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Chapter Text

It was midafternoon on David’s day off.  He had just woken up and lazed in the cloudy afternoon light coming through the west window of their shared studio apartment.  Dwight was working and would be until after the dinner rush, so David had the small apartment to himself.  The peace was nice.  Work last night had been a nightmare.  He was a bouncer for a club in the West Village.  There had been three fights in the first two hours of his shift, and the last one resulted in him sporting a shiner over his left eye.  It looked uglier than it was just because of how close the blood vessels were to the surface of his face, but it still marked the beginning of a bad evening.  Not getting to wake up to his partner made it worse.

He stretched his body as far as he could and yawned before willing himself to sit upright.  The cloudy weather still felt like a novelty.  The campfire in the Realms was always dreary and foggy, even though the sun was perpetually out.  They never had rain or any kind of inclement weather.  Now, David could feel the humidity clinging to his skin.  He felt clammy, damp, and uncomfortable, and he loved it more than he could express.  Living in a world post-Entity was strange.  David wasn’t sure he would ever get used to it.

The house was immaculately clean.   There wasn’t a dish in the sink or a single article of clothing out of place.  This was the only thing that occupied Dwight’s time at home.  Dwight didn’t have any hobbies and hadn’t made any new friends since they’d, somehow, exited the Realms.  He spent his time eating, working, cleaning, or sleeping and very little else.  David had to do something before Dwight withered away into nothing.  He had several ideas of how to cheer his lover up, but only one stuck out as a long-term solution that would make an impact.  To pull it off, he would need to be out of the house before Dwight got home from his job delivering pizza.  That left him with a couple of hours.  Easy.

David started by making coffee.  There was a fifty-fifty chance it would keep him up late, but that wouldn’t be a problem today.  Even if it kept him up, he had two days off.  He could think of a few wonderful ways to burn off his caffeine high.  Heat rose to his cheeks just thinking about it.  He drank half of the cup before rising himself off.  He brought the coffee with him right into shower, too.  Kill two birds with one stone, as the saying went.  After that, he dressed, grabbed a banana out of their fruit bowl, and left the apartment.

David hurried out of the neighborhood as quickly as he could.  He didn’t need to travel far for his errand, but he also had time to kill and didn’t want Dwight to spot him roaming around.  He wasted a good amount of time window shopping before stopping in front of a pet store window.  Puppies played in the hay of a pen set up in the window display.  They yapped and chased each other; pointy puppy teeth displayed in wide, playful mouths.  Each one was adorable enough to make David’s heart melt.  He counted seven of them, all different breeds, and wished he could take every one of them home.  He and Dwight didn’t have the time or space for a dog though.

He went inside the pet store, taking time to say hello to every animal for sale.  There was an enormous African Grey Parrot hanging out by the register that cocked its head at David and squawked “hello stranger” repeatedly.  David smiled, approached it, and said hello back.  The bird bobbed its head up and down and said “thank you, boss!” twice.  David laughed again.

“Hello,” said a store worker as she walked behind the counter.  She had a smile warm enough to melt the ice caps, and her eyes were shaped like Marilyn Monroe’s half-lidded, droopy eyes.  “Glad to see Harry gave you a warm welcome.”  She nodded to the parrot.  Harry.  Funny name for a bird.  David leveled the parrot a look, and Harry turned his head to stare at him with one beady eye.  He squawked again.  “Can I perhaps help you instead, or are you just saying hello to our friends?”

David couldn’t help but return her smile.  It was infectious.  The clerk’s eyes darted away from David’s for a brief moment, and she subtly worried the inside of her cheek between her teeth.  Being in the Realms left David aware of everything around him, even the most minute movements.  He noticed the chemistry, and it made him smile more.  It didn’t matter that he was in love and deeply invested in it; being flirted with always felt good so long as it stayed harmless.

“Actually,” David said, “you can.  I’m looking to adopt a kitten for my boyfriend.  It’s time for the next step, you know?”

“Ahhh,” the clerk hummed.  Disappointment flashed on her face for half a second and then it was gone.  Her smile was just as warm though, and she didn’t skip a beat.  “Well, we have quite a lot.  They’re over here.” She gestured for David to follow and led him to a playpen with a baker’s dozen of kittens in it.  She explained that they’d come from two different litters, so most of them were siblings.  They were all up to date with their shots and the perfect age to go home to a loving family.  She also recommended that kittens be adopted in pairs and pointed out the pairs that were bonded and required to go home together.

David watched the kittens for a long while, trying to understand each one’s personality.  His eyes kept coming back to the tiniest of the kittens.  She was a tiny tortie who had trouble getting around and often bumped into the other cats.  Her body was at least half the size of all the other cats.  When she wasn’t trying to explore, she was huddled up against a lazy calico.  David felt a pang of kinship with the baby.

“What about this one?” he asked and pointed to the tortie.

“She is the only one who we rescued.  She’s not part of the other litters.  We found her in the alley around the corner with a double eye infection and fleas.  Because of the infection, the vet said she’s basically blind in both eyes.  And this one,” the clerk pointed to the calico, “is her best friend in the world.  They need to be adopted together.  I’d hate to see them separated.”

“Done,” David said, moved by the tortie’s story.  He had no problem taking the calico too.  One kitten for him, one for Dwight.  It would be the start of a lovely little family.

The clerk chuckled and went to the back room to get a cardboard carrier.  Both the kittens were scooped into it and brought to the register, where David happily paid with his credit card.  He was also sold some toys, a cat bed, and a small bag of dried cat food.  He would have to run out later for the rest of the cat supplies.  It was impossible to carry it all in one trip.

With a thank you and a wink, David left the pet shop.  He hoped he spent enough time loitering that Dwight would be home as he leisurely strolled back to their shared apartment.  The sun was just beginning to set, leaving the world looking beautifully warm and peaceful.  It put David in an even better mood than he was in when he spotted the tortie.  He cooed at the kittens whenever they mewled inside their cardboard carrier.  He couldn’t wait to show them their new home.

When David stepped into the apartment, Dwight was indeed home.  His shoes were kicked off in the doorway and his body was curled up in the queen bed, back to the room.  He didn’t move when David closed the door.  It was one of those days.  Dwight dipped in and out of moments so low he didn’t do anything but lay in bed.  David hummed softly and kicked his shoes off too.

“Hello, love,” he purred.  Dwight didn’t answer, but he did shift his weight on the bed.  “How was work?”

“It was work,” Dwight mumbled softly.  His voice was quiet but not dismissive or uninterested.  Dwight poured every ounce of his energy into responding.  David’s heart broke a little bit.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he said and approached the bed.  He sat on the edge and patted a hand on Dwight’s hip.  “Brought you a surprise.  Take a look.”

Dwight groaned gently as he rolled over to look at David.  There were dark circles under his eyes and a genuine but sad smile on his otherwise perfect lips.  “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know.” David set the carrier on the mattress and gestured for Dwight to open it.  The smaller man tilted his head and sat up.  One of the kittens chirped and Dwight’s eyes opened all the way.  Surprise replaced his fatigue.  He furrowed his brow and glanced up at David one more time before opening the top of the carrier.  Two kittens, wide eyed, stared up at him.

“David!” Dwight shouted.  Surprise, joy, shock, and elation all rolled across his face.  He reached into the box and pulled out the tortie, who squirmed in his fingers.  She was so tiny that she fit into one hand, but Dwight cradled her lovingly in two.

“You like?” David asked.  He reached in and picked up the calico, who pressed herself against David’s skin.

“I, just, I, David!”

The tortie was a lot spunkier than the calico.  She squirmed in Dwight’s hands and even harmlessly bit one of his fingers.  She purred like a motorboat the entire time.  Tears welled up in Dwight’s eyes and unabashedly rolled down his cheeks.  This was the first time David had seen Dwight cry since they arrived in this city.  Finally, some emotional release.

It took Dwight a moment to collect himself.  They both put the kittens on the bed to explore the new smells and sights.  The tortie tailed the calico everywhere they went, close enough to press against her the entire time.  Dwight couldn’t take his eyes off of the kittens, but soon he found his words.

“Jesus, David, kittens?”

“Yeah,” David said with a shrug and smug smile.  “Figured it was time to have children.”

“Couples don’t have kids without talking first!  Pets aren’t gifts.  They’re a commitment.  They’re living things, not toys.”

David wrinkled his nose, scolded.  He’d never thought of that.  His parents had gotten him expensive pets as gifts when he was a kid, so he’d never thought about it.  He shrugged his shoulders and asked again, “So, do you like them?”

“Are you kidding?” Dwight said indignantly.  “You stupid man.  I love them.”

“Good.  They still need names.”

Dwight crossed his arms over his chest as he watched the tortie attack the calico’s tail.  She growled small but fiercely.  The calico patiently sat there and flicked her tail in response, causing the tortie to lose her mind and chase it more.

“This one is tiny,” Dwight stated the obvious.

“She’s a little nub,” David agreed.  Dwight’s eyes lit up.

“Nubbin.”

David barked a laugh.  “And the other one?”

Dwight thoughtfully tapped his finger to his lips.  “She’s a baby, but she’s got an old soul.  She’s more like a mom than a baby.”

“She’s a little wee mum alright.”

“That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“Wee Mum.”

David made a face at Dwight, who only beamed back at him.  This is what he got for letting Dwight name the cats.  He should have known better.  He should have claimed naming one of them for himself, although he wasn’t sure Dwight would have let him name a cat “Killer” or “Bloodbath.” 

“I can’t believe you’ve done this,” David said in disbelief.  This only made Dwight smile wider.

“Says the man who buys live animals as surprise gifts without talking about it first,” Dwight retorted.

“Touché.”

Dwight leaned in and pressed a kiss to David’s lips.  Then he stretched out, belly first, on the bed to wiggle his fingers for the kittens.  Nubbin was more eager to attack the digits, but Wee Mum was eventually tempted into join in.  David watched; his heart was full.  He hadn’t seen Dwight so happy in weeks.  Despite being unprepared to raise kittens, this decision was the best one he’d made yet.  This was the start of something wonderful, he could feel it.

Chapter Text

Silent, simmering rage.  That’s all Philip has known since he was a child.  “Othered” wasn’t the word he’d use to describe where the pain started.  There weren’t any words for the horrors and butchery he’d witnessed.  He grew up in the middle of the Nigerian Civil War.  Every single person he’d ever known or loved had been massacred simply because of a difference in culture or religion.  When he was a child, he hadn’t understood it.  All he understood was the rotting seas of corpses he traveled through, somehow surviving, not wanting to be the last.  Now he understood.  He understood plain as day: you reap what you sow.  He was reborn a reaper.  And he would sow the seeds that men before him had planted his entire life.  

He’d been granted a gift winding up here in Hell.  He was a crowned prince cursed with the ability to never die, blessed with the promise of punishing the worst of mankind for eternity.  He was made for this, and he felt the tremendous joy of justice served as he slaughtered them every night on his new battlefield.  The wrecking yard ran red with blood, the same way the streets of Nigeria did once.  And with him every step of the way was his beloved Wailing Bell.  One tap on it struck fear into the hearts of the wicked, and he relished in it.  It gave him life.  It gave him purpose.  

Hunting blackhearted people was his calling.  Torturing the souls of the dead and damned, his passion.  He was thoroughly convinced that each person he murdered was already dead, recycled back into consciousness to be punished for their cruelty on Earth.  It wasn’t until he hovered over a young woman, skin dark like his, terror and confusion in her eyes, that he began to question himself.  She looked so much like Funanya when she had suffered her horrible death.  The gaze stilled his hand, Azarov’s skull and spine coiled, ready to spring, in the air above his head.  He stood there for several long moments, staring into her fearful eyes.  Then, without warning, he tore his gaze away, slammed on his bell with the skull, and stepped into the Spirit World.  There was safety in invisibility he’d never needed before, but in that moment, he was thankful to have it.  

He moved ten feet away to watch her from a junk pile, breathing heavy.  She slowly sat up.  A thin, disheveled man with glasses crept out from behind a busted down car and ran to her.  They embraced.  She cried in his arms for a moment before he helped her up and they sprinted away.  

The encounter haunted Philip.  He’d never looked into his victims’ eyes before.  He’d never noticed how frightened they might have been.  They were animals.  Animals didn’t require compassion.  This woman didn’t look like any of the men he’d killed when he was alive, when he still felt human.  She looked like Funanya; she looked like his grandmother.  The realization shook him.  He spent weeks considering it, and during this time he looked for the woman.  He’d seen many faces multiple times, like the lanky man with the glasses, but this woman evaded him.  His search became so frantic that he stopped hunting the others.  

Then, one day, he spotted her.  She ran into the building of the dilapidated gas station of his former employer.  He followed her, pushing through the air like water as he used the Spirit World to travel.  She slipped out of a window through the back of the station, and he followed.  When she kneeled behind a stack of old tires and plucked some flowers growing out of the rubbish, he tapped his bell to return his body to the waking world.  

Bing bong.  

The woman gasped and turned around suddenly.  Her eyes fell on Philip and filled with terror once more.  She jumped backwards and lost her balance, falling to her rear.  Philip tilted his head to the side.  After weeks of seeking her, there he was in front of him.  She looked frail and tired, but not broken.  Alongside the fear in her eyes was defiance.  She wouldn’t be broken.  She couldn’t be.  

Philip’s breath came calm and slow, released with snarls he could no longer control.  How fearsome he must have looked and sounded to her.  He didn’t want to frighten her, he wanted to understand her.  In an attempt to appear more disarming, he lowered himself onto his haunches, head still tilted to the side.  

The woman’s breathing, in contrast to Philips, was short and quick.  She did her best to still her nerves with a deep breath in through her nose, but her body still quaked.  She stared into his eyes, and they sat there in silence for a long time.  Then, in a moment of courage (or maybe stupidity, Philip wondered), she took one of the flowers in her hand and held it out to him.  His eyes settled on it curiously.  Then he took the stem in his fingers, skin touching hers.  She was warm and soft, and his brain twisted from the sensation.  It had been decades since he truly felt another person.  

“You’re like me, aren’t you?” the woman said softly.  Her voice quivered, but the deep compassion in her tone captured Philip.  An unfamiliar sensation flooded his body, one he hadn’t felt since he burned those dogs alive, the ones who disappeared people for money.  Dread.  It shook him to his core.  He didn’t understand why.  Why would such a kind person rattle him so terribly?  Her mere existence shattered his world view.  Something was terribly wrong.  He wanted to stay with the woman, but the fear that gripped his heart forced his hand away.  He slammed his weapon into his bell, vanishing.  

The woman gazed into the empty space where Philip had stood visible a moment before.  The flower she had held out to him was gone too, and she frowned.  He watched her rise back to her feet and retreat into the gas station once more.  He didn’t follow her this time.  He needed time.  But warmth flickered into his cold, hate-filled heart like kindling sparked for a warm fire.  He hoped against all hope to find her again.  

Chapter Text

Generators be damned.  With Jake’s hands on you, fingers slipping up under your shirt, hot breath on your cold skin behind the shack on the snowy ski resort, you don’t care about the generators anymore.  Already, Jake’s drawing pitiful noises out of you.  You can’t help it.  The contrast of hot and cold and the thrill of being touched like this with a killer on the loose is enough to drive you mad.    

You’re awkward with your hands, and despite your building heat you feel embarrassed that Jake is seeing so much of you so quickly.  You can’t make eye contact with him, and every time he stops touching you to see if you’re okay, you turn your head away and mumble a soft “yes.”  Jake shucks off his coat, scarf, and shirt and tosses them into the snow, but he takes his time peeling you out of yours.  His hands slide up your sides, across your chest, and pushes the shirt slowly over your head.  His lips trace the lines his hand made, and you shiver.  He savors this.  Your body is something for him to worship, he is but a humble believer at his alter.    

He doesn’t give you any time to react to his affection.  Every time you manage to stand up straighter or make him shiver, he’s already readjusted his mouth or hands.  He’s in complete control, and you aren’t bothered by this one bit.  Once your shirt is disposed of, he presses you against the grainy wood of the shack.  It’s so cold you instinctively try to jump away, but he pins you there with his weight.  As a reward, his hand slips between your legs.  

“Good pet,” he whispers in your ear.  Your jaw trembles, and you tilt your head up.  You feel like your chest is going to explode from the desire as you roll your hips into his hand.  The feeling is electricity.  His thumb is pure ecstasy as he kneads a circle in just the right spot.  You gasp and press small crescents into the skin of his back with your broken fingernails.  In return, he growls low and touches his teeth to the side of your neck.  It’s both a warning and a promise.  

You can’t take it anymore.  Your hands slide down to his hips and deft, eager fingers tug helplessly at his belt.  You’re at an awkward angle, stretched just enough that you can’t get a good grasp on the buckle.  Jake removes his hands from your body to help you with your task at his waist, then he undoes your pants as well.  He tugs your pants down to your ankles (which you eagerly kick off), but he only pulls his down enough to slide his member out.  You can’t look at it, even though you want to.  Your eyes flutter shut, and blush burns your cheeks.  

“Not going to help yourself?” Jake asks.  He presses his lips to your throat, then collar, chest, the line of your stomach, and drops to his knees.  His warm breath huffs against your pelvis, and both of your palms slam flat against the shack in anticipation.  “More for me, then.”  

Then, like magic, his mouth is on you.  The first sensation rips out a surprised moan.  He’s no longer warm, but cooler than your skin.  It’s wetter feeling than you had imagined it would be too, but far from unpleasant.  As he busies his mouth with your body, he also hooks your leg over his shoulder for a better angle.  You think he’s stroking himself too, but you aren’t certain of it until he moans against you.  The vibrations add another layer of pleasure to his ministrations.  

You buck your hips, eliciting another low sound from the man.  Your treatment isn’t rough, it’s just desperate.  All the same, he makes a show of enjoying it by the way his tongue slides against you.  He’s a god damn professional.  Your fingers need something to grab onto, and they tangle into his hair.  You don’t demand anything of him with the touch, you just simply need to hold on.  

His mouth releases you with a wet smack of his lips.  You glance down at him just in time to see him turn his flushed face upwards.  He licks a wet spot at the corner of his mouth and smirks.  His half-lidded, almond shaped eyes are glassy with want.  You take shallow, quick breaths, now unable to tear your eyes away.  You’re frozen, a mixture of pleasant discomfort and thirst so powerful you think you might lose your sanity right here in the corner of the Ormond property.  You want him.  You want him so bad.  

Jake squeezes himself and his lips press in a little.  You feel ridiculous saying anything, but a single word still pulls itself out of your mouth: “Please.”  

It’s the magic word.  Jake stands up and looks around the area.  There isn’t a single spot to lay down.  Everywhere around you is covered in snow.  He clicks his tongue thoughtfully, then, without warning, hoists you over his shoulder.  

“Inside,” he says gruffly, and walks around the side of the shack to the doorway.  He sets you down in the entrance the moment the ground is clear of snow and leans over you.  Your body shivers from the chill of cold wood against naked skin.  One of his hands slips back down to your groin, the other presses two fingers into your willingly parted lips.  You need to instruction and eagerly suck on them.  Your tongue presses between them and gently skates under them.  You imagine something else is in your mouth, and when Jake moans softly you realize he does too.  

“Fuck,” Jake says as he reluctantly removes his fingers to press them against the entrance at your pelvis.  “Remind me next time to use your mouth, too.  That was hot.”  

You smile, even more embarrassed.  You wish he hadn’t said anything, but you also love unraveling with every word.  It makes your heart leap.  When one of his fingers presses inside you, your back arches and hips raise instinctively.  You relax into his hand naturally.  After a moment of exploration, he presses his second finger in.  You whine another “please.”  The heels of both of your hands press against your eyes.  

The movements of his fingers are torturous.  It ignites your nerves just enough to feel good, but not enough to properly please.  You squirm helplessly under him until he relents, removes his fingers, and spits into his palm.  

“Are you ready?” he asks as he lubricates himself with his saliva and touches his tip to your entrance.  You nod your head and bite your bottom lip.  Jake’s other hand presses into your thigh and folds you over yourself.  “Use your words, dear,” he purrs.  

“Yes,” you stammer as heat warms your cheeks, neck, and shoulders.  “Yes, please.”  

Your wish is his command.  He sinks in slowly, watching intently for any signs of discomfort.  Your breath hitches in your throat.  Jake leans his weight into you as he sinks deeper.  And deeper.  And deeper, until you’re completely full.  He then rocks his hips gently, the pressure driving you wild.  A hand rests on your chest, then nails scratch harmlessly against your sensitive throat.  There’s no sound in the shack other than the desperate, gasping noises your coupling.  

Until someone knocks at the door frame.  

Your eyes snap open, attention grabbed.  Jake stops rolling his hips and curses under his breath.   

“Nice,” a soft voice says.  Another man.  “Nice, nice, nice.  You two fucking when I’m killing?  I feel insulted.”  

Oh shit.  Oh fuck.  You squirm under Jake and try to close your legs, but his body is still in the way.  He’s still buried deep in you.  You feel dirty—not even in a bad way—knowing another pair of eyes sees this.  

“Can’t you just fuck off for twenty minutes?” Jake curses.  

“Nah,” the other man says.  “But I can fuck you for twenty minutes.”  

Against your better instincts, you shift your head to look around Jake.  A tall man in jeans, sneakers, a bloodied hoodie, and an eerie mask with a hand-drawn smile points glares in your direction.  You recognize him as Legion.  You know he has friends around, somewhere.  He’s not alone.  He might be now, but the others are surely nearby.  He holds a knife in his hand, and the tip of the blade drips blood onto the floor.  He’s hurt someone.  Recently.  You can’t help but wonder what his face looks like under that mask, especially with his comment lingering thick in the air.  

“Go hook yourself,” Jake growls.  

“Suit yourself,” the man says and stomps over to Jake.  He grabs the man by his hair and yanks him off you with a grunt.  Jake gasps for air as the knife plunges into his lower back, into something vital from the horrible noises he makes.  Legion shoves Jake roughly, and Jake collapses to his side on the ground.  Blood immediately pools around him.  

“How about you?” Legion’s voice is muffled behind the mask.  His gaze turns on you, and the look of those empty, hand-drawn eyes pierce through you.  Your heart races.  You’re scared, but you’re more thrilled.  You’re still bothered and turned on, and the way Legion hums approvingly at you that he must be too.  You know you shouldn’t be thinking it, not with Jake bleeding out on the floor, not with Legion pointing the knife at you that hurt Jake, but you can’t help yourself.  

You bite your lip and stay silent, torn between the urge to run and the desire to see if this man lived up to his big talk.  

“Was hoping you’d say that.”  He pushes his mask up just enough to show you his hungry grin.  You instinctively scramble back on the floor, but Legion is on top of you.  The tip knife in his hand presses to your throat and his other hand pets you heavy between your legs.  You don’t resist him.  Even as he twists your arm painfully behind you and flips you onto your stomach.  Even when you hear the zipper of his fly pull down.  Even when he lifts your hips up and suddenly, without warning, shoves himself into you.  You don’t resist because you don’t want to, because you’ve admitted to yourself that you want this.  

Legion is far rougher and more careless than Jake was.  Your eyes screw shut from the mixture of pleasure and pain that he gives you.  He’s not in this for pleasing you.  He’s in this entirely for himself.  His fingers curl around your throat and pinch hard enough to silence your whining.  His teeth scrape against your shoulder.  He lets out feral noises with each thrust.  

When you open your eyes, you notice Jake is watching with glossed over eyes.  His skin is pale and body trembles from the cold.  The pool of blood has doubled in size.  Guilt washes over you for enjoying yourself so damn much.  This felt good, too good, but Jake was the one who you wanted.  You stretch out your hand to him, hoping to touch him one more time before the Entity takes him.  

“Enjoying the show?” Legion growls at Jake.  “Watch your whore take it.”  His hand releases your throat, only to grab your hair and yank your head up to face him.  You squeak from the pain, which is only matched by the ferocity of him slamming himself into you.  You had no idea you liked to be treated so roughly and take a mental note of it as tears well in your eyes from your stinging scalp.  

Legion’s breath hitches and his thrusts become more erratic.  He mumbles something against your skin that you can’t quite understand.  Your blood is racing in your ears as your own climax builds.  

“Frank,” Legion growls viciously, louder, and presses the tip of his knife painfully against your side.  You can feel the skin break.  “Fucking say it, you little cockslut.  Say my fucking name!”  

You gasp and squirm.  Something about the command, the force of it, pools heat into the bottom of your stomach.  You surrender to the demand and whimper his name. “Frank.”  

“Louder!” The knife presses harder against your side, and you cry out.  “Say it like you mean it!  Beg me for it!”  

“Frank!” you shout.  “Please, Frank!  Fuck me, please!”  

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck,” Frank hisses.  The knife plunges to its hilt into you.  You choke on the pain and claw at the floor with your fingers.  His rough rhythm slows to a gentle rocking as he rides out his orgasm.  You completely forget about yours.  Frank twists the knife and pulls an agonized garble out of you.  Then the knife and his cock are both yanked out of you.  He zips himself up, wipe your blood off on the thigh of his jeans, and laughs.  “That was great, thanks.  Until next time.”  

You’re vaguely aware of his shoes slamming against the round and his fading, frenzied cackles.  He’s left you and Jake there, not that you expected anything different.  You aren’t sure what you expected, if you’re being honest with yourself.  You roll your eyes up to where Jake lays.  The life has left his eyes, and his body sags unnaturally against the ground.  You’re next.  You can feel the life draining from you.  The sooner, the better, you figure.  Once you’re back at the Campfire with Jake, maybe you can finish what you started.   

Chapter Text

It was either the city pool or Brighton Beach.  There was no contest.  Kids might pee in the pool, but at least here literal trash didn’t come in with the tide.  Coney Island was also full of tourists.  It was unbearable.  David could only stand so much of it.  This city pool was one of many, and it was the evening, maybe an hour before sunset, so it wasn’t overcrowded.  It was a great time for David to take a dip, cool off, and check out the hot moms soaking up the last hour of sun while their kids swam.

He had come for the hot moms.  That was the plan from the get-go.  Skinny, thick, round, tall, square, he didn’t care.  They were all perfect.  He hadn’t expected his attention to fall on the lifeguard, though.  A challenge.  A cute challenge.  He sat on the top of a tall lifeguard chair located at the center line of the seventy-five-foot long inground pool.  A red umbrella hovered over him to protect him from a long shift the harsh sun.  His arms and legs were burnt anyway, dull red in contrast to his tinted marshmallow tanned skin.  A useless white smear of sunblock crossed his nose just under ridiculously rectangle sunglasses. 

David watched the lifeguard for much of his time at the pool.  He made laps from the shallow end to the deep end and back.  He peacocked with a backstroke.  He paused to flirt with a short, brunette mother with two children, knowing she would reject him or ignore him.  She flipped him off.  Not as satisfying as when they told him to fuck off, but it didn’t matter.  She wasn’t who he truly craved attention from anyway.  His eyes turned back to the lifeguard’s tussled, black hair and wondered how much of that fluff and mess was from water or from sweat.  He wondered if he could make the man sweat more than the sun did.

The lifeguard sat on his alter, the sunglasses on his nose making it impossible to tell where his gaze was directed.  It was possible he was sleeping, but every time David dared to think to swim up and check, the lifeguard shifted and turned his head to check another end of the pool.  He was an angel, guardian of the pool, and David wanted so badly to worship him.

Closing time arrived quicker than David hoped.  He enjoyed ogling the lifeguard.  But the lifeguard blew the whistle and announced that everyone needed to leave the pool and dry off.  David was the last to leave the water.  He lingered there, floating on his back, eyes burning a challenge into the handsome pool attendant.  The lifeguard eventually leveled his gaze in David’s direction and pulled his glasses down just far enough on his nose to peer over them.  His eyes were dark too, and an eyebrow curled up.  Was that a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth?  David sure hoped so.

The lifeguard gestured at David to get out of the water once more.  This time he obliged.  He made sure to exit so his back and rear could be seen.  He imagined the water draining off his swim trunks and down his body was appealing, the way his shorts stuck to his ass, the flex of defined back muscles.  He even peered over his shoulder to wink at the lifeguard, who was watching with an intent gaze.  Oh.  Oh, fuck yes.  He was watching.  Was that sunburn on his cheeks or did he just like what he saw?

When everyone was out of the pool and drying off or leaving, the lifeguard came down from his chair.  David stalked towards the showers in the same direction as the other man.  The lifeguard looked over his shoulder and sunlight reflected off his sunglasses.  David followed the line of his sight, watching the last few people leave.  The gate closed.  David moved in closer.  A shock of electricity jolted through his body when the lifeguard grabbed him by the hem of his shorts and yanked him in.  Their mouths smashed together.  The lifeguard wasted no time testing the waters with his tongue, and David welcomed him in his mouth with no hesitation.  Instantly, their hands were on each other.  The kiss lasted a long minute before David had to pull back for breath.  Before he could move too far back, the lifeguard nipped his bottom lip.

“Whoa,” he said, colored with authentic surprise, “that was eager.”

“More than your backstroke?” the lifeguard retorted.

“Fair enough,” David chuckled. “Name’s David.”

“Dwight,” the lifeguard said.  “Come with me, if you’re interested.”

David’s eyebrows lifted, and he grinned.  For all his bravado, he didn’t actually believe he would get laid.  He liked the game.  He got a thrill from flirting, from the rejection.  That was all he expected and nothing else, and he was happy to take care of himself back at home.  Dwight invited, though, and David was no man to turn down a perfectly delicious offer.  He tailed Dwight into the locker rooms, passed the showers, and into the office in the back.  It was a small space with a desk and three chairs, plus a window covered in blinds that looked out out the locker room.  It also looked like a shared space with several contrasting decorations and pictures scattered around.  Dwight tossed his sunglasses onto the desk and gestured at the door.  David shut it behind him.

When the door clicked, Dwight dropped to his knees and tugged David’s shorts just over his manhood.  He was at half-mast already from the kiss earlier, and only became harder when Dwight shamelessly took him into his mouth.  David thunked his head back against the door and let a soft moan rumble from his chest.  Pleasant warmth pooled in the pit of his stomach.  This was already better than he imagined.  He stole a look down at Dwight bobbing his head and released a satisfied sigh.

“How do you like it?” Dwight asked around his mouthful.  He was careful about his teeth as he spoke.  His gaze turned up, and when they locked eyes it sent another wave of pleasure through David.

“Rough,” David growled.

Dwight hummed softly and pillowed David’s member on his tongue before muffledly mumbling, “then be rough.”

David didn’t need more incentive than that.  His fingers grabbed hunks of Dwight’s hair and he thrust himself repeatedly into the other man’s mouth.  Dwight wriggled out of his pants and shirt at the same time and twisted his body to finger himself.  David reveled in the other man’s soft gagging and the way he desperately rolled his body against his own hand.  He could feel Dwight try to swallow around his mouthful.  The sudden tightness and shifting of muscles made David shiver.  He pressed himself all the way in, savoring the feeling of Dwight’s wet lips against his groin and the smothered, exaggerated choke that vibrated through him.

David kept at this until he felt the heat in his stomach rising.  He slowed the roll of his hips to a stop and pulled out.  Dwight held his mouth open, tongue stuck out.  Saliva was smeared around his lips, and his eyes were screwed shut with this brow furrowed upward as he continued to finger himself.  David loved the sight and soaked as much up as he could.  He loved the way his partners looked after a rough face-fucking, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded with the weariness of catching their breath.  Dwight was particularly attractive.  He twisted Dwight by his hair to force him to look up.

“You ready?” David asked, hoping Dwight would get the meaning.

Dwight huffed and licked his lips.  He hummed his consent and rose to his feet.  “Where do you want me.”

“Right here’s fine,” David growled.  He grabbed Dwight by his waist and spun him around.  Then his hands slid down and lifted Dwight up with no small amount of effort.  Dwight wasn’t exactly heavy, but he was still an adult.  There was always effort to be made when lifting a grown man.  Dwight instinctively hopped, wrapped his knees around David’s waist, and looped his arms around his neck as David stumbled to the left.  Then Dwight’s back slammed against the plastic blinds and window.  The blinds crumpled with a loud clang and pressed sharply against Dwight’s bare skin.  The glass, where it pressed against his rear and back, was cold.  He started to say something, but David scraped his teeth against Dwight’s throat and growled.

“Help me out,” he demanded.  Dwight moaned softly when David followed his command with a painful nip.  Then, with one hand, he reached down and guided David to his entrance.  David then slowly lowered Dwight onto him.  It took a moment to press the head inside without any proper lubrication except for saliva, but once it was in the rest slid in without as much trouble.

Dwight’s face screwed in pain from the sudden stretch and burn.  He hissed.  David peppered gentle, reassuring kisses along his jawline until Dwight got comfortable and settled.  He knew he was no small man to take, and despite the rough nature of their sex, he didn’t want to cause any injury.

“Okay,” Dwight huffed after two minutes of adjusting.  “I’m ready.”

“You sure?” David asked.  When Dwight wiggled in his arms, David laughed.  “Alright, don’t say I didn’t ask.”

David began moving into Dwight, slowly, using the wall as leverage as he bounced the smaller man in his arms.  He picked up his pace when he was sure his lover was okay.  Dwight whined the entire time, each movement eliciting a more pornographic sound than the last.  It drove David wild.  He preferred a vocal lover.  Each time Dwight made a sound that pleased him, he kissed his throat.  Whenever a sound wasn’t satisfying enough, he bit him instead.

Dwight’s body bounced against the window with every thrust, causing the blinds to loudly complain.  Fuck it.  The world could watch, for all David cared.  This man was unbelievably gorgeous, and anyone would have been lucky to witness him coming undone.  In a short amount of time, he was screaming his pleasure and dragging welts into the skin of David’s shoulders with his short fingernails.  David also felt himself swelling to completion.  The mental stimulation of every sound and movement Dwight made was overwhelming combined with the tightness of his ass.

“God,” David cursed.  His hands squeezed Dwight so hard that the man let out a soft, pained cry.  “God fucking damnit.   I can’t, I’m gonna, I’m fucking…”

David’s climax was explosive.  He felt it in his groin, stomach, thighs, and behind his eyes.  His arms shook from the strain of holding Dwight up as he rode out his orgasm.  Dwight held on tighter and pressed his face into David’s shoulder.  It was his turn to bite, but he did so shockingly gently. 

Dwight unhooked his legs from David’s hips as soon as he felt David pull out.  They both slid to the ground.  David took a moment to collect himself.  There were stars in his eyes, and the air had left his lungs. Dwight untangled himself from David and reached for tissues on the desk next to them in the small space.  He cleaned himself up.

“You okay?” Dwight asked.

“Fffffuck yes,” David purred.  “Now it’s your turn.”

“It’s quite alright—oh!” Dwight started, but was interrupted by David wrapping his lips around his hardness.  David pushed Dwight onto his back between the desk and the wall, aggressively sucking Dwight to completion.  He didn’t even last two minutes before he came, writhing on the ground.  Dwight orgasmed with his entire body.  His hips arched off the ground as his spine twisted his chest and hips in opposite directions.  His head tilted up and to the side.  His lips parted to let out the softest breath and the most erotic moans David had ever heard.  Provocative and alluring.  Legs shivered, toes curled.  Both his hands searched for things to grab.  One clawed desperately at the carpet, the other slid up his chest and neck to press his fingers into the soft skin under his chin.  He was beatific in the throes of his pleasure.

David wished he had held off his own orgasm to get Dwight there first.  The thought of feeling Dwight wrapped around him while doing this would have blown his mind.  He made a mental note for later, hoping there would be a later, as he swallowed his mouthful and watched Dwight float through his passion.  When he was done, Dwight’s body melted to the ground, and he let out a shuddering moan.  David slid himself between the man and the desk, running his fingers up Dwight’s torso to elicit another shiver.

“Good for you?”

Dwight groaned and screwed his eyes shut tighter.  He was clearly embarrassed.  David chuckled and pressed a kiss to his jawline.

“When’s your next shift?”

“Tomorrow, same time.”

“Good, I’ll call out of work,” David purred. 

Dwight’s eyes snapped open and stared at David in surprise.  Then a smile cut a soft line across his features, mixing with his afterglow.  “It’s a date.”

Chapter Text

Frank felt powerful lost in the ocean of gyrating bodies.  He was just another person in the dancing crowd, anonymous and hiding in plain sight.  He skimmed his fingers against someone’s hips, pressed his front into someone’s back, touched his lips to another dancer’s collarbone.  No one did anything about it.  No one cared.  That’s what life was at three in the morning: drugged out of your mind, dancing, horny, looking for your next fix, one-night stands, pressing your conscience between the pages of a Bible until the hangover woke you up.  The filthy bass from the speakers was so loud and deep that it felt it vibrating in his chest, his feet, his groin.  Frank was exhilarated.  

A night club was different from the high school parties he typically stalked. Adults always differed from teenagers.  Teenagers didn’t know how to handle their liquor.  They were always juvenile and naïve, stupid fools thrilled by breaking rules that didn’t even matter.  Adults had easier access to more mind-altering drugs than just Colt 45s and weed.  They came out to escape their lives and stop feeling feelings, not experience something new.  The thing they had in common was that they were both susceptible to Frank’s manipulations.  

A young woman pressed herself against Frank, hands sliding down his waist to his hips as she danced.  He leaned in and stole an open mouth kiss that she was more than eager to give up.  They always gave it up in the end.  She pulled their hips together, and in response Frank pulled out of her arms to seek out his next quick fix.  He relished in the dominance he held over these people.  He could do anything, have anyone.  He wanted everything.  Everyone.  

His tongue found the lips and throats of several strangers until another person approached him from behind.  Both of their hands squeezed his rear.  He leaned back into them in response, enjoying the sensation.  He was aroused from his passings and beginning to crave release.  Whoever this was, they would be good enough.  He turned around, and without even looking at them, pressed their lips together.  His hands groped their chest, finding pleasantly sized breasts.  A woman, interesting.  Frank wasn’t picky.  Any opportunity was a good one.  She tasted like vodka, berries, and waxy lipstick.  

They fought for dominance over the kiss.  Frank refused to be outdone.  While he gave her a run for her money, he guided her towards a wall.  There were plenty of people around, but the corner was dark.  She pinched his lip playfully between her teeth.  He bit her tongue hard so hard it bled.  She snapped her head back and glared at him.  There was a little bit of blood smeared across her lips.  Her hair was short cut and black, face heart-shaped, doe-eyes droopy.  Her cheeks and ears were red from alcohol.  She was pleasant to look at.  Frank grinned and slid his hands down to her legs, happy to find a short skirt and bare skin.  Any offense she took left her from the touch.  

