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rika-mmendmethings · 10 hours ago

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Heart Shot | Zayne

Summary: It started as a coping mechanism — a secret, anonymous flirtation you expected to burn out with the help of a pink bow and silly notes. But every arrow you fire lands closer to something real — and the man you thought was untouchable suddenly isn’t dodging anymore.

Tag(s): Zayne x nurse! Reader, lots of fluff, pre-relationship fluff, hospital romance, written with female reader in mind, second hand embarrassment, mild archer! Zayne, silly people in love.

Word count: 2.7k

Now playing: Cupid by FIFTY FIFTY

Notes: Formerly titled 'Bullseye'. Just woke up to see I had hit 400 followers this morning and in celebration of that, I'm releasing my first ever fic of Zayne. Hopefully everybody enjoys it ♥

As one of the most seasoned nurses in the cardiac wing, you’d long since earned the trust of even the most demanding surgeons. Battle-tested in emergencies and headstrong in crisis, you were a pillar of calm in the chaos of the OR. But nothing — nothing — had prepared you for the battle that was raging in your chest: a hopeless, all-consuming crush on none other than the head cardiac surgeon himself, Dr. Zayne.

He was brilliant, reserved, maddeningly unbothered by the flurry of emotion that seemed to ripple through everyone else whenever he entered a room. You had worked alongside him for years, and while others found his cold, clinical demeanor off-putting, you somehow saw the warmth that flickered beneath it.

You prided yourself on the professional companionship you shared with him — mutual respect, shared jokes on occasion, the rare but treasured smiles he allowed himself when you said something that genuinely amused him.

Which made your recent blunder all the more mortifying.

During a high-stakes mitral valve repair just a few days ago, you had done the unthinkable. You were assisting Zayne, as you had many times before, and everything was running smoothly. Until he said, “Clamps.”

But instead of responding with your usual efficiency, your eyes were glued onto his hands. More specifically, the veins beneath the taut latex of his gloves. Your body reacted a second too late and the clamps slipped from your grasp and hit the sterile floor with a horrifying clink. You scooped them up in a panic and offered them anyway, and watched as the whole OR froze.

Zayne didn’t take them. Instead, he looked at you with such sheer incredulity that you instantly recalled every page of your surgical instrument sterilization manual in horrifying detail.

“That’s contaminated,” he said icily from behind his surgical mask, not even looking at you — just through you.

Your brain, fueled by pure shame and meme culture, offered the only response it could muster: “Um… five-second rule?”

Later, in his office, he let you have it. Not with shouting, of course. Zayne never did shouting. He did disappointment. And he was very good at it. After a solid ten-minute monologue on sterility protocols and ‘having expected better from someone with your experience,’ you left his office to crawl back into the earth.

You avoided him after that. You rerouted your coffee breaks and volunteered for shifts that didn't have him. You stayed alert just in case you got a transfer notice, which, fortunately, you didn't.

But avoiding Zayne only made your feelings boil hotter under the surface. You needed an outlet, something to release the idiotic affection swirling inside your ribcage. And that’s how you — an educated, credentialed nurse — ended up ordering a hot pink plastic Cupid bow and arrow set online at 2:12 a.m.

It arrived the next day: neon pink, the arrows tipped with heart-shaped suction cups, and laughably dramatic. It was a viral gag gift, popular with people who liked playing Cupid on social media. Except you had taken it a step further.

You wrote little anonymous notes with compliments, sweet nothings, medical pick-up lines and rolled them up, taping them to the arrows. Then you smuggled the toy into the hospital and hid it in your locker in the break room.

Your plan? Ambush Zayne by firing one arrow per day until your dignity or your license gave out. Either he’d laugh (hopefully), report you to HR (realistically), or — by some divine miracle — be touched by your ridiculous display of affection and fall madly in love with you (good jokes). Your feelings needed to go, and you figured nothing would kill romantic delusion faster than mortifying yourself with humiliating public displays of nonsense.

Day one

It was a crisp Tuesday morning at the hospital, the kind where the scent of antiseptic still clung thickly in the air from the early shift’s rigorous cleaning. The morning meeting had just ended, and like a tide retreating, doctors and residents poured out of the conference room in clusters, their footsteps echoing against the linoleum as they dispersed to their respective duties. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, and the sun streamed through the high windows in thin, filtered beams, casting a tired glow across the sterile white floors. The air smelled of antiseptic and fresh paper, tinged faintly with over-brewed coffee from the break room down the hall.

You stood tucked behind a concrete pillar near the east hallway, your back pressed flat against the cool surface, heart thundering. You could feel the absurd shape of the toy bow poking into your hip from under your scrubs where you'd awkwardly shoved it sometime ago to sneak it with you. The arrows, with their bright pink foam hearts, stuck out of your jeans pocket and you pulled your scrubs tighter to hide them.

