddie close almost every night, so so glad he heard Eddie talking at that party. And so so glad he'd told Robin, two weeks before that party, that he was gonna ask Eddie out. That he wanted to keep him forever.

She'd made fun of him of course. Eddie Munson? Really? But Steve had pressed on. Something about that sweet smell drawing him in.

And even after Steve claims him. Even after Eddie is his and no one elses. To Steve, he still smells so sweet, like the first rain of spring. Likes Steve's favorite fruit. Like Steve's. Like home.

[kerbubbles]

I fear i will never be over Stone saving Robotnik's life with his own 2 hands, carrying him off that battlefield, getting him fixed up, nursing him back to health, sticking by his side during his depression spiral, and Robotnik still not believeing he's genuine and firing him for being distrusting of Gerald

[jeffthegriller]

my rendition of every sinlg jeff the killer 2011 character

[martitheevans]

Shows from the 60s/70s will always consist of the main characters going through the most insane, life-changing, traumatising experience and then having a shot of them all laughing together at the end and proceeding to never speak of it ever again