Frank teased her with every touch under her skirt, and she rolled into his palms and fingers.  When she begged him for more, he undid his pants, pulled himself out, and pressed their hips together.  As she lifted her leg onto his hip, he whispered something unbelievably filthy in her ear and rubbed the tip of his hardon against her wetness.  She moaned against his cheek, and he slid in.  She was warm and tight.  He rolled into her and pressed her harder against the wall.  Her body folded perfectly against his.  She enjoyed herself.  A lot, judging from the sounds she made.  More than he enjoyed himself.  Too much, Frank decided.  He kissed her cheek, jaw, and then throat.  She tilted her head up.  Immediately, he bit her throat and pulled out.  

“What the fuck are you doing?” she yelled.  Her voice was barely louder than the pounding music and thrumming bass.  Frank could hear her because he was paying attention, but no one else noticed.  

“Sorry, was that too much?” Frank purred.  He moved her hands above her head against the wall and pinned both wrists under his palm.  Then, with his other arm, he hiked her leg a little higher on his hip for a better angle.  He held her leg there until his elbow, grip tightening on her everywhere.  Then, with some struggle with reaching but also with the ease of someone who had done this before, reached down to guide his member to her rear.  Her eyes widened in surprise.  

“Hey, no, you listen to me you motherfuc—” she said but was cut off by her own pained groan as he suddenly pressed himself all the way inside of her without any warning.  She wasn’t nearly as tight as he expected, but that wasn’t important.  

“Fuck yes,” Frank growled.  She wormed in his grasp, but he was stronger than her.  She shouted, but her voice was lost in a sea of noises.  No one saw, or, if they did, they minded their own god damn businesses.  Frank was camouflaged in plain sight.  Power.  It was always about power.  And he had all of it.  He would take and take and fucking take until he had everything, and everyone else had nothing.  

He mercilessly fucked her.  He bit her throat, shoulders, and lips until he left bruises or drew blood.  The copper taste on his tongue lit his nerves on fire.  The way her hips bent into her despite the twist of her wrists thrilled him.  She fought his kisses.  He tasted the anger on her cheeks.  He knew he could do anything to her right now and walk away from it.  He thought about pulling his Swiss army knife out of his pocket.  He thought about dragging the blade up the line of her stomach, between her ribs, sinking it into her flesh up to the hilt.  He closed his eyes, climax focused on the thought of carving a permanent smile into her face with his blade.  Cutting out her eyes.  Seeing the blood squirt out of her through a puncture wound in her throat.    

His fantasies built his orgasm, but the feeling of her pulse racing under his lips was what finally set him off.  One more thrust and he emptied himself inside of her.  He shuddered and steadied himself there for a moment to catch his breath.  Then he pulled out, grinned at her, let go, and stuffed himself back into his pants.  

She rubbed her wrists and pinched her knees together.  Her fingers balled into fists and swung at him, but he caught her by her forearm.  He gave her a warning squeeze.  

“Love your energy, babe,” he chuckled through his gritted teeth.  “You’re a good lay.  Call me?”  

“Fuck you,” she spat.  

“You already did,” he answered.  He let her go again and adjusted his belt.  Then, to add insult to injury, he fished a couple of dollars out of his pocket and tossed them at her as he turned and left.  “Buy yourself something nice.”  

Chapter Text

Although it was time consuming, the process of tying the knots was part of the eroticism.  David wasn’t usually into this sort of thing.  In fact, he’d never tried it before.  His partner was though, and did it professionally, on the side, at night clubs as often as he could.  David had been dating Dwight for half a year now.  He knew the pay was good, and David had seen photos of his work.  It always surprised him how elegant and beautiful the work was, especially with Dwight’s usual model, Nea.  She had a lithe body made to be hung in a fine art gallery.  

When Nea called out sick on the same Saturday evening at a big event Dwight was supposed to perform for, he’d asked David to step in.  David was hesitant.  He didn’t have a body like Nea's.  He was built with fighter’s muscles, not runner’s.  He was large, and his body was softer and less chiseled looking from the type of work he did.  However, with some flattery and just a little bit of begging, Dwight managed to talk him into it.  

He now stood in front of a large crowd of strangers in all sorts of regalia; some leather, some maid outfits, some in near nothing at all.  One person was rolled up in a carpet on the floor at the foot of a couch with a sign tacked to him that said “step on me please :)".  Some people worshipped the drinks in their hands.  Other people worshipped feet.  It was a lot to take in, but David couldn’t linger on any one person.  Dwight smoothly moved and spun David on his feet as he was artfully tied the knots around his almost naked body; an erotic dance that entranced David and made his head light.  

Dwight was elegant in all of his movements.  His hands were practiced and precise.  David followed the motions with Dwight’s easy guidance.  The entire process took about a half hour.  They both were a little damp from the physical labor of rope tying and the bright lights spotlighting them on a platform set up specifically for the tripod rig David would eventually be hung from.  

Four lines with dull, harmless metal hooks hung from the top of the rig.  Dwight hooked two of them at David’s back: one between his shoulders and the other at the small of his back.  The Shibari ropes criss-crossed David’s torso in a tight diamond pattern down his spine and sternum.  They looped comfortably around his thighs to create a harness.  The ropes also looped under his shoulders to provide the same ideal support for his chest.  With minimal effort, Dwight pulled the support lines and lifted David off the ground.  The line at the small of his back lifted just a little higher than his chest, causing him to hang in a head-first.  The blood slowly pinkened his cheeks, and his heart raced.  

Dwight touched his fingers to David’s side and trace them across his skin, straight to his cheek.  He bent over and whispered, “You doing okay?”  

David hummed softly, still feeling entranced from the surreal dance they had just performed.  “I’m okay.”  

“Remember your safe word in case you feel overwhelmed: parfait.  Don’t be afraid to use it.  We can stop immediately, no questions asked,” Dwight assured him.  He placed a gentle kiss on top of David’s head, then straightened himself upright, flourished for their viewers, and circled around to David’s legs.  He folded his calf to his thigh and began the tedious process of tying knots to hold his leg in that position.  The other leg rested easily, stretched out behind him, inner thighs touching Dwight’s middle just at his waist.    

The touch was comforting for David as he looked over the voyeurs in the audience.  Many were captivated by them.  Their hungry eyes ate up the sight of David’s bare body dangling from the ropes.  A few whispered to each other.  David couldn’t hear any of the conversation, but he knew he was the center of attention, the grand centerpiece of their exotic, sexual feast.  It was unlike anything he’d experienced before.  The thrill and rush of feeling helpless while also in complete control of the attention of an entire room made him dizzy.  It pushed a gentle warmth into the pit of his stomach.  

Another suspension line hooked between the ropes and David’s shin.  Dwight tugged the rope taunt and lifted the bottom half of David’s body a little higher.  He shifted himself to David’s arms, carefully positioned them straight down his back, and tied them together.  As he wove those ropes, he incorporated them into the ropes on his torso, creating an elegant web between his body and arms.  

Dwight’s hand rested gently against David’s hip and gave him a little push, spinning him for the audience to drink in the full three-sixty of his body.  The crowd gasped and “oo’d” and “ahh’d.”  He heard a few people catcall.  A few other voices complimented David (or maybe the ropes, or maybe Dwight, or maybe all three) with words like “hot,” “sexy,” or “I’d buy him.”  He felt vulnerable—on display—and discovered he liked it.  

David lost track of time. He’d lost track of everything except for the pleasures of the tight ropes pressing into his skin or the intimate touch of Dwight’s fingers strumming his nerves.  After a while, there was nothing and no one in the moment besides him and his boyfriend.  Their trust and familiarity with each other showed, further mesmerizing the audience.  Then, just like that, it was over.  Dwight crouched in front of David’s face and pressed a kiss to his lips.  

“Good boy,” he said just loud enough for the closer people to hear.  Another part of the show, but it left David feeling warm and wanting more.    

His arms and legs were untied first, then he was slowly and carefully lowered back to the ground.  He let Dwight set his entire body on the floor, not feeling completely there enough to stand.  Dwight tidied the ropes as he undid them from David’s body, and when the work was done and ropes set off to the side, he sat next to David and pillowed his head in his lap.  

“How are you feeling?” Dwight asked while he stroked his fingers through the tuft of David’s hair.  

David just hummed and closed his eyes, savoring the touch.  

“You okay enough to get up and come to the back room with me?  You can rest and get dressed at your own pace.  I don’t like to put the aftercare on display.  Trust me, it’s better without an audience.”  

David blearily blinked, remembering where he was.  Slowly, he pushed himself upright and let Dwight guide him to a quiet, cool space behind a closed door.  They sat down together on the floor, David once more putting his head into his lover’s lap.  He was vaguely aware of dull aches where the rope supported him.  It was like being in a dream.  

Dwight comforted him for a long time.  He pressed chaste kisses to his forehead, closed eyes, and cheeks.  His fingers massaged small circles into David’s pressure points and tense muscles until he was forced to relax.  Much to David’s surprise, he found himself silently crying as he came down from the high.  The tears rolled down his cheeks without any warning, and Dwight wiped them away one by one.  Catharsis, he thought to himself, but from what he couldn’t pinpoint.  

“Wow,” David eventually said, the first to speak.  

“Yeah?” Dwight asked.  He scratched his fingernails gently against the back of David’s skull.  “That good?”  

“I didn’t realize it would feel like that.”  

“It doesn’t always,” Dwight said.  “It’s different for everyone.  Nea doesn’t react the way you did.  It’s not intimate for her.”  There was a pause in the conversation, then Dwight asked, “Are you okay?  How do you feel?”  

“I...” David hesitated.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose.  It was hard to put his feelings into words.  Even harder was expressing any feelings at all.  David usually ran himself on three modes: happy, drunk, or angry.  Anything beyond that he preferred to bury down deep.  Today, right now, he felt different.  He needed to talk about it.  “I think I’m okay.  I feel light.  Vulnerable.  Full, maybe?”  

“That’s all normal,” Dwight cooed.  “There’s no wrong way to feel.  And we can take all of the time you need before heading out.  I’m in no rush.”  

David rubbed his cheek against Dwight’s stretched wool dress pants.  Dwight smelled like sweat, cologne, and the same musky scent he had before sex.  Yet another comforting, dizzying thing to add to his list.  They stayed there for another twenty minutes before David felt ready to get up and get dressed.  

“Think we could do this again?” David asked quietly as he pulled his shirt over his head.  

“Hmm,” Dwight purred while he packed the ropes into his bondage bag.  “Of course.  We can schedule in a few nights when Nea wants a break.”  

“Cool.”  David paused.  “I was also thinking, maybe, at home?”  

Dwight turned his gaze to David and smiled, catching his meaning.  David shifted his weight and chewed on his lower lip.  Dwight’s hungry look could have burned David up in less than a second.    

“Of course,” Dwight said.  “I can put on a special show just for you.”  

Chapter Text

Dwight had made sure not to schedule any play dates with the local clubs this weekend.  The time was specifically set aside as a date weekend for him and David.  They had had several discussions regarding the terms and conditions of what Dwight called “a scene.”  He wanted to make sure David was comfortable and clear on his wants, needs, soft limits, and hard limits.  The first conversation they had, David said he was open to everything.  Dwight knew this was simply because he had such a euphoric first experience with rope-play, despite it being non-sexual in nature.  The fourth conversation, however, had been very different.  David knew he wasn’t at all interested in electro or knife play.

The ultimate end to the conversations led Dwight to understand that David was interested in dominance and submission dynamics, which made sense.  In life, David was typically dominant in nature.  Having the opportunity to completely let go of control was stimulating.  Dwight had seen this with private clients in the past, before he’d met David.  It wasn’t uncommon.  In fact, Dwight was much the same but for the dominance role.  He’d had so little control in his life that he got a sexual thrill from exerting control over others.  It’s how he’d become a professional dominant.

He’d never been in a relationship with someone who was interested in the lifestyle though.  This was new territory.  He liked to keep work and pleasure separate for a great many reasons, one of which was that he didn’t want to risk inviting trouble into something he practiced professionally.  It also meant that his own needs and desires were frequently neglected.  There was no arguing that performing on David was stimulating for him too.  Seeing his partner so beautifully strung up, face colored with rhapsody and release, true release, was erotic to say the least.  Dwight never considered he might want a partner who had the same inclinations as him.  But he did.  He wanted this with David so bad it ached in his gut and heart.

While David was out running typical weekend errands, Dwight set up his suspension rig in the living room.  Their apartment was small, and the bedroom had no space for it.  He thanked the empty air for the high ceilings of New York City apartments, too, otherwise Shibari and sex would have had to happen completely on the floor.  Both of them knew they wanted suspension. On the coffee table, he laid out a terrycloth towel and a variety of toys to play with, including a wax candle set (which he lit) that David was on the fence about.  Dwight had explained that wax play wasn’t for everyone, but it could be stimulating if David wanted to try it.  He was open to it in theory.

David returned about a half hour after Dwight finished setting up.  Dwight sat on the couch in his favorite dress pants, a white button down shirt, and a black dress vest.  At his waist on a carabiner hook was a small length of rope.  His legs were crossed and his hands were folded neatly in his lap.  Per their negotiation, Dwight was in character as the dominant the moment David walked in the door.  David knew it was coming, but surprise still crossed his features when Dwight authoritatively said “strip” the moment the door was closed.

“Let me put these in the kitchen,” David said and held the bags up.

“No,” Dwight said. He didn’t move from his spot.  He stayed perfectly still, spine straight.  “Undress.  Now.”

Blood rushed to David’s face, but he set the bags down and shrugged himself out of his jacket.  Dwight didn’t crack a smile or indicate in any way what he was thinking, but he was pleased to see his partner follow his command without any resistance.  Thrilled.  Already his own pants felt tighter.  David awkwardly peeled himself out of each layer of his clothes, always aware of Dwight’s eyes boring into him.  Each article was left on the floor.

“Come,” Dwight commanded when David was completely nude.  Dwight looked him up and down appraisingly as he walked over.  David stood directly in front of Dwight, who uncrossed his legs and spread them apart so David could stand between them.  David looked self conscious, unused to being commanded to do anything.

The skin of David’s thigh was warm under Dwight’s fingers as he caressed his partner.  He loved David’s body.  It was strong, balanced, and defined, yet soft in all of the right places.  His thumb passed over a scar on David’s hip from a stabbing back in Manchester, many years ago.  The dip of the skin right before it puckered up into a white line held so much history and old pain, but Dwight loved it.  He loved every curve, bump, imperfection, and made sure David knew it by pressing his lips against the scar.  He worshipped every inch.

David leaned into the kiss.  Dwight could tell some of his discomfort had melted away, and he kneaded his fingers into the skin of David’s rear.

“Spine straight,” Dwight said.  When David didn’t do it, he pinched his rear and repeated himself firmer.  “I said straight.”

David immediately complied.  Dwight rose to his feet and dragged his fingers up David’s sides, eliciting a shiver. What a perfect man.  His hands explored the lines of David’s abdomen and the gentle roll of his collar.  Dwight already felt dizzy from the power he held and the attraction he felt.  He had to keep himself together if he wanted to get through the session.  Again, the circumstance was something he wasn’t used to; only the dynamic.  He and David usually just got straight to business.

“On your knees,” Dwight said softly against the skin of David’s shoulder.  He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of nerves on David, who lowered himself to his knees.  Dwight took the rope from his hip, stepped behind David, and began intricate knot work around his chest and weaved his arms together behind his back.  The whole process was practiced and took about thirty minutes.  The ropes were tight enough to sting if David twisted his limbs, but loose enough that they wouldn’t cut off circulation or hurt him.  It was rougher than their public session had been.  Dwight reveled in it.

“Good boy.”

He helped David back to his feet and fetched more rope to knot each of David’s legs individually.  He tested the tightness of the knots to make sure they were secure, then led David to the suspension rig.  “You ready?”

David already had a lost, entranced look on his face.  The process of tying the rope was important to David, and Dwight took a mental note.  He pressed a kiss to his cheek and David let out a small breath he was holding.  “Yes,” he confirmed.  Then he repeated himself firmer.

“Alright, remember your safe words,” Dwight purred and latched the first hook to the rope between David’s shoulder blades.  The second went to the small of his back, at the same place from the last time.  Then David was easily hoisted into the air.  This time, his body floated on a flat, even plane.  Dwight walked a circle around him and laid a gentle slap on the right side of his rear. David flinched out of surprise. Dwight grinned to himself, a private moment. His desire made his heart race and cheeks tingle.

The next thing he did was rope David’s wrists to his legs to fold him into an elegant, aerial hog tie. This forced David’s knees apart and hips to widen. It also created a beautiful valley between his shoulder blades. Dwight resisted touching him there.  Instead, he retrieved a few items off the table: a pair of black, latex gloves that he put on; a bottle of water-based lubricant; a medium-small butt-plug; and one of the lit candles.  Dwight settled between David’s lets and set each item on the small of his back (except the candle, which he set on the ground for safe keeping).  He drenched his fingers with lubricant and began fingering David’s rear.  He went out of his way every so often to prod the area where his prostate should be, pleased every time David made a strained sound of pure pleasure.  Dwight started with one finger, quickly graduated to two, teased and tormented his lover, and then slowly, carefully, eased the butt plug in until all that was left out was the flare.  David squirmed.  He panted like an animal with every movement of Dwight’s fingers or toy.  Dwight took mental snapshots, wishing he could keep the memory clear as a picture forever.

Dwight gave David a few minutes to adjust and calm down.  He didn’t want to overwhelm or overstimulate him.  So much of this was new, after all, and he wanted David to have a good and fulfilling experience.  After the moment of rest passed, he kneaded his knuckles gently against David’s perineum, pulling out another soft, gentle moan.  As he did this, he retrieved the lit candle from the floor and dripped some of the hot wax onto the right side of his lover’s ass.  That elicited a different moan, and the muscles of David’s lower body clenched.  Dwight rewarded him with firmer knead of his knuckles.  He purred and cooed encouragement.  David sucked in pained breath.  He even uttered the word “please” twice.  Dwight thought about stopping, but he trusted David to use his safe word if he needed it.  The safe word never came.

He continued this until the wax from the candle was empty and David’s right cheek was covered in dried wax drippings.  The skin was angry and red but also unharmed.  Dwight purred at David for being so well behaved and slid his hand over his balls to his cock.  David was already hard, and Dwight could feel a small bead of pre-ejaculate sitting on the tip.

Dwight was in his element.  David was helpless putty in his hands, whining whenever Dwight let go of his member, continuing to pant like an animal with every gentle squeeze or tug.  His own need throbbed under the tight confines of his dress pants, throbbing for touch and pleasure so badly it hurt.  It actually hurt.  It made Dwight’s head spin.  He passed his tongue over his lips and leaned down, pressing his teeth against the tender skin of David’s left cheek.  David flinched, which only made Dwight want to bite harder.  He wanted to sink his teeth into David’s supple skin.  He wanted to make David cry out.  He wanted so deeply, it echoed in a hollow of his heart he didn’t realize he needed to fill.  However, he resisted and reminded himself this was David’s first time—well, technically second.  No rough stuff.  No blood.  No transferring his own aching pain into his partner.  Not yet.

“Dwight, I’m close,” David panted.  He rolled his hips into Dwight’s hand despite the cut of the ropes into his flesh.  Dwight immediately let go of David’s member, and David loudly complained.

“It’s ‘sir,’ or did you forget?” Dwight firmly asked.  When David didn’t answer, Dwight spun him on the rig to face him.  “I asked you a question.  I expect an answer.”

“No, I didn’t forget,” David mumbled.  There was an edge of discomfort in his voice.  Or was it insolence?  Dwight tuned in carefully to the tone.  He trusted David to know his limits, but he also knew that most first-timers felt uncomfortable using agreed upon language for fear of feeling silly.  When David only craned his neck up to look at him defiantly, Dwight knew.  There was a playful spark in his eye, the same one he had earlier today when they went over the terms for the scene the final time.  David liked pushing buttons, he always had.  Except now, in this situation, he was just being bratty.  He knew the consequences.  He wanted the consequences.  Dwight resisted biting his lower lip in excitement.

“Well,” Dwight said thoughtfully and undid the buckle of his belt.  “If you can’t speak to me properly, perhaps it’s best if you don’t speak at all.”

He undid his button and zipper and pulled his member out of his pants.  He pressed the tip against David’s cheek, patiently waiting for him to part his lips, then slid halfway into David’s mouth.  David was warm and welcoming, and he immediately went to work.  Dwight ran his fingers through his own hair, head tilted up to the ceiling, as David’s tongue swirled over the tip.  He was more sensitive than usual, wound up from the sight of David’s perfect body shaped by gravity and rope.  He wanted David to beg.  He wanted to hear the word “sir.”  He wanted to slap David’s ass so hard it turned as red as the wax.

“God.” Dwight let the curse slip out by accident.  David hummed a pleased little hum, wresting back just a sliver of control.  This was a moment for their usual playtime, not now.  Dwight pressed his lips together and touched his hand to the back of David’s head.

“Did I say you could be mouthy?” Dwight snapped, and he pressed himself completely into David’s mouth.  David choked immediately, the muscles of the back of his mouth pleasantly constricting around his member.  He held himself there until David choked a second time, then he pulled completely out.  David coughed, saliva running down his chin. “You want to try that again?”

“No, sir,” David said.  Finally.  Dwight pushed himself back into David’s mouth and rocked gently.  David obliged, enthusiastically doing this part, without making any sounds Dwight didn’t grant permission for.  Dwight held onto the back of David’s head as his thrusts became more desperate, and between the two of them he was sucked to completion. Right before he came, he pulled out of David’s mouth and stroked himself.  David kept his mouth open and tongue out to catch whatever he could, but Dwight was more focused on preventing him from actually choking.  He dirtied David’s tongue, nose, and cheeks.

It took a minute for Dwight to catch his breath, one hand tightly holding a rope to keep himself steady, in the throes of pure ecstasy, before squeezing out whatever was left into his own palm and holding his hand out for David.  “Go ahead,” he said softly. “Clean me up.  Once you’re done, maybe I’ll take care of you.”

David licked the seed off his partner’s hand.  Dwight commanded him to look up at him, and he did.  Dwight shuddered.  Once David was done, Dwight tucked himself back into his pants.

“What would you like?” Dwight asked.  “And don’t make me repeat the question.”

“Finish me,” David mumbled.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.”  Dwight lowered himself into a crouch to be eye level with David.

“I’d like to cum.”

“Please, sir.”

“I’d like to cum, please, sir,” David said.  Dwight patted his cheek and moved around David’s side.  He chose to reciprocate the oral and wrapped his lips around David’s weeping cock.  It didn’t take him long to bring David to climax.  David’s breath hitched in his throat and his body tensed.  Dwight could feel a twitch in his mouth before the orgasm, so he was ready to work David through the entire thing.  Although he generally didn’t enjoy the taste of semen, he let David climax in his mouth, and once done Dwight got up and spit into a nearby tissue.

David hung limply from the ropes, head hung between his shoulders.  Dwight returned and ran his hand up David’s spine, finally settling his fingers between his shoulder blades.  He bent over to whisper in David’s ear, “And what do we say?”

“Thank you, sir,” David huffed.  He flexed his fingers and wiggled his hips.  “Can I come down now?”  After a moment’s pause, he added, “Parfait.  Please.  I’m done.  Please.”

Dwight immediately got to work on the ropes.  He first used the pulley system to lower David to the floor, bringing immediate relief to his partner’s stressed and strained body.  Then he undid the bindings that held David into a glorified hogtie, then undid the ropes on his arms and along his back.  Once David’s hands were free, he grabbed for Dwight, body shaking.  Dwight laid down next to him and pulled him close to his chest.

“How are you feeling?” Dwight asked.

“Good, really good.  But I don’t want to talk,” David whispered.  “Can you just hold me?”

“Of course.”  Dwight massaged David’s scalp and pressed kisses to his temples and forehead.  Eventually, David fell asleep.  As much as Dwight would have loved to get up, brush his teeth, and generally clean up, he surrendered to David’s need for sleep in his aftercare.  Dwight closed his eyes with his chin resting on top of his lover’s head, and closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

Michael was different from most of the other killers.  Although he rarely saw them, he was vaguely aware of their differences.  They were driven by revenge, pain, or sometimes simply a thirst for death.  Kenneth, the Clown, the Ringmaster, just enjoyed the chill joy of murder and collecting prizes from his game.  Bubba, the Leatherface, didn’t know any better, raised from a young age to be a beast and protect his family.  Michael, well Michael was driven by purpose.  Many speculated on what had given him that purpose.  Michael wasn’t sure either, but the general consensus of those around him settled on the idea that the Devil himself had hand-chosen Michael.  Whether that was true or not, Michael didn’t know or care.  He simply killed.  It was the only thing he cared about, if he could call it caring.

He was excellent at murder, a downright professional.  He didn’t take any pride in his work.  It was just as natural as breathing to him and automatic as blinking.  He barely noticed.  He gained no satisfaction from stalking his victims, no joy or hate from plunging his knife into their bodies, and no remorse for the corpses he left in his wake.  He was empty, alone with his purpose filled demon curled in his cold heart.

Nothing interrupted this cycle, not even his time in the asylum.  He was patient.  Once he picked his prey, he didn’t need anything else.  Right now, his sights were set on a slim man with disheveled black hair and thick rimmed glasses.  The man was anxious, cautious, and fast.  He frequently slipped out of Michael’s line of sight, disappearing for minutes at a time before spotted once more.  Michael liked the way he seemed to blend into the environment and how he disappeared around corners.  It was the first stirrings of emotion he’d felt in decades.  Like.  He couldn’t pinpoint what “like” meant specifically.  It could have been as simple as admiration or approval, but something in him stirred deeper than that.  Pleasure, perhaps.   It wasn’t the same kind of pleasure doctors had tried to evoke in him to determine if he was human.  It wasn’t sexual either.  Perhaps it was the closest thing to enjoyment that he could feel.

He followed this man into the upstairs of a rotting house.  He lingered by the open doorway of a room with bordered up windows and a stinking, filthy mattress shoved in a corner.  To Michael’s surprise, there was another, taller man in the room.  He had a puffy mute green jacket and his hands on Michael’s nervous prey.  The bigger man had the smaller one pressed against the wall, mouths connected, fingers under clothes and through hair.  They were both unaware of being watched and shamelessly touched each other as they did their best to stay quiet.

Something inside of Michael flickered again.  It was darker and more passionate than the “like” he felt earlier.  He didn’t feel compelled to watch or follow the couple.  This was the only other emotion he’d experienced before, whenever he laid eyes on his damnable, elusive sister: hate.  It burned in his chest, making his feet move across the room.  He was behind them in an instant.  He slid his knife effortlessly between the ribs of the larger man.  At the same time, he lifted him off the ground.  The man choked and attempted to reach behind him, to no avail.  He wheeled his legs.  He was desperate as the life was cut from him.  The pained sounds he made were not insufferable or music; they were just evidence that Michael had done his job well.  However, there was a certain amount of satisfaction in this job.  He could see his obsession’s face twist in horror when the larger man was pulled away.  Michael thought he heard a scream, but he was tunneled on his twisted expression.

Before Michael could drop the body, his obsession bolted to a half-boarded window and squeezed out between the sill and the planks.  There was a soft thud on the ground below, two-stories down, and then the man scrambled away.  Michael watched from the window, unmoving.  His heart raced in his chest.  That was…thrilling.  He would find this man again.  Nothing could keep them apart.  And when he did, well, Michael’s lips curled into a slight smile under his mask.  He felt something.  He was obsessed.

Chapter Text

It always happened on rainy days.  Well, not just rainy days.  Any bad inclement weather where the air pressure changed dramatically did it.  They all had pain in many of the same places from shared, repeated trauma.  They all wondered if it had all been one horrible, shared dream until the aches and pains set in.  Some days were better than others, but on days like today where the thunder rolled in as suddenly as a stampede or ambush gunfire, David had a hard time getting out of bed.  His joints hurt from years of fighting before the Trials, and his muscles screamed from years of struggle during.  It didn’t matter that he’d turned over a new leaf; the damage was done.

He rolled his head up so his eyes stared at the backboard of his queen bed.  His hands were folded politely on his stomach.  He had tried to get up twice twenty minutes earlier, but the pain in his shoulder was too much for him to push through.  It was an old injury, this time from being repeatedly hung on meat hooks.  The pain reminded him.  He could almost feel the point of the hook curving through his prone flesh.   Sometimes it would just curve through muscles, but most of the time it caught on his collar bone.  That was where it hurt worst.  He hated remembering.

Lightning flashed across the sky, lighting up the dark morning bedroom for one brief instant.  His eyes had to readjust to the dark.  Thunder boomed in seconds after.  David had to get out of bed.  It was a workday, and he couldn’t afford to lose his morning to old trauma.  His thumb idly passed over the underside of his wedding band before he rolled onto his good side (he wasn’t truly sure he had any good sides anymore, but this was certainly the better one) and pushed himself into a sitting position with his elbow.  He clenched his teeth together to stifle a cry of pain but still groaned.

Every muscle in his body was tense and taut, compensating for tendons and muscles that would never heal.  A cool sweat broke out on his brow as he hunched over himself to wait for the wave of agony to pass.  He couldn’t even turn his head without pain.  How long would his employer be forgiving of his tardiness and skipping word before he lost this job too?

Slowly, David swung his legs over the side of the bed.  The hardwood floor under his feet was cold and he sighed in relief from it.  Feet on the ground.  He was almost up.  His brain said to stand, but his body wouldn’t listen.  His core muscles quaked with effort.  He wasn’t going anywhere.  He hung his head between his shoulders, and he sat still, waiting to adjust to the pain.

“You okay?” a familiar, husky voice said from the doorway to the room.  David didn’t bother looking up.  He knew it was his husband, with a cup of coffee from the smell of it.

“Just getting old,” David said, sounding more pathetic than he wanted to.

“Body isn’t what it used to be,” Dwight added and crossed the room.  His socks shuffled across the floor until he finally sat down next to David, shifting the bed and therefore causing David more pain as he had to adjust. “You really should see a doctor.”

“That’s a waste of time,” David huffed.  “They’re just gonna tell there’s nothing they can do and send me off with some meds.”

“Pain management isn’t a bad thing.”

“I don’t want drugs, Dwight.”

“You say that every few weeks, but I still don’t think it’s a bad idea.”  Dwight passed David the cup of coffee, and David took a sip of it.  It was black and still hot; too bitter for him.  He had no idea how Dwight drank this crap casually.  It should be illegal.

In the meantime, Dwight moved behind David and pressed his thumbs into the agonized muscles of his upper back.  David groaned and leaned into his husband’s magical hands.  Massage was a double-edged sword: on one hand, it was excruciatingly painful, more so than the base-line pain; on the other hand, after it was done the pain was usually relieved by a remarkable degree.  It was temporarily relief, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

Dwight had become a master at finding David’s pain points and working out horrific knots.  He used his fingers and knuckles for the most part, but the worst point of pain, just to the upper side of David’s shoulder blade, felt like a golf ball.  Dwight wrapped his left arm around David’s chest to brace him and then pressed his elbow into the knot.  David, who had gritted his teeth most of the time, now cried out and tears sprang to his eyes.  The pain shot up the right side of his neck, down his right arm, and through his ribs.

“Shh,” Dwight said quietly, “almost done.  This is the one.  This is it.  Hang in there.”

David let out a string of curses in return.  He bore the pain for as long as Dwight was willing to rub him, and the moment Dwight took his elbow out of his back, David collapsed backwards against his husband.  Dwight smelled of rose incense, Irish Spring soap, and home.

“How do you feel?” Dwight whispered and pressed a kiss to the top of David’s head.  He reached out for his coffee, which David happily relinquished.

“Better,” he anwsered and rolled his shoulder experimentally.  It hurt less, and he could also turn his head again.  “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Dwight purred and sipped his coffee.  “You feeling okay enough to go to work?”

“If I don’t, they’ll fire me too,” David said.

“That wouldn’t be a problem if we got you signed up for disability, you know.”

“I’m not a cripple.”  David could feel Dwight roll his eyes.

“No, but this is still clearly a disability and would protect your rights as an employee.  Meg got disability too, and it works great for it.”

“I’m not Meg.”

“Don’t be so proud.” 

Dwight slurped his coffee.  It was like nails on a chalkboard.  David softly thumped his head backwards against Dwight’s chest and mumbled, “Mind your business.”

Dwight chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest.  David turned his head to press his ear to Dwight’s chest.

“I love you, David,” Dwight said after a moment.  “I just want you to take care of yourself.  At least look into it.  For me?”

“I love you too,” David stubbornly grumbled.  “I’ll think about it.  Happy now?”

“Very.”

“Good.  My turn to nag you,” David jabbed.  “Get out of here before you’re late.”

Dwight checked his wristwatch and moved out from behind David.  “Alright, you’re right.  I’ll see you tonight.  Text me if you need anything.”

“I will,” David said and watched Dwight leave the room.  He sighed softly, thanking whatever god was out there for putting Dwight in his life. “And Dwight?”

“Hmm?” Dwight asked and turned around, lingering in the door.

“Thank you, again.”

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Enjoying the lifestyle meant that Dwight had come to terms with his sexual inclinations a long time ago.  This included being gay.  He’d made peace with this just after high school, when he’d joined his college’s Gay-Straight Alliance as an “ally” so he could safely explore what being gay meant.  It had led to a small number of life-changing experiences, and before he’d graduated with his degree in communication, he’d come out of the closet to everyone important to him.  He was less open about being in the kink scene, but even that wasn’t something he kept a complete secret.  

The built man with the English accent, on the other hand, was so deep in the closet he was lost in Narnia.  Dwight had pegged the stranger as at least bisexual the second time he’d come into the bar.  The man would find a stool on the far end of the bar and people watch.  His fingers would play with the lip of his beer bottle or glass, and occasionally his eyes would get a far-off look after they’d settled on someone.  On more than one occasion, Dwight caught him staring at him.  He couldn’t say he was unhappy about it.  With a body like that man’s?  Dwight was happy to bask in the attention.  

It wasn’t until the seventh time Dwight saw him at the bar that he decided to approach.  The man officially ventured into “regular” territory, so it felt less weird to try his luck.  He pulled himself away from a conversation he was having with some other people in the scene and slid into the stool directly to the man’s left.  

“Hey,” Dwight said and flashed an awkward smile.  The man looked up at him from over the top of his beer and tossed back whatever was left in the glass.  

“Can I help you?” he asked quietly.  Dwight felt his confidence wither.  Maybe he’d read the situation wrong.  This particular bar was well known for hosting people of alternative lifestyles.  For the most part, people who weren’t queer or into kink in some way didn’t come here.  It was possible this man could have been a strange exception.  

“I, uh, I just,” Dwight stammered.  His eyes dropped to the empty glass in the man’s hand, and he pursed his lips into a straight line.  He steeled himself for the inevitable rejection.  “I was hoping I could buy you another beer?”  

David tapped a finger against the glass and shrugged.  “Sure,” was all he said.  

Dwight perked up a little.  When the bartender came around, he asked for two beers, same as whatever his potential new friend was drinking.  He had no idea what David had been drinking, but he was too uncomfortable to ask for anything else.  After the bartender left, Dwight turned himself back to the other man.  

“Dwight,” he said and extended his hand.  “Dwight Fairfield.”  

The man stared at his hand for a brief moment, then embraced it in a shockingly tight grip.  “David King.”  

“King?” Dwight asked.  “English?”  

“Accent give it away?”  

Dwight wanted to kick himself.  Of course the accent would have given it away.  He hadn’t thought anything of it.  He encountered people from all walks of life in his side profession.  He barely noticed accents anymore, but rather focused on names.  Names were more telling of culture and region than accents.  He was flopping.  This entire approach was in the process of collapsing all around him.  It was like watching a car wreck in slow motion, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.  

“I, er, well, my apologies,” Dwight mumbled and scratched the back of his head.  “I’m not very good at this.  Can we start over?”  

David curled an eyebrow up just as the bartender returned with two dark beers.  She set them down and confirmed that they were going on Dwight’s tab before disappearing to help another patron.  Dwight snatched up one of the beers and held the glass to his lips, anxious that this was over before it even started.  

“I don’t think we need to start over,” David said and took his beer.  He took a few deep gulps and set the glass back down on the bar.  The foamy head left a line across his upper lip that he licked off.  Dwight squirmed.  “Thanks for the beer, by the way.”  

“S-sure,” Dwight said with a half-smile.  He finally took a sip of the beer.  It was bitter and deep, causing his nose to wrinkle.  Dwight wasn’t a beer person.  He couldn’t tell one from the other and had no idea what it meant when someone said a beer was “hoppy” or “light.”  He preferred red wine more than anything else, and he occasionally drank a fruity cocktail.  He forced himself to swallow his mouthful, shocked by the darkness of the flavor.  When he looked back up, he saw David watching him with intense, unreadable eyes.  

“First time?” David asked.  

“No,” Dwight said.  “I come here frequently.  We usually have a munch around this time of the week before we either go to the club or head home.”  

“That’s not what I meant,” David said.  Butterflies erupted from Dwight’s stomach.  Had he missed the context?  His head race from so many thoughts that he just couldn’t keep up.  “I meant the beer.”  

“Oh.  OH!”  Dwight averted his gaze back to the beer.  “Yeah, I don’t really drink beer.”  

“Then why did you order one?”  

“To, uh, because I...”  He couldn’t keep stumbling over his words like this.  He took in a deep breath and sat up straight, mentally telling himself that a power-pose would bring him more confidence.  It did nothing to ease his nerves, but he’d made a decision to be straight forward instead of just being himself.  “To look cool.  I didn’t really think about it.”  

The other eyebrow joined its twin high on David’s forehead.  Dwight felt even dumber than before, but just before he excused himself to call this attempt a loss, a crack of a smile crossed David’s face.  Then he burst out laughing.  

“Are you trying to impress me?”  

Dwight’s eyes locked back onto David’s dark ones, and he gave a curt little nod.  “Maybe.”  

“Well, it’s not working,” David said around his chuckles.  “You’re not going to impress me by drinking a beer you hate.”  

Dwight’s heart pounded in his chest.  His palms began to sweat a little and he anxiously rubbed his fingers against them.  That sounded almost like an invitation.  Was David flirting?  Dwight leaned his elbow on the bar and dared to lean in a little closer.  “What will impress you then, David King?”  

“A great many things.”  David leaned in a little closer too.  The room suddenly felt empty except for the two of them.  Dwight knew he was terrible at flirting, but somehow this worked.  It also worked unbelievably fast.  Certainly, the alcohol they’d both consumed before Dwight approached David helped, and the red blush painted from ear to ear on David’s face indicated he’d had more than his fair share, but Dwight wasn’t going to complain about his small victories.  There was obvious attraction, and he was going to be thankful for it.  