You peeked around the edge of the beige support pillar you were currently using as camouflage, your breath caught halfway between a prayer. The hallway was almost empty now, save for the subject of your ridiculous affection, standing in the middle of it.

Zayne stood with one foot slightly turned out, clipboard in hand, jade eyes focused on the patient chart in front of him. His dark hair was slightly tousled in that infuriatingly perfect way, his lab coat flaring just a little at the back like he’d walked off a medical drama set.

You glanced around, eyes darting to make sure no one else was around. The coast was clear. He was engrossed in whatever file he was reading, completely unaware of what was about to happen.

From behind the pillar, you fumbled with the bow. It squeaked when you pulled back the string. Of all the props in all the stores in the world, you had to pick the one that squeaked. Your fingers, steady as steel in surgery, trembled now like they’d never known stability. You nocked the arrow with shaky fingers, adjusting the rolled-up pink sticky note you'd attached earlier.

“Okay, just center it… gently. Like placing a suture,” you whispered to yourself. A little pep talk.

Your hands were slick with nervous sweat. You held your breath. You had no archery training. Your only reference point was seeing some of the Deepspace hunters having a bow as their choice of weapon and firing it at the wanderers that had once invaded Akso Hospital. You aimed — or attempted to — for his heart.

The arrow veered slightly to the right, missed Zayne’s heart by a good foot and a half, and stuck squarely to the back of his clipboard. You gasped — then immediately ducked back behind the pillar, flattening yourself against it like a character in a cartoon, chest heaving.

Peeking out with one eye, you saw him pause his reading and slowly tilt the clipboard towards himself to inspect the pink projectile now suctioned firmly to its back. He glanced around, likely trying to identify the source of it but found none. He peeled the pink sticky note off with a neutral expression, unrolled the note deliberately, and read it.

You watched from the shadow of the pillar as his eyes scanned the words. The line of his brow eased and then one eyebrow rose by just a millimetre. A reaction so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not by you.

And that was all the information you could process before the adrenaline got the better of you and you took off — straight down the hallway, hurried footsteps, cheeks aflame, the bow clutched to your chest like you’d just committed some sort of crime.

You didn’t stop running until you were safely back in the break room, where you shoved the bow, slammed your locker shut, leaned back against it, and gasped for breath like you’d just finished a marathon.

Day two

You’d been on your feet for hours — morning rounds, a consultation, two new admissions. You weren’t on a break, not technically, but your last task had wrapped up ten minutes early, and that meant only one thing in your world now: it was time for the next attempt. Most of your colleagues were either in their departments or catching a quick snack before the next round of patient visits. You were just returning after restocking supplies when you spotted Zayne.

He was standing at the water cooler near the far wall, just off to the side of the hallway, his back half-turned to the corridor. It was a quiet spot, mostly out of view. He had his lab coat sleeves pushed up, and he was leaning slightly forward as he pressed the little plastic lever and filled his paper cup. You hated how effortlessly attractive he looked doing nothing.

You felt your fingers twitch.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you doubled back towards the break room, pulled open your locker, and took out the bow and arrow set hurriedly. You grabbed one of the arrows and checked if the little rolled-up note you’d stuck on it earlier was properly sticking to it.

You found a spot near the corner where a big decorative plant provided enough cover. Thankfully, today’s chosen target zone was a less dramatic setting than yesterday’s corridor. You crouched down slightly, gripping the bow like you were trying to remember how human hands were supposed to work.

You loaded the arrow, biting your lip as you adjusted your grip. You had practiced a little more since yesterday — nothing formal, just a few shots in your apartment before your cat had attacked the dangling heart-shaped arrow and nearly broken your kitchen lamp.

Your plan for today was simple: aim for the cooler. Hit the wall just above it. Let the arrow bounce off near him with enough proximity that he would notice, but not enough to actually hit him.

You pulled back the string and let go. And the arrow zoomed off-course and smacked him square on the forehead. You instantly ducked back behind the plant, hands over your mouth, struggling not to burst out laughing.

Zayne blinked. The water cup in his hand wobbled slightly, and for a second, you thought it might tip over. He reached up, peeled the arrow off with a confused look on his face, and stared at it like it had just dropped from another dimension. He was reading the note now, his jade eyes trailing along the lines. You saw his mouth twitch, the corners of his lips quirking up. Not a full smile — more like the idea of a smile. It was the kind of expression someone makes when they’re trying very hard not to react, and they’re mostly failing. And then — he exhaled through his nose and shook his head once, walking back to his office with the little note and the arrow in hand.

You crouched lower behind the plant. There was a stupid grin on your face and your body was tingling in a weirdly giddy way. You waited a few more minutes before standing up and walking in the opposite direction.

Day after day, arrow after arrow, you let your absurd plan unfold. Each time, his reactions thawed another layer of his carefully guarded composure. You continued, a few arrows here and there — his locker, the break room, once even mid-presentation at the weekly surgical review meeting. Each time, he reacted the same way: unreadable at first, then just the faintest sign of amusement that fanned the foolish little flame in your chest. You’d catch him pocketing the notes as if filing them away for future diagnosis.

Then came today.

It was midnight when you finally found a pocket of free time. The patient charts had been signed, your shift duties temporarily in check. That’s when you decided for another strike. You knew Zayne had a short gap between procedures, and his office light had been on earlier. You’d been watching the hallway casually from the small corner where supply cabinets broke the line of sight. His shadow had passed by the frosted window in his office door twice since. You figured he was standing, maybe reading something, or maybe pacing.

Your plan was simple: Aim for the center of Zayne’s office door. Not his head, not his arm, not any part of him directly — just the door. You’d seen the shadow inside. He’d be coming out soon. You just needed the arrow to land when he would exit, let him notice it and make him smile again.

You nocked an arrow, tongue poking out in concentration, aiming for the center of his door. So focused were you on your target, you didn’t notice the soft footfalls approaching from behind — until you felt a warm hand wrap around your waist and another slide over your hand on the bow — just firmly enough to freeze you in place. The contact startled you so hard you nearly dropped the bow.

Zayne was right behind you, half-embracing you, correcting your form as if this were a shooting range and not a hospital hallway. His gaze was fixed forward, his tone calm and maddeningly unaffected.

“Your stance is off,” he said, voice low, like he didn’t want it to echo. His breath ghosted across your cheek as he pulled your body back against his. “You’re pulling too much with your fingers, not your back.”

You felt him ease you back just a little, accurately aligning your posture. His chest brushed lightly against your back, his arm sliding along yours to adjust your hold on the bowstring. His fingers were warmer than expected, calloused from years of surgical work, but the touch was careful, like he didn’t want to startle you more than he already had.

He deliberately adjusted your elbow with his hand and pulled your upper arm slightly back so the arrow sat straighter. The door to the office opened just then. You felt him release your hand. The arrow launched and landed with a splat on the forehead of Greyson, your colleague, who had just emerged from Zayne’s office.

There was a brief pause, followed by a loud “What the hell?” from Greyson as he struggled to peel the arrow off.

You couldn’t even laugh, too mortified by the presence beside you to do so. The shadow in the office had been Greyson — not Zayne. You shrank into yourself immediately, lowering the bow, trying to form some apology, but your brain had turned into static. You felt him step away from you. You expected him to walk away, or worse — scold you with that same sharp tone he’d used back in his office after the surgery clamp incident. But instead, he reached for the bow in your hands and took it gently.

Then, to your complete confusion, he picked up one of the remaining arrows from your quiver, dug into his coat pocket, and pulled out a blue sticky note. He didn’t say anything. He just wrote something, rolled it carefully, and stuck it to the arrow. Then he stepped in front of you, lifted the bow, and with a slow, deliberate shot — fired it directly at you.

The arrow landed cleanly on your chest, just above your heart.

You plucked it off gently, fingers fumbling slightly as you unrolled the blue note.

“Ever wondered what kind of combination archery lessons and freshly brewed tea might make?”

You stared at the handwriting for a second longer than necessary. Your heart dropped to your stomach and rose again in the same breath. You looked up at him — your face no doubt a disaster of color and disbelief.

He met your eyes for the first time fully, without avoiding or glazing over. There was a subtle lightness in the way he stood now, something more relaxed than usual. He was smiling — really smiling now. That slow, knowing curve of the lips that you’d never seen aimed at anyone else. He looked like a man who had been aware all along and was finally, finally joining the game.

Your voice came out softer than you intended. “I’d… love to know more about that.”

His smile deepened. “Friday. After your shift.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving you speechless in the hallway, an arrow in your hand and a rapidly accelerating heartbeat in your chest.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

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runforthehillsbestie · 3 days ago

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Sympathy For The Devil

Part 4 - hunting season

Pairing - Thomas Hewitt x Female reader

Read the story context and warnings here

You wake up to the cold barrel of a gun patting your cheek. The craggy, grinning face of Sheriff Hoyt hovers over you.

"I see you survived the night in one piece! That's never happened before."

You sit up on the thin mattress and wince. You're sore all over from last night, especially your jaw and throat. You hadn't been expecting to get a place to sleep, so when Tommy took you over to the stained, worn mattress in the corner of the basement, you curled up without complaint. It was hardly as comfortable as the bed you'd slept on the night before, and that said a lot. You wonder if it was his sleeping spot you had occupied.

"Where's Tommy?" You rasp.

"What, want me to call him?"

"No!"