He leaned a little closer, their noses almost touching, and tilted his head.  He hoped for this kiss.  He wanted to manifest it into existence.  He needed to find out what this handsome, powerful looking man tasted like.  Perhaps beer was sweeter on his lips than out of a glass.  David let out a huff of warm hair against Dwight’s mouth and just as the skin of David’s lips tickled against his own, the English man pulled back and stood up on the stool.  

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly and chugged the beer while standing.  

“No,” Dwight said, panicked.  “No, I’m sorry, did I do something?  Are you okay?”  

“No,” David said and slammed his glass down on the bar.  “It’s not you, you’re great.  I mean, no, you’re wonderful.  You have great eyes and I, uh, Jesus.  I’m sorry.  I’m not gay.”  

Dwight frowned, shattered as David dropped forty dollars on the bar, grabbed his bag, and hurried out the door without another word.  Dwight didn’t even have a chance to say anything.  Suddenly, just like that, the moment was over, and David was just gone.  The noise in the room returned, the chatter of dozens of people talking over one another boomed back into existence.  The bar felt full and stuffy, and Dwight was overwhelmed by the presence of every single person in the world.  He turned back to his Guinness, disgusted with himself for even trying.  For a moment, he was so sure that David King would fit perfectly against the curve of his own lips.  For a moment, he was positive that everything was right and perfect.  How could he have been so wrong?  

Dwight signaled for the bartender and closed out his tab.  He wasn’t in the mood to go to the club after all.  He paid with card, tipped in cash, and left a note with the bartender that had his name, phone number, and an “I’m sorry” for just in case she saw David again.  Then he snuck out without saying good-bye to his friends.  They’d forgive him.  At least he was sure of that much.  

Chapter Text

Evan had Dwight over his shoulder, the scrawny man thrashing and kicking the entire time.  It made carrying him more difficult than Evan felt like it needed to be.  It was the same thing every single night: hunt the humans, catch the humans, hook the humans, kill the humans.  Humans.  This man on his shoulder was human, but was Evan?  No one saw him that way anymore.  He was only seen as a monster.  He huffed at the thought and purposefully bumped Dwight to jostle him out of his tantrum.  It didn’t work.  Dwight only kicked harder.  

Dwight continued to scream.  He cursed and shouted and punched and clawed.  He called Evan nasty names.  He spat foul language.  He sounded like was even crying a little.  Worst of all, he was giving Evan a headache.  

“Would you shut up?” Evan barked, his voice deep, hoarse, and scratchy.  He hated the way he sounded, so he rarely talked.  Most of the time, his mind was empty, as if he’d lost huge parts of himself.  Dwight’s shrill complaining shattered that typical peace and hollowness, though.  

“Fuck you, you oversized mole rat!”  

Mole rat.   Mole rat.   Really?  Evan groaned in frustration.  This man was truly pathetic.  Did he not understand how much danger he was in?  That there were things worse than death? Evan could snap him like a toothpick; break his spine and leave him to slowly bleed out until the Entity finally claimed him.  Just because the routine had a certain rhythm didn’t mean that they had to follow it.  

“I’m seriously warning you,” Evan huffed again.  He squeezed Dwight tightly enough to elicit a whimper.  

“Fuck you,” Dwight said again, although pain strained his voice this time.  Evan was tired from the same old song and dance.  Dwight’s fire was a spark of excitement in all of this, as much as Evan hated to admit it.  He felt the excitement clench in his chest, and he tightened his grip on Dwight again.  

“If you say one more fucking thing, I'm going to make you regret it.”  

“Fucking try me, freak.”  

That was it.  If he was going to be seen as a monster, he would act like one.  Evan, in a moment of thrill and temper, stopped in his tracks, lifted Dwight by his shirt, and slammed him back first into the ground.  The wind left Dwight in an agonized gasp, and shock painted his face.  Evan stood over him, fully aware of how large and powerful he was.  He’d seen his father do awful, horrible things to people who stood in his way or disobeyed him.  He hated his father, but, in many ways, he also admired him.  As he squatted down over top the smaller man, he played his father’s worst cruelties over in his head.  

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled and seized the front of Dwight’s shirt.  Before Dwight could catch his breath, Evan slammed his massive fist into the side of Dwight’s face once, twice, thrice.  He could hear the bone over the eye socket crack and the wet thuds of breaking skin.  Blood coated his knuckles.  Dwight’s hands helplessly flailed to stop Evan, to no avail.  

Then Evan lifted Dwight to sit him on his knees.  At the same time, he stood up and undid the straps of his overalls.  Dwight wobbled on his knees, stunned from the pain.  With glassy eyes, he glanced up at Evan, who was now nude from the waist down.  

“If you bite, I’ll break your teeth,” Evan threatened.  Dwight’s eyes widened, putting the puzzle pieces together.  The fear behind those thoughts thrilled Evan the same way watching his father abuse his workers did.  With one hand, he grabbed Dwight’s jaw and forced it open with a painful pinch.  The other hand fed his flaccid manhood into Dwight’s mouth.  Dwight pushed off Evan’s thighs with his hands, but he wasn’t nearly strong enough to get away.  He stayed painfully still for a moment as surrender took over, thinking hard about his next move.  Evan tightened his fingers in Dwight’s hair, enough to cause pain, and that was all the encouragement Dwight needed.  

His body trembled as he worked.  He was a terrible suck, Evan thought to himself, and Evan began to rock into his mouth.  It took longer than it should have to reach full mast.  He thought of simpler times, sleeping around with who he wanted, when he wanted, while he was alive.  He hadn’t been a kind lover then either.  He got off on cruelty, a learned habit that would never break.  Dwight complained with small whimpers until Evan silenced him with hard thrusts and forcing himself completely inside.  

Dwight choked.  Evan still didn’t pull out, even as Dwight slammed his fists against Evan’s hips and thighs.  Tears sprang into his eyes.  He began to squirm as the desperation to breathe became the only siren in his head.  Watching him struggle was an absolute joy.  It sent ripples of pleasure through Evan’s stomach.  He felt Dwight’s teeth touch his member and growled a warning.  Dwight’s mouth suddenly made a perfect circle.  Evan loved the command and power and pulled himself out just enough to let Dwight breathe.  

Dwight gasped and coughed.  He tried to pull his head back, but he didn’t get a chance before Evan slammed his full length back into his throat.  He waited the same amount of time, allowing Dwight to choke to the point where black spots crawled into the corners of his vision before pulling out.  

“You like that, you little bitch?” Evan sneered.  Dwight shook his head, and Evan ignored him.  “I thought you might.  But you’re fucking awful.  Can’t you suck any better?”  He pulled himself out and slapped Dwight across the bloodied side of his face.  It pulled a horrible, pained sound out of the smaller man, and Evan felt good.  Better than good.  Dwight tried to recoil from another hit.  There was nowhere to go, and Evan had a firm grasp of his hair.  Evan quickly stuffed himself back in and quickened his pace.  He was ruthless and uncaring of the man below him.  This wasn’t about sex.  It was about control and punishment.  His pace was unforgiving, and it dragged so many delicious sounds out of the smaller man.  Evan kept this up until his body reached its climax.  He came.  It was mostly unsatisfactory, feeling about the same as if he were stroking himself, except for the pathetic gurgles Dwight made.  Those were melodic, just not worth the work.  

Evan pulled out and wiped his member on Dwight’s face before pulling his overall’s back up.  Then, still holding Dwight’s hair, finished dragging him to the nearest hook.  He lifted him up with great ease and slid the sharp metal through Dwight’s shoulder.  The symphony of pained cries continued.  

“Pray we don’t cross paths again,” Evan warned.  “And if we do, for the love of god, shut up.  Or it’ll be worse next time.”  

Chapter Text

During every Trial, Claudette began leaving flowers in various places.  The obvious spot was by the hooks.  She knew the killers would frequent those spots.  But she also left flowers the dilapidated shacks, rotting houses, and on the hoods of abandoned police cars.  She couldn’t stop thinking about the strange killer who had shown her a gentle, sad sort of kindness.  There was no way of telling when she’d run into him again, but it was always worth trying to reach him.  Kindness should always be met with kindness.

Much to her disappointment, she hadn’t found him.  Each Trial was filled with the terror of being hunted like an animal.  She’d been slaughtered more than she escaped and even tortured a few times.  She hated the endless cycle of misery and torment.  What she did to deserve what felt like an eternity of dying, she didn’t know.  She’d always tried to put good back out into the world.  She thought her karmic balance was good.

Every day was the same.  She existed around a perpetually dark campfire with virtual strangers, listening to the animalistic sounds of someone or something stalking them, only to be swallowed by a fog and hunted.  The other people alongside of her, who she referred to as survivors, didn’t typically talk to her.  Only two of them did: a nervous man named Dwight Fairfield, and a reclusive man who took interest in her love for nature named Jake Park.  Otherwise, everyone kept to themselves.  Sometimes she’d see new faces, other times she’d notice a long familiar face had disappeared.

Her feet were on the ground now, frantically running through the sunset-stricken cornfield.  She needed a place to hide.  She’d heard something scuffling on the ground near her several yards back but didn’t stop to find out what it was.  The last Trial she’d been in, the Doctor had chosen to dissect her alive while she hung on the hook.  She couldn’t go through that again.  His deranged laughter and the coos of how beautiful she was on the inside still bounced around in of her skull.

The footsteps behind her drew closer.  She glanced over her shoulder to see the corn stalks parting for someone, however the figure was still obscured.  She summoned all her strength and ran faster.  As fast as her feet would carry her.  Out of the corn field.  Through the open window of a singular wooden wall that used to be part of a shed.  Her foot caught on the ledge and made a loud crack.  She pushed forward, hoping the sound didn’t alert whoever was following her.

She slowed down when she couldn’t see anyone chasing her anymore.  There wasn’t any sign of being pursued.  She trotted behind a large rock and sat down to catch her breath.  She was so sure she saw someone, or heard someone, or something.  Or, very possibly, she had imagined it.  She did only just arrive in the cornfields.  How could someone already be on her?  She pressed her fingers through her dreadlocks and took in a deep breath.  This life was getting to her.  How long would it be before she went mad?  Perhaps it was already starting.

Bing bong.

Every hair on her body stood up on end.  She hadn’t imagined someone following her.  She just couldn’t see him.  She cursed herself under her breath and shifted away from where the sound came.  A phantom materialized next to her, looming over her with his sun to the back.  His little, white pupils bore holes straight through her.  She flinched away from him on instinct, fear pumping through her veins.  He tilted his head to one side and lowered himself into a crouch.  This was him, the killer she’d been looking for.  Claudette worked to control her breathing and pressed a hand to her chest as if it would steady her uncertain heart.  She realized didn’t have any flowers this time.

The Wraith leaned forward, nearing his gnarled face to hers.  He smelled like engine exhaust, blood, and moss growing on tree bark.  She smelled like fear and resting lake water.  No amount of telling herself to be brave made her any braver.  Every instinct in her screamed to flee.  Her body trembled.

Then the Wraith reached into his pocket and pulled out a crushed red clover flower.  He held it out to her.  It was dry and sad looking, withered and browned from the lack of care since it had been picked.  Claudette stared at it, and the Wraith thrust it closer to her.  She blinked slowly and took the wilted stem between her fingers.  It was so fragile.  Part of the stem broke off as she took it.  The Wraith wiggled his shoulders and silently sat down next to her.  Their shoulders touched for a moment before he scooted away enough to leave a few inches between them.

“Thank you,” Claudette said quietly.  “You picked this for me?”

He nodded.  She returned his nod with a sweet smile.  His stony face curled into a smile, too.

“That’s very nice of you.  Do you have a name?”

He nodded again, and with the knotted end of a finger, he wrote “Philip Ojomo” in the dirt before them.  His handwriting was poor and clunky.  Some of the letters were backwards or almost illegible, but Claudette figured it out.

“Philip?” she asked to confirm.  He nodded again.  “That’s a nice name.  I’m Claudette.”  She wrote her name in the dirt above his.  Her handwriting was as soft and curvy as she was.  It was easy to read.  Silence settled between them.  Claudette had a million questions to ask him, but instead she just let the silence fill the space as she observed the flower in her hand.  They were in no rush.  Besides, it didn’t seem like rushing would work with this man.  He seemed like he needed to come into things in his own time.  Why he picked her to share these moments with was a mystery to her.  In the background, the sound of a generator bringing spotlights to life roared in the background.

Philip turned his head suddenly, a heavy snarl of breath snapping with his inhale.  Instinct, as Claudette knew well, was impossible to ignore.  Philip was more of a slave to it.  He clenched his hand around the handle of his bell and, as he rose to his feet, slammed his weapon into it.

Bing bong.

Just like that, Philip vanished into the air.  Claudette listened to the sounds of his breath trail away and he rushed back into the cornfields, seeking whoever was the cause of the noise.  She slumped with her back against the rock and let out a sigh of relief.  Never, in a million years, did she expect to befriend such a strange, violent creature.  She wanted to know more.  Her hands closed over the delicate, dying weed and she held it close to her chest.  She believed that all friendship, like this flower, deserved to be cherished and treated with the utmost amount of love, even if it was short-lived.

Chapter Text

Catching Dwight had been easy enough.  After a very short time of watching, he was unbelievably predictable.  He valued caution and wariness over risk.  He stuck to the edges of the imaginary cage that the Entity had stuck them in, only venturing towards the center when he found a generator or someone else needed his help.  When not skulking around the perimeter like the coward he was, he did a lot of hiding in bushes or lockers.  A locker was where Danny found Dwight this time.  Easy.

Danny liked this place.  He enjoyed the endless feast of murder laid out before him.  He could create any story he wanted, and he had all the time in the world to do it without any of the repercussions.  The only downside was that there was no real audience.  No one to appreciate his work.  And it made him lazy.  He’d fallen into a routine of simple kills.  He was uninspired, bored, and simply doing what was expected of him.

Until now.

He delicately slid his knife in the soft of Dwight’s gut, expertly finding the spot where it would hurt but not kill him.  The twist of pain across the nervous man’s face made Danny smile.  It was delightful in a way hooking these people would never be.  Danny wasn’t made for trite art installations, he was made for telling grand, Tolkien-esque stories with the masterful content of Stephen King novels.  He bent over enough for Dwight to collapse onto his shoulder, then carefully lifted him off the ground to carry him away.  There was an empty farmhouse nearby that would make the perfect backdrop for his latest masterpiece.

Carrying Dwight up the stairs proved challenging.  At least he didn’t resist.  Any movement caused him more pain, which kept him still.  But he was still heavy.  Danny wasn’t, by any means, a scrawny or weak man, but the weight of another human being was something else.  Once at the top of the stairs, Danny entered a bedroom with no door and unceremoniously dropped Dwight on the floor.  He cried out in pain and curled onto his side.  Both hands pressed against the wound, desperate to staunch the slow bleed.  Music, Danny thought to himself.  The beginnings of a symphony to end the first act of his story.

Danny pulled an old digital camera out from the inner pockets of his robes and paced the room, looking for the perfect place to set it.  There were so many angles for the perfect shot.  Still photos, video, panoramas, so many options to choose from!  Danny figured he’d start with video and record the scene.  He could edit it down later (if he ever saw a computer again, but that was a problem for Future Danny, not Present Danny).  In the corner of the room was a rotting dresser, an exquisite spot.  He placed the camera down, adjusted it, stepped back, adjusted it again, then nodded to himself, pleased.

Dwight scratched the wooden floor behind Danny as he dragged himself towards the exit.  Danny was aware of the movement the moment it started.  Dwight wasn’t going to get away, though.  There was no chance.  So Danny took his time adjusting the camera.  Then he spun around on his heel, stalked over to Dwight, crouched in front of him to block his exit, and held up a finger to waggle it.  No no, Danny thought to himself and clicked his tongue disapprovingly.  The show hasn’t even begun yet.

Violence.  Danny grabbed the back of Dwight’s shirt and yanked him back into the room.  The movement twisted Dwight from his stomach onto his back and wrenched out another gutted cry of pain.  Swift violence.  Danny kicked Dwight in the stomach, the toe of his shoe just missing the open wound.  What a shame, he was losing his edge.  The force was still enough to subdue Dwight.  He curled on himself again and whimpered.  Danny stepped back to the camera and pressed a button.  A little red light blinked on it and the lens audibly focused.

“Showtime!” Danny said, and with a flourish he produced a tactical knife from his robes.  He paced around Dwight, looking between the man and the camera to find the best angle.  He decided to crouch on the opposite side of Dwight from the camera.  One more glance to make sure it was absolute perfection and he cut the buttons off Dwight’s shirt one by one with the tip of his blade.  Of course, no surprise, Dwight reached to grab Danny’s wrists and the hilt of the knife, but Danny swatted him away easily with his free hand, continuing his work.

As Danny cut off the third to last button, Dwight grabbed the wrist holding the knife.  Fury pulsed through Danny’s veins.  He grabbed the other man’s wrist, slammed it down over his head, and repeatedly stabbed the palm of his hand, wrist, and fingers with the knife.  Dwight shrieked in agony and wheeled his legs to kick.  Danny swung himself over Dwight’s hips to keep him from bucking.  He kept the knife buried in Dwight’s hand, grabbed his jaw firmly with his other hand, and leaned in close.

“You’re ruining my shot,” he growled, low and threatening.  “Stay the fuck still.”

Dwight froze, staring up at Danny like a deer in headlights.  Terror rapidly sucked air in and out of his lungs.  Horror froze him in place.  Pain made him sweat.  All these things excited Danny.  He hoped the camera captured every single detail.

Sitting upright, Danny continued to cut the last of the buttons off Dwight’s shirt.  Dwight stayed still.  Slowly, Danny opened Dwight’s shirt to reveal an average, soft torso.  It was unremarkable, really.  No abdomen muscles, no delicious pecs, nothing that would make an audience swoon.  Just.  Average.  At least he wasn’t plump, that always made for a terrible close-up for the main star.  Danny needed someone attractive.  He would have preferred someone built, like David or Adam.  Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Dwight’s audition squealing in the locker was damn near flawless.

Danny dragged the dull side of the knife up Dwight’s torso, from bellybutton to collar.  Dwight trembled.  His chest heaved from the panic, eyes wild.  He looked like a trapped animal.  Danny shushed him and touched the tip of the blade to the underside of Dwight’s jaw.  Then he moved it to the left side and pressed.  This turned Dwight’s face to the camera.

“Smile for the camera,” he said.  He turned the knife slowly in his hand and dragged the blade down the side of Dwight’s face.  It created a precise, thin line of blood that pooled on Dwight’s cheek until he turned his head back.

“Please,” Dwight whimpered.  “Please don’t do this.”

“Don’t you want to be a star?” Danny asked.  He gestured to the camera.  Dwight’s eyes darted to it then back to the knife in Danny’s hand.

“Please.”

How boring. 

“Is that all you can say?” Danny grabbed Dwight’s jaw and pressed hard, directly in the soft part of his teeth, forcing his mouth open.  Dwight made to talk but couldn’t with Danny’s hand holding his mouth open.  Danny mocked him, disappointed that his expressions couldn’t be read through his ghostly mask, and then forced his fingers into Dwight’s mouth.  He grabbed his tongue and, in one swift motion, cut it out.

Dwight screamed.  His hands instinctively came up to push Danny away.  Blood sputtered out of his mouth, and he had to turn his head to spit the blood out before he choked on it.  Danny cackled.  He hadn’t felt this alive in forever.  What a joy!  He twirled his hand and the knife in the air, then went to work decorating Dwight’s middle with deep, intentional gashes.  Dwight’s hands weakly went back to pushing Danny away.  The man writhed.  He struggled for all he was worth, but the will to fight drained out of him as quickly as his blood.

It wasn’t until Dwight’s hands slumped to the ground beside him that Danny stopped carving him up.  The lines he made created an eccentric, abstract art piece, one that Danny had to stand up to admire from a distance.  Dwight’s chest heaved hard enough to cough up blood.  He didn’t have the will to fight, but he instinctively prevented himself from drowning.  It didn’t matter.  He would bleed out soon enough. 

Danny had to get a picture before he did, though.  He set his knife down, ran to the camera, and grabbed it off the dresser.  He turned off the video so he could switch to photography mode.  Then he skipped back to Dwight and kneeled next to him.  One hand weaved cruel fingers into Dwight’s hand and yanked his head up, the other held the camera out.  The lens pointed at their faces.  Danny pressed his victim’s cheek to the side of his mask.

“Say cheese,” he chirped and took the picture.  Dwight groaned miserably.  He took two more, just for good measure, then tenderly set the camera down, picked his knife up, and carved a single line across Dwight’s throat.  Ear to ear, like a smile.  Dwight gurgled, fingers weakly touching the new wound.  He couldn’t stop himself from choking this time.  The death wasn’t quick by any means, but it was far more merciful than letting Dwight bleed out on the floor.  His reward for being the best star Danny could have asked for.

Danny felt alive again.

Chapter Text

The rain poured down.  Everything in the Red Forest was soaked straight through except for the wooded shelter in the clearing of trees.  Despite the dark skies and wet landscape, there was a sense of peace, one Jake reveled in.  He missed his own slice of heaven back in the forest he called home.  He’d gone off the grid years ago, the only company within miles was the local wildlife.  He had made friends with a murder of crows that had visited his yard every day in the morning for breakfast and occasionally around sunset if they weren’t occupied with their crow-business.  Deer, bears, and other creatures who called the forest home long before Jake shared his yard as well.  This forest made him ache for those quiet moments.

A pained cry in the distance pulled him out of his thoughts.  He took in a deep breath and looked up, allowing the rain to patter against his face.  He didn’t have time to linger on his nostalgia or personal pain.  He had a job to do, friends to protect.  He moved through the brush in a crouch, low and quiet.  He noticed every little sound and movement, completely in tune with his surroundings.  Somewhere out there was a heartless murderer.  Another cry sounded out, coming from just north of him.  It sounded like Jane.  She wasn’t having any luck out there.

Jake swiftly chased the sound.  If he could get there fast enough, then maybe he could do something to help.  Just maybe he’d be able to prevent Jane from suffering any worse fate than a slash or bite.  He quickly found her.  Jane was laying on the ground, a hatchet buried deep in the center of her back.  Her eyes stared empty into space.  Her skin was pale and sunken in. Jake cursed under his breath.  He was too late, and Jane was gone.

He stayed in the shadows, just looking at her deflated, lifeless body.  She was such a good person, strong willed and always kind.  She had a certain gentleness for outsiders like Jake, like Claudette, like Dwight.  Jake did his best to keep his distance from everyone, but he had a soft spot for her.  It was a shame she had to go like this.

“We will meet again,” he said softly into the tips of his fingers, a small prayer of his own making to honor her struggle and courage.

A twig snapped ten yards behind him.  Jake wheeled his head around, and he instinctively sprang forward.  The blade of a hatchet cut through his jacket, shirt, and straight through to his skin.  He let out a scream, more out of surprise than pain, and bolted in the opposite direction.  Practiced instinct moved his feet, adrenaline gave him speed.  Behind him was a remarkably tall woman wearing a wood carved mask of a white hare.  She was built with firm, thick muscle much like Jake’s.  He guessed it was from living in the wilds, just like him.  He weaved through trees and between rocks, listening to the woman pursue him.

He referred to her as The Huntress.  He’d encountered her many times.  Finding her had become a bit of a game.  She was one with the forest, a wild creature more than a person, everything Jake felt deep within his heart.   He wasn’t sure where his fear ended and his desire and admiration began.  Her soul called to him in a way no one else’s had before.  It wasn’t an ache in the hollow of his heart for romance.  It wasn’t lust.  It was closer to hunger to simply be.

The ground under his feet began to get muddier and stickier.  It was dangerous to travel here, lest he find himself stuck or slowed and then caught.  He had little options.  The woods to his left were too thick to run through, and the opening to his right would have made him vulnerable to her vicious thrown weapons.  He had but one choice: turn back.  He bent over, scooped up a small rock in his hand, and turned on his heels.  In one motion he threw the rock at her and charged.  She easily deflected it by raising a hatchet, and it bounced harmlessly off the metal.  At the same time, Jake slid feet first between her legs and behind her.  He used his momentum to roll back onto his feet and darted way.

The Huntress roared, too slow to react to his surprise movements.  A hatchet buried itself into a tree four inches from his face, the wet thud of metal cutting through bark echoing through his ears.  He ducked around that same tree and made for the shelter, narrowly avoiding another thrown hatchet.  That was two now.  How many she had, he wasn’t sure, but he would keep count so he could better predict her movements.

The wooden house was simple, two stories tall, and blessedly dry.  He instantly felt at home here, and in different circumstances might have entertained taking off his boots and sitting by the fire.  He wanted it so bad that he stopped for half a second to look at the fireplace, alive with warmth.  The Huntress was close behind him and getting closer with every moment he wasted.  He didn’t have time, and the wound on his back began to hurt.  He had to think quick.  Running wasn’t the best option for him anymore.  As he looked around the room, he spotted a few storage lockers, and he slipped into one as silently as possible.

She entered the room.  The black eye holes of her mask scanned the room, face expressionless save for the downward turn of her lips.  Her breathing was heavy from the pursuit.  Exhales came from her mouth, inhales through the nose as if she could smell him.  He peeked through the locker grates, holding his breath, and hoping the moment would pass.  Hoping The Huntress would pass.  Her heavy wet boots thumped across the room as she stalked in, and she muttered something intelligible to him.  Russian, or perhaps a local Slavic language.  He knew English fluently and enough Korean for basic communication.  Her words were completely foreign to him.

She stalked to the lockers, looking more like a mountain cat than a person, and fished one more hatchet from the loop on her belt.  The veil on the back of her mask trailed behind her. The leather around her waist creaked and complained as she reached to open the locker.  Jake had no choice.  He burst through the door as hard and fast as he could, slamming into her.  At the same time, the blade of her hatchet tore into his shoulder.  It stuck there, several inches deep, with pain as hot as touching the sun.  Jake collapsed to one knee and touched his fingers to the wound.  Blood oozed out of it, plopping to the floor in sick, short rivers.  He couldn’t feel anything from the elbow down.  Everything from the elbow up was twisting fire. He brought his bloody fingers to his mouth and touched them unconsciously to his lips, leaving a smear there in his shock.

Instead of taking her hatchet back, The Huntress grabbed the front of Jake’s jacket and picked him up.  He hovered in front of her only by the easy grace of her strength.  His head was just slightly higher than hers, forcing her to look up at him.  Her lips were still twisted into a small, determined frown.  He could see her eyes through the mask: a dull brown with grey speckles.  She stared back at him, unreadable.

“Just kill me,” Jake challenged softly but furiously, voice strained from the agony in his shoulder.

The Huntress tilted her head to the side and drew his face closer to hers.  Jake stayed steady, refusing to let fear or panic overtake him.  Wild creatures could sense fear, and he did not fear her.

The tip of her mask’s hare nose touched his.  In the wild, not only did many animals often greet one another by touching noses, but the gesture also exchanged some information because of their extremely sensitive senses of smell.  Jake squinted his almond eyes into slits and kept them on hers, soaking in the shockingly intimate moment.  Then, just like that, she dropped him back to the ground.  One boot, then another, stepped over his crumpled body and exited the building, back on the hunt for different prey.

Jake sucked in a sharp breath and curled up, steadying himself from the wave of pain.  Then he glanced out the door.  She’d let him live.  Perhaps they weren’t just similar, but the exact same breed of animal.  Perhaps.  The ache in his heart felt deeper.  He wished, not sure what for, but wished all the same.  Jake braced himself and pulled the hatched out of his shoulder.  His head spun from the pain, but he forced himself to his feet and back out into the rain.    The forest would either take care of him or claim him.  He didn’t care which, mind occupied with greetings between animals.

Chapter Text

There was only silence on the MacMillan estate except for the loud snap of beartraps harmlessly biting down on empty air.  Evan had meticulously set them out with the sole intention of catching prey—human prey.  Usually, someone would wander into a trap to have their leg ruined and mauled by the sharp metal teeth, and Evan would find them by following the familiar tune of their pained cries.  It was an easy enough task with the tall grass and dark, night shadows.  However, he was an hour into the hunt and he’d made no catches tonight.

There was someone out there setting off the traps without getting caught.  He’d come across several he knew he’d set up, all closed.  Evan stood over one, staring down at it in frustration.  He hadn’t seen a single person since the night started.  He quaked with anger.  What was the point of reopening it if it just meant someone would close it again?  Another snap screamed from somewhere else on the estate.  He picked up this beartrap and stomped in the direction of the sound.  There was at least one person out there, and he intended to find them.

The crows were quiet and still as he marched across the property.  They eyed him with disinterest—if they looked at him at all—and he scowled at them.  Useless birds were supposed to alert him to the presence of people.  Filthy traitors, the whole lot of them.  Then, suddenly, there was a loud bang.  Someone slipped up.  Evan turned his attention to the nearby sound and saw an arm disappearing into the window of an old, run down shack.  He smiled to himself and pursued, but not before setting up the beartrap outside of the window.

Evan stalked inside, listening for any little bit of noise.  It was dead silent.  There were two lockers meant for storage.  A faded memory shifted uncomfortably in him, one from when he was still human.  That’s right, Evan thought to himself, this used to be a storage shed.  He turned to his left and saw a set of stairs leading to a basement that had never been there before.  An eerie, orange light pulsated from its depths, and an impossible wind howled.  The little red lockers were big enough to fit a grown man, but if it were clever Evan hiding, he’d have dared the basement.

Evan stomped down the stairs, making each step intentional and heavy to instill as much fear as he could into his prey.  He sniffed the air through his mask.  Though he couldn’t smell anything, it made a horrible, echoed snorting sound.  At the bottom of the stairs were four more lockers, four hooks on one pillar, and dried blood smeared on the floor.  The orange light seemed to emanate from every crack and hole in the walls and floor.  The wind came from nowhere at all, and it howled and chattered around him.  There was no sight of another person, but that didn’t mean they weren’t down here.

Evan checked the first two lockers by the stairs.  Nothing.  Two more waited at the far end of the room.  He went to the one on the left first.  His hand tingled with anticipation as he reached for the handle.  The thrill of the hunt.  Suddenly, a body burst from the enclosed space and slammed into Evan.  He let out a surprised roar, but years of instinct commanded his body to act.  Both of his powerful arms wrapped around the human against him, pinning him in a tight bear hug.  There was a pained gasp as Evan tightened his grip and he felt a bone pop.  Satisfying.

Evan turned his gaze down on the person in his arms.  It was a man, average in stature, with messy black hair and thick clothes.  His more notable feature, the one Evan couldn’t stop looking at, was the defiant gaze of his dark, almond eyes.  Despite being in obvious pain from having the air crushed out of his lungs, there was no fear in those eyes.  He reminded Evan more of an animal than a person.  Evan knew one other like this, and she was the only woman on this god-forsaken earth that he feared.

Quickly, Evan released the man and watched him crumple to the ground.  He got to one knee and wrapped his arms around his ribs.  So that was where the pop came from.  His eyes never left Evan, lip curled into a sneer, teeth gritted hard against the pain.  Then he pushed himself to his feet and bolted for the stairs.  This was something Evan could respect.  This was a man who knew what hard work and determination meant.  Even though he had been caught, he wouldn’t give up.

Evan gave chase, always on this strange man’s heels.  In a desperate move to put distance between them, the man vaulted through the window, and Evan was met with the rewarding sounds of metal crunching into bone and the most agonized scream.  He took his time walking around the building through the door and stood over his prey, who was trying, without any luck, to open the beartrap.  It was simply too painful.  The serrated metal had mangled the flesh of his leg and dug deep into the bone, likely fracturing it.  It was wet with blood too, and the man couldn’t get a good grip.

Evan shook his head at his prey.  When he reached out to pick him up, the man swung his fist and snapped his teeth.  He still had fight in him.  He was strong-willed with a fiery spirit, again something Evan could respect.  Evan took the cleaver from the loop on his belt and raised his above his head.  A wild animal and a man.  A creature liked this was too dangerous to simply sacrifice.  He would need to be put down immediately.  And Evan, with only the sound of his heavy breath growling from under his mask and the smile in his eyes that only the well-pleased look of a hunger satisfied could bring, brought his blade down on the man.  Over.  And over.  And over.

Chapter Text

She shouldn’t have been here.  She knew this was wrong.  Every part of her knew it.  But there was a certain thrill to sneaking around during matches with the very same person who was trying to kill her.  Most of the time, it was simply a matter of life and death.  It was straight forward for everyone else.  The people who she survived with took little interest in one another and only wanted to complete the tasks at hand.  The hunters—killers, really—were mostly bloodthirsty and ruthless.  But not this one.  Well, actually, yes this one too.  But at least not to her; not always.  It was complicated.

Claudette crept up the stairs of the abandoned ironworks building.  Her clothes were dark against the shadows, and she managed to avoid any curious eyes.  Upstairs, there was an abandoned office (or maybe control room, she wasn’t quite sure) where she’d once decided was quiet and off the beaten path.  It was small and the doors were boarded up.  There was also nothing up here.

It wasn’t the first time she’d met the Ghost Face in this room.  Life here, in what she called The Realms, was complicated.  It was an endless cycle of death and rebirth.  It was constant pain.  It was isolation and madness.  It made no sense, and often she thought she might just simply be dead.  This could very well have been hell itself.  It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

She waited patiently, questioning whether he would show up.  If he wasn’t even here, she was wasting valuable time and putting the other survivors at risk.  Minutes dragged on.  She stood by the window that looked out over the interior of the ironworks.  The old, worn, forgotten control panel to the building kept her about a foot away from the window itself, but she could see clearly enough.  No one was below except the rust and dust from decades of neglect.  No one came in, no one left.  Not even a mouse.  She let out a soft sigh.  Perhaps it was simply too much to hope for.  She hadn’t seen him in a long time, so why would tonight be any different?

Disappointment saturated her mood.  She was bitter from feeling so alone all the time.  It wasn’t that the Ghost Face gave her any kind of substantial companionship.  It would have been impossible to be friends.  They didn’t have anything in common other than their mutual attraction.  No, it was more about Claudette being desperate for human connection.  She impatiently tapped her finger against the former control panel.  It was about time to give up.  Before she could turn around, the air behind her moved and the blade of a knife tickled her throat.  Fingertips touched the bottom of her chin and tilted her head up.

“Hello, poppy flower,” a familiar voice said.  There was no doubt in her mind that it was the Ghost Face.  It couldn’t have been anyone else with the way his voice was muffled by the plastic ghost mask, expression twisted into that of the famous Edvard Munch painting The Scream.  “What are you doing up here all by yourself?”

Excitement tingled Claudette’s limbs.  She made a stubborn line with her jaw and didn’t say anything.  He’d have to earn the sound of her voice.  His fingers pressed harder into the soft spot under her jaw, forcing her head back further.

“Cat got your tongue?” he purred.  Again, she refused to speak.  He clucked his tongue and, with his knife still touching her throat, let go of her chin.  “We can fix that.”  Fabric moved behind her and there was a soft, plastic thud on the floor.  Then deft fingers moved her hair off the back of her neck.  Lips pressed against the warm skin there, causing bumps to rise on her arms.  It felt good.  Her hands balled into fists and rested on the control panel in front of her.

Then, suddenly, his teeth bit into the taut muscle connecting the back of her neck to her shoulder.  She let out a pained squeal, and the man behind her bounced with a pleased chuckle.

“So, you do still make noise,” he said.

“Fuck you,” she answered.  It was all part of their game.  A dangerous game, albeit, but Claudette thrilled from it.  Would this man touch her, stab her, something more?  She enjoyed egging him on.  She enjoyed feeling something other than despair.

“Gladly.”  His free hand trailed down her chest, stomach, and between her legs.   His fingers stroked a single line, back and forth, and she exhaled hard in anticipation.  She spread her feet out to better brace herself and leaned hard against the control panel.  The Ghost Face removed his knife from her throat so his hand could fondle one of her breasts.  A jolt of electricity shot through her when his hand slid under her shirt and passed the cup of her bra to press naked skin against his gloved hand.

She allowed herself to pant heavily.  It had been over a month since anyone touched her, and she wasn’t ashamed to be a little needy.  Out of everyone in this god-forsaken hell, this man was the only one who wanted her.  She would gladly take it.  After a minute of heavy petting, she rolled her hips back against his, feeling his arousal through his clothes.  A smirk crossed her lips, private and just for her. 

“What are you waiting for then?”

“To find out how long it’ll take you to beg,” he said.  He reproduced the knife and slashed it against the middle of her upper arm.  She yelped and her arm gave out under his. The Ghost Face’s other arm looped around her middle to stop her from falling, and the length of the blade pressed against the length of her throat.  She swallowed carefully and leaned back against him as far as she could.  “So, beg.”

“Please,” Claudette whimpered without any hesitation.  The sleeve of her shirt was hot and wet from the blood.  It was uncomfortable but also arousing.  The sense that he could do anything to her, anything in the world, and she was helpless to stop him made her heart race.  She was walking on a knife’s edge, unsure of what would set him off tonight.  Another thrill ran through her.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” she said, ignoring the knife as it slipped under her sleeve at her elbow.  “It’s been so long.  Please.”

“Ooooh,” the Ghost Face said.  He smiled against her ear and whispered, “now that’s not the specific I was expecting.”  The knife scraped against her skin, pressing hard enough to cut the skin.  She sucked in a sharp breath of air as he applied more and more pressure.  The blood oozed out around either side of the blade and ran down her arm in rivulets.  She tried not to squirm, but the pain and fear made her wriggle anyway.

Then the knife pulled away and was set on the control panel beside them.  The arm around her waist tightened and he whispered in her ear to undo her pants.  She obeyed, ignoring the sting of her wounds. The moment her button and zipper were undone, she tugged her pants down to her knees, and he bent her over the panel.  Her arms rested on either side of her head to give herself some support as he moved his robes enough to expose his arousal.

“Please,” she whined again.  He rubbed his tip between her spread legs, and she shuddered.

“All this mess here for me?” he murmured and leaned over her.  At the same time, and without any preparation, he pressed inside of her.  She was self-lubricated enough that it was easy, but the sudden stretch to accommodate all of him burned a little.  The pleasure outweighed the discomfort, so she relaxed against the sloped counter and raised her hips a little.

The Ghost Face slid his hands up her arms, and his fingers wrapped around her wrists.  He wasted no time or energy on pleasantries and fucked her hard.  His pace was relentless.  She gasped and moaned with every movement, feeling better in this moment than she had in weeks.  She even purred when he nosed the hair off the back of her neck to harshly bite the skin there.