Sheriff Hoyt laughs. "Then let's get you upstairs before Mama starts hollering at me."

Hesitantly you follow him up the stairs, eyeing the holster at his hip. He rests his hand on his gun as if he can sense what you're looking at.

"Oh, child, you look a fright!" Luda Mae says when she sees you. "Charlie Hewitt, what on earth did you do to her?" She strokes your hair away from your face, clucking like a hen.

"Mama, I told you, it's Hoyt. Sheriff Hoyt. And I didn't do more than what needed doing," Sheriff Hoyt says. "She'll be fine."

Luda Mae smiles at you. "We don't only eat meat," she says. "We have ourselves a balanced diet with what humble bits and pieces we can rustle up."

The early morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen window feels good on your skin after your long night in the basement, and it casts a warm glow over the room. If you don't look too closely at the dust in the corners and the stains on the walls it looks almost cozy. You inch closer to the stove and warily peer into the pot, relieved to see it's just oats.

You sit at the table. Monty comes rattling in on his wheelchair with the dog trotting after him. "Hey Mama, you got any of that balm left over? Think I got myself a pressure sore again."

"Because you sit in that damn wheelchair all day," Sheriff Hoyt says.

"Well you cut off both my legs, what else am I supposed to do?" Monty shoots back.

"Why did you do that?" Your voice draws the attention of both men.

"Eh, he was shot in the leg. We had to do something," Sheriff Hoyt says with a shrug.

You grimace and make a mental note not to get seriously injured unless you want to lose a limb or two. You eat your oats with relish. It's enough that there aren't any human parts in it, but Luda Mae has heaped it with plenty of brown sugar and cream too.

"What about Tommy? Is he going to have breakfast?"

"He comes and goes," Luda Mae shrugs. "Can't rightly guess when he'll come around for something to eat." She turns to the Sheriff. "Drive us down to the shop, will you? The place needs tending."

"Why? What's wrong with Henrietta?" Sheriff Hoyt demands.

You perk up at the mention of a new name.

"Her baby's got a cough," Luda Mae says.

"You think taking the girl with you is a good idea?" Uncle Monty pipes up.

"She'll be good. Won't you?" Luda Mae turns her kind but firm eyes in your direction.

You nod. The thought of staying with Uncle Monty isn't very pleasant.

"Take my pistol just in case she makes a run. Tommy likes her but he'll understand if you have to use some of those bullets," Sheriff Hoyt says.

"It's not like I have anywhere to go," you mumble.

"Atta girl! Then we shouldn't have a problem!" Sheriff Hoyt says before hunching over his bowl of oats and scooping the rest into his mouth.

"This was once a lively town, you know," Luda Mae says to you.

You have just enough time after breakfast to change the bloodied rags out for fresh ones and wash your face before you leave. The car ride is awkward. The interior of the vehicle is ripe with the scent of salt and blood. Luda Mae doesn't seem to notice. You look out of the window and watch the scenery go from farmland to abandoned houses.

"A damn shame," Sheriff Hoyt adds and hocks a wad of spit out the window.

The shop turns out to be a low, squat building with a sign above the door that says "General Store". There's an ancient-looking gas pump outside. You both get out and you pretend not to notice the Sheriff pressing his pistol into Luda Mae's hands. You step into the shop and a bell tinkles overhead. Cobwebs inhabit every corner and the shelves are mostly empty, save for a few canned and packaged products. Luda Mae bustles in, humming to herself. She puts the gun behind the counter and then sits down.

"And now we just wait for some travelers to stop by for gas," she says, picking up a yellowed newspaper and beginning to read it.

You fidget for a moment before you blurt out, "Can I clean up a little? For something to do?"

She looks at you over her glasses, her eyebrows raising. "You can try," she says. "The floor will need multiple scrubs before you can even make a dent in the grease. I just couldn't keep up with it."

She supplies you with a bucket of water and a scrub brush and you get to work. It brings back memories of your mother who would make you scrub and mop and polish until your fingers ached and the shine of the floor could be spotted from a mile away. When she grew sick and began to cough up blood she'd spit on the floor and yell at you if you missed even one splotch of it. You could never hate her because she had it just as bad as you, head bowed to her husband.

Her only way of releasing steam was to take it out on you. Even on her deathbed. I could've run away earlier and left her to wallow in her filth. The darkness of the thought startles you. It's the thing your father hated about you, the demon he tried and failed to exorcise. You blink and realize you've been scrubbing the same spot for ages. The stained tiles are as clean as you're going to get them and the water in the bucket is the color of mud. Sweat rolls down your forehead and you wipe it away with your forearm before it gets in your eye.

"Where do I throw this out?"

"Shame on you, Jeremy Shaw!" Luda Mae cries out. "You get out of my shop!"