Claudette was so needy and so riled up that she didn’t last long.  She writhed under his weight, helpless to her own pleasure, and drooled on the panel.  The Ghost Face’s hand came to her throat and squeezed against her trachea.  He growled something against her neck, but she couldn’t hear him.  He repeated himself, louder, but she was so lost in herself that she missed it again.  Her climax mounted and hit her as their hips crashed together like cars.  She shouted her pleasure, silenced only when his hand tightened enough to cut off her air supply.  When she choked, he finally moaned.  Her free hand grabbed as his, trying to pry the fingers off her.  It was one thing to have erotic tightness there, another to stop breathing completely.  The more she struggled, the tighter his grip got.  The more she tried to free herself, the more erratic his thrusts became.  Then he slammed hard and deep into her, and she suddenly felt his warmth.  Black spots prickled her vision.  She was going to pass out.

Suddenly, the Ghost Face let go of her and pulled away.  She slid off the counter and crumpled to the floor, gasping desperately for oxygen.  The Ghost Face readjusted his robes and picked his mask up off the floor.  Before he put it on, he said, “Next time, say my name and I won’t have to punish you.”

Is that what he said?  She blinked blearily at him and passed her tongue over her dry lips, vaguely aware that she needed to clean herself up and get going before the others got suspicious.  Her eyes lingered on his face.  He was handsome and charming.  No wonder he’d gotten away with murder for so long in the real world.  A real Ted Bundy type.  The Ghost Face reached over her to take his knife back and fixed his mask into place.  He feigned a lunge at her, making her jump, and laughed to himself.

“Stupid bitch, thanks for another great screw.  See you next time.”  He vaulted out the window and descended the stairs.

Chapter Text

Frank was in Heaven.  Or, more realistically, Hell.  He laid reclined in the snow on a hill in the poor recreation of the Ormond Resort, eyes cast to the sky.  He got to live out his greatest fantasies of murder with absolutely no repercussions.  There was no one to stop him.  He got to see the look of horror during a chase, listen to the cacophony of pained cries when his knife first tasted new skin, revel in his victims’ begging, and watch the panic leave their eyes when he took their lives.  It was pure glory.  Finally, an outlet for his rage.  However, the time between finding victims was drawn out and boring.  It had been a week since he’d seen someone other than his Legion friends.  There was nothing to do, no where to go, and no way to leave.  That was what made it Hell.

The sun began to set, transforming the usually blue and grey sky with reds, oranges, purples, and pinks.  It was one of the better sunsets at Ormond, when the stormy clouds were nowhere to be seen on the horizon.  It was a simple pleasure, but one Frank preferred to enjoy in private.  He hated anyone thinking him soft.  There was no way his friends would understand.  They would surely tease and make fun.  It was unfair.  There was softness in everyone.  He let out a sigh.

The snow crunched underfoot behind him, and he tilted his head up.  He expected to see Joey, the only one who would think to seek him out here.  Joey was his first real friend, and the only person who knew him beyond his exterior.  He never got the truly intimate pieces of Frank of course, but he knew him better than anyone else ever had.  It wasn’t Joey who approached, though.  Frank’s eyes found two pitch black combat boots barely visible from the bottom of an equally black robe.  He followed the dark line of the slender body up to a hooded head.  The person’s face was covered by a white mask with an exaggerated, ghostly scream.

“The fuck do you want?” was the first thing Frank could think to bark at the Ghost Face.  The second thing he thought of was that he was angry and embarrassed to be caught without his own mask.  The third was the curious thought of how the Ghost Face found Ormond, especially when Frank couldn’t find a way out.

“Now that’s no way to say hello,” the Ghost Face said, muffled behind his mask.  He put his hands on his hips and stopped just short of Frank’s head.

“Does ‘fuck off’ work better?” Frank growled.  He didn’t bother to get up, but he did adjust his arms under his head so he could quickly move if he needed to.

“Rolls off the tongue better,” the Ghost Face said, “but no.”  Then he sat down right where he stood.  The bottom of one of his boots touched the top of Frank’s head, forcing him to get up with a grumble.

“What do you want, seriously?” Frank barked.  He shifted into a squat and faced the other man.  “And how the fuck did you get here?”

Frank could practically see the smile that the Ghost Face must have had plastered on his dumb face.  He already wanted to punch it off.  The anger that had left him for a few minutes earlier while he enjoyed the sunset was back, tenfold.

“I’m bored,” the Ghost Face simply said, as if it were obvious.  “And you look fun.”

“That’s it?  Bored?”

“Yep, bored.  You should entertain me.”

The audacity.  The nerve.  What did Frank look like, a court jester?  Was he funny?  Amusing?  He gritted his teeth and flared his nostrils as he took in a deep breath, trying to steady his anger, and kept all those thoughts to himself.  “I don’t entertain.”

“You do now,” he said bluntly in return.  He patted the snow next to him.  Frank’s eyes darted between the empty eyes of the mask and the hand.  “I want to play a game.”

“I don’t do games either,” Frank barked and stood up to leave.

“Twenty-one questions, specifically.”

“Twenty-one what?”

“You’re interesting, Legion.”  The Ghost Face plucked at the tips of his gloves as if they were fingernails.  “And I’m bored.  So, first question: What is your favorite season of the year?”

Was this guy serious?  Frank scowled at him; eyebrows lowered over his eyes at sharp, angry angles.  Frank wanted to leave, punch the Ghost Face’s mask in, and, curiously enough, ask a few questions of his own.  He settled for the latter.  He could always hit this man later.

“Spring.  Everything’s coming back to life after a cold, rotted winter.”

“Oh, how romantic,” the Ghost Face said.  “Your turn.”

“How did you get to Ormond?”

“Boring question.”

“Answer it.”

“Fine, fine,” he said with a shrug.  “I asked and the Fog brought me here.  Simple enough.  My turn.  What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done?”

“Kill someone,” Frank answered flatly.  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and squinted at the man in front of him.  “What do you look like under that mask?”

“Boring, and boring,” the Ghost Face said.  He casually removed his mask, setting it on the snow next to him.  He was soft featured.  His jaw was round, nose gently hooked.  His hair was brown, about an inch and a half long, and messy.  Bed head.  Eyes hazel, downturned, and hooded. Bedroom eyes.  Frank stared.  The Ghost Face stared back.  Frank felt rough and severe compared.  His jawline was a sharp angle, his eyes round and dark, hair dusty like the place he grew up; its only saving grace the sharp undercut with perfect edges.  “What’s your name? Your real name?”

“Frank Morrison,” Frank answered without thinking about it.  He hated that he felt so hooked on this.  It was so easy to get lost in the curiosity and exploration, so much so that he just willingly told someone his name.  “Fuck.  Fuck you, what’s your name?”

“Danny Johnson, though once upon a time I went by Jed Olsen.”  Danny looked bored, genuinely bored.  His expression remained neutral and otherwise unreadable, which was a stark contrast to Frank’s twisted, frustrated look.  “What is your biggest pet peeve, Frank?”

Frank’s face scrunched up, almost judgmental in nature.  Danny insisted Frank’s questions were boring, yet he was asking these barebone basic white bitch questions.  It made Frank simmer a little.  “Today?  These fucking questions.  You’ve got a lot of nerve—”

“Your turn,” Danny interrupted.  Frank growled.

“What do you hope to gain from this stupid game?”  It wasn’t a clever question, but Frank didn’t care.  He was growing impatient.

“I told you that already: I’m bored, and you’re interesting.”

“Not good enough.”

“My turn,” Danny said, ignoring Frank.  “Do I make you nervous?”

“What the fuck?” Frank rose to his feet.  “Fuck no, you’re a scrawny little fuck.  I could crush you in an instant.  You make me angry.”

“Everything seems to make you angry, Frank.”  Finally, the expression on Danny’s face changed.  He smiled smugly and his eyes turned up.  He wanted to make Frank uncomfortable, and two could play at that game.

“Alright, fine, you little bitch.  Are you a tits or ass guy?”

“Saucy!” The smile shifted from smug to excited.  “Now that’s an interesting question.  Finally, you’ve found the spirit of the game.”

“Just fucking answer it,” Frank barked.  He hated this guy.

“Ass man, definitely ass.” Danny paused a moment, the ghost of a thought shining in his eyes.  Then, he said, “Men or women?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who do you prefer to fuck?  Men? Or women? It’s a pretty straight forward question.”

“Isn’t that a little personal?”

“More personal than your name?  Besides, I answered your question.”

Frank pursed his lips together and glared.  He could walk away right now.  There was nothing stopping him.  Nothing at all.  Except the subtle pass of Danny’s tongue tip over his lips, the sleep-lines curving under his eyes, the tousle of nutmeg locks just barely touching his forehead.  “Both,” he said boldly and held his head high.  He put his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and looked down at Danny over his nose.

 “I would have pegged you for a straight up breeder,” Danny said with a chuckle.  “Surprise, surprise.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Have you looked in a mirror?  You look like one of those frat boys who keeps count of how many girls he can fuck in a single night.”  Danny gestured at Frank with his hand.  “Daddy beats mommy so you fight and fuck as your outlet to feel better.  Am I getting close?”

“Fuck off,” Frank said.  “You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know you prefer the Spring and like to fuck anyone who moves.”

“Shut up,” Frank said louder than he meant to.  If Danny was going to play dirty, then so would Frank.  “It’s my turn anyway.  Are you loud or quiet during sex?”

“Depends,” Danny said.  Before Frank could insist that was a cop-out answer, he added, “Do we need to be quiet?  I enjoy both quite a bit.  Would you consider yourself kinky?”

Frank was getting more and more uncomfortable.  He felt the discomfort in his chest where anxiety twisted and tugged at his heart.  He felt it in his stomach, where a familiar heat rose and made his fingers, toes, and lips tingle.  His cheeks grew warm.  With his eyes locked onto Danny’s, he said, “Absolutely.”

“Delightful.”

“Are you a top or a bottom?”

“You’re presuming I’m gay,” Danny said.

“I don’t need to presume anything.  It’s just a question.”

Danny smacked his lips together thoughtfully, and his smile shifted once more.  This time it was playful, delighted, like someone who’d just gotten what they wanted.  “I’m a switch.  What’s the first thing that sexually attracts you to someone?”

“Eyes,” Frank answered, again without thinking.  He was lost in the conversation, doing his best to one-up Danny’s questions with his own. He wanted to wipe that smile right off his face.  He wanted to embarrass him.  “What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever masturbated?”

“In a Trial hunting people down for the slaughter, of course,” Danny said with a chuckle.  “Where do you like to be kissed?”

“Many places,” Frank answered.

“Be specific, that’s not a real answer.”

“Lips, jaw, throat, ribs, cock, inner thighs.  Teeth optional for most of those.”

“Like, here?” Danny said and leaned forward.  His hands gently looped around the back of Frank’s legs, and he pressed his teeth against the fabric of Frank’s jeans on the inside of his left thigh.  There was enough pressure to send a thrill up to Frank’s stomach.  He jumped, alarmed by the sudden movement.  The sensation of someone touching him this way lit his nerves on fire.  He hadn’t expected this, and he would have lied if he said he didn’t want it.

Danny’s nose pushed up against the bottom of Frank’s crotch and then Danny asked, “Do you prefer to give or receive oral?”

“Receive,” Frank said, voice light and airy despite his best attempt to keep himself steady.  “Hands down, no fucking questions asked.  Do you like your hair pulled?”

“Absolutely,” Danny said.  His fingers undid Frank’s belt and the button of his jeans.  He moved the fabric just enough to pull out Frank’s arousal.  Before taking it into his mouth, he asked, “Rough or romantic?”

“Rough,” Frank gasped.  Danny’s mouth was as soft as his features, and fuck if he didn’t know exactly what to do already.  He was careful with his teeth, and his tongue was utterly perfect.  He also seemed to have no gag reflex.  Frank assumed he was practiced.  Was he spot on about Danny being gay?  He didn’t care, this felt fucking good.  “Christ, alright, fuck, how would you like me to have an orgasm?”

Danny hummed.  The vibration ran through Frank and made him shudder. His knees went weak.  His fingers weaved through Danny’s hair and yanked his head back, off his member. 

“Fucking answer me,” Frank spat.

“How would you like to have an orgasm?” Danny countered.

“I thought that wasn’t how the game worked.”

Danny shrugged.

With his fingers still in the other man’s hair, Frank forced him to the ground on his back.  He straddled the other man’s upper chest and neck and stared down at him with a hungry scowl.

“Touch yourself,” Frank demanded.  “I’m going to skull fuck you until you cry.”

“Excellent,” Danny said.  “I knew you’d be fun.”

Frank hated that answer.  He was angry and so turned on it hurt.  As he adjusted himself to lay with his hips over Danny’s face, Danny wormed his own arousal out of his pants.  Frank could hear his hand going to work, rough and cruel.  Amazing, what a man would do to himself to get off.  Guess Danny liked it rough too.

Frank carefully slid himself back into Danny’s mouth and, once he was sure Danny was ready (purely because of his teeth, and for no other reason), he began to thrust into him.  Every ounce of Frank’s rage was poured into fucking Danny.  His pace was heartless, his face twisted into a nasty snarl.  Vulgarities pours from his mouth, and every other sentence was some sort of threat to the other man.  Danny finally gagged when Frank picked up the pace, making it hard to breathe.  At the same time, Danny moaned and pleasured himself.  The two stayed at this for a while, Frank needing to slow down occasionally so Danny wouldn’t suffocate, die, and ruin the moment.

Danny came first, choking on Frank as his seed coated his own hand and robes.  Frank climaxed shortly after, the sensation of Danny’s throat trying to swallow too much for him.  He poured his seed into the other man’s mouth, not caring where it went after that.  Frank stayed over Danny, cock in mouth, for a moment to catch his breath.  His orgasm had been intense and left him lightheaded.  Only when he could see straight did he move.  Danny stayed where he was, patient, his tongue continuing to tease Frank until his mouth was finally free.

“You owe me eleven questions,” Danny said and spat into the snow.  He ran the back of his hand across his mouth.

“I’m done playing,” Frank grumbled.  He rolled onto his back in the snow, arms and legs spread eagle, as he caught his breath.

“Next time then,” Danny purred and readjusted his robes.  He stood and picked up his mask, dusting the snow off it.  Then he fixed it back on his face and flicked a wave to Frank.

Frank watched as the other man walked to the edge of Ormond’s property.  It was dark, and Danny eventually blended into the landscape before Frank could see how he left.  He didn’t believe the Fog actually brought him, but who knew.  Then he turned his eyes up to the starry night sky and contemplated Danny’s last words.  There’d be a next time, and Frank would have to think up some clever questions to make their time together even more exciting.

Chapter Text

Being teased wasn’t the best reason to want to get fit.  Dwight knew that even if he was suddenly muscular and shapely, people wound find other reasons to make fun of him.  There were so many healthier reasons to want to work out, but he was sick of constantly being teased.  His boss at work was the worst of all, alpha male type with a superiority complex and an ego the size of Mars.  Any time something went wrong, or he wanted to feel better about himself, he went after Dwight.  It was easy to make a nasty comment about his gentle demeanor, the lack of muscle definition under Dwight’s arms, or the softness of his chest which could be seen through his shirt.  Dwight hated it.  He hated crying himself to sleep on the regular and hating his body more than he already did.  

He’d signed up for a gym membership three weeks ago, but today was the first day he was electing to use it.  It was his day off, and he’d worked up the courage to walk through those doors relatively early in the afternoon.  He hoped no one would be here, and he was mostly right.  The gym had a few people there, but it was far from crowded.  That would give Dwight the opportunity to do his thing without feeling watched.  He came dressed in his gym clothes with nothing more than his phone, keys, and water bottle so that he didn’t have to use the locker room, too.  

There was so much equipment on the workout floor, none of which he understood.  He walked around for a minute before deciding the weight room was a better place to start.  At least he knew how to do arm curls.  He’d learned those in high school and would feel less foolish starting there.  While the workout floor with the machines was relatively empty, it seemed every meathead who had free time to spare on a Thursday afternoon was in the weight room.  They all had headphones in and kept their eyes on their own activities, but Dwight suddenly felt self-conscious.  His heart sank and anxiety gripped him.  He shouldn’t have been here.  This was a mistake.  

As he turned around to leave, he walked directly into a taller man built like a brick house.  Dwight’s hands went up to brace himself and also grab the other person to ensure he didn’t fall.  He was mortified and felt stupid.  How could he walk right into someone?  He cursed himself for not paying attention and looked at his feet.  

“Aw geez, I’m so sorry,” he stammered.  “I’m real sorry.  I wasn’t looking where I was going.”  

“Hey, relax,” the other man said in a soft, round English accent.  “It’s fine.  What’s your rush?”  

“I just, I didn’t mean to, I was just leaving,” Dwight stammered.  He felt his cheeks turn red from the heat of his embarrassment.  He finally looked up from his feet and to the stranger’s face.  Bulky, all crooked edges, and surprisingly handsome.  He had a clean undercut and a small tuft of mousy hair on top of his head.  Dwight’s blush deepened.  

“You look like you need some help,” he said.  “My name’s David, I’m a trainer here.  You’re new?”  

“I, uh, yeah.  I guess,” Dwight said.  Of course, he’d walk straight into an employee.  “How could you tell I’m new?”  

“The look on your face,” David said.  “All newbies give me that look.  I got about a half hour before my next client shows up.  How about I help get you started?”  

Dwight’s eyebrows scrunched together in the center of his forehead.  He wanted, desperately, to crawl back into bed and stay there for the rest of the day, but how could he say no now?  Feeling trapped, he nodded his head and surrendered to polite acceptance of David’s offer.  

“Fantastic!” David said and gestured to the weight rack.  The wall behind them was a full mirror.  Dwight looked at himself as he approached the barbell on the training bench next to the rack.  He felt even smaller and more pathetic next to David, who was obviously muscular and defined through his loose gym top and shorts.  He sucked on his lower lip as David explained that they were going to see what Dwight’s capabilities were.  David securely fixed two fifty-pound weights on either side of the bar and moved the bar to the floor.    

“We’re going to start with a deadlift,” he said.  “It’s a pretty basic exercise that engages many of the larger muscle groups of your body.  Come stand here with your feet shoulder width apart.  No, don’t be shy, come on.  Get over here.”  

Dwight worried on the inside of his bottom lip.  He was goofy-looking and out of place here, but he shifted to where David wanted him to stand all the same.  He looked down at the barbell and took a deep breath, listening to David instruct him on what to do.  He followed each step as best as he could.  He bent his knees slightly and hinged at his hips.  David’s hands touched his back to correct his spine, which needed to be straight.  Already, Dwight was having trouble holding the form, his core muscle straining from the effort of never being used this way.  

“Better,” David said.  “Now I want you to push your butt back, way back, and keep your core engaged so that your back stays flat.”  

Dwight flustered and pushed his rear back a little.  David laughed and touched his hands to Dwight’s hips, encouraging him further back until he was finally in the right position.  His body trembled from the strain of staying this way.  

“Now lower yourself in a squat until you can reach the barbell,” David said, and Dwight complied.  He took the barbell in his hands, and David walked around to Dwight’s front to adjust his hands to be wider than his knees.  “Good.  Keep your shoulders pressed down, yes, away from your ears.  You should feel it in your shoulder blades.  Keep your core tight and lift.”  

Dwight lifted, and David moved back around him.  He pressed the flats of his palms against Dwight’s belly and lower back.  The touch ignited butterflies in Dwight’s stomach and chest.  He blushed again, now distracted, and stayed in place for a moment.  David’s hands remained firm on his stomach.  

“I want to feel these muscles get hard,” David instructed bluntly.  Dwight clenched the muscles.  “That’s better.  You really want to engage your core.  You don’t want to lift with your lower back.  Now stand.”  

Then he stood up straight, reversing the hinge at his hip with David’s guidance, and groaned from the effort of fighting gravity.  Already, sweat beaded on his brow and hairline.  Slowly, he lowered the barbell back to the ground.  Before he could finish setting it down, David’s firm hands stopped him.  

“Stay tight.  Can you do four more of these?”  

“F-four?” Dwight groaned.  One was hard enough.  David moved his hands out of the way and Dwight lifted the barbell again.  He was slow, careful to keep his form.  He managed a third before he had to set the bar down, letting gravity do the work when the bar was just a few inches off the ground.  He immediately sat on the floor beside it.  

“Three total isn’t bad,” David said and patted Dwight’s shoulder.  More butterflies.  Dwight looked back up, soaking in the sight of David’s chiseled features.  “You got a lot of work to do, but we can whip you into shape.”  

“I suck,” Dwight mumbled, mostly to himself, casting his eyes down again.  He hadn’t realized he’d said anything out loud until David squatted down next to him.  

“Hey,” he said comfortingly.   “Look at me.  That’s not true.  We all start somewhere.  Doesn’t matter where you start, so long as you start.  You free this time every week?”  

Dwight nodded but didn’t look at David.  He stared at the barbell, disappointed in himself.  

“Good, me too.  Usually, I’d insist to take you on as a client, but let’s do three sessions free of charge and see where you are.  If you’re happy, you can hire me for the next few sessions after that.  Sound good?”  

“That’s generous,” Dwight said in disbelief, voice quiet and timid.  

“I’ll take that as a yes,” David said with cheer.  He stood up, extended his hand to Dwight, and helped him up.  Then he gestured to the dumbbells on the rack.  “You know how to do lateral raises, lunges, and bicep curls?”  Dwight nodded.  “Good, do those and call it a day today.  I’ll see you next week.”  

---   

Dwight spent the week thinking about the handsome trainer who’d taken pity on him at the gym.  The fact that David had showed any interest at all, let alone a good portion of kindness, put Dwight in a good mood and made him excited to return to the gym.  It didn’t hurt that the man was attractive as hell.  Dwight couldn’t stop thinking about him.  It wasn’t often someone sent him head over heels.  His last crush was three years ago.  It was such a rare occurrence.  It put him in a good mood.  He kept his head low at work to maintain that mood.  His boss only bothered him once, on Monday, and then he was left alone.  

He came to the gym dressed for the workout again.  He also arrived earlier than he was supposed to, eager to see his new trainer.  He couldn’t believe he was excited to work out.  He checked in at the front desk and went straight to the weight room.  David was nowhere in sight.  Well, Dwight was early.  He figured maybe his new trainer was busy with another client, so he started working on the small dumbbells.  After this third set of ten reps of bicep curls and his arms burning, David entered the room.  

“I like to see my clients excited to work out,” David said when he spotted Dwight wrapping up.  “Glad you got a head start.  What did you do?”  

“Just bicep curls,” Dwight said quietly.  

“Did you stretch before starting?”  

“No.”  

“That’s no good.  Come on, let’s do some warmup stretches so you don’t hurt yourself.”  David sat on the floor, and Dwight sat across from him.  David walked them through some basic stretches.  David moved skillfully, his body twisting and contorting beautifully with each movement.  Dwight carefully watched the muscles stretch and move, fantasies flickering into his brain every once in a while.  He did his best to banish them.  He wasn’t here to flirt or gawk, he was here to get stronger.  Dwight struggled with each stretch, unused to moving like this, but David didn’t comment on it.  Any comments he made were strictly about Dwight’s form or to tell him that he did a good job.  

Afterwards, David ran through some leg and core exercises, making sure Dwight was clear on exactly how it should feel and what proper form was.  Some were calisthenics and some were more rooted in the art of pilates—all of which he could do at home, which David emphasized was the most important if Dwight didn’t plan on being at the gym on more than a weekly basis.  They did each one in front of the mirrored wall so Dwight could see what he looked like with good form.  After that, David had him do more deadlifts.  Dwight could only manage three again.  The whole routine took about an hour, and then David congratulated him in a good job and excused himself.  An hour never felt so short.  

---  

The next two sessions, each a week apart on Thursdays, were roughly the same.  David had Dwight perform some exercises he’d already learned, introduced him to some new ones, and ended the session with deadlifts.  On the third and final session, Dwight managed a full five deadlifts.  It was hard work and his entire body burned from the effort, but he did it.  Excitement coursed through him.  He could see the results of his hard work in those two extra lifts, which was outstanding!  He thought it was all a pointless endeavor, yet here he was, standing in the gym a month later, having completed five reps instead of three.  

“That was excellent,” David patted Dwight on the back.  Dwight’s skin tingled where David’s hand rested.  Goosebumps rose on his arms and neck.  “Like I said when I first met you, you just needed a place to start.  You worked hard, Dwight.  You should feel proud.”  

“I do,” Dwight said, and meant it.  He didn’t think that such a simple act would bring him so much confidence or joy.  He truly felt proud of himself.  

“Just keep doing this.  When the deadlifts get easy, add another twenty-pounds.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  I’m around if you have any questions, and if you decide to keep me on as your trainer, you should talk to the front desk.  They can book you properly.”  

“Sure thing,” Dwight said quietly and flexed his fingers, which were sore from gripping the barbell.  “Thanks again, I really appreciate you taking the time for me.”  

“It’s no problem,” David said with a smile.  “I gotta jet, but I’ll see you around.”  

David exited the weight room before Dwight could say anything.  He frowned slightly as he sat on the floor, sipping water out of his water bottle.  He did want to keep David on as a trainer, but he also wanted more.  These past four weeks with David ignited something in Dwight—not just self-esteem, but also a desire to be bolder.  Coming to the gym to work out had been a risk, and the reward was plain as day to him.  What other rewards were out there if Dwight had just decided to take the risk?  

He took a short rest on the floor to catch his breath and got up.  If he thought about things too hard, he wouldn’t be able to go through with his risks.  Thinking was the enemy here.  He dusted his pants off, picked up his water bottle, and walked to the line of three offices on the far end of the workout room.  David’s shared office door was open and he stood at his desk, rummaging through some papers with his back to Dwight.  Dwight lingered in the doorway a moment.  Then he cleared his throat and stepped in.  

“Hey,” Dwight said softly.  “Mind if I borrow a few more minutes of your time?”  

David turned around and raised an eyebrow at Dwight.  “Sure bud, what’s on your mind?”  

“I, uh,” Dwight stuttered.  His nerves hit him all at once.  What was he doing here?  This was foolish.  David was a personal trainer who’d just spent a month helping him, free of charge.  David could see the distress on Dwight’s face, and he frowned.  He stepped over and closed the door to give them some privacy.  

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.  “Are you okay?”  

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dwight whispered.  “I just really, well, I kind of hoped that, maybe, possibly, you’d like to get drinks after your shift tonight?”  

David’s eyebrows rose.  He blinked a couple of times and tilted his head.   

“I’m sorry,” Dwight said.  “This was stupid.  I shouldn’t have said anything.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  

Dwight turned to leave, his hand on the doorknob.  David’s hand grabbed Dwight’s shoulder and spun him to face him again.  In an instant, their lips were pressed together.  David’s mouth was experienced but questioning.  Dwight dove into the kiss, immediately parting his lips to let David in.  Dwight grabbed the front of David’s shirt in his fists while they kissed and pulled him closer.  Their chests pressed together, David’s hand reached around to grab the seat of Dwight’s pants, and Dwight rolled his hips forward.  His entire body was lit up.  He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t to be touched so intimately this soon.  

David broke the kiss and Dwight licked his lips. David tasted of tobacco and protein powder.  Dwight wanted more and leaned in to give him a more chaste kiss, teeth daring to nip at his bottom lip.  David chuckled, but he didn’t reciprocate this time.  His smile was playful and amused, and everything about him was more gorgeous because of it.  

“I don’t make a habit of going on dates with my clients.”  

“I’m technically not your client.”  

“That’s true now, isn't it?”  David hummed thoughtfully and squeezed Dwight’s rear.  “Alright, my shift ends at six.  There’s a pub around the corner called The Dog’s End.  Shit food, cheap booze.  Best spot in town.”  

Dwight wasn’t sure it was actually the best spot in town, but he wasn’t going to push his luck now either.  “It’s a date, then.”

Chapter Text

Jake woke up flat on his back at the campfire.  He could still feel the agony of his innards being torn out by the bog witch the other survivors referred to as “the Hag.”  His body ached, his head pounded, and his heart was heavy.  Every single one of them had been slaughtered like cattle, eaten alive, a cruelty he couldn’t put to words or proper thought.  He never wanted to experience that again.

He sat up slowly and looked around.  Other than Nea and Yui, who he had been in Trial with, no one else was present.  They were the first to return, big surprise.  That Trial hadn’t even lasted fifteen minutes.  It was a sham, an embarrassment.  He should have done better to protect the girls.  He rubbed his arm and stared at them.

“Hey,” he finally said, “where’s Claudette?”  She had died before Jake, so she should have been here.

“She left,” Nea said flatly.

“She looked upset,” Yui added, far more compassionate than Nea had the space for.  She pointed in the direction behind Jake.  “She went into the woods, that way.”

“Thanks,” Jake said, grateful Claudette had physically returned to camp.  He couldn’t pinpoint what had made him so nervous.  It’s not like she would have died for real.  Nothing was permanent here, not even death.  He got up and headed off in the direction Yui indicated, not sure if he’d find her.  Even if he didn’t, he could use the time to clear his mind.  The Hag had left him rattled, to say the least.

The forest was quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves or caw of crows.  Jake shrugged his jacket up further on his shoulders.  It wasn’t cold or wet outside.  In fact, the woods were as they always were, dry and warm.  Jake felt a chill in his heart though.  He'd never been so stirred up by dying here before.  It didn’t help that he was left bleeding out to watch his friends get eaten alive.  He’d never seen the Hag so violent, and he didn’t imagine that there was anything worse than the wretched hooks their murderers hung them on before now.

After ten minutes of walking, a new noise interrupted his thoughts.  Someone was sobbing loudly nearby.  There was no mistaking the heave of breaths and choked voice that howled out cries of pain.  Sweet, sensitive Claudette was nearby.  Jake followed the sound of her tears to the other side of a large tree where she was curled up, face pressed into her knees, between the gnarled roots.  Her hair obscured her face where her knees didn’t, locs hanging down free from their usually hairband.  Her glasses were held delicately in her hand.  Her body shuddered with every sob.

In an attempt to not sneak up on her, he cleared his throat and waited.  She didn’t hear him, so he did it a second time.  She finally looked up at him.  Her eyes were red and swollen already.  Her expression was twisted in agony and embarrassment, but she was too gentle to insist Jake leave.  She didn’t say anything at all.

“Hey Claudette,” Jake said softly.  He approached her, and she watched.   Whenever another sob bubbled up, she held her breath to stomp it down.  This resulted in small hiccups.  Jake sucked in his lips and then sat down next to her.  He couldn’t ask her if she was okay.  She clearly wasn’t.  She was so kind-natured, and Jake could see her experiences were tearing her apart.  “It’s okay, you don’t need to pretend for me.”

“I,” she said.  “I, I, oh god.”  She pressed her face back into her knees, unable to say anything else.  The sobbing rolled back out of her, a typhoon of wails and agony.  Jake wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him.  He wasn’t very good at comforting others.  Jake had always been a loner.  He’d never been outcasted by others.  He simply preferred to be alone, and his social skills were rusty.  Claudette moved against him, taking comfort where she could get it.  Her head shifted from her lap into his, and she turned her entire body so that her face was pressed against his stomach.  Both of her arms wrapped around his middle.

“Take your time,” Jake said.  “I’m not going anywhere.”  He didn’t know what else to do.  He rubbed small circles into her back as she let everything pour out of her.  She cried for the better part of ten minutes.  Then she began to slowly relax, every muscle unwinding against Jake’s body.  Her fingers stayed hooked into his jacket, and she shook her head a few times before sitting up to face him.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“A little,” she admitted.  Then, “Not really.  I don’t know.  There’s more tears there, but they won’t come out.”

“That’s okay.”

Claudette rubbed her eyes.  She looked so miserable.  Jake’s heart twisted in his chest at the sight of her.  He cared about everyone he’d met at the campfire.  They were all good people, in their own way, and trauma bonded them all.  However, there were a few people who had found their way past the wooden fences around his soul.  Claudette was one of them.  She was such a genuine, caring person.  She wore her heart on her sleeve, was easy to read, and never had anything bad to say about anyone.  In fact, there was always a silver lining in her world.  Jake thought it naïve, but it was also endearing.

“I’m so tired, Jake,” Claudette mumbled.  Jake stilled and listened, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips.  “Every Trial I pray that if I die, it’ll be the last time.  I can’t take it anymore.  I miss my family.  I miss my friends and my flowers.  I miss touch and reckless love.  I miss everything.  I’d rather be dead than be here another minute.”

Jake’s frown deepened.  He didn’t understand wishes like this.  Animals were easier than people.  They knew what was important.  They knew to simply survive.  They didn’t have complex emotions and thoughts that went against everything Jake knew and understood.  The more Claudette said, the more it upset him.  He wasn’t sure what to say, but he had to try.  Jake reached out and cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand.

“Claudette,” he said softly.  “Please stop.  You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she said, the tears welling back up in her eyes.  “I feel like I lose more and more of myself every time.  I’m going to whittle down to nothing.  My worst fear is being nothing.”

“You won’t,” Jake said.  Claudette leaned into his touch and closed her eyes.  Two tears poured over her lids and got caught in the crevice of his hand.  He sighed softly and leaned closer to her face, his voice just above a whisper.  “People are…resilient animals.  I know it’s hard now, but things will be okay.  You’re strong and you’re amazing.  I know you’ll be okay.”

Claudette hummed softly, neither convinced nor put off.  She opened her eyes to see Jake looming so close to her.  She could smell the decay of his previous death still on his breath and the odor of his sweat.  The corners of her eyes turned down as her eyebrows wrinkled together.

“Jake?” she asked, her voice quaking with the effort of what she wanted to say.

“Yes?” he asked in return.  He tilted his head to the side, eyes locked onto hers.  His heart raced.  He rarely stayed this near another person for any amount of time if he could help it. Claudette leaned closer and touched her lips to his, just enough that he could feel the tickle of her skin and the warmth of her breath.

“Will you…” she hesitated and closed her eyes.  “Could you…”

Jake leaned in the fraction of an inch to press their lips together.  His mind exploded with every reason to not do this.  She wanted comfort, but he wasn’t sure this was the best way to give it.  Would she still want to talk to him when she felt better?  Was he taking advantage of her distress?  He wanted to take care of her, not hurt her.  Claudette’s arms looped around his shoulders, and she moved herself into his lap.  With her head tilted down, she kissed him.  Each kiss was potent with every emotion she felt, fueled by her pain and her need for solace.  Jake tasted her tears as the kiss deepened, the tingle of salt flashed across his tongue every once in a while.

Ultimately, Jake let Claudette’s desire wash away his doubts.  His hands found purchase on her hips, and Claudette pressed her body tightly against Jake.  Her hands worked to undo his scarf as they continued to kiss.  His coat followed, staying behind him to protect his skin from the bark as she tugged his shirt off too.  Her hands explored his body, the various scars from previous Trials that scored horrific patterns into his skin.  Jake unbuttoned her fitted shirt from bottom to top.  When he reached the top, he slid his fingers up her throat.  She broke the kiss to tilt her head up, the sensation lighting her up.  Jake leaned forward to kiss her there as he gently pulled the shirt off her.

Claudette leaned back and pulled her camisole over her head immediately after.   She took in the sight of Jake’s bare chest.  She wasn’t surprised to see he was fit and had very little functionless fat on his body.  He lived in the wilderness back home.  He needed to be in good shape to care for himself.  At the same time, Jake soaked up the sight of Claudette.  She was also covered in scars, but none of them marred her beautiful figure.  They contoured her curves in a way that would have been complementary had they not caused her pain.  He leaned forward and began kissing them one by one.

Slowly, they peeled each other out of the rest of their clothes.  They kissed until their lips were swollen, and then they kissed more.  Claudette pressed her hands against Jake’s chest and laid him down on the ground.  She climbed over top of him, her knees on either side of his hips, and adjusted herself over him.  He was ready to go, but just as her hand touched his aching arousal, he took her cheek into his hand again.

“Are you sure?” he asked.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m sure,” she whispered.  She guided him inside of her, twisting her face in pleasure with every inch.  Jake rolled his head back and let out a loud huff of air.  She felt incredible.  It had been years since he’d last been intimate with someone else, and his body was overstimulated with bliss.  She seated herself comfortably once he was completely inside, then began to rock her hips.  Jake moaned instantly.  His mind fogged over, and his stomach tightened.  Claudette leaned on her hands and let her head hang between her shoulders.

As Jake grew more used to the feeling in his groin, his hands found their way to her bare thighs.  He held on and began to roll his hips up to match her pace.  Her soft pants grew into high moans, and soon she was distracted from her movements.  Jake took the opportunity to wrap an arm around her back and flip them both, so she was the one laying on the ground, without ever separating.  It was a careful, calculated move that he was only able to pull off simply because he was strong.  She stared up in surprise, and Jake took over doing the work.  His thrusts were gentle, deep, and slow. 

Both shuddered as their climaxes mounted.   Claudette came first, writhing under Jake’s body.  Her fingernails scratched welts up his back, and his teeth chattered from the sting of pain mixed with the pleasure of his own orgasm.  He pulled out suddenly and massaged his member until he came on her stomach.  His forehead was pressed into the crook of her neck.  Claudette’s legs were wrapped tightly around his waist and arms hooked around his neck.  She held him close.  They stayed still for a moment, and then Claudette burst into tears again.  She did her best not to, but the flood of emotion and hormones overcame her.

Jake laid on top of her, ignoring the mess between them, and pressed kisses against her throat and jaw as she cried into his hair.  She held onto him for dear life, so tight that it grew painful, but he stayed there, peppering her with kisses, whispering soft nothings against her skin, until she felt better and the tears settled.  Claudette’s tears were replaced by her fingers as she combed the knots out.

“Won’t you stay with me?”  Claudette asked.

“Of course,” Jake hummed.  “I’ll stay for as long as you need.”

Chapter Text

It was the third time this week that Dwight came home from work in tears.  He had a new office job in the heart of the city at a marketing firm called Peak 22.  New job, new career dreams, new boss, new torment.  As if his high school and college years weren’t torturous enough.  He walked in the door of the one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment he shared with his fiancé and went straight to their room without even taking his shoes off.  He slid into bed and pressed the pillow over his head to muffle the sobs that came out.

David watched Dwight march by from the kitchen, a frown crossing his face.  He was preparing dinner so they could share a meal before he started his shift working night security for the Museum of Natural History.  He set down his chef’s knife and pushed the chicken to the side at the sight of his partner, washed his hands off, and followed him into the room.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice a low rumble.  Dwight only rolled onto his stomach and clutched the pillow over his head.  “Lazar again?”

“Yeah,” Dwight hiccupped, muffled and almost inaudible.  David hated that man.  Dwight had been working at Peak 22 for just over one month, and it seemed like Lazar had made it his personal mission to make his life miserable.  David sat down on the edge of the bed and unlaced Dwight’s shoes to take them off.  Then he gently rubbed his back.  He wanted to know what happened, but he didn’t want to press too hard.  Dwight clearly needed some space.  David stayed with him in silence for a few minutes before excusing himself back to the kitchen.  He left the door cracked open so he could hear Dwight if he called and finished preparing dinner.  The meal was delicious but short, and Dwight mostly kept to himself.  David let him be, got ready for work, and left.