Luda Mae points you to the back of the shop. You pass through a cluttered backroom and step out the screen door. The grass growing at the back of the shop is sparse, and the ground is blackened and greasy in some places. You pitch the water out and watch it soak into the soil. There's no fence, nothing to stop you from running if you wanted to. Luda Mae is slow and probably not a good shot. You stand there for several minutes, holding the empty bucket.

There's nothing for me out there, same as here.

The thought is black and bitter. You've never been the adventurous type. All you've ever really wanted is a place where you belong. You can't say you feel like you belong here with a family of cannibals, but at least Tommy wants you. You've never been wanted before. Maybe you'll have to settle for that. The sound of breaking glass brings you out of your thoughts.

You pull open the screen door and poke your head into the main room. There are diced apricots and pieces of glass all over the floor you just scrubbed so nicely. A man stands in the middle of the mess. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, with a slightly crooked nose and squinting blue eyes. He gives Luda Mae a devilish grin.

"It's been a while. How's that freak show of yours doing? Thought I saw him down by the old slaughterhouse the other day. Reliving his glory days, I bet."

"You let him alone," Luda Mae snaps. "He's not a little boy anymore, you know. He will get you, and you'll be sorry."

"Oh yeah?" Jeremy snorts. "He never cried, you know. We'd bully him, throw rocks and call him names, even pissed on him once. Not a single emotion on that torn-up face. He's got nothin' between those ears of his."

"Get the hell out, or so god help me, I'll blow ya to pieces," she says, her voice eerily calm.

Luda Mae bristles. Her hand slips under the counter and she grabs the gun and points it at Jeremy.

"Shiiit. That's some weapon alright. You know how to operate that thing, Gran?" Jeremy picks up another jar and tosses it carelessly from one hand to another.

"I could shoot a beer cap off a bottle back in the day," Luda Mae says. "I think my aim is still good enough to get you right in the dick, tiny as it is."

Jeremy hurls the jar onto the floor and Luda Mae pulls the trigger and clips him on the ear. An inch closer and it would've been his head.

"I was being generous that time," she says.

You barely hear her over the dull ringing in your head. Jeremy's face pales as he clamps a hand over his bloodied ear. Before she can pull the trigger again, a voice behind you says,

Before you can react a pair of burly arms lock around you. Jeremy forgets his fear and his eyes light up when he sees you.

"I'd think twice about that if I were you, Ms. Hewitt."

"Wow, Gran, where'd you get this hot piece of ass?"

"Didn't know there was a Hewitt this pretty," the man behind you says, stroking your hair.

"You let my girl go!" Luda Mae shouts, her hand beginning to waver.

A warm feeling blooms in your chest at that. My girl.

"I'm not a Hewitt," you mutter, shuddering violently when he nips at the shell of your ear.

Luda Mae shoots him for that. The bullet grazes his arm and he spews curses, rounding the counter and backhanding her across the face. She topples into the chair and the gun falls out of her hand.

"Damn," Jeremy says, licking his chapped lips. "She looks like she'll be tight. Maybe we should take her for a ride, Matthew?"

"Shit," Jeremy curses again, grabbing the gun. "Fucking hell, her aim isn't bad. Not good enough, though. Looks like I'll live."

He hits her with the gun, which makes a cracking sound as it smacks against her face.

"No!" You gasp.

Luda Mae's head lolls to the side and a trickle of crimson rolls down her cheek.

"Thomas," she mumbles, looking dazed.

"He ain't here, and he ain't coming," Jeremy says.

Luda Mae's eyes fall shut. Jeremy strides up to you. You're imprisoned in Matthew's arms, so you wait till he's in range before you lash out, kicking as hard as you can. Matthew drags you against his chest but your foot still manages to make contact with Jeremy's groin. He doubles over with a screech and grabs at his junk.

He rears back up and punches you in the stomach, knocking the air out of you. You spit in his face even as you wheeze. He wrenches you out of Matthew's hands and throws you on your back on the ground. His face is red with rage as he straddles you and grabs your hair, lifting your head. You know from experience that he's going to bash your head against the floor and you struggle against his hold, a cry slipping from you.

"You scream like a girl," you taunt.

"Cool your tits, Jeremy," Matthew grunts. "I want her wide awake. I want her to feel everything."

Jeremy groans as you buck underneath him.

You look up at him. He looks a lot like Jeremy but older, with a buzzcut and a scar that cuts across his left eyebrow. They're brothers. You curl your lip and struggle under Jeremy's weight, desperately wishing you had your razor blade. You'd stick it in his stomach and open him up.

"Bitch!" He points the gun in your face. "I'm gonna fucking thoot you," he lisps.

"They're hot when they fight," he says, grabbing your jaw and leaning down to kiss you.

His breath is thick with the scent of cigarettes and his tongue bitter with the taste of stale coffee. You open your mouth to lure him in and then you bite down as hard as you can. You feel your incisors poke through the fleshy muscle and come together with a click. Jeremy howls, yanking back as his mouth fills with blood.

"Stop fucking around," Matthew says. "If you're not gonna spend your time wisely then I want her."

You reach blindly for a piece of broken glass. It cuts into your palm but you ignore the pain and slice it at Jeremy's face. It misses by mere centimeters and he looks surprised.

You headbutt him and scramble to your feet as he falls to the side, gripping his nose. Matthew grabs you but only catches the sleeve of your dress, ripping it clean off and exposing one of your breasts. You run because your life depends on it.

"You're out for me, aren't you?" He laughs painfully. "Wild cat."

Which way is back to the house?

Maybe you can lose them in the trees. Jeremy's brother gives an appreciative laugh like he's enjoying the chase. You chance a look over your shoulder. It's just you and Matthew, Jeremy is falling behind. You can just about make out his voice, cursing shrilly as he complains about his wounds. You trip over a tree root hidden in the grass and fall hard, scraping your hands and knees. The weight of a fully grown man crashes on top of you and you scream.

You dart down the road. You're good at running and you think you might have a chance at getting away but you're also concerned for Luda Mae. She's already hurt and you know the two men won't have a problem going back to rough her up some more, just for fun. You stumble when you hear a gunshot, bracing yourself for pain that never comes. It's just Jeremy messing with you, wasting bullets, whooping with laughter. Matthew comes up fast behind you, his long legs eating up the distance. Your blood rushes in your veins and your heart pounds madly to keep up with the demand. Come on, just a little further. Instinct drives you to get off the road and out of the open where Jeremy can easily shoot you, plunging into the ditch and scrambling up the other side.

"Go ahead, darling. That's the fucking beauty of ghost towns. No one will hear you," Matthew says.

He smells like cigarettes and metal and grease.

"Tommy, huh? Have you been openin' your legs for that brainless animal?" He growls in your ear.

"Tommy will hear," you say, attempting to throw your head back into his nose.

He's smarter than his brother and keeps well out of range. His calloused hand grabs your wrists and pins them behind your back. You moan in pain and discomfort at the vulnerable position, gulping in breaths as your heart flutters in your chest like a wild bird.

A stick pokes painfully into your ribcage.

"Fuck you, asshole." you hiss. "Do you have to force girls because no one will say yes to you?"

"Jeremy likes to talk, but he'll never know what to do with the likes of you," he says, bunching your dress over your back and letting out an appreciative whistle.

Matthew chuckles. "Hey now, you have it all wrong, sugar. This is my guilty pleasure."

He drapes himself over you and you kick your legs at the clinking sound of his belt unbuckling, but other than that you can barely move. He rips your panties off, using his body to keep you still as he wedges himself between your legs. He grunts as he rubs the head of his cock against your pussy.

"You're wet," he says. "Oh, it's that time of the month, huh?"

You grit your teeth.

He hums. "Just more lubrication."

He nips your earlobe and you can't help but shiver again. His cock digs against your entrance and he starts to slide into you. You let out a stifled shriek into the dirt.

"Fuck yeah," Matthew groans as he seats his cock deep inside you.

It has been months since you slept with anyone, and the sting of him stretching you out makes you whimper.

He knows better than to try and kiss you, settling for mouthing at your jawline and the back of your neck instead, sucking a bruise onto the spot between your neck and shoulder. You have to turn your head sideways to breathe, and that's when you notice a familiar broad figure standing just a mere few feet away by a tree.

"Come on, cry for me," Matthew groans. "That'll be so fucking hot."

"Tommy!" His name escapes your mouth in a breathless squeak.

You tug your wrists out of Matthew's loose grip and brace them against the ground so you can prop yourself up and get a better look at him.

Why is he just standing there?

Tommy's head is tilted to the side, studying the scene playing out in front of him. Matthew groans and huffs into your hair, his body rippling against you. Eventually, he senses your distraction and looks up. Instead of fear at the sight of the man in the filthy apron, he laughs.

"Thomas Hewitt, long time no see. Getting a good show?" He sneers, fucking into you so deep that you shriek. "Bet you've got no clue how good it feels to sink your cock into a hot cunt, you bastard."

He flips you over so he can paw at your breast through your ripped dress. "Maybe I'll even let you have her when I'm finished."

"Hell, I'm close," he pants. "You're going to take all of my cum, aren't you? Like the good Hewitt whore you are. Ngh--"

With the way he's holding your legs open you have no doubt Tommy is getting an eyeful. You can picture what he's seeing, your body being jangled up and down against the ground, your bouncing tits streaked with dirt and sweat. And below, your pussy is rammed by Matthew's throbbing shaft, blood, and precum squelching lewdly with each thrust. You can hear it yourself. You moan at the feeling of Tommy's heavy gaze on you, his eyes flicking over your form like he's learning something new, putting the puzzle pieces together. Matthew feels your pussy clench and thinks it's for him.