When David returned from work the next morning, Dwight had already left for his Thursday shift.  It was typical for them to miss each other in the mornings.  Dwight liked to get an early start, earlier than most, and used the mornings before work for quiet time in the park.  Dwight’s melancholic silence the previous night didn’t sit well with David.  Things were getting worse.  When Dwight first started working for Peak 22, Lazar had only made off-handed comments about being an “alpha male.”  Those comments quickly turned sexist and homophobic as Lazar got more comfortable with Dwight’s presence.  Then, one day, Lazar had overheard Dwight talking about his engagement to David in the kitchen, and those comments found focus.  It started with casual, undirected words like “queer” and “faggot.”  But last week Lazar had started slamming his fists on desks and walls while talking to Dwight.  The verbal discomforts had escalated into physical threats.  Dwight told David about it once, last Friday, and then hadn’t said a word about Lazar since.

Dwight didn’t need to say anything though.  Coming home crying on the regular was more than enough for David to know it hadn’t stopped.  In fact, he suspected it had gotten worse.  He feared much worse.

David changed out of his work clothes and into something fresh.  His security uniform was tight and uncomfortable, not his favorite outfit by far.  Then he reheated and ate some leftovers as he rolled the past few weeks over in his mind.  He’d been considering going into Dwight’s office for a while now.  David had an anger problem; one he’d been actively working on in therapy for about a year.  He was usually good about it.  Lazar was a huge trigger for him, though.  The more he thought about the situation, the more his blood boiled.  By the time he finished eating, he was putting on his shoes.  It was time to go see for himself what the office was like, consequences be damned.

The trip to Peak 22 was about an hour by subway, including transfers.  David had to take two trains to get there.  It was far from the worst commute, especially if he caught his transfer within five minutes.  It was a sunny day out, and the crisp Autumn breeze kept it just chilly enough to warrant a coat.  He pulled the collar up around his neck to shield himself from the wind as he walked the three blocks from the subway station to Dwight’s office building.

He was unannounced, but the security guard knew who he was from regularly picking up Dwight during his first two weeks of work.  The guard simply signed him in and let him board the elevator.  Dwight worked on the 19^th floor of the building.  The receptionist greeted David with her charming “this is my first job” smile, asked who he was here to see, then had him take a seat.  David sat in the chair that gave him the best view into the office.  It was an open-floor plan with desks butted up against desks and utterly no privacy.  People worked diligently at their desks, eyes either glued to their computers or frantically moving through several printouts and their screens.  No one noticed the guest in reception.

After five minutes, David spotted Dwight.  His fiancé walked across the space, tips of his fingers anxiously between his teeth as he chewed on his nails.  He was focused, tunnel-visioned in fact.  He didn’t even notice David wave.  David raised an eyebrow as Dwight disappeared through a nearby door, clearly an office.  Perhaps it was a big meeting.  Dwight did mention that he was preparing some documents for…something.  David wasn’t quite sure what.  Office life eluded him.  He liked his work simple, straight forward, and with a clear goal in mind.  Corporate just offered ideas and big talk.

Only a minute passed this time before a loud crash came from the office.  David shot to his feet, instinct driving him.  He stood there for a moment; his eyes glued in the direction of the sound.  Everyone was disturbingly quiet, practiced in the art of ignoring whatever that was.  It was a deliberate and intentional silence that only raised the hairs on the back of David’s neck.  Thirty seconds later, there was a loud thud from the same direction followed by a violently raised voice.  The words were incomprehensible, but it didn’t matter.  That was enough.  He marched towards the entrance to the office floor.

“Sir!” the receptionist said and stood up.  “Sir, you can’t go in there!”

“Bugger off,” David spat. She didn’t try to stop him other than her verbal protest, and he marched uncontested straight to the office Dwight had vanished in.  All eyes were on him.  Silent, censored eyes subjugated by whatever abuse was happening on the other side of that menacing, wooden door.  He grabbed the handle and twisted.  It was locked.  There was a shuffle in the office and another soft thud.  Then a crash and a cry of pain.  More shouting.  Slurs.  Commands.  Hate.  He jiggled the handle harder.  Then, a soft, pleading voice came out from behind the door.

“Please.”

Dwight.

David’s blood roared in his ears.  He felt his vision narrow and reddened in the corners.  He didn’t know if the people in the office knew he was out there or if it was just a private conversation, but the tone of Dwight’s voice was unmistakable.  David couldn’t possibly misunderstand that.  He braced his shoulder and slammed it into the door once.  Twice.  Three times.  The fourth time, the door frame cracked.  The fifth time the door broke in. David stumbled, almost losing his footing.  He righted himself as quickly as the door broke under his weight.

Dwight was on the floor against the wall, blood running down his head from somewhere under his head.  His right eye was swollen.  His shirt partially torn open with the buttons broken off.  His wrist looked broken, and he favored it against his chest with his body protectively curled around it.  His head was pointed up, forced by a cruel hand pulling his hair.  Over him stood a tall, built man.  He was muscular in the way men who had something to prove were muscular.  His belt and fly were undone, and his face was twisted into a snarl mixed with surprise, hate, and something else David wasn’t quite sure he was ready to see.

Lazar.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man growled.  David couldn’t answer with words.  He was already in motion before the words registered in his brain.  By the time he thought of something to say in return, his fist had hit Lazar twice in the jaw and they were both on the floor.  David was on one knee, the other man on his back, and he continued to slam the knuckles of his fist against his face.  He heard the wet squelching of skin breaking and the sick cracking of bone.  Somewhere mixed in were cries of pain and shock as Lazar entreated David to stop.  David didn’t stop.  Lazar didn’t even fight back.  He just begged like the coward he was.  Good, beg.  David didn’t stop until three other people who worked at Peak 22 got into the room and pried him off, and even then, he spat and cursed and struggled.

“I’ll kill you!”  David foamed.  A fourth person joined in David’s restraint.  A smaller, round woman in glasses and a tight bun snuck passed them to kneel next to Dwight, who, in tears, had turned away from the fight to curl in on himself.  No one went to Lazar.

The rage didn’t leave David, but Dwight’s distress did finally register.  When he stopped fighting the people who restrained him, they let him go, and he hurried to Dwight’s side.  Dwight recoiled from any touch, but when he heard David’s gruff voice and smelled the familiar cologne and sweat on David’s body, he turned into him.  David’s presence connected with Dwight like the instinct of a baby finding its mother’s touch.  His good arm wrapped around David’s middle and his face pressed against David’s chest.  Blood immediately stained his shirt, but David didn’t care.

“Are you okay?” David grumbled.  He knew Dwight wasn’t okay.  There was nothing about what David had walked in on that would leave any person okay.  He cradled Dwight tenderly against his body.  Dwight felt incomprehensibly small as he trembled and hid against his partner.  He was made of glass, finally broken in after weeks of abuse.  Who knew what Lazar had done to him between Dwight’s first complaint of physical assault and now?  David cursed under his breath for not having responded sooner, for not prying more.  The thought of Lazar having done this to Dwight more than once made his blood boil again. No, David couldn’t go there.  Not right now.  The fight was over, and Dwight needed him here.

Lazar was out cold in the center of the room.  Someone in the background was on the line with emergency services, explaining the situation.  An ambulance would be here soon, but so would the police.  There would be questions, lawsuits, and possibly arrests.  Lazar had money, but David had the moral high ground.  He hoped a judge wouldn’t convict him for beating a rapist in the act of rape.  The system was screwy and broken though, and David didn’t have much faith in it.  That would have to be a problem for future David.  He would cross that bridge when he got there.  For now, he was here for Dwight, and pressed small, gentle kisses onto the top of his head.  Things would be okay.  They had to be.  They just had to be.

“I’m here now,” David said softly.  Dwight didn’t cry with his tears.  He cried with the shivering of his body and the unbelievably tight grip of his hand in David’s coat.  David took in the smell of fear and pain from Dwight’s sweat and sighed into his hair. “You’re safe.  I’m here.  I promise.”

Chapter Text

Dwight had given up hope on the handsome man named David King.  He hadn’t seen him in the bar once since their first encounter, and the bartender had no one to pass the note along to.  It was disappointing.  David had been beyond gorgeous, and their brief interaction shadowed all Dwight’s thoughts.  The memory of their lips almost touching twisted Dwight’s guts into knots daily.

He couldn’t focus on the munch today where he sat at his usual table with his usual friends.  He was supposed to go to the club after to do a Shibari performance with his friend Nea, who enjoy a cocktail and sat next to him.  But he wasn’t feeling it.  He stared at his beer, a Guinness again, and daydreamed.

“Dwight?” Nea said next to him.  Her voice had a soft Swedish accent and she enunciated words as if English wasn’t her first language.  She touched his arm with her hand and pulled him out of his thoughts.  “Did you hear a thing I just said?”

“No,” Dwight said, clearly dazed.  “Sorry, lost in thought.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Nea teased.  “About what?”

“Nothing important.”  He locked his eyes with her crystal blue ones, trying to be present in the moment.  Nea frowned at him, though.  She saw straight through his façade.

“You’re distracted by something,” she said.  “But so long as you’re okay…are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Dwight gave her a smile.  “Truly, nothing’s wrong.  Just thinking is all.”

“Alright,” Nea said with a nod and brought her cosmopolitan to her lips.  “If you say so, I believe you.”

“Thanks,” Dwight said and picked up his beer.  He took a sip and made a face.  No matter how many times he tasted it, the Guinness never got better.  He smacked his lips together and set the glass back down.

“I don’t know why you make yourself drink that if you don’t like it,” Nea scolded.  Then she turned her body to return to the conversation she was engaged in before.  She didn’t need Dwight’s validation for whatever she’d originally nudged him for, so he tapped his fingers against the glass and stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and put a cardboard coaster on top of his drink.  “Watch my beer.  And Nea?”

“Hmm?”

“If you absolutely have to roofy it, just one.”

“You know I prefer two.”

“One.”  Dwight chuckled and excused himself with a friendly wave to everyone else.  The roofy joke was only for Nea, and it was a personal favorite.  They’d been making that joke together since they were teenagers illegally drinking stolen, cheap whiskey swill in their mutual friends’ basements.  They’d met the same month Nea moved to the United States from Sweden for a high school study-abroad program.  They’d bonded instantly, and after the program ended and she went back to her home country, they’d stayed in touch.  Eventually, Nea moved more permanently to the States to be with her closest friend.

Dwight stepped outside the bar and leaned against the wall.  In his pocket was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, both of which he pulled out so he could smoke.  It was a cool evening and the sunset over the city skyline was gorgeous.  The crisp evening air and the hot smoke filling his lungs brought some peace to his busy mind. 

He didn’t believe in love at first sight.  He used to, once, when he thought he’d fallen in love with a woman in college named Jamie.  It wasn’t love though, and the relationship was doomed to end a grand total of six months, three weeks, two days, and four hours after Dwight had said a man’s name while being intimate with her.

David King felt like love at first sight, though.  David King felt like a lot of things: the intimate feeling of sitting around a fire in the winter with close friends; the tickle of fingers on the inside of your thigh before an orgasm; wearing a new favorite outfit for the very first time; the nostalgia for something you never experienced; the relief of laying down when you’re so exhausted it hurt.  Dwight remembered reading a Japanese term that described his feeling.  Koi No Yokan.  It referred to the feeling of meeting someone and knowing it was inevitable that you’d fall in love with them.  It was that.  That was what David King felt like, curled in the center of his heart and slowing the beat with its tremendous weight.

Dwight didn’t understand how he could be heartbroken over someone he barely had a full conversation with.  He took a long drag on the cigarette and held his breath despite the burn of smoke in the back of his throat.  The nicotine made his head float.  When he exhaled, he blew the smoke out of his nose and watched it disappear into the soft breeze.  He did this a second time, but he didn’t realize someone had walked up to him, so he exhaled in their face.  The person in front of him coughed and swatted the air.

“Oh, shit,” Dwight said and moved his cigarette to the side so it wouldn’t smolder in their faces.  He swatted the smoke away with his free hand.  “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Didn’t even realize you smoked.”  That voice.  It couldn’t be.  Dwight looked at the person’s face, shocked.  The face, sharp angled and stubbly, matched the voice, deep and buttered with a Manchester accent: David King.  There was no way.  Dwight looked over his glasses, virtually blind without them, hoping to get some clarity.

“Hi,” was all Dwight could muster as he pushed his glasses back up his nose.  Heat rose to his cheeks.  He snuffed the cigarette out on the wall behind him.

“Hi,” David said in return.  His gaze briefly flicked to the cigarette before coming back up to look into Dwight’s eyes.  “You come here often, then?”

“Are you trying to pick me up?” Dwight said it before he realized how inappropriate it was.  It was so natural to make jokes when he was anxious.  His eyes widened into saucers and open mouth curved down into a frown.  “Shit, no, I mean.  Sorry.  That was a joke!  I promise that was a joke. I’ve had a few drinks.”  He didn’t, but the lie was easy enough to smooth over the moment.

“It’s okay,” David said. He put his hands into his pockets.

“I think,” Dwight started.  He shook his head and sighed.  “Let me start over.  Hi, yes, I do come here often.  It’s my regular watering hole.  I think we got off on the wrong foot last time.  I’m so sorry if I overstepped.”  Better.

“I think the same,” David said with a nod.  “That we started off wrong.  I wanted to apologize for storming out.”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

“Appreciate that.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment.  Dwight put the partially smoked cigarette back into his pack and pocketed it again.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Dwight asked suddenly.  He gestured to the bar entrance with an open palm.

David hesitated.  He looked up at the wooden, painted sign indicated which bar this was and passed his tongue over his lips thoughtfully.  “Sure, why not?”

Dwight couldn’t keep his grin to himself and led the way inside.  He ignored Nea, his friends, and his beer to sit in the same corner he and David had sat in when they met.  When the bartender came over, he ordered two Hurricanes before David could get a word in.

“What if I didn’t want whatever that is?” David said and leveled a look at Dwight.  “I don’t do girly drinks.”

“Trust me,” Dwight said.  “You’ll like this.”

The bartender came back after a minute with the drinks and set them in front of the men.  Dwight asked for the beverages to be put on his tab, then he took his glass and sipped some through the straw.  The drink was bright orange with an orange slice and cherry sticking out of it.  David examined it as if it were poisonous.

“Go on,” Dwight encouraged.  He watched anxiously, hoping he was making a better impression this time.  If David stormed out again, Dwight wasn’t sure his longing heart could handle it.

“Fine,” David mumbled and took a sip.  His eyebrows went up.  He took two huge gulps through the straw after that.  “Rum?  I love rum.  Fruity.  Much fruitier than I thought.”

“Takes one to know one,” Dwight jested.  David turned a keen eye on Dwight, who immediately put his hands up in self-defense.  “No, I meant me!  Not you.  My name’s gay, I’m Dwight.”  He twisted his wrist in jazz-hands and cocked an anxious smile at David, knowing he wasn’t nearly as funny as he wanted to be.  Dwight expected David to be annoyed or irritated.  Dwight knew he was blowing this, whatever this was.  What was he even doing, anyway?  David had made it clear the last time they encountered each other that he wasn’t gay.  There was nothing Dwight could hope to achieve from this except a little self-indulgence and possibly a fantasy to bring to bed.

“Who knew I’d like fruit so much,” David mumbled and took another sip.  He wouldn’t make eye contact.  In fact, he stared intently at anything he could so long as it wasn’t Dwight.  A hopeful smile tugged on the corners of Dwight’s lips.  He turned forward too, enjoying his own drink.  Maybe there was something to this after all.

Chapter Text

What if things had been different?  Rin stood over her prey, white eyes boring into his curled, cowering body.  She’d struck him down after a short pursuit.  Her shattered katana had sliced deep into the top of his shoulder, and his hand was slack with the pain and severed tendons.  He looked like every other person she’d struck down in her vengeance fueled rage, except this one stared at her with sheep’s eyes.  He was still, not defiant.  His eyes focused on her, knowing what was coming next, knowing he could do nothing.  Acceptance.  Easy acceptance, simply waiting for the slaughter.

Rin saw something of herself in him.  His look of horror quieted the everlasting rage that churned inside of her and stilled her hand.  She couldn’t recall he last time she’d had any memories or emotions other than hate.  Hate for who?  It flickered within her, though, like the blinking end of the lightning bug.  There, and then gone as fast.  She held her katana over her head, keeping it there as her twisted mouth and wide eyes bore down on him.  His chest rose and fell in short, airless gasps.  His fingers dug into the dirt.  Blood pooled under him.  He looked like her: arm sliced so deep it might have fallen off, laying on the first floor of her home, glass shards biting into her skin, heart bleeding internally as aggressively as her body bled externally.  Her soul twisted and tore, creating a huge void.  He echoed her hollowness.

Her snarl drooped, as did the arm wielding the sword.  It flickered again, that…feeling of…something.  Anything.  And she slid to her knees in front of the man.  For the first time, she saw the vicious tears in his plain office slacks.  She saw the blood soaking his white, button down office shirt.  His glasses were crooked on his nose, one of the lenses cracked beyond repair.  His blood soaked his hair and matted it to his forehead.  And those eyes.  Sheep’s eyes.  Wide, filled with the same dread she felt when…when her father massacred her mother.

Suddenly she remembered.

It was too much to bear.  She curled in on herself, katana forgotten in the grass at her side.  Her hands clutched her chest where her heart used to be…still was?  Muddied, grey-purple tears cut dark lines down her ghostly cheeks.  Her eyes, still wide and forever unblinking, stared passed the man at her knees.  He watched her.  She felt his gaze.  Sheep’s eyes.  Eyes conscious of the slaughter.  Her eyes.

She threw her head back and let out a blood curdling scream.  It shattered the air.  The man vaguely moved in front of her, but his presence faded as she lost herself in a trundle of grief she had long forgotten.  The anguish took her back to her parents’ room.  Bits and pieces of her mother were on the floor, mangled and twisted unnaturally.  She stank of sewage sludge, copper, and rotting cabbage.  The smell was so severe that Rin could taste it in the back of her throat.  She couldn’t tear her eyes away from her mother and her chest open, ribs cracked so wide it looked like wings, the horrific crack—

A warm hand touched her thigh, pulling her out of the memory.  All her focus pinpointed in that one spot of sensation, homing in so sharply there was nothing else in the world.  Just a pale, white palm against her translucent, icy leg.  Her eyes followed the line of the arm up to the crooked glasses sitting on her victim’s nose.  His mouth was tilted into a frown, cautious but compassionate.  Gentle, concerned eyes watched her.  Sheep’s eyes.  Slaughter.

She screamed again, leaning close to his face, and retreated into the nothingness she floated in when she was nothing more than a memory carved into a stone monument and the burnt curl of sandalwood incense smoke.

Chapter Text

The labored exhale of Jake’s hunter coughed nearby.  Despite steeling himself at the beginning of the Trial, he couldn’t hold his own with the sound of pure dread filling his ears.  Jake crept off the generator in the center of the dilapidated barn and slipped into one of three lockers pressed against a crumbling, wooden wall.  He opened and closed the door with great care, terrified the creek of old, neglected metal hinges would betray his position.  His heart raced.  He had no idea how close the killer was or if his position had been compromised.  

The sound of glass shattering focused all of Jake’s attention.  He stilled, breath sitting idly in his throat, praying to whatever gods were out there laughing at him that he hadn’t been noticed.  Then, cautiously, he dared to peek between the grates of the locker door.  Yellow haze covered the generator he had been on less than a minute ago.  The smoke rose into the air, spreading across the space and through the cracks in the locker.  Jake continued to hold his breath, but he couldn’t keep the putrid air from entering his lungs.  His vision grew blurry, and his limbs quickly felt heavy and relaxed.  He mentally cursed to himself and leaned back against the locker wall so he wouldn’t collapse.  

The smoke was warm in his lungs.  It tingled more than burned, and that heat traveled to his weakening limbs and settled in the pit of his groin.  He hated—no, absolutely loathed—dealing with the Clown’s tonic.  The main effect, as everyone learned, was a muscle relaxant.  The other side-effects hit everyone different though.  Claudette had expressed that it made her drowsy and blacked out parts of her short-term memory when she was under the influence.  David confessed once that it acted as an anesthetic for him.  Jake, however, was always left feeling rather...uncomfortable.  He told his friends that it just made him feel weak, but truthfully it flipped a switch in his brain and between his legs.  An aphrodisiac of the worst kind.  Right now, pressed inside of a locker with a serial killer stalking the grounds yards away, was a terrible time to feel aroused.  

He took in a deep breath through his nose as the haze began to clear and the air grew fresh again.  He couldn’t steady himself.  Butterflies erupted in his stomach.  The rub of his clothes against his skin felt tight and itchy.  The cold metal of the locker seeping through the denim of his pants was unbearable.  He couldn’t risk leaving.  He couldn’t hear how close the Clown was over the rush of his own heartbeat in his head.  

Suddenly, hurried footsteps in front of his hiding place shattered his swimming thoughts and the door tried to pull open.  Jake, in a panic, grabbed the door as it started to open and pulled it shut again.  If it was the killer, there was little he would have been able to do to stop the door from being forced open, but he needed time.  He couldn’t be found.  Any touch would set him off, even the sharp cut of a knife or the pressure of a shoulder in his gut as he was carried to a hook.  Time.  Please, for the love of god, time.  

“Let me in,” a tremoring, apprehensive voice hissed through the grates in the door.  Goosebumps ran up Jake’s arms, neck, and cheeks.  Despite the urgency and fear dripping from the voice, he couldn’t help but lose himself in the low husk of it.  Jake let go of his side of the door, and Dwight swung it open, pressed himself into the tight space, and carefully closed it.  

The two men were on top of each other.  There was barely enough room for one person, let alone two.  They adjusted themselves as best as they could, standing back to chest sideways together.  Despite the thickness of his coat, Jake could feel the pressure of Dwight’s torso against his back, the press of his hips against the seat of his pants, his anxious hands trying to find a safe place to rest, only managing to touch Jake in ways he could only interpret as filthy in his current state.  

“Fuck,” Jake rasped just above a whisper.  

He felt Dwight shift behind him.  Jake was pushed, his hips rolled against the wall.  He audibly gasped and clenched one of his fists.  The movements only made things worse.  There just wasn’t enough space.  

“Stop squirming,” Jake demanded, a little louder.  

“What’s your problem?” Dwight growled back, oblivious to the particular kind of pain Jake was in.  

“He got me,” Jake managed through clenched teeth.  He didn’t want to elaborate and hoped Dwight wouldn’t press for more information.  

“Shit,” Dwight said.  He immediately touched Jake’s sides with his long, thick fingers.  Jake knew he was carefully looking for an injury, but every single tap of his fingers caused another flame to ignite inside his body.  

“Not like that,” Jake added, hating every moment of his lack of control.  His legs were beginning to feel like jelly, and his need now struck with such a ferocity he thought he was going to burn up from the inside out.  

Dwight hesitated, hands hovering just above Jake’s waist.  He didn’t quite understand.  The discomfort and confusion hung thick in the air.  

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dwight said carefully.  He was using his customer service voice: complacent, helpful, and hot as fuck.  “Jake, I don’t know how to help.”  

Jake cursed.  He could feel sweat running down his back and the sides of his head.  He was miserable, panting every single time Dwight moved.  One second felt like an eternity.  He needed relief.  He was desperate for relief.  Nothing else was on his mind.  

“Fuck,” Jake cursed.  “Shit.  Fuck.  Fuck you.  Fuck this stupid fucking Clown.”  

“Jake,” Dwight urged as Jake’s voice got louder.  “Use your words or sh-shut up.”  

Dwight’s assertive tone mixed with his lack of confidence only served to push Jake further.  He gritted his teeth together and wrinkled his nose into a snarl.  “Fuck me.”  

“Excuse me?”  

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Jake whined.  Silence hung thick in the air between them.  Dwight’s weight eased just a little off Jake’s back, and he whined again.  “Please, for the love of...  Christ.  Dwight, it’s the tonic.  I’m burning up.  It hurts so fucking bad.  I can’t keep quiet.  I need relief.  Now.  Immediately.  Touch me.  Anything.  Just  please. ”  

Dwight finally understood.  His arms looped around Jake’s waist and his chin hooked onto his shoulder.  They turned their heads so they could see each other a little better.  It was the best they could get to looking one another in the eye.  Dwight’s thick eyebrows were furrowed heavily over his eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses.  His skin wrinkled on his forehead in the cute way Jake liked best.  His breath was warm against Jake’s jaw.  His hands laced over Jake’s abdomen.  Jake let out a moan, louder than he wanted to.  

“Are you sure?” he whispered.  This hadn’t been their first time together, and Dwight wasn’t unfamiliar with Jake’s body.  It wasn’t uncommon for survivors to creep away in pairs or more between Trials to blow off steam and connect in more intimate ways than conversations and dying together.  They’d never played in a Trial though.  Getting caught with your pants around your ankles was too risky here.  All the same, Dwight nervously unlaced his fingers and pawed cautiously at Jake’s crotch.  

“Yes!” Jake said, almost shouting.  His knees straightened and locked so he wouldn’t collapse, and Dwight’s other arm tightened around his waist.  “Fuck!  Please!”  

“Pull down your pants, and for the love of god shut up,” Dwight whispered into Jake’s ear, finding more confidence with Jake’s enthusiastic consent.  Jake hurriedly lowered his hands to his side, elbows banging against the locker walls.  Dwight hissed at him to be quiet, again, as he fumbled with the belt of his pants and pulled himself free.  Dwight wasn’t nearly as ready as Jake was, so he had to coax himself into an erection.  In the meantime, Jake shucked his pants down to his mid-thighs, just low enough to expose his rear.  He gasped in relief and pleasure as his arousal was suddenly free of all restraints and touched against cold metal.  He stuck his pointer and middle finger into his mouth before reaching down to stretch himself while Dwight got ready.  

The minute that passed dragged on.  Jake whined and made an array of pitifully embarrassing noises.  Dwight was taking too long.  Jake opened his mouth to complain, but suddenly Dwight’s hips pressed against him.  Jake felt the man’s full arousal rub between his cheeks, and he melted against the wall.  

“I hope you’re r-r-ready,” Dwight said, a stutter hanging on his lips as a result of nervousness.  The killer was right outside, after all, and neither knew where or how close.  Jake couldn’t cling to his fear the way Dwight did.  The only things present in his mind were the weakness in his knees, the hammering of his heart in his chest, and the mass rubbing subtly against his entrance.  

Dwight shifted his weight and pressed himself into Jake, inch by painful inch.  He was slow, careful, cooing words of comfort that were lost on Jake’s ears the moment the sounds were made.  Jake raised his arms over his head, resting his elbows high on the wall and knuckles of his fists against the ceiling corner.  The pressure inside of his body was a geyser, filling him with heat he could barely stand.  His back instinctively arched, and suddenly Dwight was completely inside him.    

They stood still for a moment so Jake could adjust, and then Dwight rolled his hips in a gentle but forceful rhythm.  There wasn’t enough space for Dwight to move the way he preferred to.  Whenever he loved Jake, he preferred a deep, wide grind.  It allowed him to explore every inch inside Jake with each circle of his hips.  Here, he couldn’t move much at all.  The only things that helped Jake feel satisfied in any way was that Dwight wasn’t a small man by any means, and he was a  god damn professional.  

Every thrust drove Jake a little further to the edge.  Dwight’s right hand slid down his side and his fingers curled around Jake’s arousal to give it gentle squeezes and tugs.  His entire body was sensitive.  His mind was exploding from the pleasure, and he quickly came undone under Dwight’s touches.  There was no holding in the panting, moans, and desperate whines.  

“Shut up,” Dwight cursed and covered Jake’s mouth with his left hand.  Jake’s head was forced to tilt back a little.  “Do you want him to hear us?”  

Jake shook his head.  

“Good,” Dwight murmured, but he kept his hand clamped firmly over Jake’s mouth, effectively muffling any more sounds he made.  

Despite the feeling of eternity fogging Jake’s senses, he reached his climax within a few minutes.  He came into Dwight’s hand, pressed painfully against the wall, the ache in his rear both the best thing he’d ever felt in his life and an uncomfortable, throbbing pressure.  He opened his mouth around Dwight’s fingers, groaning into his skin.  When the sound stopped, Dwight pressed his middle and ring fingers passed Jake’s lips, who half-heartedly sucked on them as post-orgasm exhaustion threatened to take his feet out from under him altogether.  

“Almost there,” Dwight mumbled against Jake’s hair.  The roll of his hips was no longer rhythmic but now inconsistent from his own need.  He didn’t pull out when his climax reached its peak.  It was easier to finish inside Jake than make a bigger mess in this impossibly small space and explain themselves later.  His entire weight crushed Jake as he rode out his orgasm.  Four seconds passed in stillness, then Dwight straightened himself up and adjusted his pants.  

Jake’s body finally cooled.  The burning in every inch of him ceased.  He was tired, sure, but the pain of the Clown’s tonic melted away with his satisfaction.  He panted like an animal, unmoving except for fixing his pants without a single concern about the wetness that would soon leak out of him.  

“Thank you,” Jake said, his voice low and raspy with his euphoria and relief.  Dwight patted him on the shoulder as he twisted to peek out of the grates of the locker.  Everything was quiet outside.  He hesitated, then slowly opened the locker door and looked around.  Nothing.  No one.  

“Coast is clear,” Dwight whispered.  He pointed to the generator a few feet away.  When he stepped out of the locker, Jake slid to the ground.  

“Be there in a minute,” he said.  He took in several large, deep breaths as Dwight stepped away to work on the machine as if nothing had happened.  Jake lingered on the quick sex he’d just engaged in.  Even though the circumstances were horrible, it was one of the best orgasms he’d ever had.  He made a mental note of that and filed it away.  Maybe next time he encountered the Clown, he could pickpocket some of that tonic.  It could come in real handy.  

Chapter Text

Sleep was the enemy.  No, not sleep.  Sleep by itself was fine.  It was life-giving, everything Quentin’s body craved with every ache and exhausted sigh.  It was dreaming that was the enemy.  A dreamless sleep would have been the world’s greatest gift.  Rest.  A reprieve.  Quentin was never so lucky to have such a respite though.  A monster plagued his dreams, and he couldn’t afford to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time.  So, he existed purely on a diet of pills, caffeine, and alarms.

He knew he looked more than exhausted sitting at the campfire, counting the last of the pills he’d blessedly found in a chest in the eerie basement of the Auto Haven gas station.  That was five nights ago.  A single bottle of stimulant pills (twenty of the thirty-one consumed) and two energy drinks (both consumed) weren’t near enough to keep him awake as long as he needed.  He fretted over them, counting and recounting, each time coming up with one less pill than the last.  Nine.  Eight.  Seven.  Six.  He glanced around the campfire.  No one was there with him.  No one could have been playing a trick on him.  Five.  Four.

He counted again.  One less.  Now there were only three sitting in the palm of his hand.

“Having a hard time?” a deep voice echoed all around him, followed by a taunting laugh.  Quentin’s spine straightened as a chill ran through his body and he snapped to attention.

“No,” he said to himself.  He rose to his feet and threw all three pills into his mouth, swallowing them dry.  The laughter became louder.  “No, shit, no.”

“Yes, Quentin, yes,” the voice said.  The fog thickened around the trees, and every six meters, a figure identical to the one next to it stepped out.  All of them in a green and red striped sweater.  All of them with skin so deformed it looked as if it were melting off his bones.  All of them flexing fingers clad in a bladed glove.

“Wake up,” Quentin said to himself. 

“Wake up,” the forest echoed back at him.

He stepped closer to the fire.  Panic gripped his heart.  Even though he knew he couldn’t die in this place, not permanently anyway, his desire to live still burned as strong as his hatred for the monster slowly closing in on him.  There was nowhere to go, no one to seek help from.  It was just him and... “Krueger.”

“In the flesh,” the monster said.  Him and all his apparitions closed in around Quentin.  They raised their weapons and as they brought them down, Quentin threw his arms up to protect himself.

“Wake up!”

Quentin shot upright, body tense and shivering from terror.  He felt a hand on his arm and swung his fist.  There was a shocked, pained shout from beside him and the weight scrambled away.  Quentin swung again, hitting only the air.  As he pushed himself backwards with his heels in the dirt, another pair of arms, strong and sturdy like an old tree, wrapped around his body.

“Calm down, tiger,” a familiar, more friendly voice said.  Quentin craned his head back to see David behind him, now squatting and holding him close to his chest.  “Dwight, you alright?”

“Fine as I’ll ever be,” the other man said.  Quentin focused his eyes in the direction of the voice and saw Dwight sitting off balance in the dirt as he fixed his glasses back on his nose.  His cheek was already swelling where Quentin struck him.

“Oh god,” Quentin heaved.  His body shook from the adrenaline and terror. His skin was slick with cold sweat.  Slowly, David’s grip on him loosened into something more akin to a hug.  Quentin leaned into the comfort, whether it was intended or not.  David settled on the ground behind him, making it a more permanent kind of comfort, one Quentin wouldn’t say no to.  Whether Freddy was just a nightmare of Quentin’s paranoid creation or actually there, Quentin couldn’t shake the horror from his body.  Freddy haunted him.

“You alright?” Dwight asked and shuffled on his knees to the other men.

“How long was I out?”

“Not sure, but it wasn’t long.  One minute you were chatting with us, the next you were screaming.  Hard to say exactly how long between the moments.  I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

“Oh.”

Dwight sat down, sandwiching Quentin between him and David.  Instead of leaning in to press him into a hug, he just rested his hands on his lap.

“Sorry we didn’t notice sooner, bruv,” David added.

Quentin took in a deep breath and held it.  As his heart calmed from the panic, the enormity of his emotions built up behind his eyes and burned his nose.  He was tired; not just from a lack of sleep but from running.  Freddy dogged him around every corner, in every shadow, in every minute of every day.  The pain from the exhaustion poured from his eyes before he could let out his breath.  The corners of his lips curled down into a deep frown.

“Oh,” Dwight said and glanced up at David, eyes pleading and anxious.  He was never good with crying.  “Oh no.”

“Hey,” David said softly and rested his chin on top of Quentin’s head.  The smaller man curled against David’s chest as the sobs began to heave from his body.  “It’s alright.  We got you.  So does everyone else, can guarantee it.”

“Y-yeah,” Dwight said softly.  He rubbed his hands soothingly up and down Quentin’s thigh.  Eventually one of Quentin’s hands slipped down to grab Dwight’s.  They gave each other a gentle squeeze.

“Sorry,” Quentin mumbled into David’s jacket.

“Think nothing of it, Dreamwalker.”

Despite the tears and sorrow, Quentin felt supported.  The worst part of being Quentin was that he always felt so alone.  Freddy didn’t hunt anyone else.  Not a single soul living around this god-forsaken campfire had their sleep plagued by a being that could kill them in their dreams.  And nothing was worse than falling asleep by accident.  At least if he went to sleep on his own terms, he knew what to expect.  No one understood.  No one knew.  But the friends he made, while they didn’t know personally what it was like to be Quentin the Dreamwalker, loved him.

He pressed his whole being into the comfort now offered to him, allowing himself to be vulnerable and let the walls of his heart crumble.  The tears flowed freely.  He curled against David.  He pulled Dwight closer.  Neither man resisted him.  They shielded him through the duration of his tears.  As his emotions ran dry and he began to relax, he hiccupped and slowed his breathing.

“Better?” Dwight asked softly.  His glasses were foggy, and he looked as if maybe he had been crying too.  Dwight had always been an empath, so it wouldn’t have surprised Quentin.

“Much,” Quentin answered.  His voice was stifled from his stuffy nose, making him sound strange.  “Hey guys?”

“Yeah?” David asked.

“Yeah?” Dwight parroted.

“Do you mind staying with me while I try to sleep for five more minutes?”

A smile crossed Dwight’s lips and David ran his fingers through Quentin’s hair.  Dwight scooted even closer, curling against David’s chest and stretching along the length of Quentin’s body in a surprisingly intimate way.

“Of course,” they said together.

“We’ve got you,” Dwight added.

Chapter Text

Danny never quite felt like the other killers here in the Entity’s Realms.  Most of them were satisfied with so little: kill without consequences; an endless hunt; the promise of revenge.  They were simple.  Easy.  Pathetic.  Danny didn’t consider himself one of them.  He was way above them, in fact.  He was an artist, and in a place where there were little to no consequences for his actions, the entire world was his canvas.  And Danny had needs.  Many of them.  

The survivors weren’t much more complex.  They were sad and desperate, caught in an endless cycle of being hunted and dying.  This made them malleable.  More so than the killers.  The murderers and thieves he co-existed with got everything they wanted.  He’d played with some of the killers before.  Frank Morrison and the youngest of his Legion posse, Susie, were easy to manipulate, but they were it.  Everyone else was too into themselves, didn’t care, too aggressive, or wanted more out of the deal than Danny was willing to sacrifice.  So, he’d turned his eyes onto the desperate, pleading little sacks of shit he hunted.  Who was there to tell him he couldn’t?  No one.  He was a king.  A god.  

There were plenty of men and women lurking around the campfire that suited his taste just fine.  The hard part wasn’t picking one of them.  It was convincing them that he wanted something in exchange for not murdering them.  He couldn’t hold on to any one of them long enough to offer a proposition.  They’d worm away, help each other, blind him with a stupid flashlight, or simply choose death before Danny had a chance to get in a word edgewise.  

He had no reason to believe today would be different as he crouched in the cornfields of the simulated Coldwind Farms.  He wasn’t sure who had been brought here yet, but, as always, he hoped for someone gorgeous.  Maybe that burly fighter looking type (he liked a man with muscles and a little bit of hair) or the drop dead gorgeous Korean woman.  He smiled behind his mask, enjoying the thoughts of what he could do with people like that, what they looked like under their clothes.  He bet the woman had hidden tattoos.  He figured the fighter had more scars than were visible.  

The chug of a generator pulled him from his thoughts.  He pointed his now undivided attention in the direction of the sound.  He was deathly silent, well-practiced in the art of stealth.  Closer and closer, until he was on the other side of a wooden wall, listening to the hushed muttering of a man who was elbow deep in the generator.  Danny peeked around the corner.  The man was alone, dressed in stained and filthy office clothes, glasses charmingly crooked on his nose.  He looked frustrated as he groped inside the generator for something.  His cheek was pressed to the warming metal next to the pistons, which were just beginning to chug to life.  