Tommy bends down and picks up a chainsaw from the ground by his feet, yanking on the cord. It comes to life with a roar. Matthew's head jerks up and his jaw drops, hips stilling against you.

"What the fuck?"

"No, Tommy," you croak. "Put that down."

Those are his last words as Tommy steps forward and sweeps the chainsaw through the air with practiced ease. Blood mists all over you as the chainsaw detaches Matthew's arm right above the elbow, making a grating sound as it saws through the bone. Matthew tries to scream and only manages a wheezing sound. The saw sinks into his torso next, in an arc that starts at his ribcage and swoops down to carve into his stomach, grinding and splattering. You shove Matthew away before his unzipped innards land on you. Shiny, stinking coils of shredded intestine splat into the grass, and the rest of Matthew follows landing in a wet, steaming pile.

You scrabble backward. Tommy turns to you with wild eyes filled with bloodlust. He's erect, straining against the front of his pants. His shoulders heave with each ragged breath he takes. The muscles in his arms ripple as he holds the chainsaw like an impatient horse chomping at the bit. You scramble to your feet, cupping a hand against your sore cunt.

He takes a menacing step forward. You've already seen the effortless carnage the spinning serrated blade can do, and you don't want that to happen to you. You spin around and force your legs to carry you, bursting into a run. Tommy lets out a wordless roar that is almost drowned out by the noise of the chainsaw and chases after you. Your skin is hot and sticky with blood and other fluids. Leaves and dry blades of grass stick to your arms and legs as you tear through the trees and into a field of wild wheat. You're sobbing noisily, Matthew's savaged body fresh in your mind.

Tommy crashes after you, drawing closer by the second. Up ahead you see an abandoned building that has been boarded up and locked with heavy chains. A weathered sign on the wall says Lee Bros. Meat Processing Plant. You spot a hole in the chainlink fence and run towards it and wiggle through. The sharp edges cut into your legs but you ignore the pain and press on. You pull yourself through just as Tommy bursts out of the field. The murderous darkness in his eyes scares you just as much as the chainsaw he carries. You get to your feet. Luckily the door is cracked open, the padlock hanging loose and broken from a chain. You run into the building.

The interior is dim, the dusty atmosphere cut through with thin beams of sunlight. The air reeks of iron and meat. There are vats filled with bloody liquid the consistency of thick soup. Animal and human parts drift in there, and the portions that are above the surface of the liquid are clumped with flies and squirming maggots. You gag and back away, searching for a place to hide. The chainsaw has gone quiet. You hear the door squeak open and quickly duck behind some old machinery, curling in a ball, hardly daring to breathe in case he hears you. His boots thump against the ground as he pads around. From the intermittent shuffling sound, he's checking the vats. You'd never in a million years think of hiding in one of them, though. The contents alone would probably cause you to contract some horrible disease.

The thought makes your stomach turn and a small gag escapes you before you can stop it. The footsteps pause. You press your hand over your mouth, your heartbeat so loud in your ears that you can't even make out if he's continuing to walk around. Maybe he spots a piece of your dress or the dim light glinting in your hair because his shadow suddenly falls over you. You leap to your feet.

He grabs you by the throat and slams you against the wall, stunning you. You feel all your bones rattle from the force, and when he releases your throat you slide to the floor. Your face presses against the ground, dirt and grit coating your cheek and lips. You spit the dirt out of your mouth in disgust. Tommy sets the chainsaw down with a clank and presses his grimy hand between your breasts, flattening you to the floor.

"Please--"

You're bloodier than he is, which is quite an accomplishment. It's all Matthew's blood, except between your legs where your uterus continues to shed, unbothered. Tommy's big hands tremble slightly as he yanks off the shirt underneath and you get to see his bare skin. His gaze flicks downward and he pauses almost bashfully, displaying himself for you. His torso is pale compared to the tan of his forearms and neck. There are fewer scars here, and his skin is patchy with dirt and ripe with the scent of sweat. He's thick with muscle and fat, built like a bear, and as strong as one. Hair scatters across his pecs, meeting in a whorl at his belly button and thickening into a trail of leads down.

You flail until he squeezes his hand around your throat, a warning for you to stop struggling. You let yourself go lax and look up at him pleadingly, feeling like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. He rucks your dress up high on your belly and looks at your scratched, bleeding legs. The worst scratch is on the side of your knee, beaded with blood. He hitches your leg up and leans over you. You wince at the feeling of his warm, slippery tongue laving over the wound. He grunts at the taste of your blood and drops your leg, looking at the rest of your body, poking and prodding like you're a prized cow bred for slaughter. He pinches your hip hard enough to leave a bruise then shoves your legs open crudely to get between them, his breathing growing heavier as he studies you closely. His thick finger runs between your folds, gathering blood and cum. He rubs it between his fingers and then wipes it on his apron before shucking it off.