Then the generator exploded.  He pulled his arm out quickly and fell backwards, cursing loudly at himself.  The generator smoked and he kicked it.  

“Having trouble?” Danny asked behind his mask, still tilted around the corner of the wall.  It was a wonder this man hadn’t noticed him sooner.  The stranger jumped to his feet and bolted to a gap in the wall.  Danny sighed, got up, and gave chase.  

It was easy to catch this one.  He was clumsy.  His body ran forward, but he kept looking over his shoulder.  This led him directly into a two-foot-tall stone wall that he fell over.  Danny was on him in an instant.  They struggled for only a moment before the sharpened edge of a tactical knife was pressed to the man’s throat and all fighting ceased.  Danny leaned in close.  

“P-please,” the clumsy man stuttered.  “D-don’t hurt me.”  

Danny tilted his head to the side.  He’d never heard a survivor beg before.  It had a nice ring to it.  He pressed the blade against his skin a little more, drawing out a thin slice of blood, and said, “It would be so easy, though.”  

“P-please,” the man said again.  His hands were on either side of his head, palms pointed to the sky, as a sign of surrender.  The corners of his lips twitched as he resisted a shiver.  The best part was his wide, brown eyes, wet and pleading.  “I’ll do anything.”  

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Danny said.  He leaned in closer.  “You see, I’ve been looking for a new playmate.  I’ve been feeling pent up lately.  You seem good for a playdate.  Don’t worry, in exchange for some play time, I wouldn’t murder you.  You’d get out.  How’s that sound, stud?”  Danny didn’t think this man was actually a stud.  He was kind of scrawny with plush skin padding his softer areas.  He had a way about him that was cute, charming even, but not stud-level-hot.  Anything to sweeten the deal, and Danny could tell this was the kind of person who was starving for compliments.  

The man pressed his eyebrows together and frowned deeper.  He tried not to swallow, terrified the knife might cut him further.  He looked tired.  Desperate.  Just the way Danny liked them.  The terms were simple, and it didn’t take long for this man to say, “Okay, sure, yes.  Please, just don’t kill me.”  Danny grinned and pushed the mask up on his face just enough to reveal his chin and mouth.  

“Excellent.  What’s your name?”  

“What?”  

“Your name.  I don’t want to screw around with a complete stranger.  I want to know who’s squealing under me.”  

His frown deepened even more, even as the knife retracted from his throat.  “D-Dwight.”  

“Great, Dwight.  Ever suck cock before?”  

Danny didn’t wait for an answer.  He stabbed his knife point-first into the dirt beside Dwight’s head to drive home that he wasn’t in the clear yet, then scooted up Dwight’s body so his knees were under his armpits.  He hiked his robes up his hips and pulled down the elastic of his pants.  He was at half mast, excited by the thought of getting off in the middle of a Trial.  This was the only place he could encounter the survivors.  There was no other time, no other place.  This was it.  This, or Frank fucking Morrison.  

Leaning forward on his hands, he angled himself better to be accessible by Dwight’s mouth.  He felt himself brush against his chapped lips, but nothing more exciting followed.  The man hesitated.  Hesitation only served to annoy Danny.  He expected service in exchange for his “get out of Coldwind free” voucher.  

“Need help?” Danny asked, a bite to the words.  Dwight shook his head and opened his mouth, taking Danny in.  It had been a while since he’d last had oral performed on him.  Frank “didn’t suck dick.”  He was fine with sticking his cock in someone else’s mouth or ass, but to be on the receiving end?  That was too gay.  And Frank Morrison wasn’t gay.  Danny rolled his eyes at the thought.  Before he could lose himself in it, something pinched his member, and let out a small yelp.  Dwight had no idea what he was doing.  He was all teeth and suck.  No tongue, no finesse, no nuance.  

“Stop,” Danny demanded.  “Stop, stop, stop.”  Dwight paused, staring wide eyed.  “Relax your jaw, yes, good, like that.  No teeth.  Stay just like that.  Yes.”  Danny rocked his hips, taking care of the movement himself.  He could train Dwight to be better, but for now he’d settle for face-fucking.  It was worth it to hear the gagged, choked sounds Dwight made, to feel the pressure of his fingers on his hips as he pushed away to get another lungful of air.  

Danny didn’t let up.  He kept rocking his hips at an unforgiving pace, pausing only enough to not suffocate the man beneath him.  He had so much planned for the first survivor he was able to corner and coax into consent (Danny was a lot of horrible, awful things.  He figured that’s why he was here.  But a rapist wasn’t one of them), but there was no chance he would get around to any of it.  This felt excellent, better than he expected.    

Had it really been so long since he’d been satisfied by someone else’s touch instead of his own?  Frank’s cock was great, but he was just in it for himself.  Maybe Danny could make Frank jealous by telling him about this survivor's mouth wrapped around his member; the warm, wet pleasure; the pathetic whimpers and squeeze of his hands.  He’d very much like to see Frank’s stupid face twist in anger.  He wanted to egg him on, antagonize him into oral.  He wanted that stupid fucking idiot so mad that he  took  Danny.  He wanted to be used.  Filthy, degraded, taken.  

Danny’s face scrunched up as his orgasm hit him suddenly.  It didn’t creep up on him, it hit him at full speed.  It was a train going one-hundred and twenty miles per hour with no sign of stopping.  He dropped his weight to his elbows, pelvis propped up only by the grace of Dwight’s desperate hands.  Dwight’s throat closed around Danny, trying to hold off the invasion of being filled so thoroughly.  He choked and sputtered.  Warm semen pressed out of the corners of his mouth and smeared on his cheeks and Danny’s skin.  

“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” Danny cursed, head swimming.  It really, truly had been that long.  He felt like a middle school boy discovering himself for the first time.  What an embarrassment.  He sat himself upright, woozy from the intensity of his climax, and sat back on Dwight’s chest.  “Damn, anyone ever tell you your mouth feels fucking good?”  

Dwight coughed and tried to roll over, spitting as much semen out of his mouth as possible.  His wrists were trapped under Danny’s thighs, but that didn’t stop him from trying to reach his face anyway.  When Danny got up, Dwight immediately followed suit and scraped his tongue on his hands.  

“Aww, I don't that bad, do I?” Danny mocked as he fixed his pants and robes.  He pulled his mask back down over his face and retrieved his knife.  Dwight stopped dead in his tracks, warily watching the newly rearmed killer.  Danny barked a laugh and said, “The deal’s the deal.  You’re free to go.  I’ll see you next time.”  

Dwight scrambled away, a rabbit escaping certain death.  Danny watched with great pleasure before stalking off to find another survivor.  Maybe he could still get a kill this round, and if not, then at least he had a satisfying orgasm.  Next time would be better.  Much better.  

Chapter Text

Dying on an almost daily basis was not on Dwight’s agenda.  He had an out, and he seemed happy enough to take it whenever he ran into Danny.  It made Danny feel powerful, at its most basic.  The young man’s desperation to avoid having his throat slit, a knife stabbed into his chest, being eaten alive, or his head smashed in was more powerful than his dignity.  Slowly but surely, he became more and more receptive to Danny’s advances.  It went from awkward hand-jobs and face-fucking to frotting and eventually proper penetration.

Dwight wasn’t exactly good, Danny thought to himself as he crept through the maze of cars at the car junkyard, but at least the man typically engaged with him.  Danny liked topping.  He enjoyed being in control.  And after another terrible time with Frank, he wanted to burn off some steam.  He hoped Dwight would be here.  It had been several days since he last saw him, which is why he turned to Frank to begin with.  That egomaniacal, homophobic, piece of shit didn’t know the first thing about fucking someone right.  Danny seethed with the memory of it.

He needed more survivors to wrap around his finger.  Dwight wasn’t enough.  There was no promise of meeting the man in matches regularly, and if Danny had to fuck Frank one more time...

There was a scuffling around the corner that snagged Danny’s attention.  He turned his entire focus towards the sound and stalked closer.  One of the young women survivors was crouched over a dull totem, her three orange braids dirty and frizzy from the humidity of the evening.  Danny brandished his knife and, still in a crouch, approached her from behind.  Just before she finished undoing the stack of skulls and sticks, he wrapped an arm around her waist and slid the knife against her throat.  She tilted her head back with a strangled gasp.

“Hello,” Danny said behind his mask.  “Do you have a few minutes to talk about our lord and savior, The Entity?”

“Fuck off,” the woman spat.  Her hands were parallel to each side of her head.  She subtly moved them closer to the knife.  Danny was keenly aware, and when she got too close, he jerked her.  The knife bit into her skin, and she moved her hands an appropriate distance away.

“You know,” Danny purred.  “You don’t have to die today.  I’m happy to let you out for a price.”

“Did I stutter the first time?” she hissed. 

“Sorry, I didn’t quite get that,” Danny said through gritted teeth.  He knew there were survivors out there who would want nothing to do with a proposition from someone like him.  This one was always made of steel grit and attitude.  She took pleasure in causing problems for the killers during Trials.  Why would this be any different?

“Fuck.  Off.”  She said both words slow and meticulously, knowing exactly what it meant for her.  The consequences weren’t ignored or forgotten; they were embraced.  She opened her mouth to say something else, but Danny didn’t care to find out what.  He slit her throat from ear to ear and dropped her.

“Sorry,” he said as he stood up.  She gurgled and writhed on the ground at his feet, quickly bleeding out.  She would choke on her own blood before that happened though.  Danny was pleased with it either way.  “I still didn’t catch that”

He left her to die alone, eager to find the next person.  Hopefully he’d find someone more compliant.  Danny hated having a one-track mind.  As much as he liked killing freely, there was little variety in this hellhole.  It was the same people, the same motions, the same cocks and pussies and hands.  Dwight was at least a small piece of excitement in his formulaic day-to-day routine.

A loud explosion erupted from behind him.  Someone, or maybe more than one someone, was having some difficulty.  He smiled behind his mask, ignoring the humidity and smell of unbrushed teeth.  Whoever was at the generator remained there, whether out of stupidity, smugness, or stubbornness Danny wasn’t sure.  He could see the sparks from wires tapping against each other.

He approached slowly, silently, staying hidden behind piles of junk and the generator itself.  The stench of diesel filled his mask and twisted his stomach.  He hated this realm, these generators.  He preferred the open air of the MacMillan Estate or the maize-filled farmlands of Coldwind.  The junkyard was stuffy, reeking of death and metal and gasoline.

“Crackers!” a familiar voice sounded after the generator backfired for a second time.  Danny felt his heartbeat race as he approached the opposite side of the generator from the other man.  He poked his head over the top, rested his elbows on the hot metal, and peered down.

“Still a failure at mechanics, I see,” Danny mockingly said.  Dwight sprang backwards in surprise and fear.  The moment before he recognized Danny was the best expression he ever wore: pure terror and panic with an unconscious survival instinct twisting around them.

“Stop sneaking up on me!” Dwight shouted a little louder than he meant to.  His voice cracked.  Outside of the initial surprise, Dwight didn’t fear Danny anymore.  He’d have to do something about that.  He was a predator, and he couldn’t have his prey being comfortable around him.  This was a business transaction.  Not a romance.  Certainly not a friendship.

“Then where would the fun be?” Danny chuckled.  “Besides, I like when you’re basically pissing yourself in fear.  It turns me on.”

“Shut up,” Dwight said.  He got up and crouched in front of the generator again, returning to his work as if Danny had never appeared.  Danny didn’t like feeling ignored.  If he wasn’t killing Dwight on the spot, it meant that he wanted something.  They both knew it.

“You’ve got about five seconds to decide if we’re gonna find a corner or a hook.”

Dwight glared up at Danny from behind his glasses.  His cheeks were red, and his bottom lip quivered with, what was that?  Frustration? Anger?  Shame?  Whatever it was, it was delicious.  Danny held his hand up to count down silently with his fingers.  Five.  Four.  Dwight let go of the wires he was fussing with.  Three.  Two.  He slammed the palms of his hands against the generator.

“Alright!  Fine!”  Dwight yelled.  The words were average, everyday words used by every person in this Realm and the next, but when Dwight wielded them, they sounded like curse words.  He got up and looked around for anyone who may be nearby, wanting their rendezvouses to be kept secret.  Fortunately for Dwight, Danny wanted that too.  He led the other man to a corner of the fenced off Realm where there were no generators in eye or ear shot.  There was a stack of tires, a few trees, and one busted down car with no rubber on the rims of the tires.  It was private enough for Danny.  He didn’t care what Dwight thought.

“How do you want this?” Danny asked, extending about as much courtesy as he had in him.  “Feeling generous today.”

“I don’t care,” Dwight said, clear he wasn’t interested.  He was only doing this to avoid the pain of death.  Danny wondered what dying was like for the survivors.  It wasn’t permanent, but how painful was it?  Were they torn apart and stitched back together in another piece of the Entity’s worlds?  Was it a pain-free blackness until they awoke around their precious Campfire again, like sleep?  Did their consciousness shatter into one-thousand different pieces of who they were at different points in their lives, clawing away at their sanity with vicious, razer-like teeth and knives?  He’d asked Dwight a few times, but he never got an answer.  The other man either avoided the question altogether or grunted in response.  It was probably painful, Danny surmised.

“Well, I care.  Pants off.”

Dwight crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.  The Ghost Face had an abundance of patience, but this survivor was really wearing him down.  He stepped into Dwight’s space quickly, pushing his back against the brick wall fencing them into the Autohaven Wreckers scrap heap.  The air audibly pushed out of Dwight’s lungs, and he immediately sucked it back in with a gasp.

“We can play rough,” Danny offered, “if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I just want to get this over with,” Dwight answered.

“You’re no fun.”  Danny’s faux-pout could be heard through the mask.

“Your fun isn’t of any importance to me,” Dwight said defiantly.  What was with him today?  Sure, this was an arrangement and not a romantic pursuit, but that had never stopped Dwight from having fun in the past.  He spent many sessions squirming and writhing under Danny.  Once or twice even begging to orgasm.  It was stupid for him to be so stubborn today.

“It should be,” Danny growled, officially out of patience.  He swiftly spun Dwight around and pressed his face against the cold bricks.  Dwight grunted and cursed into the wall, not fast enough to react.  “Because that’s the entire reason we’re here: my fun.”  Danny pulled a strap off his robe, feeling his frustration sitting in the pit of his stomach like hot coals.  Dwight’s attitude and tone sounded so much like Frank.  Was it so hard to take ten minutes out of their days to let loose?  Have fun?  Give Danny some god damn pleasure for once?  No.  No it wasn’t.  He yanked both of Dwight’s arms behind his back and took the strap he’d removed to bind his wrists together.  It was tight, probably too tight.  Danny didn’t care.

“What the fuck, Danny?” Dwight asked.  That delicious hesitation, the unsureness of the moment, seeped back into his voice.  Danny loved it.

He ripped off another strap and slung it around to Dwight’s face.  He pulled it tight enough to hurt.  The fabric caught in Dwight’s mouth, and the man whined in discomfort.  He yanked his head to the side to get Danny off, with no such luck.  Danny tied it behind his head, not caring if his hair got caught in the knot.  Then he grabbed the back of Dwight’s shirt and tossed him belly first into the dirt.

“I don’t mind rough,” Danny said.  He shucked himself out of his robes now, standing shirtless and in his pants.  The robes crumpled to a pile next to Dwight’s head, who turned to look at it.  He muffled something into the strap but couldn’t make proper words.  Danny dropped to his knees, reached under Dwight’s hips to undo his belt and buttons, and yanked his pants down to his ankles.  Dwight muffled something again.  Danny slapped his rear with a leathery, gloved hand.  “Honestly, it’s a turn on.  Glad you’re on board.”

Dwight may not have been on board.  Danny recognized that by the way he squirmed and shouted into the fabric.  He thought about calling it off, taking a step back, asking Dwight what he actually wanted, leaving altogether.  That thought was small and pitiful compared to the frustration and anger he felt from being ignored, disrespected, undesired.  That anger burned hotter every time he thought about Frank.  It was enormous, a nuclear star, exploding thousands of times a second and growing more violent with each one.  Dwight was just a means to exercise that anger today.  Nothing more, nothing less.

“I want you to see me as I fuck you,” Danny said and pulled his mask off.  He stayed out of Dwight’s line of sight, but he set the mask down in front of his face so that the empty, black eyes of the ghost’s face stared at him.  Then, he maneuvered his face between Dwight’s cheeks, using his tongue to moisten and prod his entrance.  This was going to be the most preparation Dwight would get.  He always wanted to do this to Frank: eat him out and immediately fuck him dry and bareback.  He was willing to bet that Frank was a screamer.  He wanted that sound so badly.  Frank’s pleasured cries, his begging for Danny to stop, whimpers of “I can’t” so Danny could answer with “you can.”

Dwight’s legs stretched out every time Danny changed his angle, position, where his lips were, where his tongue was.  He twisted his wrists in his bindings, causing his skin to chafe and burn.  He pressed his shoulders and cheek into the dirt as he squirmed.  It could have either been out of pleasure or mild resistance.  Danny still didn’t care.

When he decided Dwight was wet enough (based on how turned on he himself was), he sat up and pulled the elastic of his black pants just under his arousal.  He licked his palm stroked himself a few times to make sure he wasn’t going in completely dry, then he positioned himself against Dwight.

“Ready or not,” Danny said.  Dwight groaned and twisted his shoulders, unable to move away.  Danny pushed himself in just slow enough to not cause himself any discomfort.  The friction was intense and uncomfortable.  That didn’t stop Danny.  Deeper and deeper he went, as quickly as he could tolerate it.  And there it was: the stifled shout he imagined Frank would make.  His cock throbbed.  His breath hitched in his throat.  He closed his eyes.  He buried himself to his hilt and lowered his front against Dwight’s back.  Then he patiently waited for Dwight to adjust to his size.  Danny was mean, not cruel.  Dwight flattened under his weight, breathing heavy, tongue poking out from under the binding around his mouth.  Danny wrapped one arm around Dwight’s throat and used the other to brace himself on the dirt.  Then, slowly but with rapidly increasing pace, he started fucking him.

Dwight made every melodic sound Danny hoped for.  He whimpered.  He whined.  He tried to speak around his gag with no luck.  He shouted and screamed.  His body twisted desperately under Danny.  Danny imagined Dwight was Frank.  He imagined every movement was a curse word, a punch in the stomach, a promise for vengeance.  He growled into the other man’s ear, muttering incomprehensibly about what he wanted Frank to do to him in return.  It only took him a few minutes to reach his climax.  He was pent up, and between the thoughts of simply taking Frank and actually taking Dwight was exactly the fantasy he needed.  He didn’t bother to pull out when he orgasmed, leaving his mark inside Dwight.  He rocked into him through his orgasm until he felt too sensitive to continue.  Then he paused for just a moment.

“Ahhhh,” Danny hissed when he pulled himself out, over-stimulated.  “Good boy.  That was great.”  He readjusted his pants, pulled on his robe, and fetched his mask to place it back on his head.  He didn’t spare Dwight a single glance.  Dwight panted heavily into the dirt and grass, body slack and empty of all energy.  His tongue still stuck out of his mouth like a dog in the heat of summer.

“Feel free to clean yourself up and be on your way,” Danny said without a care.  He headed back into the playing field, sure all the generators were done by now and he wouldn’t get a single kill.  Dwight was left on the ground, still bound, pants around his ankles, completely spent.  “I’m sure your friends are waiting for you.” 

Chapter Text

Trials were about cooperation, teamwork, and getting the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible.  Usually, each random four-squad of survivors were on the same page.  They knew what their strengths and weaknesses were and how to use them to their advantage.  For some, like Meg and Nea, the Trials had become games to test their physical skills or their wits.  For others, like Jake and Dwight, they remained serious endeavors and complex calculations that required solving.  Regardless of how each individual felt about them, they all agreed on one thing: in and out.  Ninjas.  Thieves.

Jake had spawned in the dry, oppressive heat of the Grave of Glenvale with David, Ace, and Zarina.  Zarina was more his people.  She was quiet and contemplative.  She looked before she leapt.  She entered a situation armed to the teeth with information before being armed with tools of war.  They understood each other.  Ace and David were more each other’s people, Jake figured.  Loud.  Boisterous.  Idiotic.  They had their strengths, of course.  David was a tank of a man, more muscle and meat than brain, and absolutely fearless.  Ace was lucky.  He knew it, Jake knew it, everyone knew it.  He may have had a grand total of three braincells his entire life, but the man had more luck than God Himself.  He had a way of turning bad situations around for them.  And, better yet, both men made wonderful distractions so that Jake could work on the generators and get them out.

This Trial was different.  Something was off, and Jake couldn’t put his finger on it as he coaxed a yawning generator to life.  Maybe it was something in the air, although he didn’t think so.  The air was as hot and dusty as ever.  It tasted of rotting animal carcasses and dehydrated vegetation.  It stank of death.  Even still, he couldn’t unknot the twist in his stomach.  Another generator sparked to life in the distance, polluting the otherwise beautiful, starry dusk sky with light.  That left one more.  They were working fast.  No one had been beaten into unconsciousness yet.  No one had been hung up on a hook.  So, what was off?

Jake passed his tongue over his dry lips, cursing the heat of this rundown ghost town.  He wanted out of here.  The Campfire wasn’t the best place in the world, but at least it was surrounded by forest.  Forest felt like home.  He looked around the area, over his shoulder, and, with no sign of the killer out there, he moved to the next generator.  To his surprise, David was on it.  He was doing a terrible job of getting it in working order.  He grumbled at himself as much as he did at it.  Jake crouched beside David and helped him wake the engine up.  It was reluctant to comply, already irritated with the dense (in every sense of the word) man groping it.  Jake was a professional though.  He coerced the machine into lighting the spotlights above them and generating enough electricity to power the exit gates.  Romance, not force.

They both stood and made to bolt, but the killer—who Jake hadn’t seen once during the entire Trial—materialized out of nowhere right in front of them.  Bing.  Bong.  Jake’s heart dropped.  Wraith.  No wonder he hadn’t seen him.  White, needlepoint pupils stared down at them from under twiggy hair that seemed to raise straight from the bark-like skin.  The killer’s face was impassive.  He said nothing.  He simply raised his weapon above his head, the spine of the handle curving up towards the twilight sky, and brought it down.

Jake screwed his eyes shut and threw his arms up to protect himself, but he felt no impact despite the sound of the solid, bludgeoning weapon hitting flesh.  It struck David instead, who cried out in surprise and pain.  His heavy body hit the ground instantly, blood pooling around his head from a horrific open gash.  Jake stood there dumbstruck for two seconds too long.  The Wraith immediately struck Jake with his weapon square across the cheek.  Jake saw stars.  He, too, hit the ground, fingers curling into the dust and dirt as he desperately tried to clear his head.

Everything happened so fast after that: Zarina dragged a stunned Jake to his feet, one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other pulling his arm over her shoulders; David cried agony from somewhere behind them as they shuffled towards an exit gate; a ghost pushed menacing air around him as they pressed through the exit gates; the damnable sound of the Wraith’s wretched bell sounding over and over and over and over and over.

Then, suddenly, Jake was at the Campfire.  It was like stepping through an invisible door.  One moment, he was at the Dead Dawg Saloon.  The next, the quiet and peace of the fire.  Blood oozed down the side of his head, which throbbed with every agonizing beat of his pulse.  Zarina carefully seated him on a log before using her brown infinity scarf to staunch his bleeding.  He was dizzy and felt dumb from the pain.  He let Zarina clean him up, and he went along with her testing to see if he could follow her hand or see how many fingers she was holding up.  He was fine, his head just hurt.

Ace came back next.  He sprang back into the camp in his perpetual good mood, rambling on about something Jake couldn’t focus on enough to follow.  He made grand gestures with his hands, laughed, and acted the fool they’d all grown shockingly fond of.

“Hey bud,” Ace said as he sat down next to Jake, finally sounding clear.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jake said.  “It’s just a bump.  I’m fine.”

Ace nodded thoughtfully, clear he didn’t believe a word of it, and clapped a gentle hand on Jake’s back.  Jake offered him a small smile, hoping it was reassuring.  He knew he’d be fine soon.  The Entity never let its playthings stay injured outside of Trials for too long.  They needed to be fresh, healthy, and ready for another dose of terror.  He gingerly touched the gash on his temple.  Most of the blood was already dry and scabbed, but some still oozed from the wound if agitated.

Another body returned to the Campfire just then.  Jake could feel the presence behind him but didn’t bother to turn around.  It wasn’t that he didn’t care, it was more than he didn’t want to focus on anything he didn’t need to.  Logic told him it was David.  Anything beyond that was too much.  He wanted to sleep this off.  He’d feel right as rain in a few hours.

“What the bloody fuck was that about?” The energy in the air around them changed the moment David King’s voice boomed behind them.  Jake’s head throbbed from the sound, like a migraine.  David had always been fiery tempered about everything, but it was his next sentence that surprised everyone.  “Don’t ignore me, Park!”

“What?” Jake asked, genuinely unsure of why he was being singled out.  Ace scrambled away from the log and put his hands disarmingly up.  Jake slowly turned his body around to see what David was on about when two powerful hands seized the front of his jacket and lifted him to his feet.

“You left me back there to die on that hook,” David spat in his face.  “After I took a hit for you and everything!”

“What the hell, David?” Jake shouted back.  “What are you on about?”

“David,” Zarina said calmly.  “We were chased out the door.  I promise you, Jake didn’t leave you.”

“Stay out of this,” David barked.  He was like a dog with a bone and wouldn’t let go.  “You just wanted to save yourself, you no good coward!”  He sneered at Jake.  Jake sneered back.  They stared at each other, neither willing to back down, both sure they were right.

“I don’t have time or energy for your bullshit, David,” Jake finally said.  He twisted out of David’s grasp and marched off towards the woods.  The trees.  Home.  Peace and quiet.  No maniac accusing him of throwing him under the knife.  David shouted after him, but he ignored it.  He huffed as he passed through the trees, fuming from the implication.  He barely remembered what happened after he’d been hit in the head.  It was a blur, a swirling mess of overwhelming noises and fighting gravity.  Jake knew who he was: an unsocial, introverted, private person who preferred the company of the trees over people these days.  Jake knew what he wasn’t: a backstabbing piece of shit who’d casually leave someone to die purely because it benefited him.

The silence was blessed, a kind reprieve from the shouting at the Campfire and the chaos of the Trial.  It was short lived, though.  David came stomping after Jake, disturbing the stillness of the forest.  Curses and raged stormed towards Jake, thundering with the promise of making landfall before the day was over.  Jake stopped in his tracks.  He couldn’t handle this.  He had walked away for a reason.

“Jake fucking Park!” David boomed.  “Don’t you walk away from me!”

“Fuck off, King,” Jake shouted back.  “I’m not in the mood!”

“I don’t give a shit whether you’re in the bloody mood or not!  We’re going to settle this!”

“Settle what?  I didn’t do anything.”  Jake said with exasperation.  David was closing in fast.  Jake hoped to clear this up before it got worse, but judging from the rotten, pissy look on David’s face, he wouldn’t have much luck with that.  His head hurt.

“That’s the bloody problem!”  David was practically in his space now.  Just a few more steps.

“I got hit in the head and dragged out by Zarina with death on my heels.  For the last time: I didn’t leave you on purpose!”

“Bullshit!”  David launched forward and slammed his fist into the other side of Jake’s head.  The knuckles bit into his cheekbone.  One moment he was looking at David, the next he was eating dirt.

“Fuck!” Jake shouted.  He staggered back to his feet while David inspected his fist as if it had hurt.  The anger boiled over in Jake, and, with a feral scream, he threw his entire body into David’s.  His arms wrapped around his waist and using both of their weight and the momentum of impact, they slammed to the ground.  Jake dug the toes of his boots into the grass and pulled himself upright. Then he swung his own fist into David’s face.  He got in one hit before David overpowered him, spun him onto his back, and grabbed his throat.

Jake choked and grabbed David’s wrist with both hands.  Even David’s fingers were powerful.  The man was forged from fighting.  He breathed it, grew up in it, relished in it.  Jake didn’t stand a chance, but he dug his heels in the dirt anyway and sneered between gasps up at David.  He didn’t want to lose.  That, at least, was something they had in common.

“I’m going to pound you into a pulp, Park.”

“That a promise?” Jake growled.

David brought his face menacingly close to Jake’s.  Jake could smell his meal of roasted crow meat and salt on his breath.  David also smelled of sweat and the unmistakable metallic twang of blood.  It was surprisingly striking.  Heat and adrenaline pooled in his stomach from the anticipation of a bigger conflict.  Suddenly and without thinking about it, he let go of David’s wrists to grab the back of his head and pull him down into a kiss.  Their lips and teeth mashed together, jarring them both.  Jake’s heart raced.  He didn’t know what came over him, only that it felt good.

To his surprise, David didn’t pull back.  He flinched at first, but then leaned into the kiss.  His fingers loosened around Jake’s throat and his knees spread further apart to better support his weight.  The kiss wasn’t gentle.  It was just as furious as their fighting had been, fueled by fire and hurt and hate.  They fought for dominance over the kiss.  Jake bit David’s lower lip.  David bit Jake’s tongue.  It quickly evolved into neck biting and aggressively stripping each other out of their clothes.  David moved his hand from Jake’s throat to his shoulder to keep him pinned down.  As Jake fought to undo David’s pants, David rolled their hips together.

Jake’s head swam.  He wanted to hit David.  He wanted David to hit him back.  He desperately wanted David fuck him.  Every emotion hit him at once.  The pent-up tension of being trapped in this realm compounded with David’s unreasonable outburst and just how lonely Jake wouldn’t admit he was rushed out of him.  He wrapped a leg around David’s waist to press their hips together in competition, urging David for more.  Harder.  Faster.  Rougher.  He wouldn’t be outdone.

David maneuvered himself in a way that bent Jake’s brain.  One moment, he was all but laying on Jake.  The next, he was on his knees with Jake folded over himself and a saliva-slick finger pressed into his rear.  Jake’s mouth made an “oh” shape and his eyes screwed shut from the intrusion.  The expression didn’t go unnoticed.  David pulled one of Jake’s legs over his shoulder, tugging his entire body back against his thighs.

“Too much for you already?” David mocked.  How they went from fighting to fucking, Jake would never know, but this was as much of a physical competition as a fist fight.  Despite the swelling in his face from two unbelievably powerful hits, Jake scowled at David and turned his eyes back on him.

“Fuck you,” was all he said.

“I intend to,” David answered and pressed in a second finger.  Jake arched his back in surprise from the stretch.  It had a slight burn.  He wasn’t going to surrender to it, to David.  But he also wasn’t going to let David have all the fun.  If Jake was going to be made to squirm, it would be on his own terms.  He reached down and stroked himself, stealing away what little control David had over his body.

“Clever bastard,” David mumbled.  Despite how rough he was, he took his time to stretch Jake out properly.  If he was going to beat the life out of someone, it was going to be with his fists and not like this.  He pulled his fingers out and pushed down on the bottom of Jake’s thighs, forcing his body to fold even more.  Then, without any shame or warning, be spit on Jake to add more lubricant.  The combined feeling of his rear suddenly empty and the cool and uncomfortable saliva made him twist his spine.  He let out a soft gasp.

“I hope you’re ready,” David said and slowly sank inside of him.  Jake’s toes curled.  He instinctively threw an arm over his eyes before the other man leaned over him.  He couldn’t look at the sheer power of his muscular body.  He couldn’t let himself be seen coming undone.  If he was going to lean into David’s cock and pant like an animal—which he did both of—then he refused to let David see the look in his eyes.

There was no adjustment period.  The moment David had completely sunk into him, he began a merciless pace.  Without even trying, he drew out a cacophony of pleasured moans, whimpers, and cries.  Jake wished he had more self-control.  He didn’t.  He was quickly reduced to a screaming mess.  Both hands replaced the arm draped over his face.  His cheek throbbed on the left side.  His temple pounded on the right.  Any amount of pressure was agonizing.  It was entirely possible he had one or two fractures.  That didn’t stop Jake from pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.  He cried out more.

“Noisy little bitch,” David said.  In any other situation, Jake would have lit up with fury.  He did his best to pretend to be livid with a half-hearted curse.  But right now, in this moment, with David’s cock buried up to his balls in him, Jake was only turned on more.  Keeping one hand pressed painfully tight into Jake’s thigh, David stuffed the fingers of his other hand into Jake’s mouth.  He pressed his tongue against the bottom of his mouth and slid the tips of his pointer and middle fingers into his throat.  Jake gagged and tears sprang into his eyes.  His cock twitched.  He howled again, the perpetual pressure inside of him building and mounting to an unbearable height.

“That’s right,” David said with an edge of triumph in his voice.  Jake couldn’t take it anymore.  His climax slammed out of him.  His entire body tensed with it.  Ever muscle contracted, tightened, screamed from it.  Despite the fingers in his mouth, his tongue slid over his bottom lip to hang out of his mouth as if waiting to receive something.  David removed his fingers so he could grasp Jake’s cheeks and pinch his mouth in that open position.  “Who’s a good boy?”

Jake didn’t answer with words, just moans of pleasure.

David fucked him through his orgasm, then quickly pulled out.  Jake’s body unfolded, legs splaying on either side of the larger man.  David swiftly moved from between them and straddled Jake’s hips, his hand still pinching his mouth open.  His other hand stroked himself hard and fast, bringing himself to climax.  The orgasm splattered on Jake’s face and across his tongue, dribbled down his chin, and even got a little bit into his hair.  Jake stayed put, exhausted and obedient, still dazed from his own pleasure.

Then, just like that, David was done.  He stood up and grabbed his pants to redress himself.  Jake dropped his head back into the dirt and panted.

“Never knew you were such a slut,” David said, clearly proud of himself.  Jake balled his hand into a fist so he could flip David off.  David returned the gesture with his pointer and middle finger in the shape of a “V.”

“Eat shit,” Jake finally managed.

“Nah,” David said.  “But that’s an idea.  Maybe next time I’ll make you eat me.”

Jake rolled his eyes and closed them.  He didn’t intend to get up.  His legs were like pudding.  Simply laying there was more than enough for him.  And who else was going to come by to see him?  No one.  David would return to camp and either boast about “teaching Jake a lesson” or not say anything at all.  And not a soul would think twice about it.

Chapter Text

David started the Trial in a bad mood, which followed him to every generator and hook he attempted to work on.  He failed every sabotage and at least three generators backfired on him more than once.  He cursed and kicked the damned thing when he blew up in his face.  He felt useless.  It was Dwight’s quiet confession away from the Campfire last night that did it to him.  Dwight had been withdrawn.  Everyone noticed it and talked about it, but no one actively checked in with him.  Sure, a few people asked what was up, but he excused himself as tired every time and went about his time between matches as if no one had ever asked.  

David knew better.  Well, he didn’t actually know better, but he liked to think he did.  He wanted to believe he knew Dwight well.  They’d both been stuck in the Entity’s Realms for a long time and had grown friendly. David had also developed feelings, none of which he’d worked up the courage to confess.  Being around someone for what felt like years and pining after them was more than enough for knowing them better than the others, David figured.  

He had followed Dwight away from the camp last night as everyone was settling down for bed.  No one strayed too far away; monsters lurked in the dark there. But everyone had their self-made spots that they preferred to sleep.  It offered just a little bit of privacy, and at this point they were happy to take what they could get.  

Before Dwight had a chance to get comfortable or even sit down, David grabbed his shoulder.  Dwight startled.  He was on edge these days, so much so David was surprised he didn’t shout.  David apologized for sneaking up on him and asked what was up.  What was bothering him?  What had him so quieted and reclusive?  Dwight had been reluctant to answer, but eventually he’d let it out: one of the killers had been stalking him.  Not in the typical killer way, but in a way that made David’s blood boil.  He hadn’t been able to get much out of Dwight, but he did parse that it was in exchange for not being caused pain.  And Dwight was tired.  So tired.  He seemed more and more faded with every death.  As far as David knew, he was the longest one here.  

So now David felt foul.  He felt worse than foul.  He wanted to pick a fight with every single person in the Trial.  He wanted to hit someone.  He wanted to brawl, really brawl.  Broken noses, bloody knuckles, sunken cheekbones, black eyes.  He hoped beyond hope that he’d be matched with the scumbag who’d taken advantage of Dwight so shamelessly.  So far, no sign of anyone.  Not even his teammates.  He stormed through the open, making a racket, and doing everything in his power to be noticed.  

Nothing but the screaming of crows, who he screamed back at.  Just when he felt like giving up and turning back to the generators, a knife slipped around his throat and shockingly delicate but firm fingers twisted his arm behind him.  

“Someone’s noisy today,” a seductive and wet voice said.  Clearly a man, who ruled out a good number of monsters that stalked these realms.  The knife was also an element David could use for deduction.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough for him to guess without seeing the knife.  It could have been the Korean popstar with his throwing knives, that freaky clown, or one of the Legion brats.  Who else was there?   Think David, think.  

“Looking for someone,” David boldly answered.  He kept the fear out of his voice; an easy enough task when all he felt was a simmering rage.  

“Ooh, that sounds fun.”  The knife pressed dangerously against David’s throat, breaking the skin just enough to pinch.  “Maybe I can help.  Who is it?”  

“The asshole that raped my friend.”  

“Rape is such a harsh word,” the man behind him purred.  He knew.  He sounded confident and present in the conversation.  He absolutely knew.  This was the motherfucker.  The hair on David’s arm stuck up on end.  “I don’t rape.  We have an agreement that he can back out of at any time.”  

“You son of a—” Every muscle in David’s body tensed.  He wanted to spin around and slug this man right in his stupid face.  The only thing preventing him from doing just that was the knife to his throat.  

“You’re rather worked up over it,” the man stated plainly.  “Jealous?  We could work out a deal too.”  His knuckle rubbed a small circle on David’s back under where his arm was twisted.  David growled but otherwise didn’t answer.  His arm twisted a fraction more, causing him to stand up straighter.  

“Not that kind of jealousy, I see,” the killer said.  He touched his chin to David’s shoulder.  “How about I leave your little Dwighty-wighty alone in exchange for you?  These Trials are no fun without a friend, and the other killers aren’t great.”  

David exhaled slowly through his nose.  He knew he could take this man, no matter who he was, but beating him into a bloody pulp wouldn’t stop him from going after Dwight.  In fact, it was entirely possible that it would make things worse.  He couldn’t do that to his friend.  It was an obvious choice, even if not an easy one.  

“Fine,” David said with the last of his exhale.  “Deal.”  

“Oh goodie.”  The knife and hand on him relented and the last person David expected to see stepped a few meters away: the Ghostface.  He stalked towards the corner of the perimeter wall that was out of the way and quiet. David followed slowly, still questioning whether to beat the Ghostface black and blue or not.  No, no.  For Dwight.  This was for Dwight.  