"Thomas!" You shriek, slamming your fist against his shoulder.

He stands to shove his pants down and you swallow hard. The mask remains, but you doubt you'll ever see him take that off around you. When you make a move to sit up he presses his muddy boot down on your thigh. Stay. Your thighs twitch at the sight of his cock, swollen and thick with veins, which has been rock hard ever since he caught Matthew fucking you, It bobs heavily when he falls to his knees and pries your legs open. Your hip pops from the force and you grimace. He falls on you like a hungry animal and you squeal when he yanks your ripped dress out of the way taking your nipple into his mouth and biting.

He pulls away with a pop. Your nipple is hot and swollen but at least it doesn't look like he's broken the skin. He roughly kneads the other breast, shoving your hand away when you try to stop him from squeezing so hard. It hurts, but it also makes your body come alive. Your nerve endings are electrified by the feeling of his body, his hairy thighs pushing into yours and forcing them open to make room for him. He supports his weight with one hand, grabbing your face with the other, squeezing your cheeks together so your lips push into a pout. You're certain he would kiss you if he knew how. Instead, he rubs his calloused fingers over your lips and presses them into your mouth to catch your tongue, tugging on it slightly before he lets go and presses the pads of his fingers to the velvety texture of your tongue.

"Tommy," you whine urgently. "Wait, it's too much!"

His cock, trapped between your bodies, oozes hot precum against your stomach. He pulls his wet fingers out of your mouth and rubs them against his cock, pausing only to spit on his fingers and lubricate his shaft some more before he grips it and angles between your legs, prodding around. He's entranced at how silky your pussy lips feel, rubbing his cockhead in wide passes that tap against your clit now and then. You feel yourself giving in, arching your hips to chase the pressure. The rocking movements you make cause his cock to catch against your entrance and he leans forward and begins to push in. You're not surprised to discover he's much bigger and girthier than Matthew as you shudder at the burning intrusion.

Overwhelmed by the sensations you begin to cry, ragged sobs that burst from your chest. He leans over you, his belly and chest pressing against you as he licks the tears from your cheeks, petting your cheek with the backs of his fingers, almost comfortingly. You tangle your fingers into his damp hair and pull on it, angry at him and yet growing wetter. Tommy's first few thrusts are clumsy and uncoordinated and he keeps pushing your legs open wider until your hips ache from it. When he finally gets the hang of it he sets a brutal pace, slamming into you so hard you have to clench your teeth to keep them from clicking together. You wail his name but you're impaled on his cock, unable to get away. All you can do is bear with it instead, clinging to him.

He's fascinated by the wet, addicting clasp of your cunt squeezing down on him so tight. He rocks his hips into you, pushing past your resistance and forcefully making room for his cock. He groans when you scratch his arms and chest, close to crying from the deep ache. He isn't listening to you. In a last bid to catch his attention, you reach up and hook your fingers against the mask, trying to yank it off. You briefly feel divoted scars and mottled skin underneath before he drags your hand away, his grip crushing against your wrist. You cry out as he growls at you. It almost sounds like the word no. He draws back only to slide in again, his body working like a well-oiled machine to reach into your depths and unravel you. You're not proud of the sounds you make.

A hint of pleasure lingers somewhere on the edge of the pain but he's overwhelming you, taking far more than you can give, uncaring of your attempts to push him away as he plunges into you again and again, addicted to the feeling. He ruts into you like an animal. You know he's close when his breathing gets even more ragged and his hips punch into yours, becoming sloppy and uncoordinated again. You hear the faintest rumble of a low whimper catching in his throat.

"No--wait, you can't cum inside me. Tommy!"

One last grinding thrust and you feel his hot cum bursting into you, painting your insides, filling you up, and dripping out. He hovers over you for several seconds as he spills into you, breathing hard. A bead of sweat rolls off his forehead and drops onto your cheek. You sniffle, bleeding from all your stinging scratches, leaking between the legs, utterly undone. He finally hauls himself up to his feet and leans heavily against the wall, just observing you. You don't have the energy to get up and you hurt all over, so you simply lie there quietly and let him watch.

There is no remorse in his eyes, just a deep, yawning, tender hunger. As though he's found something he can't get enough of, and he wants to savor it and make it last.

Part 5 - still beating heart (Coming Soon!)

@typicalchaos, @slut4acotar, @lovelymindescape, @dabisnympho and @thetoastghost222 asked to be tagged! I'll add anyone else who asks <3

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