“Your name,” the Ghostface said.  

“What?” David asked, stopping to cross his arms over his chest.  

“Your. Name.  I don’t like anonymous fucking.”  

“In exchange for yours,” David said flatly.  “I don’t give things away for free.”  

“I like you already.  Danny.”  

“David.”  

“Pleasure.”  Danny gestured for David to remove his clothes.  David didn’t.  If he was going to go through with this deal, he wasn’t going to make it easy.  He could practically feel the smirk through the other man’s mask, and the knife disappeared in his robes.  Another little piece of assurance for the killer so that David kept his word.  Then, gloved hands tugged David’s shirt over his head and undid the belt of his pants.  Danny complimented David’s body the entire time, clearly pleased with his catch of the day.  David felt sick with this man.  It was bad enough they got murdered every day, but now there was a sexual predator among them.  Better him than Dwight, he reminded himself.  

A gentle hand fondled David between his legs and his body quickly betrayed him.  It had been a long time since he’d been laid.  Contrary to what everyone at the camp believed, he wasn’t very promiscuous.  And because he pursued Dwight, he didn’t seek out the company of anyone else.  Danny’s other hand pushed his mask up just enough to expose his mouth and he slicked his fingers with saliva.  He reached out and pressed a finger between David’s cheeks.  

“Hey!” David said and twisted away from him.  “I don’t think so.  I don’t bottom.”  

“You sure?” Danny asked and tilted his head to the side, which looked silly with his mask half pushed up.  “Dwight always lets me top.”  

“Motherfucker.”  David quickly stepped into Danny’s space and pushed him against the wall.  One hand held both of his wrists above his head, the other pulled Danny’s robes up to his waist.   He took control quickly, refusing to let the killer have it his way.  Fuck that.  Absolutely fuck that.  When Danny squirmed to free himself, David pressed their hips together and elicited a moan.  The fight went out of Danny long enough for David to yank down his pants and force him to his knees.  

“Lube it,” David demanded.  This time, he could see the smirk curl across the lightly tanned skin of Danny’s face.  He rested his hands on David’s thighs and took him into his mouth.  David’s head rolled back on his shoulders as the other man took great pleasure in sucking on him.  He moaned softly.  This didn’t have to be so bad, did it?  

Danny was good.  Too good.  His practiced tongue slid the length of David’s member and hus lips curled over his teeth to prevent any unwanted scraping.  He even deepthroated with no problem, only gagging on the fourth time.  And even the gag felt good as the other man’s throat contracted around him.  He only let Danny suck him for a minute.  If he let himself get carried away, he wouldn’t have the fortitude to top Danny, and like hell he was going to bottom.  He pulled Danny back to his feet and spun him around, so his front was pressed against the stone wall.  Without warning, licked his pointer and middle fingers and pressed them into Danny’s rear.  Danny tensed for a fraction of a second, then relaxed into David’s fingers.  It was an easy, trained reflex.  Danny was no stranger to being penetrated.  Good, that would make this fast and easy.  David didn’t want to play nice.  

He removed his fingers with little prep, then pressed the tip of his member into the other man.  Danny hissed sharply as he inhaled in.  David wondered if he was bigger than Danny’s other partners had been.  He sank in deeper.  The hiss turned into a soft moan.  He sank all the way in, and Danny arched his back.  Then, quickly, with the intent of wrapping up fast, David went to work.  His pace was fast and aggressive.  He took no care to protect Danny from any potential pain.  He hoped his cock hurt.  He hoped the grind against the stone wall was agony.  However, as loath as he was to admit it, Danny felt great.  He knew all the right ways to move, all the best sounds to make, and the exact little physical details to perform to heighten the excitement for them both.  He played with himself, he curled his fingers against the stone wall, he opened his mouth into a wide “o” shape and let his tongue hang out.  

Danny came first.  It was a quiet, well controlled orgasm.  His entire body tensed, and he clenched around David.  The pressure was enough to coax David over the edge, too.  He pulled out and, with a few final pumps with his hand, he came on Danny’s rear and thighs.  The bigger the mess, the more satisfied David would be.  Anything to be an inconvenience.  Then he pressed himself against the other man, chest to back, pinning him to the wall until strength returned to his legs.  

“There, my end of the bargain is done,” David finally said with a huff and wiped his hand on Danny’s robes.  He moved away to get dressed.  

“The bargain is you replace Dwight,” Danny said keenly and inspected where David’s hand smeared mess on him.  David couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or not, and he wished he could see his face.  “This isn’t a one-time thing.”  

“You sound like you want to be crushed into the grass,” David warned.  Danny flashed a grin and fixed his mask back on his face.  

“Dwight’s spared next Trial.  Of course, you can think about it,” he said and readjusted his robes.  David pulled his pants back on and fixed the button in place.  The arrogance of this man was beginning to irritate him.  “But that’s your deal.  And because it’s not like Dwight’s…”  Danny took two steps to David and suddenly there was a sharp pain in his side, just under his ribs.  The knife slid in easily, pointing up into his lungs.  David sucked in an agonized gasp and stood on his tiptoes as if that would ease the pain.  It was too late though; the knife had done its work.  “I can’t risk you actually pummeling me.  Sorry, it’s nothing personal.”  

Danny pushed the knife in deeper and then yanked it out.  David dropped to his knees as he collapsed to the ground, suddenly made of liquid and pain.  Danny straddled his hips and wrapped an arm around his throat, forcing his head up.  Then he held a camera out in front of them.  

“Smile,” he said, and snapped a photo.  David wanted to curse him.  He wanted to hurt him.  Bad.  But his life pooled out of him around the knife wound, and darkness quickly swallowed him.  

Chapter Text

Dwight was terrible at flirting.  He knew this about himself.  In fact, he knew this intimately about himself.  Just about every attempt at blind flirting ending in failure and rejection.  He was terrible with his words, had absolutely no smooth pickup lines, and his delivery was always awkward and uncomfortable.  It never stopped him from trying though.  And David King was the first person to not send him packing on the first round.

They had met on the subway—D-Train specifically—south bound through the West Side of Manhattan.  Dwight remembered what stop David got on at as if it were a photograph engrained in his memory: 7^th Avenue Station just north of Times Square.  The train was packed, and most people stood shoulder to shoulder. Dwight stared at the handsome stranger through the crowd.  He was everything in a dream man for Dwight: tall, sharp edges filled with soft features despite the frown twisted across his face, and muscular.  He wanted to talk to him, say something, but the crowd was too thick.

The train made a few stops, all of which were uncomfortable and cramped.  Dwight cursed the bodies swaying against him, the music from the kids who’d brought their Bluetooth speakers on the train with their bicycles, and just about every person who had decided to not wear deodorant that day.  It was awful.  He felt like a sardine trapped inside the can.  Lucky for him, the majority of people emptied out a few stops later at Herald Square.  Suddenly, there was more than enough room to move.  There was nothing stop him from flirting now. He approached David and grabbed the same poll as him, making sure their hands were close enough to feel each other’s warmth but not to touch.  David turned his eyes on Dwight, and Dwight offered up a nervous, half-smile.

“Hey,” he said.

“What?” David answered. His voice was just the right amount of deep, the edges of each word shaped from growing up in England.  The subway wasn’t the most social of places to approach someone, so Dwight wasn’t surprised by his hostility.

“I’m Dwight.”

“Okay Dwight.  What do you want?”

“To, uh,” Dwight had stammered, taken aback by how cold David sounded.  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, he thought to himself.  He shifted uncomfortably on his feet at the same time and resisted the urge to bite his nails.  “See if you wanted to get drinks?  Coffee?  Food?”

David’s frown ironed into a thin, pointed line, but the tension between his eyebrows smoothed out.  His face was soft despite its hard edges, and he looked Dwight up and down with the most unreadable look Dwight had ever seen.  A warmth filled his eyes and he said, “You’ll have to earn it.”

It was that gentle, simple gesture that led Dwight to a quiet street around the back of the Whitney Museum two weeks later.  There were no public entrances here.  There were a few garages, some solid metal back doors, and a single, yellow brick wall stemming several stories tall and stretching the entire length of the block.  To his back was the expanse of the Hudson River.  A bouquet of flowers was clenched white-knuckle tight in one hand, and his phone was in the other.  He checked the address, then checked it again, unsure he was in the right place.  It was evening now, and the hot, orange setting sun made the shadows between the buildings eerie.  An uneasiness settled over Dwight.

“Where are you?” he asked himself as he painstakingly texted David the same question with one thumb.  He was too stubborn to switch to the swipe-to-text feature.  He didn’t like change or new things, and he didn’t mind taking extra time to text if it meant he could avoid the trouble of changing his ways.  He patiently stood, waiting, growing more anxious with every passing second.  Sweat collected in the palms of his hands.  Behind him, a few people occasionally passed by.  Rush hour was over, and most people were already home eating dinner, not hanging out behind museums during closing.

More minutes passed.  Many more.  Dwight stood there for about fifteen of them, feeling foolish.  His phone didn’t go off, nor did anyone even remotely resembling David come walking through any of the doors.  He squeezed the stems of the flowers, a sickly feeling settling into his gut.  He’d been stood up.  He knew it.  Just as he was about to drop the bouquet to the sidewalk, a slick voice cut the air behind him.

“What are you doing out here alone?”

Dwight spun around on his heels.  Four people in masks formed a semi-circle behind him.  Each mask was different from the others.  Two were made of paper mâché and looked the closest to one another with creepy eyes and a wide grin drawn on each one.  The third was also made of paper mâché, but instead of a face, it had cracks closed together with nails and string.  The final mask was a repurposed handkerchief or shirt of a skull design with the eye holes cut out.  All four of them wore hoodies with the hoods pulled up despite the mid-summer heat. 

Dwight’s eyebrows shot up and a frown pointed his lips down.  Stood up, sure.  But set up?  “David, this isn’t funny,” he said softly, hoping this was a joke.

“David?” the feminine voice of the smallest one said, and she turned to one of the smiling masks.

“No David here,” the smiling mask in question said.  He seemed like the ringleader with the way the other leaned towards or looked at him for cues.  “Now kindly answer my question.”

“W-waiting for someone,” Dwight obliged.  The ringleader pulled out a butterfly knife that he expertly flipped open.  Dwight took a step backwards and pressed his body against the wall.  He had nowhere to go.  He held his phone out to them.  “Look, you can have my wallet.  A-and my phone.  It’s no problem.”

Silence.  All four of them simply stared.  Dwight couldn’t tell exactly where they were looking because of their masks.  His phone?  His face?  Dwight’s pulse hammered in his throat and ears.  He waited, and he hoped this was enough.  The menacing look of the butterfly knife in streetlamps terrified him.

Then his phone rang.  David’s name lit up the screen as an obnoxious pop song from a long worshipped and well-loved idol played through the phone.  When you call my name it's like a little prayer.  I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there.  Dwight smashed his finger against the answer button.  The other smiling mask lunged at him.

“David!” Dwight shouted and then their bodies collided.  Dwight was slammed into the wall behind him.  He dropped his phone and the bouquet as his head cracked against the brick.  His assailant’s fist collided with his jaw, punching the vision straight out of him for half a second.  Then he came back to his senses and his adrenaline kicked in.  With a shout of frustration, he wrapped his arms around the other person and pushed himself off the wall to throw them forward.

When they hit the ground, his assailant let out a painful yelp.  A woman.  Dwight felt embarrassed that he’d just struck a woman and he scrambled off her before anything else could happen.  He wasn’t usually the type to care in a situation like this.  Dog eat dog.  If someone attacked you, you fought back.  But the shock of the moment propelled him backward.

“Dwight?” David’s voice said through the phone, just audible.  Dwight looked for the phone.  It was still lit up several feet out of reach.  He scrambled for it on his hands and knees, as if this was the only thing that could save him.  A heavy, black boot connected with the soft of his gut, sending him sprawling.  He coughed hard as the wind was kicked out of him.  He spat up saliva and bile.  The pain made his head swim.  His eyes fell on the phone again.  It was an arm’s length away—so close, yet too far.

“You’re going to eat shit for that,” the woman Dwight had tackled said.  She rubbed the heel of her hand along the cheek of her mask as if it were her real face, and she got up.

“I’ll cut him open, Jules,” the ringleader said.  Dwight could hear the threatening sound of the butterfly knife clacking.

“No, he’s mine.”

“I thought we were just going to mug him,” the smallest one said softly.  She sounded timid to Dwight, unsure, a small voice of reason for these maniacs.

“Plans change, Suzie,” Jules said sharply, and the leader of the group laughed darkly.  The fourth one towered over Dwight.  Dwight looked up at him with pleading eyes, only to receive a shrug as an answer.  As if there was nothing he could do.  As if the moment was indifferent and didn’t change his life one way or another.  With such a carelessness and apathy that Dwight’s stomach sank into his feet.

Then the beating began.

Dwight wasn’t sure where one person ended and the next began.  The four of them were a single, multi-limbed entity of fury and pain.  He curled in on himself to protect his more vulnerable places: stomach, face, throat, groin.  His arms, legs, and back took the hardest hits, but sometimes he’d feel the toe of a shoe connect with the back of his head or knuckles collide with his ear.

Suddenly, the assault stopped.  They were talking, but Dwight couldn’t hear them over the rush of his own panicked blood.  He remained in the fetal position; afraid it was a trick; afraid that if he uncurled himself, someone would hit him again.  Before he could decide his next move, two pairs of rough hands grabbed his arms, and he was dragged off the curb.  He kicked and flailed desperately, but to no avail.  He was an inconvenience to them and nothing more.

“Make sure to hold him still,” the bigger woman said.  “Very still.”

“I don’t know about this Julie,” Susie said softly.  At the same time, Dwight was wrestled stomach first to the pavement and a rough hand grabbed his hair.

“Please,” Dwight pleaded.  He was desperate.  His eyes were wide and wild, looking through the cracked lenses of his now broken glasses when his head was lifted at a painful angle.  “Please let me go.”

“No chance,” Jules said.  “Frank, do it.”

The other smiling mask—Frank, Dwight decided—shifted so he could be crouched into his vision.  “Isn’t she hot when she’s mad?” he asked.  His free hand grabbed Dwight’s face and pressed into his cheeks, forcing his mouth open.  The hand in his hair—Dwight now understood was Frank’s—forced his open mouth onto the curb.  He let out a feral, desperate scream and, with all his might, bucked and resisted.  He’d seen this in movies.  He knew what was coming.  And the fear of the pain that was promised from biting down on the curb horrified him. 

The heavy knee of the silent man pressed into the center of his back, helplessly pinning him there.  Frank moved out of his vision, but his hand pressed firmly on top of his head.  Another hand twisted an arm behind his back, promising further compliance with a kiss of pain in his rotator cuff.  He was stuck.  Julie’s converse sneakers approached him, each tap of the rubber soles drumbeats in his ears.  He couldn’t stop the tears from running down his cheeks.

Julie’s right foot lifted off the sidewalk and came to rest on the top of Dwight’s head.  He begged around his mouthful, knowing his efforts fell on deaf ears.  Her foot raised.  Dwight screwed his eyes shut.  He counted backwards from five as a distraction, every instinct in his body screaming to run when he couldn’t.  His heart was going to explode in his chest.

Then there was a surprised squeal.

“Fucker!”

The pressure eased off Dwight’s back and the hands released him.  He scrambled away from the curb and sobbed, more focused on getting a safe distance away than what was happening.  His arms hurt, the right worse than the left.  Every time he beared weight on it, it screamed in agony.  He thought it might be broken.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Frank howled, snapping Dwight back to the present.  He looked up to see David sitting on top of Frank and repeatedly hitting him on the side of his mask.  The other three frantically shifted around the two, not sure what to do.  They were afraid for good reason.  David looked like a feral animal with how he moved and roared at the group of muggers.

“Okay, okay!” Susie said softly with her hands up as she backed away.  “We’ll leave!  Just let Frank go!”

“Fuck that!” Julie spat, but the quiet, fourth member took her by her arm and pulled her away.

David got off Frank once the others were a good distance away, and the man scrambled away like a dog with his tail between his legs.  There was a huge crack through his mask where David had hit him.  Some of the paper mâché was straight up crushed.  Constantly looking over his shoulder, Frank retreated to his friends, and they all made their way around the building and out of sight, verbally threatening David the entire time.  David stood tall with his shoulders square and fists clenched long after he was sure they were gone.  Dwight stared, still crying, frozen in place.

“You alright?” David finally asked and turned to him.  He made his way over, each step stripping away a little more of the fierce animal he had been while fighting.  Dwight leaned his weight forward and hugged his bad arm to his chest.

“I think so,” he answered, tone as even as he could make it.  He knew he looked dreadful, and he wasn’t going to attempt to stop crying in fear of making an ugly sound. 

“You don’t look great,” David said.  He squatted in front of Dwight and tilted his head to get a good look at his face without touching him.  “Sorry I was late.  We had a scuffle in the gift shop.  Unruly, entitled customer.  Set me back a few minutes.”

Dwight sat in silence as David gently unwrapped him from himself to inspect his injuries.  He looked over the arm Dwight favored first.  Then he worked his way around all his visible skin with his eyes, and he touched Dwight gently with calloused fingers wherever is skin was covered.  He passed his thumbs under Dwight’s eyes to wipe away the tears.  Dwight whimpered whenever David found a sensitive spot, but beyond that, made no other noises. 

“Just a few bumps and bruises,” David said. “Doesn’t look like anything’s broken.”

“Could have fooled me,” Dwight answered and inspected his bad arm.  There was a vicious bump growing over the bone in the center of his forearm with discoloration already setting in.  He experimentally flexed his fingers.  He rolled his wrist.  Everything was in working order, so it probably wasn’t broken after all.  Sure as heck felt like it though.

“Thank you,” Dwight added.  “They were gonna—they were—they…”

“Don’t think about it,” David interrupted.  “They didn’t, therefore we can talk it out later.  Come on, get on your feet.”  David stood and held his hands out for Dwight.  Dwight allowed himself to be pulled up, and, to his surprise, be tucked under David’s arm in a gentle squeeze.  With his other arm, David pointed his finger back towards the building.  “Those for me?”

Dwight followed David’s finger to the crushed bouquet of flowers he’d picked up for the date.  “Aah, beans.  Yeah, they got ruined.”

“I love them.”  David walked over and picked them up.  He also picked up Dwight’s phone, which was in surprisingly good condition considering the struggle.  He passed it back to Dwight.  “So where are we going?”

“I wanted to go to a nice restaurant,” Dwight answered as he inspected his phone.  He pocketed it with a sigh and glanced back up at David through his cracked lenses.  “Considering…all this,” he gestured to himself, all dirty clothes and haggard looks, “do you mind if we get a drink instead?”

David’s face lit up when he smiled.  He was strikingly handsome, and suddenly the sharp edges on his face didn’t look like they could cut anyone.  Dwight’s heart melted, and he almost forgot the horror of five minutes ago.  David offered Dwight his bent arm and nodded his head down Gansevoort Street.  “I’d love a drink, and I know a great pub.”

Chapter Text

The Trial didn’t go well.  It was always the same thing day in and day out.  The Fog inevitably swept them away to a mirage of a location it cobbled together from someone’s memories, they’re hunted like wild boars, and they either escape with their meager, senseless lives or they’re strung up to die on meat hooks.  Although their lives were never permanently forfeit and they were doomed to a never ending respawn cycle, it was exhausting.  Everyone coped in different ways.  Jake spent an obscene amount of time alone or sleeping.  Meg and Nea liked to antagonize each other.  Ace placed bets with his first aid kit or toolbox supplies on who would get out and who wouldn’t, and Feng was competitive enough to take the bait.

David liked to fuck.

Not have sex.  Fuck.  Dirty, rough, and casual.  He was full of pent-up anger and energy from being trapped here.  The anger often came out in Trials by him running headlong into danger and antagonizing the killers into delivering a heap load of agony, but that also brought him more frustration and anger.  He and Dwight had a thing on and off, and usually David would turn to him to blow off some steam.  Dwight was an easy lay, and he was good at it.  As a switch, he could satisfy whatever David wanted, plus it didn’t hurt that he was easy to look at.

Dwight wasn’t talking to David right now.  David had tried several passes at him over the past couple of days, but he wasn’t having it.  Apparently, David had offended him with something he’d said. Or maybe something he’d done. Dwight wasn’t indulging any of his questions either.  He’d simply said, “if you can’t figure it out yourself, then I can’t help you,” and left it at that.

Of course, this compounded David’s anger.  He’d always had an anger management issue back home, in his normal life with his normal problems.  He’d had more things at home to help, like social nights out at the pub or fighting.  None of that existed here, and if it did (like fighting) it never helped.  He couldn’t fight his fellow survivors and complicate already tenuous relationships.  He needed these people as a much as they needed him.

At least until Quentin fucked up in the Trial.  David tried to steer clear of the young man, finding him creepy.  Quentin avoided sleep like people avoided scorpions.  His eyes were sunken in, body clearly abused from an unreasonable amount of caffeine and adrenaline (which he found in the form of pills or needles during Trials).  He was disheveled from the mussy curls of his mousy brown hair to the mud caked on his shoes.  Quentin had fallen asleep at every generator he’d worked on that day, exposing David’s location to the killer every time, and putting them all in the line of danger.  The Trial was short.  The killer had found each of them and put them out of their misery.  David had been killed by hand instead of hook and sacrifice, the worst way to go.

Quentin sat by the campfire now after respawning in the Fog just outside of the woods that surrounded their little campfire.  He sat on the ground, arms and chin resting on a log, and stared into the fire.  He was in a trance, lost in some place other than here thanks to his sleep deprivation.  David spawned shortly after Quentin and stormed into the clearing, a raging bull in a china shop.

“What the fuck was that!” David roared, throwing his arms into the air.  A few others had respawned early, their Trials equally as bad—at least for their own part.  All eyes but Quentin’s looked up to David, not wanting to be the one in his path.  Quentin, however, continued to stare into the fire until David seized him by his open button-down jacket and hoisted him to his feet.  “I asked you a bloody question, you twat!”

“Huh?” All instinct, as if he were sleepwalking, Quentin wrapped his fingers around David’s wrists.  His glassy eyes slowly came back to the present, wide and shocked.  “David?  David!  What?”

“Sonuva bitch,” David snarled.  “You trying to get us killed out there? Because that’s exactly what you did!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Understanding crossed Quentin’s face.  David could see the moment when he realized exactly what was happening.  He dug his heels into the dirt and tried to pull away, but David’s grip was too tight.  “Please man, I really can’t help it.  I’m out of pills and couldn’t find anything in the Trial to keep me up.”

“Then take a fucking nap!” David snarled.  He shoved Quentin so hard he fell backwards and almost into the fire.

“David!” Feng said and shot to her feet.  Jane also stood up, a fierce look across her face.  Both women were ready to physical interject if they needed to.  The only other person there, Adam, kneeled next to Quentin to help him up.  Quentin just looked stunned and distant.

David shot the girls a cold look.  He didn’t understand why everyone protected and babied this man.  He wasn’t a child.  (At least not anymore.  He had been when he’d originally been pulled into the Fog.  Time still aged people here, even if they couldn’t properly keep track of it.  Who knew how many birthdays had passed for each of them?)  David couldn’t — no, wouldn’t — fight all of them.  Or any of them outside of Quentin, who was clearly off limits.  So, he threw his hands into the air once more, let out a dramatic huff, and stormed into the woods, leaving the air thick with tension and disgust behind him.

A walk didn’t help.  He wanted to hit something.  No, someone.  He wanted to beat a lesson right into Quentin’s thick skull.  Maybe force him to take a much needed nap through the magical feat of crushing him into unconsciousness.  That would straighten him out.  Trials were about more than the individual, not that David practiced what he preached.  Instead, he punched a tree.  He seethed and stewed as he paced around the same several feet of woods.  He didn’t dare go too deep.  The monsters that hunted them lurked in the deeper parts, seemingly unable to get too close to the Campfire; another strange restriction imposed by the Entity.

The anger eventually fizzled from a blind rage to a low boil.  He took long, slow breaths through his nose and exhaled out of his mouth.  He wasn’t ready to go back to camp, but he felt close.  He wished Dwight wasn’t giving him the silent treatment.  He could have used a good fuck.  He wanted to toss Dwight around, listen to his gentle whimpers of submission, cause and receive a little bit of pain, and orgasm.  Hard.  That was it.  That was the only thing in this fucking place that helped.

Then footsteps crunched the leaves of the forest floor from behind him as someone approached.  David thought it was Jane, who was ballsy enough to follow him thinking she could give him a stern talking to.  He screwed his eyes shut and steeled himself for yet another argument, but when he turned around to tell Jane to fuck off, he was faced with Quentin.  Anger rushed back into David, the very same anger he felt at the Campfire.

The man stood slouched; head tilted down but eyes bearing into David’s.  He looked pitiful with the way the corners of his lips tugged his cheeks down and the way his eyebrows pressed together in the center of his forehead.  The fight in David shifted from a fire in his chest to a twist in his stomach at the sight of him.

“What?” David barked.  “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

“No,” Quentin said aloofly.  His eyes grew wide immediately, and his hands shot up alongside his head.  “Wait, that’s not what I meant.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to hurt you, or anyone else in the Trial for that matter.  It’s not personal, man.  I can’t stay awake, and I absolutely can’t sleep.  I came to apologize though.  I feel bad that you feel this way.  I want to make things better.”

David’s eyebrow curled up on his forehead and his nostrils flared.  He didn’t want a shitty apology.  He wanted to work off some of this frustration.  He stepped in close to the other man.  Quentin frowned at David, needing to look up to do so.  David was a lot taller than him, and suddenly he felt powerful.  He held power over Quentin alone out here in the woods that he didn’t at the Campfire, the same kind of power that he might have held back in the real world (he refused to think of the Entity’s Realms as the real world).  Before Quentin lowered his arms, David seized both of his wrists and pushed his back against the nearest tree.  He pinned his arms over his head.

“David?” Quentin said around a surprised gasp.  The push didn’t hurt.  It was simply shocking, as were most things to the Dreamwalker.

“I don’t want your apology,” David snapped.  He loved the unsure light shining out of Quentin’s eyes.  The way the dark circles under his eyes stretched as his eyes widened and the gears in his head turned.  For once, he looked awake.

Quentin hesitated.  It was easy to see what David wanted.  He may have been one of the younger Survivors and more naïve than the rest of them, but he wasn’t stupid.  He’d seen the way people snuck off in the woods together, the way David frequently looked at Dwight (and occasionally others).  He heard the sounds they’d all make in the woods, could smell the sex in the air.  He could smell the desire on David now, predatory and lustful.  David bunched both of Quentin’s wrists into one hand, and he dropped his other hand to cautiously touch his waist.  He continued to glare into Quentin’s eyes, waiting for an answer to the question he never even asked.

“If I say yes, will you stop being an asshole about this?” Quentin said in a burst of frustration.  He figured he could deal with performing oral and moving on.  It wasn’t a huge price to pay to apologize, and, truthfully, he didn’t mind all that much.  He owed David a lot for all of the protection hits he took in Trials anyway, and, also, he would have been a liar if he said he didn’t find the man attractive enough.  He was pretty sure everyone at camp who swung in David’s ballpark did.

“I think we can work something out,” David answered.  His hand immediately dropped and palmed Quentin’s crotch.  Quentin’s face scrunched up a little, surprised by the abruptness of the contact while at the same time trying to hold back the ticklish sensation of being touched without being turned on.  He squirmed, and the small smirk on David’s face cut into a hungry smile.

As David touched and worked over Quentin’s body, Quentin felt himself warming to it.  He leaned into David’s hands and lips, wondering why he’d never sought out a partner of his own in all the time he’d been here.  There were a few women in the Realms that he was particularly attracted to that he wouldn’t have minded tumbling with.  David’s mouth on his throat felt so good.  His eyes fluttered closed.  The primal urge to sleep made his muscles heavy every time there was a pause in David’s attention, but another surge of pleasure woke him back up quickly enough.

Quentin moved his hands to the hem of David’s pants and worked on tugging them down.  It took him a minute to realize there was a belt that he needed to undo.  Embarrassed, he went to work undoing it and slowly dropped to his knees.  This wasn’t what he had planned for his afternoon, but he was flustered and ready to perform.

Just as the belt came loose, David grabbed Quentin again and, firmly but gently, pressed him stomach first into the dirt.  Quentin dumbly felt his own pants get tugged down to his ankles and, David caressed the skin hidden underneath.  His arousal was both relieved to be free of its constraints and tortured from the pressure of being trapped between the hard ground and the weight of his own body.  David’s hands felt wonderful though.  He’d never been touched like this before.  He relaxed into the sensation and stretched his arms out in front of him like a cat, all but forgetting that his goal was to give David oral and move on.  He was putty.

David suddenly stopped.  Quentin let his eyes close for a single moment and took in a long, soothing breath.  He felt so hot.  He hadn’t felt this needy ever in his life before.  David was experienced and knew exactly what buttons to push to turn him on, so much so it was almost embarrassing.  He swam in his head, lost in thoughts of David’s fingers and mouth, wondering exactly what he did to deserve to feel so good in this situation.  Less than an hour ago, this angry man wanted to hit him.

David settled his palms on each of Quentin’s cheeks and spread them wide to spit.  He massaged his thumb over his entrance before lining his own arousal up with it.  One hand stayed on one of Quentin’s cheeks, squeezing gentle.

“Hope you’re ready, pretty boy,” David said, husky and dry.

Quentin hummed softly, still lost in his own haze.  Then he felt the pressure of something large press into his rear.  It was slow, but invasive.  He jerked on instinct to get away, however the hand that had been on his ass moved between his shoulder blades to hold him own.  He let out a complaining whimper.

“Shh, shh,” David hushed.  He shifted his weight over Quentin as he slid the full tip in, then spit again.  “It’s going to feel good.  Good boy.  Relax so it doesn’t hurt.”

Quentin tried to relax.  The stretch of David’s girth hurt.  David paused just long enough for Quentin to adjust to his size.

“I’m going to go all the way in now,” David said softly, impatient.  It was the only warning Quentin got before David began to push in again.  His fingers, which had been stretched out in pleasure, now curled into the dirt in discomfort.  He gritted his teeth and pressed his nose into the ground.  All the while, David hushed him, reassuring him that there was no more left to go in even though the stretch, the push, and the pain didn’t stop.

Finally, David stopped moving.  Quentin could feel David’s front flush with his back.  Now that he was full, he felt smothered.  His mouth was agape, and his tongue poked out as he struggled to catch his breath.

Quentin wasn’t Dwight.  He wasn’t loose, wasn’t open to David’s particular brand of loving, and certainly didn’t seem permissive to being thrown about.  David had to hold himself back from being too rough.  Slow, gentle, patient.  He wanted to fuck Quentin, not break him.  He stayed still inside of the smaller man, buried to the hilt, desperate to feel the friction of his warmth and tightness.  He bit Quentin’s shoulder as he restrained himself.  Then, finally, he asked, “You feel good?”

“No,” Quentin whimpered.  This wasn’t what he wanted.  He didn’t give David an okay for this.  Despite the pain, there was something about feeling so full that wasn’t entirely unpleasant either.  The sting, however, was in the forefront of his mind, and he weakly added, “It hurts.  Take it out.”

“It will feel good soon,” David purred.  He pressed a kiss to the spot he had just bitten.  “I promise it will.  Relax.  You’re too tense.”

“I can’t relax,” Quentin complained, feeling almost silly.  David sounded so sure that Quentin wanted to believe him.

“Yes, you can,” David encouraged.  When he felt Quentin force his muscles to relax, starting from the head and ending in his calves, David kissed his neck again.  “Good boy.  Good.  Relax for me.”

Then David began to rock his hips.  He remained slow, still wanting Quentin to adjust.  But he was also eager and hungry.  The smaller man felt wonderful wrapped around him, and the unsure sounds of pain and pleasure escaping him only turned David on more.  He worked his knees under himself properly and thrust in deep, looking for the one pressure point that would allow him to fuck Quentin more liberally.  He angled himself, and reangled himself.  Quentin protested with each movement.

Then, suddenly, the Dreamwalker gasped.  His entire body seized again, but David knew it was out of pleasure and surprise instead of pain this time.  He smiled into Quentin’s back.

“Feels good?” he asked.

“Fuck,” Quentin cursed.  He didn’t want to admit it felt good.  It was a jolt of ecstasy that, for half a second, snuffed out all his discomfort.  Despite that, he still wanted David out of him.  He felt trapped and coerced.  His body quickly betrayed him further as David began to fuck him more vigorously, each time jabbing against the sweet spot that lit his body on fire.  He let out cries of pain and moans of gratification.  The sensation went straight to his cock, which rutted against the ground.  It wasn’t comfortable, but it also gave him a sense of relief as his orgasm worked closer and closer.

David nipped and sucked as his shoulders and the sides of his neck, undoubtedly raising marks.  He whispered little praises to Quentin for being so good, while at the same time murmured dark threats of sexual violence that he never acted on.  Quentin was sure it was simply the words and thoughts themselves got David off, but a part of him worried the idea would turn into an action.  He wondered if David’s other partners let him act on those words.  He wondered if that was why Dwight was avoiding him.  The worries withered away with each thrust.

“D-David,” he whimpered, eliciting a shudder from the large British fighter.  “I’m—I’m going to cum.”

“Then cum,” David commanded.

“I can’t,” Quentin said, immediately contradicting himself.  “I need to—need to touch myself.  Let me up a little so I can.”

“No,” David insisted.  “You can come without it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” He picked up his pace, relentless against Quentin’s prostate, “and you will.”

“David please,” Quentin begged.  David wasn’t having any of it though.  He reached around Quentin’s head and clamped his hand against his mouth, silencing his complaints and pleas.  Quentin squirmed under David’s weight, unable to escape the pleasure, the pain, or his body.  Blackness clouded the corners of his vision as his orgasm mounted, and just as David promised, Quentin came without touching himself.  He tried to let out a scream, but his voice was muffled against David’s skin.  He felt his climax spill out underneath him.  He ached everywhere. 

David muttered something filthy against his skin that he could barely comprehend.  David’s hands also got rougher, squeezing the Dreamwalker’s arm and cheeks so hard that they were both sure they’d bruise.  But it was enough for David to reach his own climax.  He unapologetically came inside Quentin, riding out his pleasure until he collapsed.

“God,” he huffed softly, cheek pressed to the smaller man’s back. Quentin whined, still unable to speak around his partner’s hand.  “You feel so good.  So, fucking good.”

David remained there for what felt like an eternity before blessedly removing his member from Quentin.  He untangled his body from the Dreamwalker’s and stood up to readjust his pants.  Quentin stayed laying in the dirt, both weary and content.  He thought David was going to leave him, but instead David helped him readjust his own pants, then joined him once more on the ground.  He was a bullheaded, somewhat inconsiderate lover, but not unkind.  As much as Quentin resented him for disregarding his safety and needs, he also needed the gentle embrace David offered him.

He curled up in his arms, face pressed to the pleasant warmth of his chest.  He needed to sleep.  He was afraid to sleep.  He was afraid he’d be haunted, even now in the blissful wake of an orgasm.  He was losing himself to sleep anyway, and no amount of fighting would stop it.

“Wake me up in twenty minutes,” Quentin murmured to David.  “Please.”

“Sure,” David answered warily, clearly put off but not resisting.  Quentin hoped he was genuine.  If he was, it would make this entire ordeal worthwhile.

Chapter Text

 Dwight ran as fast as his legs would carry him.  His muscles burned; his lungs worked overtime trying to draw in enough oxygen to fuel his frantic body.  Danny liked watching him run.  He was panic-stricken.  Imprecise.  He stumbled, tripped into things, and looked like he’d fall any second.  Dwight never fell though.  He always caught himself before gravity could ensnare him and kept zigzagging through the wet Temple of Purgation rubble.   The rain came down hard today, soaking everything and leaving deep puddles and mud-slicks throughout the temple grounds.  Danny wondered if it would flood.  Flash floods weren’t uncommon here.

The survivor ducked into the temple and out of sight with Danny trailing quickly behind him.  He followed Dwight’s wet footprints.  The rain was more of a blessing than a curse today.  Danny moved quick and quiet into the center of the temple, then down the stairs leading to the basement.  There was an untouched generator at the bottom of the stairs, and a blocked off alter with a gate and chain.  Dwight’s trail didn’t lead to either of those, though.  Instead, it trailed around the corner and down another set of stairs, straight into the belly of the Entity’s basement.  It was a dead end down there.  Either Dwight thought he was quite clever, or he was spectacularly stupid.  Danny descended, accompanied only by the flap of his cloak.

The Entity’s basement was unlike any other part of the Trial Realms.  Although there were no lightbulbs or fire, light from the Entity herself pressed in through the crumbling walls to brighten the space.  All the souls she consumed over the decades howled and whispered in the bleak space.  It stank of death.  Danny, personally, loved it.  He’d never felt closer to God than in this small space with his prey pressed and cowering in a corner, waiting for its death.

He scanned his eyes over the small space, lingering at the bottom of the stairs so Dwight couldn’t sneak passed.  He was here somewhere.  Danny could smell the stink of his fear.  It was thick in the air.  It would have only been a matter of time before Danny found him anyway.  In a crouch, the Ghost Face crept to the back left of the basement and found Dwight pressed between the locker and an unopened chest.  He sat with his knees to his chest and his arms wrapped around his head, no doubt hoping he’d go unnoticed.  Poor creature.

Danny grabbed Dwight by his throat and yanked him out of the corner.  In one, swift movement he slammed him back first against the floor, knocking the wind out of him.  He was on top of Dwight in a second, knees on either side of his ribs and groin pressed against the soft of his stomach.  Dwight squirmed.  His eyes were wild with fear.  His shirt clung to him in the most flattering ways.  His skin peeked through the wettest parts.  Danny moved his hand from Dwight’s throat to his face, pressing his fingers into the sensitive, vulnerable skin, so he could pull off his mask with some relative privacy.  The mask clattered to the floor next to them as it slid from his fingers.  The black eyes of the hard plastic stared at them and mouth wide in surprise and anticipation.

“What little mouse have I found?” he purred as he leaned in close to Dwight’s face.  The damp smell of rain mixed with Dwight’s salty sweat was intoxicating.  Danny often stalked Dwight during Trials.  He’d catch him, hook him, kill him, all to gain favor from the Entity.  She loved him for it, and he loved her in return.  But Danny wanted more than just the favor of the Entity and the thrill of slaughter.  His rested his free hand against Dwight’s chest and passed his thumb over a nipple, savoring the warmth of flesh against him.

Both of Dwight’s hands grabbed at Danny’s wrist, but instead of relieving the crushing pressure against his face, Danny just leaned more of his weight in.  He felt his nose threaten to crunch, his glasses crack, and a single sob heave against his palm.

“Behave,” Danny commanded.  Dwight’s grip on his wrist tightened.  “I’m not going to kill you.  Yet.”

Danny squeezed his hand and Dwight whimpered.  To his pleasure, Dwight stopped resisting, although his fingers still gripped his wrist.  Danny smiled and let go.  With a sharp, harsh slap to Dwight’s cheek, he said, “good boy,” and began to tear strips of fabric from Dwight’s sleeve.  The smaller man flinched and drew his arms to his face, not sure what to expect.  He trembled under Danny, inciting more excitement in him.  What a delight, to have such delectable prey beneath him.

“Shush now,” Danny cooed.  He ran the back of his fingers against Dwight’s cheek before wrenching his hands together in front of him.  Then he tied them together at the wrists with the strips of fabric he relieved from Dwight’s shirt.  Dwight hyperventilated, noisy and panicked.  His eyes were wide and wild, which only served to turn Danny on more.  He passed his tongue over his lips and simply watched Dwight until their eyes locked.  Then he stood up, forced Dwight to his feet, and, with no kindness, looped his bound wrists over the hook.  Dwight’s shoes barely touched the ground, forcing him to stand on the balls of his feet.

“Nice,” Danny said as he appraised Dwight.  It was almost a shame that he was about to peel the man out of his clothes with the way they stuck to him.  “Very nice.  Good boy.”

“P-please,” Dwight said softly, squinting through his glasses.  They were cracked on the bridge and slid down his nose, threatening to fall off.  Danny put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side.

“Please what?” he asked even though he knew full well Dwight was begging for his life and not anything more fun.

“You d-don’t have to d-do this.”  Dwight’s voice was quiet, and Danny had to strain to hear it.  He knew what was coming next.  It thrilled Danny to see his prey cornered and captured and self-aware.  Dwight couldn’t make eye contact.  He looked down at the floor between their feet and tightly clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.  Danny took one step to close the space between them and gently took Dwight’s jaw between his fingers.  He lifted his head, forcing him to look.

“Oh, sweetie,” Danny said, malice dripping from his words.  “Of course I don’t have to.”

The color drained from Dwight’s face.  That was it.  The terror, the look of dreaded anticipation.  Danny wished he had his camera to immortalize the look.  He could savor it for a long, long time.

He let go of Dwight’s jaw, pulled his knife from his robes, and began to undress the other man.  He cut each button off, slow and with great intent.  Dwight flinched each time.  The shirt slowly fell open, heavy from the rain.  Danny slid the knife across Dwight’s skin, from his navel to his collar, then let the blade hook on the shoulder of the shirt.  It only took a gentle tug for the fabric to come undone with a soft rip that felt louder in the quiet room than it actually was.  He repeated the action on the other side, and the shirt fell to the ground with a wet slap.

Dwight trembled and screwed his eyes shut.  His arms strained against the hook.  Danny touched the tip of the blade to the soft of Dwight’s stomach, watching as the muscles instinctively rippled in fear of getting cut.  A grin crossed his face.  Dwight’s body was soft and round.  He had no hard edges, few defined muscles, but he wasn’t heavy set.  He was an average, plain man who must have lived an average, plain life before coming to this hellhole.  Danny liked men and woman of all shapes and sizes.  He wasn’t picky.  But there was something about the small rice-gut and fatty bumps of his hips that Danny found particularly attractive.  It transported him back to a time when he could stalk average, plain people in their average, plain homes and make them watch as he ripped away everything they cared about.

Danny palmed his own crotch.  This was going to be good.

Dwight twisted his wrists slightly, testing the limits of his bindings.  Danny let him as he cut off the button of Dwight’s pants.  He unzipped them and tugged them down to his ankles.  Dwight squirmed.  He pinched his knees together as Danny stood up to appraise him once more.

“Tighty whities?” Danny asked disapprovingly and curled his eyebrow.  Dwight kept his eyes averted, refusing to acknowledge the question.  Danny wrinkled his nose.  He’d let go of Dwight’s insolence this time, but only because it wasn’t a real question.  He hooked his fingers under the elastic and let it go with a snap.  Dwight flinched again.  Danny repeated this before finally tugging them down to his ankles.  “They don’t suit you.  Boring, plain.  I thought you’d be a little more exciting in private.”

Danny’s eyes ravaged Dwight’s naked body.  Average, again.  Dark hair spread between his legs and trailed down the inside of his thighs and up to his belly button.  He was flaccid, exactly what Danny expected in size, not that he cared.  His leather gloved thumbs touched the inside of Dwight’s thighs, pressing painfully into the tendons there until Dwight’s face scrunched up.  Good pain response.  Danny’s gut twisted with excitement.

“I hope you plan on being good for me,” he said as he trailed his fingers up on Dwight’s hip, up the straight line of coarse fuzz on his navel, against his soft, undefined chest, over his throat, and to his chapped and coarse lips.

“P-please d-don’t,” Dwight pleaded again.  He kept his eyes closed; eyebrows heavy over top of them.  As much as Danny loved when his partners and victims begged, he was getting sick of how pitiful Dwight sounded.  His voice shook, and his stutter was unattractive.  It was grating his nerves. 

“Quit mewling,” Danny grumbled as he passed his thumb over Dwight’s bottom lip.  Dwight turned his head away, but Danny’s hand just followed him.  “You sound pathetic.”

“P-please,” Dwight repeated, turning his head again.  Anger boiled in Danny’s blood.  He had given a direct order and was explicitly ignored.  That was unacceptable.  His dominant hand’s fingers curled tighter around the knife, into a fist and, without warning, he slammed it into the side of Dwight’s face.  His knuckles hit bone.  Dwight’s face snapped to the right with a crack.  A cry of pain tore from Dwight.  His wrists tugged painfully against the hook and his bindings.  His glasses finally cracked and flew off his face.  The sudden violence shot through him so quick he was stunned, staring at the floor where his glasses landed, mouth gaped open.

“Aaaah,” Danny hissed and rubbed his fist.  It smarted.  He’d hit Dwight too hard.  When he looked up, he noticed Dwight sobbing.  Blood dribbled out from between his lips and his chin was tucked against his chest.  Danny smiled and cooed at him, stepping forward to gently take his face in his hands.  “Shh, shh, it’s okay.  Daddy’s sorry.”

Dwight continued to sob, and Danny let him.  He stroked his cheeks until Dwight’s shock subsided and his pitiful cries calmed.  Already, a bruise purpled across his cheek, under his eye, and along his jaw.  It was beautiful.

Dwight flinched when Danny touched his lips to the bruise and pressed his fingers into his mouth.  The leather tasted used and stale.  It tasted of dirt and blood.  Dwight wanted to gag, but he couldn’t when Danny pushed his tongue down into the bottom of his mouth.  The saliva pooled behind his teeth and dripped out, mixing with the blood.  The inside of his cheek stung every time it was touched or moved.  Danny applied pressure to his teeth, pulling out a soft, cautious groan.  Dwight refused to look at him.  He hated the sharp cut of his jaw covered in stubble and the vicious pin-point glare of his eyes.  Dwight wouldn’t give Danny the satisfaction.

“Suck,” Danny said, simple and easy.  Dwight relaxed his jaw in defiance, the top row of teeth touching the tops of Danny’s fingers.  Danny dug the tips of his fingers painfully into the soft palate under Dwight’s tongue.  He whimpered.  “If you bite me, I’ll break your jaw.  Suck.”

To Danny’s satisfaction, Dwight obeyed.  The moment he wrapped his lips around Danny’s fingers, he released the pressure he knew must hurt.  There was no passion in Dwight’s actions, but Danny had time to train him.  An eternity, in fact, if he chose to pursue him after this Trial.  Besides, he didn’t need passion.  He needed obedience.  While the captive man was busy with his fingers, Danny pressed his own lips and teeth to Dwight’s bruised jaw and to his throat.  He liked the smell of Dwight: pure fear and sweat.  It excited him, got his heart racing, just like so many before.  Finally, a taste of home.

With his fingers still in Dwight’s mouth, Danny dragged the sharp edge of the knife back up Dwight’s side.  Dwight’s body twitched under the blade out of fear.  Danny reveled in it.  He pressed a little harder against his skin, not enough to cut but enough to draw a welt.  Dwight whimpered.

“Shh, good boy,” Danny praised as he continued to applied pressure with each pass over Dwight’s skin, until eventually he drew blood.  Dwight sucked air between his teeth and his eyebrows pressed together above his eyes.  “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“It hurts,” Dwight mumbled around his mouthful.  Danny pressed his fingers into the back of Dwight’s throat, causing him to gag.

“What was that?”

Dwight gagged again, saliva oozing around the intrusive hand.

“That’s what I thought.”  Danny pressed the tip of the knife into Dwight’s side.  It was enough to cause a substantial amount of pain, but the other man wouldn’t bleed out from it.  It wouldn’t damage any organs.  Dwight gagged and whined around his fingers, and Danny pressed his growing arousal against his thigh.  This was good, so good.  What a good boy, Danny thought to himself, for the look on Dwight’s face and the whimper was too delicious for anything other than praising thoughts.

 Just as Dwight thought he was going to vomit from the amount of gagging, Danny pulled his fingers from his mouth.  It was half a second of relief before those very same fingers, slicked in saliva, trailed around to his backside.  Danny slid them between his cheeks and prodded his entrance.  He squirmed.  Suddenly, his eyes were wide once more.  He stared at the opposite wall.  Understanding and horror crossed is face.  Sure, Danny could have built up to this.  He usually enjoyed the slow burn, running through the gamut of sexual activities before proper penetration, robbing his partners of their hope and their dignity over the course of an hour or more.  He loved the empty, dead look of complete surrender in their eyes, stretching across their listless, void faces.  Dwight felt special though, or maybe Danny just felt different today.  He pressed a finger inside without warning.

Dwight bucked his hips forward, trying to get away from Danny’s hand.  There was nowhere to go.  He could barely touch the ground, so how was he supposed to be able to wriggle away from Danny’s whims?  He was a trapped animal at the mercy of his predator.  The tears poured down his cheeks without permission, drawing a dark smile from his captor.  He felt Danny’s hungry, dark eyes on him, and the man twisted his finger painfully.  The stretch was already too much to bear.

“It’s okay,” Danny assured.  “I’m going to take good care of you.”  What that meant, Dwight didn’t want to venture to guess.  Although, deep down, he knew.  He knew even before Danny shifted his robes to pull out his erection.  He knew before the hard member was rutted against his thigh and Danny’s pointer finger was joined by a second.  The burn distracted him from the teeth nipping at his shoulder.  The pinch hard enough to draw blood was nothing compared to the dread in his heart and the fear pooling in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m begging you,” Dwight whimpered.  His jaw was a terribly sore from the punch.  He knew the side of his face was swelling up.  “Anything else.  Please.”

“Oh hush, love,” Danny purred.  He quickly thrust his fingers up to the knuckles inside Dwight.  Dwight’s eyes screwed shut, and he hissed.  “Stop being pathetic.  The next time you beg, it had better be for more or you’ll regret it.”

Danny’s front was finally pressed to Dwight’s back.  He curled his fingers inside his captive’s rectum, seeking his prostate.  He didn’t find it though, so he withdrew his hand to replace it with his erection.  Dwight sobbed in front of him, unable to control or contain himself.  It was annoying.  This was why Danny preferred to completely break his partners before engaging in intercourse.  Nonetheless, he spat against the tip of his member and rubbed the poor excuse for lube around Dwight’s entrance before forcing himself in.

Raw and dry wasn’t how Danny usually liked it.  The comfort of his partners was of no concern to him, but it was uncomfortable for him too.  He hated the friction and the way it tugged his foreskin.  It didn’t help that Dwight was tight as a virgin.  A little bit of proper lube would have gone a long way.  He made a mental note to fill the basement chest with toys for the next time.  He grabbed Dwight’s hips tightly.

It took him a little while to find a rhythm.  When he did, he thrusted himself forward and pulled Dwight back, despite the man’s writhing.  Dwight made a variety of pathetic sounds, none of which were words.  He stopped begging altogether, music to Danny’s ears.  The sobs would usually be grating, but he was able to focus on the intoxicating smell of Dwight’s fear and the echoes of skin slapping against naked skin.

One minute.  One minute was all it took to break Dwight by Danny’s count.  His body went slack as the fight left him.  He hung from the hook, knees slightly bent, head dangling forward between his shoulders.  His chest jumped with the occasional hiccup, but otherwise he was silent.

“You know just how daddy likes it,” Danny murmured as he pressed his lips between Dwight’s shoulder blades.  He picked up his pace, imagining the far off look in Dwight’s eyes.  He wanted to see how lost and undone the man was.  He also thought about hitting him again, for no other reason than a reaction.  Just those thoughts riled him up more.  The far-off pull of the realm beginning to collapse tugged in the back of his mind, urging him to hurry before he was pulled to another realm and left hard and unsatisfied.

In a desperate attempt to see the despair on Dwight’s face, he grabbed his hair in one hand and yanked his head back.  Dwight gasped in sharply and clenched his jaw.  His eyes screwed shut from the new, painful sensation.  The tear lines on his cheeks were starkly clean against his dirty skin.  It was the split of his lip and the way his left eye was forced close from the bruise and swell that helped Danny’s orgasm mount.  He pulled Dwight’s head closer and licked the drying blood from his mouth.  Then he turned his nose against Dwight’s neck, sank his teeth into the man’s flesh, and climaxed.  Like everything else, it was fast and hard.  If he’d had more time, oh the things he’d have done to Dwight.  He wanted desperately to carve him up as they made love.  He wished for something to plug that pretty, little mouth up with.  So many things.  So very many.

Danny pulled out of Dwight and tucked himself back into his robes.  He strutted around to Dwight’s front and appraised him.  Not enough bruises, not enough blood.  The Entity’s claws reached down from the ceiling of the basement, skewering Dwight’s prone body.  Slowly, she pulled him up towards the circling, gaping maw of black clouds and orange lighting.  Danny watched and shook his head.  A wasteful shame.  Next time, he’d have to catch his prey much earlier on. 

Chapter Text

Dwight didn’t usually take walks.  Despite not feeling outwardly social most of the time, he preferred to sit in the warmth of the fire and friendly conversation of his friends.  Well, they were more like family these days.  None of them had known each other prior to the Fog.  They’d all lived strikingly different lives and had different experiences.  Dwight was pleasantly surprised when they’d knitted themselves together like a family.  A strange, incestuous family, but family, nonetheless.  

His feet padded gently against the underbrush as he strolled.  The air was stagnant and still, as it always was in the Entity’s Realms.  Everything was counterfeit here.  It looked convincingly real at a glance, but if you inspected it closer, you’d find little things out of place: no insect sounds, permanently still air, no change in temperature from day to night.  He inhaled the air deeply anyway, pretending it wasn’t stale and barely recycled.  He needed to clear his head.  Too many Trials had gone wrong lately, and he felt shaken because of it.  Unsteady.  Like the world was suddenly at a slight tip and he didn’t know where to put his feet anymore.  

Dwight assumed he’d be alone for the duration of his walk.  No one ever came out here unless they wanted to have sex.  Well, no one except Jake.  However, Jake had been at the campfire when Dwight left, so he was confident he’d be alone.  Then he heard a soft whimpering just passed a thicket of trees, shattering his hopes for privacy.  Maybe David had snuck off with someone again.  It wouldn’t have been a surprise.  He was the type to draw out those types of whines—Dwight knew from personal experience.  

No, it was more than a whimpering.  It was a sob, quiet and restrained, but a sob nonetheless.  Dwight rolled the skin of his cheek harmlessly between his molars and approached, surprised to find Quentin hunched over himself with his back to Dwight.  The young man had stripped out of his outer layer of clothes, sitting in his t-shirt, socks, and a pair of boxer shorts.  His skin was red with a slight sheen of sweat, looking almost feverish to Dwight.  

Dwight approached, making sure to make noise as he did as to not scare his friend.  His mind raced with questions and thoughts.  He wondered how it was possible for Quentin to be sick.  None of them had ever caught even the slightest hint of a cold here.  Quentin being the first was strange to say the least.  He also wondered why the other man had decided to deal with it alone in the middle of the woods, on the edge of the property where the monsters lurked closer and could smell his weakness, instead of with friends who would have been more than happy to help care for him.  

“Quen?” Dwight asked quietly, tilting his head to try and look around the body in front of him.  Quentin stiffened.  His spine straightened and his arms shifted in front of his body.  He pinched his knees together.  For a moment, Dwight thought he’d interrupted...  something .  That would have explained away the red flush to his skin.  He paused as a blush crossed his own face, wondering if he should give Quentin privacy or not but feeling it might have been too late for that.  

Finally, Quentin turned his head to look at Dwight.  His eyes were puffy and red, the circles beneath them far darker than usual.  

“Hi Dwight,” he said.  

“Oh,” Dwight said, stumbling over his thoughts.  He’d never been good with tears, not even his own.  “Hi, uhm, are you alright?”  

Good job, Dwight.  

“I guess,” Quentin answered and turned away.  His hands fiddled with something.  Dwight’s gut told him this wasn’t right, and he walked around Quentin’s front.  His clothes were neatly folded to his right, set aside with great care and intention.  He kept his eyes pointed anywhere except Dwight, not even to his feet.  In his hands was a small throwing blade, not unlike the Trickster’s.  It had blood on it, fresh blood, but Dwight couldn’t see the source.  Dwight’ face paled and a chill ran through his blood.  

“Quen?” Dwight asked again.  Again, he couldn’t find the words he was hoping for.  He recognized what he saw plain as day and had no idea how to process it.  

“Dwight,” Quentin answered.  “Don’t.”  

“Sorry,” Dwight said softly, lovingly.  There was no malice in his tone, and he squatted down in front of Quentin.  His fingers stretched out to take the knife from Quentin’s hands and set it off to the side, out of reach.  Quentin surrendered it without a fight.  There was a weakness to his grip and the way he held himself that resonated so deeply with Dwight that it hurt.  This was personal.  “Where does it hurt?”  

Quentin finally turned his watering eyes up to Dwight, surprised to hear that question instead of a reprimand.  He fiddled with his fingers a moment before raising his right hand to point at the center of his chest.  Dwight examined the spot, finding no blood despite knowing what Quentin was referring to.  Dwight pressed his hand over Quentin’s on his chest and curled his fingers around the other man’s.  

“Where else?” he asked, hoping his meaning got through without having to be too direct.  Looking something like this right in the eye was too painful for either of them.  He also didn’t want to embarrass Quentin.  Quentin hesitated and looked away from Dwight again.  He stared at their hands, Dwight’s holding his tight enough that he could feel the concern.  He didn’t answer his friend immediately, letting the silence hang between them.  Then, slowly, he opened his thighs just enough for Dwight to see the series of cuts scratching up and down the insides.  Blood had smeared all over his skin.  Some cuts were deeper than others, and those oozed aggressively.  Now that Dwight knew where the damage was, he noticed the small puddles of blood under Quentin, who pointedly ignored them and turned his gaze off into the woods.  

Dwight adjusted himself so he was no longer squatting on his haunches.  He sat down directly in front of Quentin and pulled his office shirt off over his head without unbuttoning it.  Under it was a dirty, white tank top that hugged his body, the undershirt that protected his skin and the dark body hair he was so embarrassed of from peeking out from between the buttons.  He got to work tearing off strips of fabric long enough to tie off around Quentin’s thighs.  The rest of the shirt was used to staunch and clean up the bleeding.  He worked tenderly and wordlessly, not wanting to make things more uncomfortable for his friend.  

Quentin leaned his head against the tree behind him and his eyes fogged over as he lost himself in thought.  He wanted to distance himself from the intimate moment.  Dwight could see him losing himself in a daydream, the way he so often did when things in the real world became too much.  The other survivors had different names for it: sleepwalking, daydreaming, lagging.  Dwight knew it simply as disassociation.  Of course, he recognized that there was more to it.  Quentin was their Dreamwalker.  He was a lucid dreamer and had remarkable control thanks to the killer that followed him into the fog.  It was a necessary tool for survival and offered him additional rest that sleep couldn’t give him anymore.  This was something a little less complicated though.  

Dwight worked in silence, making sure each cut was covered properly.  When he was done, he rubbed the outside of Quentin’s leg comfortingly.  Slowly, the Dreamwalker’s eyes came back into focus.  He let out a sigh through his nose.  

“You wanna talk about it?” Dwight asked.  

“Not really,” Quentin said.  “It’s just...all too much.  Kruger’s too much.  I’m tired of living.”  

“I know,” Dwight admitted.  Quentin furrowed his brow in disbelief, but before he could contest anything, Dwight twisted his arm to show Quentin the underside where the skin was soft and tender.  Thick ropes of short scars cut up to his arm pit, cross crossing over each other and hardly distinguishable from one another.  There were so many.  Dwight pressed his gaze on Quentin as the other man stared in surprise at the old injuries.  “I used to be, too.  Tired of living, I mean.  I don’t know Kruger well enough to understand that part.  But back then, I felt like I didn’t have any control, and this was how I thought I could keep some sense of it.”  

“Before I came?” Quentin asked.  He reached out to touch one of the scars.  Dwight didn’t move, allowing his fingers to run over the welts.  

“Before the Fog,” Dwight told him.  He wasn’t ready to share more details than that, and Quentin didn’t have any other questions.  He withdrew his hand and Dwight lowered his arm.  

“I’m sorry,” Quentin mumbled.  

“Don’t be.  I learned a lot, and I’m a different person now.  I’m not sorry for who I used to be.  And you shouldn’t be sorry for who you are now.  Next time you feel like hurting yourself like this, come to me?”  

Quentin chewed on his lip.  Thick, fat tears teetered on his eyelids, threatening to spill over.  He didn’t answer.  

“Quen, I know you’re in pain, but you’re not alone.  You never have to be so long as I’m here.”  

That was what threw Quentin over the edge.  The tears poured out, a sob ripped out of his chest, and he hurled himself against Dwight.  Dwight wrapped his arms around his friend as tightly as possible, pressing his chin on top of Quentin’s head comfortingly.  He gently rocked them back and forth as Quentin cried.  If he could have, he’d have swallowed Quentin up right there and there to protect him for as long as he possibly could.  The Fog was a trying, horrible place.  He couldn’t possibly blame the Dreamwalker for feeling so broken and lost, but at least he didn’t have to feel that way alone.  Not when they had each other.  

Chapter Text

Quentin felt like he had a fever.  Every inch of his skin was sensitive, feeling almost as if sandpaper was chafing against it, and it would fall off whenever he moved.  The rub of his clothes was almost unbearable.  His mouth was dry, his head hurt, and the pressure behind his eyes made it hard to see straight.

What horrible timing.  He swallowed a stubborn lump in his throat as he reached into the generator to tighten a loose gear he’d found.  He needed to focus.  Trials were hard enough without him being a useless, exhausted slog.  When he withdrew his hand from the machine, he rested his cheek against the cold metal and closed his eyes.  Just a moment, that was all he needed.  Just a moment to rest his eyes.  One.

The generator erupted in a fit of rage, screaming when Dwight mishandled it.  The explosion jarred Quentin awake.  His heart slammed in his chest and his wide eyes pointed at Dwight, who leaned around from the other side of the generator and offered an embarrassed, nervous grin.  Quentin frowned back and let out a soft sigh.  At least it was only Dwight.  The surge of his heart and the urgency of the Trial almost sent him into a panicked spiral.  Almost.  They’d have to hurry now.  The loud noise surely alerted the killer of this Trial, and they couldn’t stay here without risk of being caught and killed.

The generator finally responded to their work, and the lights above it turned on.  Quentin patted the generator affectionately and stood up, satisfied that he’d pulled his weight enough to at least power one generator.  There were two others done, meaning they only had two more to go before the exit gates had enough power to be opened.  A little more than halfway there.  He turned his satisfied grin to Dwight, who was shaking his head and backing up.  He pointed out the window of the garage, where a hunchback looking monster with a cane scrambled their way at an alarming speed.

“Fuck,” Quentin cursed.  Dwight bolted out the open, broken garage door.  Quentin followed.  His lungs quickly began to burn from the exercise.  His body screamed at him.  He was so tired.  Breathlessly tired.  The kind of tired that twisted and settled into the marrow of his bones.  The sudden burst of energy surged his headache, and his teeth chattered together involuntarily.  Not now.  Please, not now.

Quentin couldn’t resist the weight of his eyes or the sudden slowing of his heart, despite the mild panic screaming at him to run as the snarl of the Blight grew louder behind him.  His knees buckled, and every muscle in his body relaxed as he collapsed to the earth.  He was asleep before he even hit the ground, head swimming in the blackness of unconsciousness.  No sound pierced this kind of narcoleptic sleep.  If he hit his head, he wouldn’t haven felt it.  He was out cold, limp and lifeless looking in the dirt and grass, completely vulnerable.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened to him.  Quentin rarely slept at all, let alone got enough rest to feel recharged and refueled like everyone else at the Campfire did.  He was the odd one out, the only survivor whose killer hunted him outside of Trials.  Every time he closed his eyes, Krueger appeared.  Sometimes he was just a figment of Quentin’s mind, but others he was a real manifest in his dreams just as capable of hurting him then as he was in a Trial.  Quentin had died at the Campfire more times than he did in Trial.  Because of this, Quentin deprived himself of an obscene amount of sleep, therefore he couldn’t stay awake all the time, even though he desperately wanted to.

When he opened his eyes, a strong arm was wrapped around his back.  Bruising fingers pressed into his ribs.  He was on his feet with his arm slung over a pair of broad shoulders.  He passed his tongue over his lips as he was basically dragged across the dirt of the wrecking yard, on his feet only by the virtue of the man holding him.  Quentin’s heart raced when he heard the Blight screech again.  His breath came in quick, short bursts, body desperately trying to obey his mind: wake up, wake up, wake up.

“Hang on, bruv,” David said.  His voice was grounding, giving Quentin something else to latch on to.  He wanted to look up to confirm David’s face with his voice, but instead his head turned towards the sound of feet striking the pane of a wooden window and a frightened scream.  A familiar scream.  Dwight was running the killer and causing a ruckus with the sole purpose of keeping him distracted.  Putting the pieces together was easy enough: Dwight captured the Blight’s attention while David scooped up Quentin’s prone form to drag him to safety.

Quentin’s head slumped against David as they hurried across the grounds.  He felt himself being dragged back down into sleep, but he felt easier about it despite their circumstances.  Quentin felt safe in David’s arms and Dwight’s care.  But, even more important than that, he felt loved.  While this was something he didn’t lack in his former life, the trust that came with this love was substantially stronger.  David and Dwight saw him.  They knew him.  They believed him.

Consciousness left his limbs again as he slammed back into deep, sudden, black sleep.  David would see him out of the Trial.  Quentin didn’t have to fight anymore.  At least not for the moment.

Chapter Text

Dwight finds just enough energy to turn his head against the damp, dew-slicked grass under him.  It is so late in the night at the Autowrecker’s Haven that it’s almost morning, with the sun peeking over the horizon and yielding colors he’s never seen before.  The insects are already waking up, and Dwight is vaguely aware of their little feet crawling across the bare skin of his arms and cheeks.  He can hear their chirps chirping and buzzes with the busyness of morning chores.  It’s easy to get lost in their busyness, however the feeling of his fingers entwined with another’s, still and discrete, keep him grounded in his moment—not the insects’.  David’s hands, he blearily remembers.  They’d been laying here in the dirt and grass for what felt like years or hours.  The world had once been a shrieking howl of agony and panic, but, still, Dwight’s never known such peace as this moment.

Dwight rubs his calloused thumb over David’s hand, who’s already long gone.  Without his glasses, he can’t see the man who’d rushed back to help him as the indifferent knife plunged in and out of his chest.  He can only make out the vague shapes of David’s familiar face, not the intimate details of his scar-pocked skin or the wrinkles that typically crease his brow.  It is undoubtedly David, his David, at such peace it might have been sleeping if it weren’t for his flesh calmly going cold.

In any other world, this moment would lead to permanence.  They wouldn’t be found for at least a week, and they’d slowly become the land and flowers.  He is vividly aware he’s dying, bleeding out from a huge, gaping wound on his side and the several stab wounds in his chest.  There’s no pain though.  He simply feels heavy and intensely present.  His breaths are low and shallow; any deeper and the gurgling of blood in his throat would disturb the moment.  Sleep unlike any other creeps to the edges of his mind, tempting him to close his eyes.  It tugs at his consciousness, dragging him away from this moment.  He resists.  There is nothing in particular he wants to focus on, but an ancient part of himself wants to stay here for just a little longer.

Death.  What a funny concept.  What does it mean anymore, when they are recycled back to life with the only purpose of meeting the sharp edge of another knife?  Dwight’s mind drifts from the feeling of a thousand little insect teeth exploring his flesh to the fantasy of living in the real world with David.  He had spent so much of his short life in the city that he craved a quiet existence away from the hustle and bustle of tourist lights and corporate America.  David often talked about the rolling farms of northern England where his favorite aunt lived, and Dwight wants to be there.  He wants to live on a small plot of land, learn how to grow his own food, care for cattle and sheep.

For a moment, he’s there.  He can feel the warm evening sun on his cheeks and hear the calming buzz of the cicadas.  David is bringing their milk-cows into the barn for the night, where they can eat dinner and rest in safety.  Dwight is cleaning the pasture, ensuring it’s ready for a new day.  The sweat on his forehead is cooling, and it tickles as it runs down his temples and along the curve of his jaw; droplets getting trapped in the two-day fuzz of a beard he almost never elects to grow out.  His arms ache from the labor, and it feels good.  It feels free.

David’s hand suddenly slides out of his, and Dwight doesn’t have the strength to hold onto it.  He’s pulled from his thoughts back to the fading dark of dawn.  Not yet.  But he has no control.  No strength.  The power built into his arms from months of toiling on a farm is nothing more than a fantasy.  His fingers easily uncurl and release the comforting but cold grip on the only thing tethering him to consciousness.  He knows where David’s going: the void where he will be pulled apart and stitched back together before returning to the Campfire with the others.  There’s no purpose for a dead body to stay in a Trial.  That’s right, Dwight remembers he’s in a Trial.

Let go, something hisses in the back of his mind.  The pressure of the whisper builds behind his eyes.  He could let go.  He should.  There’s nothing here anymore.  There’s no chance of standing again, no hope of leaving, no hope of taking another deep breath.  There’s no love, no anger, no pain.  Only the eternal drag of waiting to freeze or to thaw.

Dwight finally closes his eyes, and a sigh of breath pushes out of his nose.  Foxes yapping and sprinting across the acres of fields surrounding his farmhouse prance behind his eyes.  The hoarse, grating caw of a crow having its say over the lowing of cows rattles in his ears.  The rustle of a warm breeze pushing through untilled fields of wheat envelopes his skin.  Soon, he thinks, very soon, he’ll be home.

Chapter Text

Finally, the engagement ring was in his hands.  Well, it was in a box between his sweating fingers in the pocket of his dress pants as he sat across the fancy dinner table from his partner.  They were in a high-end restaurant, a place neither of them usually fancied but David insisted they go to anyway.  Dwight was dressed up in a single-breasted suit, grey blue with a pink shirt underneath.  He wore a silk tie with it, black to keep the attention drawn to the flash of color from his collared shirt.  David was in an unstructured blazer and pleated pants, both solid black.  His collared shirt was off-white.  Simple, boring, and just about all David owned that could pass as formal attire.  It was a good look for him, or at least that’s what Dwight had said with their arms looped together when they approached their reserved table at the beginning of the evening.

David intentionally passed his fingers over the velvet box as his mind raced through the myriad ways things could go wrong.  He could lose the ring.  He could choke on his words, or, God forbid, food before he had a chance to speak to Dwight.  Worst of all, Dwight could always say no.  That was David’s biggest fear: Dwight rejecting his romantic advance in front of all these people, none of whom he figured cared but all of whom laughed at him in his self-destructive fantasy.  The texture of the box was soft and reassuring, but it also felt like it weighed a million pounds and was heated by the flames in the deepest pits of hell.

Dwight watched him from across the table, the small smile of his endearment pinched in the corners of his lips.  He always looked at David like this: eyes half lidded, features soft and relaxed, tunnel-visioned onto him as if there weren’t a single other person in the world.  The man was just as in love with David as David was with him.  There was no reason to worry about being rejected.  Dwight took a sip of the white wine he ordered, still fixated on David.  His food had been finished.  He’d ordered some kind of fish and asparagus.  David’s food, however, was mostly untouched: a filet mignon steak with a baked potato on the side.  His stomach was in knots.  He didn’t think he’d be able to keep the food down.

“You okay?” Dwight asked as he set his wine glass back down.  Blush painted his cheeks, nose, and the tips of his ears from the alcohol.

“S-sure,” David managed to get out.  He shrugged as if that punctuated his statement with something convincing, something meaningful.  Dwight raised his eyebrow.

“You look nervous,” he continued.  His head cocked to the side and the dim light glinted off his glasses.

“I’m fine,” David said.  He let out a soft sigh, emptying his lungs of all air before taking in a longer, deeper breath.  He needed to calm down.  Things would be fine.  They had to be.

David never saw himself getting married.  Not once in his life had he fantasized about a wedding or a family or children.  When he was a kid, he’d been more concerned with rebelling against his parents and school or causing trouble or participating in sports.  As he grew older, he’d been more interested in fighting and physical prowess.  Once he was finally at an age where his peers were finding women and settling down, he didn’t think he was good enough for a woman.  Not with the life he’d led.  Not with his baggage or the trouble that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Yet here he was, now, sitting in front of the man of his dreams.  A man.  Someone who had been so unassuming and different from anyone he had ever considered before.  A nerd, really.  The type of person David used to shove into lockers and steal lunch money from.  Dwight hadn’t been “love at first sight.”  He was never a huge romantic gesture or even a hook up in the bathroom of a bar.  He had slipped into David’s life as invisibly as if he didn’t exist.  Then, suddenly, one day, he was there, making David laugh, a staple in his life and someone who David couldn’t imagine living without.  He couldn’t figure out how he’d lived before Dwight, and certainly couldn’t imagine how he’d live without him.  His heart was full.  David realized he loved Dwight, and that Dwight helped make him a better person.  He liked who he was.  He was happy. 

And he would do anything for this man.

David took another deep, grounding breath through his nose and let his eyes sink closed.  He needed to do this.  It was now or never.  If he couldn’t steel his nerves and take this risk tonight, he knew he never would.  Loss, of Dwight specifically, was the only thing that frightened him in this great, big world.

The sound of wood scraping across the floor pulled David out of his thoughts.  His eyes snapped open.  Dwight had stood up, hands in his pockets, looking down at David through the bottom of his glasses.  David wondered what Dwight saw in this moment: afraid? Sweating? Heart open and bleeding on the table, spilling all his secrets and desires and hopes?  Dwight tilted his head once more before stepping to the side of the table, his lips drawn in an anxious line across his face.

“David,” Dwight said softly, drawing David’s fragmented attention to a point onto him.  David’s heart leapt in his throat as Dwight put his hands in both his pockets.  The man’s shoulders slumped down, his head hung lower than usual, and David’s stomach was in knots.  “We’ve been together a long time.  Four years?  And, honestly, it’s been in the best four years of my life.  But...”

Dwight paused to take a deep breath, and David’s face dropped.  This was it; Dwight was going to break up with him before he’d ever get the chance to propose. 

“I’ve been feeling like we’ve been missing something for a while now,” Dwight continued.  “And I want to fix that.  I can’t fathom waking up one day without you by my side.  And I never want to.”

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee and his hands came out of his pockets.  There was a black velvet box pinched between his fingers, almost identical to the one burning a hole in David’s pocket right now.  It opened slowly, revealing a thick, rose gold ring with a black band wrapping around one side and small diamonds in an arrow pattern decorating the other.  It was pressed into a silk cushion on the inside of the box, which Dwight held up in presentation to him.

“Will you marry me?”

David leapt out of his seat.  His knees hit the table, causing it to jerk and every dish and item on the table to jump.  Dwight’s white glass knocked over, spilling the remaining liquid onto the tablecloth, chair, and floor.  He felt every eye in the room turn to him.  He knew he’d just caused a small scene.  However, he couldn’t focus on any of that.  He could only stare at Dwight and the ring in his hands, the way the man looked up at him hopefully and full of every drop of love the world could possibly squeeze out.

He blinked, dumbfounded and robbed of his words.  He knew too much time was passing in silence, and Dwight’s hope fizzled into deeper anxiety.  He passed his thumb over the box in his pocket again, forcing himself to swallow the emotion that threatened to push up through his throat, and kneeled in front of Dwight.

“Dwight,” he finally said and took his engagement ring out of his pocket.  He opened the box and presented it to Dwight.  There was an 18-karat gold band with two rows of eight diamonds on the top.  He held it out, over Dwight’s box, and knitted his eyebrows together.  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

The frown that had passed over Dwight’s face when David neglected to answer trembled.  He snapped the box closed and set it on the floor by his feet before throwing himself into David.  It wasn’t enough force to move David, at all, and he felt Dwight’s arms wrap around him as a sob shook his shoulders.

“So, I’ll take that as a yes?” Dwight asked, pressing his face against his partner to hide it.  David took the ring out of its box, dropped the box to the ground, and slowly, carefully, pushed himself out of Dwight’s hug.

“One thousand years of saying ‘yes’ wouldn’t be enough,” David mumbled.  He took Dwight’s hand and tried to slide the ring on his ring finger.  It wouldn’t go over his second knuckle though.  Mortification gripped David’s heart.  The moment had been near perfect: despite Dwight proposing first, David had still managed to catch him off guard and bring tears.  This was ruining it.  Heat rose to his face, and he sucked on his bottom lip.  The moment was more natural for Dwight, though.  He removed the ring from his ring finger and slid it over his pointer where it fit perfectly.  It may not have been the right finger, but it was a very David mistake, and Dwight’s heart surged from the intimacy of it.

“Me too,” Dwight mumbled.  His glasses were fogged from fruitlessly holding back tears.  He retrieved his own box and slid his ring over David’s ring finger.  It fit perfectly.  Because of course it did.  Dwight always made sure to do things thoroughly and with the proper amount of research.  The exact opposite of David King.

“Let’s get out of here,” David suggested.  Dwight nodded and stood up before waving for their server.  David collected the ring boxes off the floor before standing.  When he glanced around the room, a few of the restaurant’s patrons were watching with smiles on their faces.  He suddenly felt self-conscious, even more reason to head home.  It didn’t matter though.  Dwight said yes.  Dwight wanted this as much as he did.  The thoughts and stares of strangers, regardless of intent, was as small as dust compared.  Today was the beginning of David’s forever, and a very happy one at that.